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earthlybeam · 2 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/earthlybeam/773181417454731264/could-i-request-how-glorfindel-celebrimbor-and?source=share

Please Thranduil, Gil galad and Adar version.🙏🏻

How would Thranduil, Gil-Galad, Adar react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The battlefield was chaos incarnate, a cacophony of screams and the relentless clash of steel against steel. The once-pristine forest now bore the scars of war—trees felled and splintered, their ancient roots charred by fire; the earth trampled and soaked in blood. Smoke hung low over the field, thick and suffocating, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh. Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, stood at the heart of the fray, a vision of deadly grace. His twin swords gleamed silver, moving with an elegance that belied their lethality. Each stroke was precise, each step deliberate, his cloak of rich green and gold billowing as he cut through the oncoming horde of orcs. He was a storm given form, the light of his kingdom’s ancient glory flickering amidst the dark tide of death.

His every movement was a dance, his swords singing as they found their mark in one foe after another. The king’s fair face was streaked with ash and blood, his long platinum hair pulled back and gleaming even in the dim, smoke-streaked light. But even he, for all his centuries of skill, could not outpace every shadow on the battlefield. It happened too quickly. A hulking orc, its monstrous figure obscured in the gloom, stepped into view behind him. Its mace—a jagged, cruel thing bristling with spikes—rose high into the air. Thranduil sensed it a moment too late, the looming presence casting a shadow that fell across him like a shroud. He turned, his blades already lifting to counter, but the swing came faster. The weapon descended with brutal force, slamming into his side.

The sound was awful: a wet, crunching thud as the spikes of the mace punctured his armor, rending both metal and flesh. The impact sent him flying, his body twisting through the air before he hit the ground with bone-jarring force. Pain exploded in his ribs, sharp and unrelenting, spreading through him like wildfire. His breath left him in a choked gasp, the coppery taste of blood rising in his throat. For a moment, the world tilted, the edges of his vision darkening as the cacophony of battle grew muffled. Thranduil’s silver and leafed crown, once a proud emblem of his majesty, was knocked from his head, tumbling into the dirt and disappearing amidst the debris of war. The blood pouring from his side stained the fine emerald and gold embroidery of his robes, the fabric now torn and clinging to his trembling frame. He lay there for a moment, his hands clutching at the earth beneath him as he fought to draw breath. The air felt thick, heavy with smoke and the weight of his wounds.

But Thranduil was no ordinary elf. Pain did not cow him; it only sharpened the fire that burned in his heart. With a groan that turned into a snarl, he forced himself onto his knees, though every movement sent searing agony through his battered body. His twin swords, once extensions of his will, now lay discarded in the dirt mere feet away. He reached for them, but his hand faltered, trembling as his strength waned. Blood dripped from his fingers, mingling with the darkened earth. His vision swam, but he refused to fall further. Raising his head, he cast his gaze upon the enemy advancing toward him. His ice-blue eyes, piercing and unyielding, burned with a fury that not even the weight of his injuries could extinguish. His face, marred by streaks of blood and ash, was a portrait of defiance—a king who would not bow, not even at the edge of death. His lips curled in a snarl, sharp and regal, a promise of retribution to all who dared cross him.

The orcs closed in, their grotesque laughter and guttural snarls filling the air as they saw the king of the Woodland Realm kneeling, vulnerable yet unbroken. His breath hitched, each intake shallow and ragged, but his eyes never left them. He would not beg. He would not surrender. He would face them as he always had—unyielding, even if the next moment would claim him. The ground beneath him was stained with his blood, but it would not claim his spirit. For even in his pain, Thranduil was a king, and his defiance was eternal.

But then, through the din of battle, a sound reached him—faint at first, like a thread of light breaking through a storm. It grew louder, clearer, cutting through the oppressive haze of pain clouding his mind. “Thranduil!” It was your voice. Desperate, raw, and filled with something that pierced deeper than any blade. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, opened just enough to see you. You were a vision amidst the chaos, a beacon of light in a world consumed by darkness.

Your hair, flowing behind you like a cascade of starlight, caught the faintest glimmers of light from the fires raging around you. You ran toward him, the edges of your robes sweeping over the blood-soaked ground, heedless of the danger that surrounded you. “No,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The word tore from his throat, hoarse and pained. “Stay back… it’s not safe.” His chest heaved with the effort, the agony radiating from his wounds threatening to pull him back into darkness. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t falter. His warning fell on deaf ears as you reached his side, dropping to your knees with a grace that seemed incongruous amidst the destruction around you.

