#emissary of order

[emissary-of-order]

A little ooc headcanon dump!! :3

-Hivemind is autistic (as i’ve said). He struggles a lot with sensory stuff and also with empathy.

-He and Emperor are (somehow) decent friends. Hivemind, after the final fest, wanted to figure out just how people could enjoy turf wars in such a chaotic manner, and Emperor sorta saw a parallel with himself in that.

-He’s demisexual and gay cus i said so

-He’s pretty much blind in one of his eyes due to a childhood injury (YEOOOWCH)

-Fierce thought he was an alien when they were kids.

Feel free to ask him about any of these :33

[emissary-of-order]

I’ve been told by Jet that she likes this brand.

"I cried some time earlier and Double Egg asked me if I was on my menstrual cycle, or as he quoted it, my 'lady days'. I swear to cod im gonna punch him some day."

[marzipanandminutiae]

so, I'm hunting for an apartment-share for the first time...ever, really. when I moved to Boston, it was with a group of friends intent on renting together, and the apartment where the fire happened was a Friend At Dance Class Had A Room Open In Her Place situation. and I'm noticing a distressing trend

is anyone else just...perturbed by the idea of a landlord renting out individual rooms in an apartment?

not like a houseshare in general. I mean a situation where everything is done through the landlord, with minimal contact with the other actual tenants. landlord lists the place, landlord vets new tenants, lease is signed potentially without meeting the other people you're going to share a not-overly-large living space with, at all

obviously rooming-houses- where individual rooms are rented in just that way -have existed for ages. but that's a house. I'm lucky to live in a city where larger, two-floor apartments are extremely common, but you're still sharing Less Than A Full House of space with total strangers. the landlord's concerns are pretty bare-bones here- basically just Will They Pay Rent On Time? and Are They Not An Axe Murderer, Probably (Because That Would Lower Property Values)?

I've lived in such a situation for a year now, and it's been fine, but in many ways I don't feel empowered to decide anything with my housemates in the very space we all pay to inhabit. I didn't know them when I moved in- had never even SEEN any of them before, when you come down to it. it's a very weird way to live; I'm not fond of it

and why are the landlords taking over what, it seems to me, should be the housemates' job? do they insist on doing it themselves? in what other ways do they usurp the creation of a functioning household in the unit? landlords can't exactly decide chore-dividing or facilitate a conversation about that bare-assed painting in the living room that only one person likes. do the housemates not know each other well enough to have these conversations, even after they move in?

to be sure, I'm not much of a We Must All Be Besties, Mandatory Weekly House Dinners type. I let housemate relationships develop organically, and if we're only ever polite acquaintances, so be it

but I like my community just a bit more intentional than "this person making money off of us threw us together and we've never met," personally

[soulofamy]

thinking about ashrahs intro where she says "the order of light needs you, syzoth!" and how she probably meant "*i* need you, syzoth" but she was not yet good at pinpointing and articulating her emotions

[crimsonshadesblog]

Maybe the real boundary god was the friends we made along the way

I mean.

Considering Bahamut's Transcendence FEs mention that the fragment of Bahamut that's with Lyria, Proto Bahamut, is growing ever more powerful due to its proximity to the Singularity, and that same fragment then intervenes and winds up saving Vyrn from his boss, you could say that. You really very well could.

[oddytheoddity]

Subspace Emissary was the funniest thing ever actually

[sideshow-cellophane-blog]

Shhhh they can't afford Ambrosia but they can get high on self medication and sugar shhhh

[jewishcissiekj]

The Stark Hyperspace War arc is so good I've gotta reread some Star Wars 1998/republic arcs

[emissary-of-order]

"..I feel as if I remember you from somewhere. The Chaos versus Order splatfest, I presume?"

"Hey, what's it with you and 'order' anyways? People call me weird for my 'obsession' with the X. I'm surprised you don't get the same for your 'Order' propaganda."

@nylon-vintage

i’ve been told I’m hard to forget. And my ‘propaganda’? It’s just the truth. That a world of chaos is unstable and dangerous! Just think about it. Would you rather live in a world where everyone is predictable and calm or where everyone is crazy and wild? It’s simple. And i’m sure someone as smart as you could understand.

X-rank, hm? How interesting. i’ll have to do a little more research on that! Such power can’t be left in the wrong hands.

(P.S stares at you in a non-threatening, kind way.)

(P.S again i do get called weird for it which is just STUPID.)

(Art by @/riverpookie on twitter!!)

[emissary-of-the-moon]

My ass so obviously doesnt leave my like 25 miles radius cause i just saw a post about a boba shop opening up in coon rapids and my only reaction was were tf is coon rapids

[queereads-bracket]

SEMIFINALS: Queer Fiction Free-for-All Book Bracket

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin

Endorsement from submitter: "That book was written in 1969 and yes, not everything hold up today, but for the time is very progressive"

A groundbreaking work of science fiction, The Left Hand of Darkness tells the story of a lone human emissary to Winter, an alien world whose inhabitants spend most of their time without a gender. His goal is to facilitate Winter's inclusion in a growing intergalactic civilization. But to do so he must bridge the gulf between his own views and those of the completely dissimilar culture that he encounters.

Embracing the aspects of psychology, society, and human emotion on an alien world, The Left Hand of Darkness stands as a landmark achievement in the annals of intellectual science fiction.

Science fiction, classics, speculative fiction, anthropological science fiction, distant future, adult

Time to Orbit: Unknown series (The Javelin Program, The Antarctica Conspiracy) by Derin Edala

When Dr Aspen Greaves signed up for the Javelin Program, humanity's first foray into colonising deep space, they expected to wake up to life in a thriving colony on a distant planet. Instead, they find themself five years away from their destination on a broken spaceship full of complex mysteries, dead astronauts, and a very unhelpful AI.

Aspen wasn't trained for any of this. But if they can't keep themselves alive, get the ship in working order, and find out what went wrong by unravelling a chain of mysteries leading all the way back to distant Earth, then neither Aspen nor the five thousand sleeping passengers in their care will ever see a planet again.