The sight of him—the proud Elvenking brought so low—struck you like a dagger to the heart. His once-pristine armor was battered and streaked with blood, rents in the metal exposing pale skin that now glistened with sweat and the crimson stains of his own lifeblood. His hair, always so immaculate, was matted with ash and dirt, tangled around his face. His ice-blue eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were dulled by pain, their focus flickering. And yet, even in his broken state, there was a defiant beauty to him—a majesty that the battlefield could not entirely strip away.

You bit back a sob, your hands trembling as they reached out to him. Gently, you cupped his face, your fingers brushing away streaks of dirt and blood. His skin was unnaturally cold beneath your touch, and the realization sent a jolt of fear through you. “Thranduil,” you whispered, your voice breaking with the weight of your emotions. “Hold on. I can save you.” His brows furrowed faintly at your words, his expression softening into something almost apologetic. He tried to shake his head, but the effort was weak, a mere twitch against your hand. “Futile,” he murmured, his voice rough, a shadow of the commanding tone it once held. “You cannot—”

“You can’t tell me that,” you interrupted, your voice fierce despite the tears that threatened to spill. “Don’t you dare give up on me, Thranduil.” Your fingers moved to your hair, trembling but determined, brushing through the silken strands as if seeking something. “Trust me,” you whispered, your tone laced with an urgency that left no room for doubt. For a moment, he looked at you—truly looked at you, as though seeing you for the first time. He wanted to argue, to demand that you leave him, that you save yourself and let him face whatever fate awaited him alone. But there was something in your eyes, a conviction so powerful that it stilled the words on his tongue. He exhaled shakily, his gaze softening, the fight leaving him as he closed his eyes. “Do… what you must,” he whispered, his voice so faint that it was almost lost to the cacophony of the battle raging around you. His head fell forward slightly, resting against your hand, as though surrendering to the only hope left to him—you.

You pressed a section of your hair to his wound, your hands trembling as the silky strands turned dark with his blood. The sight of it—the contrast between the glowing silver of your hair and the deep crimson staining it—was almost too much to bear, but you steeled yourself. Your heart thundered in your chest as you leaned closer, your lips parting to release a melody that seemed to rise from the very depths of your soul. The words were ancient, a song of healing passed down through countless generations, yet it felt as though they were yours alone in that moment. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine…”

As the melody spilled from your lips, it seemed to weave itself into the very air around you, a thread of light in the darkness. The battlefield, filled with the clamor of swords and the screams of the wounded, seemed to fade away, drowned out by the power of your voice. The air shimmered, bending to the ancient magic that laced your words. Your hair began to glow, softly at first, then brighter, golden and radiant as though a thousand stars had descended to touch the earth. The light spread from the strands touching his wound, rippling outward in waves that illuminated the battlefield in a warm, otherworldly glow. It wrapped around Thranduil like a cocoon, the edges of the light flickering and pulsing in rhythm with your song.

Thranduil gasped softly, the sound almost imperceptible beneath your melody. His breathing hitched as the warmth of your magic seeped into him, driving out the icy chill that had begun to spread through his body. He could feel it—the jagged edges of his wound knitting together, the sharp agony replaced by a gentle tingling warmth. It was unlike anything he had ever known, this power—ancient, unyielding, yet impossibly tender. It felt as though it carried not just magic, but the essence of you: your love, your hope, your determination. You continued to sing, your voice unwavering even as tears slipped down your cheeks. Each word carried a piece of your heart, the raw emotion of your plea saturating the melody. The light around him grew brighter, until it was as if the darkness of the battlefield had been banished entirely.

When your voice finally faltered, the last notes of the song lingering in the air like a soft sigh, you opened your eyes. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, desperate to see him. The sight before you stole your breath. Thranduil lay still for a moment, but the deathly pallor of his skin was gone, replaced by a healthy, luminous glow. His face, once twisted with pain, was now calm, his breathing steady and deep. The terrible wound that had marred his side was no longer there; in its place was smooth, unbroken skin, as if the injury had never existed.

He stirred, his body shifting slightly as a soft groan escaped his lips. Slowly, his lashes fluttered, lifting to reveal the piercing blue of his gaze—those sharp, icy eyes that you had feared you’d never see open again. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world stilled. The chaos of the battlefield, the distant cries of war, the acrid stench of smoke—all of it melted away. There was only him, alive and breathing, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart ache. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken feelings. Then, tentatively, his hand lifted. His fingers, long and elegant despite the strength they carried, brushed against your glowing hair. There was a reverence in his touch, a gentleness that seemed to belie the fierce warrior you knew him to be. His fingers lingered, tracing the silken strands that still shimmered faintly with the remnants of your magic.