Science fiction, mystery, series, adult

[homunculus-argument]

A fantasy/soft sci-fi story that features a race of creatures who are apparently - for no really sensible reason - all male. And upon encountering humans for the first time, one of them discovers that women exist. And this is an epiphany, and the most splendid news in the entire world as he knows it. Holy shit, women. It takes him some time before he stops making sure that every human he encounters is aware that women exist, it would be a pity if they wouldn't. They do, all of them do, and some of the ones that he addresses are women, who apparently come in a far wider range of appearances than he had previously been aware of. This, too, is amazing.

Neglecting whatever duties he was supposed to be performing while among humans, he focuses mainly on learning more about women. This leads to learning about human romantic relationships, which leads to discovering polyamorous relationships, and the LGBT community. All of which are splendid discoveries.

Eventually, after having not heard anything of their duty-neglecting emissary for months, the people receive one letter that basically goes "I am ceasing my mission and relinquishing my position in order to make a home here. Do not try to seek me, I am currently living in a household of seven women including myself, and I will fight you if you try to remove me. Farewell."

And these people, relieved to finally get a confirmation that they can get someone else on the task, just look at this letter like "what the fuck is a woman."

[rika-mmendmethings]

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 4

Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter: none I guess???

Word count: 2.2k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: Long chapter to compensate for lost time ;) Who do you think is responsible for what happened to Mo Art Studio? Things will start to get really crazy from the next chapter, so be prepared, y'all. Anyway, hopefully, you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary @multisstuff @wondering-again @some-girl-idk @itsrandompersonyall

You had been fumbling with your phone for hours, clinging to the desperate hope that if you rebooted it enough times and installed at least three different antivirus apps, your game would magically fix itself. But no — every single time you opened Love and Deepspace, there he was. Rafayel. Sitting smugly on the sofa, arms crossed, eyebrows arched in that infuriating way. No matter what you did, none of the other characters came back. Just him. Mocking you with his pixel-perfect posture.

As the night wore on, your panic grew, and your “solutions” became increasingly... unhinged. Somewhere around 3:30 AM, you had decided it was time to escalate. Your phone was placed in the middle of a ritual circle, because clearly, logic and Infold’s tech support had failed you. Unfortunately, you didn’t have access to red ochre or actual candles, so you made do with chili powder and tea lights. You had briefly considered ordering incense or essential oils, but delivery wouldn’t arrive until the next afternoon — and honestly, you weren’t sure you’d live to see the delivery man.

With four or five generous pinches of chili powder, you traced a crude circle on the floor, following dubious instructions from a YouTube video. A six-year-old could’ve drawn a better one, but you were far too sleep-deprived and frazzled to care. You sat inside the circle and launched the cursed app, arranging the tea lights as it loaded.

The moment Rafayel’s image appeared, lounging casually on the sofa, you threw your head back and began muttering incantations and prayers you had hastily scribbled down earlier. After a few intense minutes of chanting, you opened your eyes and stared at the screen with bated breath.

Rafayel remained still, resting his chin on his hand as he watched yet another one of your antics. While your theatrics were beginning to border on ridiculous, there was something inexplicably endearing about the sight of you — paprika streaks smudged on your chin, clutching a black plastic birthday cake knife like it was a sacred athame. He decided to entertain you a little so right when you tapped the screen, he spoke casually, “It’s nice to lounge on the sofa. Wanna give it a try?”  

He had watched as your face brightened and you let out a sigh of relief after hearing him speak one of the programmed dialogues. A grin had spread across his face since he knew he was about to ruin your little moment of happiness.

Just as you tapped the screen to check, his voice echoed from the app, “Take a chill pill, cutie.”

His grin widened as you stared in stunned disbelief. He tilted his head slightly, still resting his chin on his palm, eyes never leaving you as you scrambled to your feet in a dazed panic.

Enough was enough. You grabbed your phone, shut it off with a dramatic jab of your finger, and face-planted onto your bed with a muffled groan. You’d deal with the consequences of this digital nightmare later. For now, you gave your exhausted eyes their much needed sleep.

So much for your relaxing little vacation…

The next morning, you sat comfortably on your bed, your laptop resting atop a pillow on your lap as you scoured the internet in search of a logical explanation for the bizarre events unfolding around you. Despite your determined efforts, nothing remotely relevant came up.

In a final attempt, you reached out to a few other players through your SNS accounts. The responses were underwhelming — some mild backlash, a sprinkle of sarcasm, and one brutally honest comment that gave you an unwanted reality check. Discouraged, you finally shut your laptop with a sigh, giving up on your search for answers.

A glance at the clock told you it was around ten in the morning — your usual time to log into the game. With a small flicker of hope, you powered on your phone, silently praying that whatever strange glitch had taken over would’ve resolved itself overnight.

The app loaded, and there he stood — Rafayel, wearing his God of the Tides set.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly.

You exhaled in quiet defeat. So much for divine intervention. Your hopes had clearly been ignored by whatever higher being was in charge of otome game anomalies.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of your attention, you continued with your daily tasks in silence, not sparing him even a glance. As you flicked from the stamina tab to the shop, his voice trailed after you like silk.

“You know,” he drawled, tone laced with a playful charm, “women who ignore me? Exactly my type.”

He didn’t get to enjoy his own flirtation for long. You navigated away to the task menu, claimed your rewards, and braced yourself for having to interact with him for the sake of the task.

When you returned to the main screen, he was already gazing at you with hearts in his eyes. He sighed dreamily, a soft smile curling on his lips.

“Perfect.”

You dragged a hand down your face, heat blooming across your cheeks. Taking in a few steadying breaths, you mentally braced yourself to confront the truth — or rather, the surreal presence of your fictional crush who now stood before you, partially real. You opened your eyes to find him watching you with unwavering admiration, as though he had all the time in the world. The intensity of his gaze sent your stomach into a series of dizzying somersaults.

A thought strikes you and you decide to check whether he is abHolding up two fingers, you asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two,” he answered effortlessly.

You shifted to four fingers and repeated the question. “And now?”

“Four. Gorgeous, what is all this?” he asked with a tilt of his head, his brows lifting in amused curiosity.

You ignored both the question and the smile threatening to tug at your lips at the sound of his nicknames for you. Reaching for a sticky note, you scribbled a short phrase, then held it up in front of your face.

“Alright,” you said, “read what’s written on this.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then flashed a slow smile. “I love you.”

Brows knitting in confusion, you glanced at the paper and read aloud, “No, it doesn’t say that—” But your voice faltered as realization washed over you. Your eyes darted back to his teasing expression, and your lips parted in shock while a deep blush crept over your face. 

As if to make matters worse, he blows you a kiss and follows it with a series of exaggerated, ridiculous faces. Despite yourself, laughter bubbles up and escapes your lips. Embarrassed by your own reaction, you hastily cover your mouth with one hand, your head dipping low as you try to stifle the mirth and steady your breathing.

Across the screen, Rafayel lifts a hand, his fingers hovering just above the digital barrier that separates your two worlds. His voice is tinged with something gentler beneath the jest. “Careful, darling,” he whispers, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m the siren here. It’s rather cruel of you to try and steal my title with a laugh that enchanting.”

You don’t respond at first. You simply stare at him, eyes fixed, expression unreadable as a storm of emotions churn silently beneath the surface. For a brief moment, your throat tightens with words you can't quite say.

Before he can ask what’s wrong, you murmur, barely above a whisper, “I have to go.”

Without waiting for a response, you exit the game, the screen fading to black in a breath. You switch off your phone again as an added layer of defense, though against what exactly — him, your feelings, or yourself — you’re no longer certain. You lie back on your bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, searching for answers that refuse to come. All the while your heart and your mind wage a paradoxical war.

Rafayel stared at the empty screen for a long while after you disappeared.

The usual spark in his expression dimmed, lips parted as if caught mid-thought. He exhaled a slow breath, leaning back on the sofa as the silence wrapped around him like a too-tight cloak. Fingers drummed against the desk, tinged with something unresolved.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… frustrated.

Not at you, never at you — but at the invisible boundary you kept between the two of you. One that he knew, deep down, wasn’t purposefully placed, but had always been there. He respected it. He always has. But that didn’t make it any easier to stand on the other side of it, watching you retreat just as he felt you begin to reach for him.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. Then—

Bzzz... bzzz... bzzz...His phone lit up against the dark wood of the desk. “Thomas <333” it read.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes, letting it ring out once. Twice. Three times. He wasn't in the mood to talk business, not tonight. But the buzzing didn’t stop. It continued with a sort of urgency that started to scrape against his nerves.

Finally, with a tired huff, he snatched the phone and answered it.

“What?”

The voice on the other end was panicked, shaky. “Rafayel— Rafayel, it’s the studio… it's on fire.”

“I’m here — right now,” Thomas continued, his voice breaking. “I'm behind the trucks — they’re trying to contain it, but it’s bad, man. Really bad. It lit up fast. People are saying it might’ve been electrical but— I don’t know— I don’t know. Everything’s going up.”

Rafayel didn’t hear the rest of what Thomas was saying.

The words — “fire,” “bad,” “going up” — were already drilling into his mind. For a second, all he could do was stare blankly at the floor, phone still pressed to his ear though the call had ended.

He shot up from the sofa like the floor beneath him had turned to lava, heart throbbing in disbelief. It wasn’t Lemuria, no. It didn’t have the tide-soaked serenity of his undersea birthplace, where the water hummed through the golden walls like lullabies. But Mo had become something akin to that. A strange, crooked version of “home,” built not of sea salt and coral reefs, but canvases and memories smeared in oil paint.

That was where the soul of his work lived. Where he painted when the insomnia hit. Where he sculpted his silence. Where portraits of you were lined on the walls and the floors, behind locked doors, waiting for a day that maybe, someday, might come when he’d be able to show those to you.

And now it was burning.

Rafayel stormed out of Destiny Café, nearly knocking over a chair as he went but he didn’t stop to apologize. He yanked his car door open and threw himself inside, engine snarling to life with a growl that mirrored the knot in his throat. Tires screeched as he pulled out of the parking lot, speeding through the dusty roads that led to Whitesand Bay.

The scent of ash still hung thick in the air by the time Rafayel reached Mo Art Studio. The sky above the house glowed faintly orange from the remnants of the firelight, flickering like the last breath of a dying star. His residence stood — or what was left of it — collapsed and half-swallowed by soot.

A small crowd lingered on the edges, murmuring in hushed voices, faces pale from having witnessed that sight. But many were already dispersing, retreating now that the spectacle had ended. The fire trucks were still parked near the wreckage, lights flashing low. Firefighters stood around Thomas, briefing him in clipped, official tones as they packed away equipment.

Rafayel stepped out of the car slowly, the door left ajar behind him as if forgotten. His boots crunched over scorched gravel as he approached, each step weighed down with dread.

He dropped to his knees.

The impact echoed in the hollowness of his chest more than the ground beneath him. He couldn’t speak. His hands sat limp by his sides as he stared up listlessly.

Thomas turned at the sound and rushed over to him with widened eyes and voice tight. “Rafayel—Raf, I—” 

He didn’t finish his words after he saw the look on the artist’s face. He simply knelt beside him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, offering unspoken comfort. 

Rafayel’s eyes flared, aglow with a piercing ultramarine light that shimmered like the deep sea and glimmering fins of the same tincture, unfurled from just above his ears. They pulsed faintly, mirroring the rise and fall of his breath. Rafayel’s jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides, twitching with restrained fury.

Thomas withdrew from him slightly, but he didn’t look away. He’d seen glimpses of this before — but never like this. Never when the sorrow ran so deep it cracked the surface.

Rafayel stayed like that for a long moment before starting, voice low but sharp as the edge of a blade. “I want to know everything,” he said. “How it started. When. Who was near the building. Who had access. Cameras. Witnesses.”

He saw Thomas nod immediately from the corner of his eyes before patting his back comfortingly. Rafayel only stared at the debris of his house blankly, at the second floor specifically where all his portraits of you had been kept. And in the distance, the sea began to stir — not in fury, but with a tight-lipped menace, like a clenched jaw moments before a scream, holding back a violence that needed only the slightest provocation to spill free. 

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[fatalism-and-villainy]

There’s a certain school of Benjamin Sisko characterization - sometimes that even crops up on my own posts - that I’ll summarize in broad strokes as the “chill and unbothered” interpretation of him. This manifests in a few different ways, sometimes with the idea that he just wants to relax and do his hobbies without getting besieged by his responsibilities, or sometimes with the idea that his male rivals get homoerotically obsessed with him while he’s apathetic to them and baffled by their investment in him.

As for the former, it is true that Benjamin Sisko is heavily burdened and at times liable to break under the strain, and that’s part of what is so deliciously compelling about his character. He begins the show traumatized and world-weary and seriously considering resigning from Starfleet, and he goes through another dark night of the soul after Jadzia’s death at the end of season six (and I’d say there are indications it’s still haunting him through the first third of season seven). And the show emphasizes the massive toll that the war is taking on him on numerous occasions.

But the other thing that is deliciously compelling about him is the way he grabs onto his responsibilities with both hands and refuses to let go, even though his resolve is tested over and over. This is demonstrated in episodes like Behind the Lines, where he can’t stand being put behind a desk while the Defiant goes out on missions and feels a desperate need to be in the thick of things (a restlessness that drives him to put forth the plan to retake the station in the next episode). And while he intends to build a house on Bajor, he is not planning to resign his Starfleet commission - he tells Ross, “I will go wherever they send me. But when I go home, it will be to Bajor.” He is committed to his duties and believes in Starfleet’s ideals, very strongly. And while he is tempted to throw aside the role of Emissary in Accession, he is driven to seize it back because of his own values (and in Rapture, he gets to the point that he is willing to put his health and life at risk in order to understand the visions he’s having). He feels an intense amount of personal responsibility and is loathe to cede that responsibility, and he’s sometimes outright zealous in his manifestation of those traits.

And it’s precisely that need to take the reins that makes him inclined towards personal vendettas. This is very apparent in For the Uniform, in which his pursuit of Eddington is extremely personally motivated. He resents being taken off the assignment to catch him, because it’s a blip in a twenty-five year service record, and he’s absolutely furious that Eddington outsmarted him. It’s an injury to his pride and a loss of control that he can’t countenance. His conflict with Dukat is less a matter of pride, but after the events of Waltz, Sisko still sees it as his personal duty to defeat Dukat when the time comes, because of his moral disgust towards Dukat and his protectiveness towards Bajor. He tells Jadzia, “it’s him or me,” effectively picking up the gauntlet that Dukat throws down.

All in all, one of his defining traits is that he is very passionately invested in whatever he designates as his realm of responsibility. There are times when he wants to get away from it all, and when he feels torn in two by his competing commitments to Bajor and Starfleet. But he keeps choosing to recommit, over and over, and feels restless and unfulfilled without some sense of purpose driving him. And he hates feeling undermined.

[zaynes-favorite-macaron]

That story update was DEVASTATING for the Zayne girlies....

Like it was bad enough that the convergence of Dawnbreaker and Zayne finally happened but the ending where Zayne literally tries to leave without so much as saying goodbye is the crux of every timeline where he and MC have known and loved each other.

The role he serves as emissary to Astra means that he is supposed to choose the option ordained by fate. He is supposed to be an impartial observer and nurture the bonds that uphold the natural order. But he fails to do it every time because he can't bring himself to sacrifice her. He betrays Astra and his responsibility again and again because his love for her eclipses the duty resting on his shoulders and for each new timeline, he does something more devastating and painful to her in order to prevent her from dying.

So he leaves her. Every single time he leaves her behind. Sacrifices himself. Buys her more time but the cycle keeps going in endless rebirth and sacrifice. The relationship between the two of them is heartfelt but there is still this insane amount of distance he puts between them for the sake of not hurting her and that's the part that makes all of this so fucking tragic. She stops him before he leaves this time thankfully, but he refuses to forgive himself for what he's put on her and what he's done to her. That barrier between them will always be there until he can forgive himself and move forward. She's trying so hard to get him to do that but if he can't bring it upon himself to forgive himself of the horrible things he's done, then they are doomed to keep this distance between them.

[queers-gambit]

Shadows of the Past

prompt: the High King recruits you personally for the expedition headed by your intended, Herald Elrond. your company encounters the darkness and Galadriel portrays an apology to her friend.

pairing: Elrond x betrothed!female!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 5.1k+

note: wonky brain can think of nothing but this show right now i'm so sorry

warnings: cursing, spoilers, another reader insert for the haters, depiction of character injury, emotions are hard, small canon complicit angst, literal hurt and comfort, established relationship.

"Tell me again," your brother-in-law asked, "why you're not leading this company?"

You smirked, stepping over a fallen branch, "Because the High King has bestowed the honor to Herald Elrond, Daenor."

"Then why enlist you, too?"

"I am a mere emissary of the King. Besides, skills are required for this quest, Daenor, why would I not be employed?"

"Right, of course. I guess my question should be, what skills do you possess?" He teased, laughing when you shoved his shoulder playfully. "But truly," he asked, "why would the King send you both, so close to your wedding day? Why send you, too, if not to lead this company?" However, before you could answer, the air turned serious when the procession you followed came to a rather disturbing discovery upon the laid path.

You leaned on the intact stone while listening to Camnir discuss with Elrond possible paths forward after intending to cross a bridge over the gorge, only to find it in ruins and rubble. Elrond originally questioned the force that could've brought the ancient stone down in such a harsh and violent manner, thinking perhaps lightning, but another voice refuted this idea by claiming it was the Dark Lord, Sauron.

This familiar voice was that of Lady Galadriel - and while you've known her to be a fellow Commander, you were unsure of her title now. Yes, she was technically lieutenant of this company, and that was what she was addressed as, but you knew how stubborn the Elleth was and that she would not be so easily demoted.

You said nothing. You just listened as Camnir told Elrond they could take one of two paths: one so out of the way, it would add two weeks to their journey, and the other, down the same darkened path the Dark Lord laid.

Upon mentioning the path before them through the Hills of Tyrn Gorthad, Lady Galadriel twitched. She had been daintily ghosting her fingertips over the charred and mangled metal of the lanterns set on the imploded bridge, seemingly stuck in thought, then freezing. You couldn't see her face, only taking note of the brisk tension mounting in the Elleth's shoulders.

She spoke, "There is evil in those hills." The group shared silent looks, each with varying degrees of mistrust or caution. "Ancient, and full with malice," Galadriel glared at the landscape before her. "Sauron means for us to go that way. We must go another," She informed the group as if she were in a position to give orders.

From the crouch he took to observe the damage done to the stone, Elrond rose while speaking in a firm tone that overpowered the Lady's, "The Enemy is doubtless watching both roads." His eyes flickered over yours last as jetting over each of his soldiers, clocking the way you nodded in agreement. To you, it seemed common sense: of course, the bad guy was watching the paths that would lead the good guys to him! He was evil, not stupid! Elrond reminded his people, "This collapse makes it more critical than ever to reach Celebrimbor at speed."

"We won't reach anywhere with speed if we walk into a trap," Galadriel argued; the two friends (and distant cousins) held each other's even stare for several moments.

"What say you, Commander?" You asked, hoping to break the tension and little trance they were locked in. No, no, not out of jealousy, but out of protectiveness; wanting to break the ice for the sake of Elrond's authority.

"We go South," Elrond decided, turning from the fragmented bridge stump, ready to lead his company on, when Galadriel spoke again - from the same spot she had yet to move from.

"Commander, I must protest."

You did not move when the others did, you waited when Elrond paused and replied, "Your opinion on the matter has been heard."

He went to walk away again when Galadriel growled with a rolling tongue, "Elrond!"

You flinched to a halt in blinding irritation, upset by your peer's very audacity. Everyone halted around you, Camnir even shifting in his stance out of nervousness from the heat of your glare not on him. Your fiancé turned back to glare at his friend, ending with finality, "Opinion heard, lieutenant. We go South." He gave an encouraging command in Sindarin, leading only a few strides before pausing. When you automatically halted yourself at his side, he nodded and spoke softly while seemingly mindlessly grabbing your hand to give an affectionate and reassuring squeeze, "Lead them on, love, stay on the trail."

You glanced back at Galadriel, who was finally moving to keep up, and whispered for only his ears, "You sure?"

"I'm sure, go on," he confirmed, nodding again and offering a soft sort of half-smirk. His eyes, though, were squinted; indicating he was genuine in his displayed gentleness. With a squeeze to his hand, you offered one last stale look at Galadriel, who expertly avoided your eyes, then let go and walked forward to lead the way.

Behind you, Elrond snarled his scolding of Galadriel, insisting she shape up, forgo trust in the Ring of Power she wore, and if that wasn't possible, she needed to excuse herself. The Commander of the Northern Armies rebutdtaled that she did not desire to see any member of the company slain - a veiled response to her stubbornness to not abandon their quest and refusal to ignore her ring.

Forward, you marched.

Though you seldom showed it, you felt fearfully nervous when the night fell and your company crept further into what felt like infected wood. The ground turned spongey, a particular stench permeated the air, the darkness shadowed most all you saw. The trees loomed tall, the moon casted a bright silver light, and dead leaves crunched under booted, lithe steps. Elrond shared a nervous look with you, his hand only briefly brushing yours; a way to say he was there with you without being overly affectionate in front of his soldiers.

From the corner of his eye, Elrond saw your head tilt back in wonder before a fell voice hissed on the wind, "I am waiting for you." But in truth, nobody was sure about what they heard or did not hear. Perhaps they did not want to know, but still, the voice made the area further darken in suspicion, and once in a small clearing, all came to a halt to survey the surrounding area. There was a threat somewhere, but where exactly was yet to be determined.

Daenor questioned sharply, "What is this place?"

"Tyrn Gorthad," Camnir answered. "Known to men as the Barrow-downs."

You chimed in softly, "In ancient days, this was where they laid their lords and kings to rest."

"I feel no rest here," Daenor grumbled. "Even the trees seem ill at ease."

"Fear not," Vorohil chimed in, sounding amused while stepping up to (and through) your group's observation deck. "Dead men are no threat."

"Well, we've lived very different lives," you scoffed under your breath.

However, after Vorohil, Elrond followed; casting a look at the lot of you and reminding, "Keep moving."

You let the others pass ahead of you, trying to shake off your nerves and mentally prepare yourself for the hell you were walking into. Something anchored your feet, refusing to let go; every nerve in your body on fire and begging you not to wade into the dark. Your name was spoken gently, Galadriel's hand on your shoulder startling you.

"What is it?" She asked quietly.

"We shouldn't be here," you whispered, Elrond doubling back when he noted your delay. Not wanting a confrontation, Galadriel sighed and patted your shoulder before slipping away as your lover approached you.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly but urgently.

"There's something sinister here," you told him stiffly, stepping half a step closer, "watching us."

He took a breath, "If Galadriel's ring - "

"It's not that!" You insisted. "I feel it, Elrond, not the ring, not anything Galadriel said. I feel it."

Elrond's brows furrowed at the tips, like something hooked them to yank towards his nose. "Then stay close to me," he decided.

"We should move on, quickly," you snatched his hand to prevent him from parting; his gaze turning worried. "Please, listen to me."

"My love," he spoke softly, squeezing your hand, "it is a gravesite, nothing more. The dead cannot harm us."

"It is the living's influence I fear."

He sighed and nodded, "We will not linger." His forehead found yours to rest, "But do not stray from my side, it is of great comfort."

"To us both," you agreed, letting him pull back. Yet he did not relinquish hold of your hand, keeping it tight in his and leading you into the clearing the others were surveying.

"Commanders," Rían called, standing over the corpses of two horses... Attacked seemingly a time ago, and upon inspection, discovered the pairing bodily remains of an Elvish party.

Elrond questioned your name when you squatted, brushing aside debris. "Their barding is from Lindon," you told him, gently ghosting the leather with your touch. You looked up to meet his eyes, glancing over to see Galadriel, predicting, "The King sent a dispatch to warn Celebrimbor."

Galadriel nodded in confirmation as Rían discovered the encased message from the King in a decorative tube, asking, "This dispatch?"

Slowly, you stood from your position and held a silent hand out, being given the tube for inspection; all eyes on you, waiting for whatever your overly keen (even for an Elf) eyes would see. After confirming the contents, your eyes locked with Galadriel's, and she spoke what you both were thinking: "We must go from this place."

Elrond appeared ready to agree, tension mounting as your company seemingly felt the blanket of panic being thrown over them all. From the dark, a set of rotting chains shot out to coil around Daemor, yanking him into the toxic, spongey earth and across the clearing.

"Y/N!" He shouted in shock, and without thinking, your hands slapped into his as if in an effort to anchor him... But you were both yanked off your feet. "Commander!"

"Daenor! NO!"

"Help me! Y/N, Y/N, please!"

"Hold onto me!" You begged, being drug on your belly.

"Sister! Sister, please, help me! Help me!" He sobbed in fear, a vice grip on your wrists and hands surely to leave blemishes. "Don't let go! Pl-eeeeeaaaaaase!"

"Daenor!" You whimpered, struggling as the force that held you both hostage was too strong to maintain a safe, secure hold permanently - meaning, saving him was futile.

Your name was bellowed, being drug towards one of the opened tombs; but at the last moment, the tether that kept you and Daenor together was broken and he was pulled into the abyss of the grave. You whimpered in fear, slowly lifting from your belly and to your knees as Daenor's screams were silenced... In fact, the entire area turned eerily quiet.

Behind you, the others rushed to the scene and Elrond immediately dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around you. "Are you hurt? Hey, hey, look at me, are you hurt?" He demanded, fearful that the chains might shoot out again to finish the job to swallow you in the dark. He checked for any physical injury, but the tension was too great to ignore; the mouth of the tomb glaring at you, forcing Elrond to silence himself.

You flinched back into his hold when the gruesome sounds of crunching bone and squelching flesh was heard; indicating whatever was inside, whatever claimed Daenor, had disposed of his living body.

Elrond took advantage of your flinch to rock you back onto your feet, standing as a group as a voice hissed, "Cold old be hand and heart and bone, And cold be sleep under stone, Never more to wake on stony bed, Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead." Galadriel brandished her sword as the wights first emerged, revealing their zombified forms. You encouraged the group to form together in a circle as the demons emerged. The Voice continued, "In the black wind, the stars shall die."

"Prepare yourselves," Galadriel warned, the group arming themselves.

"What are they?" Rían trembled.

From perfectly between Galadriel and Elrond, you answered, "They are those who laid in the tombs, the Lords and Kings of old... Lore calls them Barrow-wights."

The creatures surrounded your company, leering, growling, sizing you up. In Sindarin, Elrond commanded, "Attack!"

In tandem, the group lunged; weapons striking the ghoulish foes but they merely disintegrated in air... Then reformed. It seemed that fighting only served to irritate the enemies, their collective hissing and screeching making stomachs curl and skin to prickle in fear. Galadriel clocked this first, warning Rían, "Still your arrow!"

But the Elleth was already locked and loaded, the string slipping from her grip to fire at a distant wight. But it only soared through the zombie's face, not stopping, directing towards Camnir - but Elrond intercepted, swiping his sword to cut its path and save his soldier. The creature rejuvenated.

"They're impervious to our weapons," Camnir voiced, fear inking his tone.

Elrond's eyes found yours, seemingly connected by a string of similar thought; remembering the old wives tales you once read a lifetime ago, ancient lore about Barrow-wights dating back to the time of Melkor. So, he sheathed his sword and told his soldiers, "Hold fast." To Camnir, the closest to him, he demanded, "Come with me!"

"Where are you going?"

"Help me open it," Elrond told him, trying to pry open the sealed tomb as you swiped at another wight's skeletal hand reaching for you.

"What?"

"Hurry!" Elrond barked in Sandarin.

Back in your group, Rían muttered nervously, "Commander?"

"Ease yourself, remain calm..."

"What do we do?"

"Make no sudden movements. Stay together, fend them off but don't engage a fight," you advised, "hold strong - "

A gasp cut off your words when chains coiled around your ankle; securing in a tight zip that knocked you off balance and back into the toxic dirt. You scrambled for purchase on anything, finding only wet leaves; and suddenly, the chain turned taunt with tension before you were being sucked back into another tomb.

"Commander!" Vorohil shouted, trying to reach for you, but just missing as you were reeled back over the dirt.

"Y/N!" Rían cried, alerting Elrond and Camnir of your situation. You whimpered in fear, sobbing as you couldn't fight the force; couldn't save yourself; only able to helplessly submit to your approaching doom after clawing unsuccessfully for salvation.

"No! No!" You yelped, trying to remove the chains, but another tightened around the first chain in a horribly tight, vice grip that strangled breath from your lungs from the pure burning sting. With the last of your air, you screamed, "Elrond! Please!"

You heard Vorohil sprinting after you, freezing in your escape attempt when a grisly, decayed hand extended from the ebony shadow of the tomb towards you. There was a panicked finality to your blood, fear clogging rational thought; never seeing Elrond, only focused on the threat pulling you in. But the half-Elf you meant to marry in only a few weeks time came surging onto the scene, sliding on his knees at the mouth of the tomb and swinging a sword to sever both hand and chains.

"Y/N - "

"Fuck's sake!" You snarled, unintentionally cutting Elrond off; shoving the chains from your leg, scrambling to your feet.

You were just about to thank Elrond when he instead encouraged, "Here, take this." He held out one of the ancient weapons excavated from the tomb, nodding with increased vigor before turning away when it was in your grip. You hacked and stabbed the wight that came after you, Elrond and Camnir tossing the rest of the company weapons to cast down the surrounding enemies.

"How?" Rían asked in shock, seeing the wisps of the last wights waft into the wind.

"According to lore, only the blades with which they were buried with will return such creatures to rest," Elrond explained.

"But the men buried here have been entombed for over a thousand years," Camnir trembled, turning to his companion.

Vorohil seethed, "I think it is safe to say that something has awoken them."

"No," Galadriel argued, glaring down at the wight's decaying body. "Someone... Awakening evil. Across all Middle-earth."

You ignored the conversation and slowly took a seat; leaving your weapon in the dirt while focusing on hiking up your trouser leg after discarding your boot. With a clenched jaw, you revealed the wight's chains left sizzling lacerations; the metal seemingly enchanted to burn damn near to the bone, creating craters, indentations, dimples to your otherwise pure and unblemished flesh.

You winced when fabric stuck to the wound, bearing your teeth while hissing through them; breathing turning staggered as the pain became biting. "Commander?" You heard Camnir question softly with concern, others turning to set their attention on you.

"It's nothing," you insisted, observing the wound and deciding a tourniquet was required.

"You're hurt," Elrond growled, surging forward and unintentionally knocking Galadriel's shoulder - but the Elleth didn't take offense. The others wanted to close in around you, but Galadriel held them back after witnessing you before. As Commander of the Southern Armies, you had seen many battles with Galadriel, and sometimes, you sustained injury; she's witnessed how you turned akin to a panicked animal when accosted with attention - no matter how genuine the concern.

"It's nothing," you repeated, reaching for one of your belts, "I'm fine."

"You're not - "

"It's a burn, Elrond, nothing more," you sniffled, feeling how far up the chain had gone; deciding to tie the tourniquet above your knee.

"Let me," Elrond whispered, laying his hands over yours that shook and trembled without abandon.

"Elrond - "

"Just," he snipped, needing to pause and take a breath, "please, let me help you."

Behind him, Galadriel ushered the others away to a short distance; deciding to gather whatever belongings of Daenor they could to honor his lost life. You met Elrond's worried gaze and nodded, sniffling, "Okay. J-Just above the knee, here," you showed him.

"I know, love, I've got yah," he breathed, shuffling closer and kneeling beside you while taking the belt. You pulled the material of your trousers straight, grimacing when Elrond first wrapped the leather around your thigh. "All right?" He checked, seeing you nod rapidly; no words used because you were holding your breath to prevent yourself from crying out. When Elrond first tied the leather, you whimpered and his eyes turned teary. "It's gonna get worse, love, just hang on f'me - " He warned you before suddenly tightening the tourniquet, making you yelp painfully. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I know it hurts, I know, I know, I'm so sorry," he repeated, your hands latching onto his forearms out of subconscious need to feel him for comfort while he secured the leather belt. When done, he reached for your cheeks and pet hair that escaped your braids behind your ears, encouraging, "Breathe for me, just breathe, love. You're all right, there you go. Breathe. Good, good, I've got you, I'm so sorry, just breathe, just breathe... Oh, I, uh..."

"What's wrong?" You worried when he trailed off; eyes full of tears and his mouth half opening while retracting his hands that you held by his wrists still.

"I've blood on my hands..." He splayed them in display between you two.

"It's okay - "

"Got it on your face," he frowned.

"It's fine," you insisted, sniffling sadly, "it's my blood, anyway. We should be moving - "

"You're hurt."

"I know, but it's not life threatening, I don't need coddled."

"I'm not coddling you - "

"You are," you half smirked, "because you're worried."

"Of course, I am," he scoffed, using his sleeve to wipe your cheeks and temples free of blood. "How can I not be? You..." His voice quaked with emotion, "You are my starlight, my fairest friend, my sweetest love. Seeing you hurt..."

"I know," you whispered, bringing him close so your foreheads met, "but I'm okay."

"For now."

You sighed, pulling back to respond, "Don't say that, don't even think it. Optimism is our only friend in this situation, else, what is the point of going after Sauron?"

He needed to take a breath, sniffling his own emotion. "Fine. We should rest until morning... Regroup, give you time off this leg for now."

You nodded, "You sure?"

"I think we could all use the reprieve," he admitted.

"Does that include you?" You asked while caressing the coils of chestnut off his forehead.

"I'm fine - "

"As I am?"

Elrond paused, then scoffed a small laugh and nodded. "I'm managing..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Hey," you whispered, bringing him back to your forehead, "you're doing an excellent job of leading this company. But we all have limits and tonight was a lot, you deserve the time to breathe."

"Time is something we don't have."

"We have enough for now," you insisted, more or less forcing Elrond to relent.

As Daenor's belongings were pulled from the tomb and buried in the scorched earth his killers had rose from, the company each offered you hollowed words of condolences for your loss. Beside Elrond, it was known, you and your brother-in-law were great friends - being the reason he met and eventually married your sister. His sword was embedded in the ground as a marker, the company gathered to silently pay their respects while their commander stood at the riverbed's edge in deep, solemn contemplation.

You held one of his daggers, intending to keep it in reminder; pocketing a few pieces of jewelry, intending to give it to his wife. However, all was interrupted when from a distance, you heard the booming rumble of drums. Not just any drums, but the beating sounds of a marching procession; something ominous and daunting. You perked up, standing to your feet as something dark and familiar started in your chest before sinking to your gut. By looks of your company, they, too, heard the drums and shared your worried thoughts; sheathing Daenor's dagger to your belt and surging for where Elrond stood speaking to Galadriel.

"Forgive my intrusion," you bid the pair, Elrond turning instantly.

"Are you all right?" His hand reached for your hip instantly, trying to help stabilize you - if you had been off balance.

Your hand laid to his cheek, answering swiftly, "I'm fine," before dropping your hand to rest on his bicep, "but we've heard drums - in the deep. Sounds like there's a host on the march."

This sent the company into action, tracking the sound of the enemy over leagues of wooded area. By the end of the day, at dusk, you all gathered slowly on a darkened clifftop; watching in horror as legions of orcs marched down the beaten path to the sounds of their war drums. "Orc treachery," Rían cursed upon sight.

"That trail...?" Elrond questioned, letting go of his secure hold on you to lower in a squat, "I gather it leads to - "

"Eregion, my liege," Camnir confirmed.

"We came in search of Sauron," Vorohil narrated everyone's thought and question, "And instead, we find Adar?"

"Could they be in league with each other or... Perhaps at war," Elrond thought aloud, you shifting on your bad leg for a moment to readjust your stance among the trees.

"A legion of Orcs have marched into Elvish lands," Galadriel spat in anger, glaring at Elrond. "We are all of us at war."

Elrond agreed, "Word of this must reach the High King before our host sails for Mordor."

The silence was calm in a resolute sort of way, everyone just pausing to bask in their shock and awe. This was shattered when a distant Orc shouted, "There!" An arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree behind you, a horse neighing shrilly as it galloped through the forrest towards freedom and away from its pursuers. Just as the company turned to face the enemy, another arrow flew through the air almost inconspicuously, finding its mark in the soft part of your chest just beneath your sternum.

You grunted when the arrow landed, taking half a step back and wanting to cry out. Instead, you just held where the arrow embedded itself in your flesh. You felt dizzy suddenly, clothes and hand saturating with blood as the arrow had pierced through the aorta artery to cause major damage. Irreparable damage. Fatal damage...

In a whisper, Elrond told his soldiers in Sindarin, "Hold!"

In the distance, the Orcs were heard complaining about the horse escaping while a few random arrows were fired off again in a last ditch effort to wound the animal. If you did not move, the mangey creatures did not notice, smell, or sense you. But you couldn't form a full coherent thought, just understanding your injury, the looming grace of Death soon to kiss you, that breath was becoming increasingly harder to come by, and the pain - the pain was aching, soon spiking.

You did not mean to, but your fear was too great to ignore, and you stuttered in a whimpered gasp, "El-Elrond?"

His head snapped over, seeing the arrow protruding from your chest and feeling himself crumble inside. You were choking on blood, trying to remain silent - and they all saw that effort. How blood came splattering from your nose as you tried to subdue your noise, but that only made it harder to breathe; inadvertently choking, a groan strangled from your lungs just as Elrond reached you. He held you to him with his chest and single arm anchoring your waist, the other lifting to lay his hand over your mouth as Galadriel glued to your other side for added support.

The company moved back several yards, covering ground swiftly before laying you down behind a natural outcropping of protective rock. You were struggling, unable to fight it any longer; hacking a cough, blood spewing, splattering, streaking down your neck, the pain insurmountable. Elrond's one hand cushioned under your head, tears in his eyes as he could only hold you as the Orcs were heard closing in, other hand once more clasping over your mouth.

Still, Galadriel was sandwiching you, wincing when Elrond's hand stifled your groans of pain as he strained himself to peak over the top of the rocks. When he lowered himself, your lover leaned his forehead on your temple and hushed in your ear, "I'm so sorry." Upon lifting, he met Galadriel's eyes, who had been examining your wound, only to find her's full of sadness. Her head shook with muted words - telling him whatever she saw wasn't good.

You whimpered lightly. The Orcs could smell an Elf.

You wrangled Elrond's hand from your mouth, "Lis-Listen to me - "

"Hush, do not - "

"Shut up and listen!" You hissed, keeping hold of his hand, "'M not makin' it outta this, love, you've gotta go. L-Leave me - "

"No!"

"Elrond. Leave me," you insisted, "and they'll k-know 's m-me they smell. Y-You have t'warn the H-High King."

"I'm not leaving you," Elrond grit.

You smiled sadly, "And I love y-you for that. B-But you h-have t-t-to."

"Not in this lifetime," he begged, a few tears falling. "Just give me time to think, I'll figure something out."

"Time... Is something we don't have," you repeated his words from earlier. Suddenly, Galadriel just knew something without words; a feeling; a sort of understanding that she could help in this moment. She heard you whisper, "I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. W-We should've had so much more time - "

"Please, don't say that," Elrond begged quietly.

Galadriel took a sobering breath and moved her hands to the base of the arrow; pressing enough to make you wince and breath in sharply. Elrond went to tell her to back off, but paused when The Ring of Power she wore twinkled in the dark night - seemingly pulling you out of that fatal twilight. Your breathing turned slow... Eyes clearing of hazy pain... Life breathing back into your flesh...

The arrow fell out, making all three of you gasp. Galadriel's hands fell away as your own shot to where your wound had been - finding it healed between the fabric the arrow tore. You looked at the Elleth in shock, breathing, "You healed me...?"

She just nodded, Vorohil speaking in astonished Sindarin, "Amazing."

"You're - You're, you are - ?" Elrond stuttered in shock.

"I'm okay," you confirmed, caressing his cheek as he beamed down at you in pure glee. "I'm okay, love, I'm okay; Galadriel, she healed me," you sniffled, looking to your friend. "Thank you, my friend."

"Of course," she breathed, the Orcs heard shouting in the distance to overturn every rock. With a look of shared understanding, Galadriel told Elrond over your body while you tried to mop up some blood, "Get to Lindon. I will occupy them as long as I am able. Get her up."

Elrond huffed through his nose, but did as bid - not like he needed to even be told in the first place. He gathered you into himself and stood, making sure you were stable before looking back at Galadriel; slowly squatting again as she wriggled the ring from her finger. "Take it," she breathed, presenting Elrond with the band of jewelry. When he made no move, she snatched his hand and folded the ring into his grasp, "Take it, Elrond!"

"What will you do?" He asked begrudgingly, storing the ring in a leather pouch for safety.

"Something foolish, probably," she smirked, nodding in meaning. "Now, go. Go!"

"Elrond, love," you whispered, holding your hand out for his and heaving him to his feet. "With me, c'mon, quickly," you advised the others, beginning the trek down a new path in the woods. As you moved, you realized that Galadriel's ring hadn't just healed the arrow wound, but the Barrow-wight's chain, as well, which helps remedy your limp.

A semi-safe distance away, there came a decently loud and abrupt boom behind you, and upon looking, saw the trees up in flames. It was where Galadriel must've been battling the Orcs alone.

In earnest impression, Camnir narrated, "She scarified herself to save us all."

Elrond came to a halt when he realized his company members were captivated by the sight of heroics in action. So he interrupted their dreamy thoughts by calling, "No, you are mistaken, Camnir." He stalked forward through his delegates, telling them in their native tongue, "She did not do it to save us."

Tension simmered over each member.

"What?" Camnir questioned.

Elrond turned away from the spectacle with Galadriel's fire, consulting the dark again, speaking with ramped distain in Sandarin, "She did it to save the ring." His hand reached for yours again, the two of you leading the company forward with him calling over his shoulder in the Common Tongue, "Hurry!"

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