“This power,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and heavy with wonder. “It is… beautiful.” His gaze softened as his fingers continued to brush through your hair. “You are beautiful.” The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. A laugh, shaky and raw, escaped your lips, but it was edged with the sob you were desperately holding back. “You scared me,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You saved me,” he said, his tone soft but filled with a gravity that left no room for doubt. “You brought me back from the edge.” His hand moved from your hair to cover your own, where it rested against his chest. His touch was warm and steady, grounding you in a way nothing else could. “You are a light in this dark world,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. “A gift unlike any other.” The intensity of his words stole your breath. His gaze held yours, unflinching and full of a gratitude so profound it felt almost sacred. For a moment, the battlefield felt like a distant memory. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of your magic and the bond that had grown between you—stronger now, forged in the crucible of pain and salvation.

With a quiet groan, Thranduil began to sit up, his movements slow but steady as his strength returned. You instinctively reached out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm, but he managed to rise on his own. Once upright, he turned to you, his face inches from yours, and cupped your cheek in his hand. His palm was warm against your skin, the touch as tender as it was deliberate. “I owe you my life,” he said, his voice low but resolute, the words carrying the weight of a vow. “And I do not give my loyalty lightly.” His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the gesture almost reverent. “Whatever happens next, know this—you will always have my gratitude…” He hesitated, the pause laden with emotion. “And my heart.”

The breath hitched in your throat, his words wrapping around you like a promise. Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. What could you possibly say to match the depth of what he had just given you? Before you could find your voice, the distant clash of swords and the roar of battle intruded, reminding you both that the world outside this moment still burned with chaos. Thranduil’s gaze shifted briefly toward the horizon, his expression hardening as he returned to the present. He rose to his feet fully now, the regal air of the Elvenking settling over him once more. Reaching down, he retrieved his twin swords, the blades gleaming wickedly in the faint light. Yet even as he turned his attention to the battle, there was a tenderness in his movements—a lingering connection that tethered him to you.

He looked back at you, his expression fierce but softened by the depth of feeling in his eyes. “Stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a king but tempered with a warmth reserved only for you. “We will finish this together.” You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as you rose to your feet. The faint glow of your magic still clung to you, casting a soft light around the both of you as you prepared to rejoin the fray. As he turned and led you back into the chaos, his steps sure and steady, you knew this moment had irrevocably changed everything. Thranduil, the proud and unyielding Elvenking, now carried a piece of your light within him. And as you followed him into the darkness, you knew that bond—born in pain and sealed in magic—would endure, unbroken, through whatever trials lay ahead.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The battlefield sprawled endlessly, a bleak wasteland of shattered bodies and broken steel, shrouded in a choking veil of smoke that turned the midday sun into a faint, amber glow. The acrid stench of blood mingled with the sharp tang of burnt wood and ash, thickening the air with the weight of destruction. The earth beneath your feet was churned and uneven, soaked with the lifeblood of countless warriors. Broken banners lay tangled in the debris, their colors dulled and meaningless amidst the carnage. The distant clash of swords, the guttural cries of orcs, and the anguished screams of the wounded faded into a dull, unrelenting roar, like the heartbeat of the dying world itself. Yet none of it mattered.

Your eyes locked on the crumpled figure just ahead, half-hidden in the shadows cast by a shattered marble column. The remnants of the once-proud structure jutted into the ashen sky, stark against the ruin, a silent testament to the fury of the battle that had raged here. And there, slumped against its jagged base, was Gil-galad. His silver armor, which had once gleamed like starlight, was a grim ruin. Deep rents marred its surface, the intricate etchings of elven craftsmanship obscured by the soot and blood that coated every inch. The flowing blue of his cloak was torn and blackened, clinging limply to his frame, weighted down by dirt and gore. His once-proud form, so commanding and unyielding in the heat of battle, now seemed small and vulnerable, as though the world itself had turned against him.

A jagged gash tore across his chest, the edges of the wound raw and angry. Blood pooled beneath him in dark, viscous streaks, soaking into the dirt and spreading like an ominous shadow. Each shallow rise and fall of his chest was an agonizing labor, his breath coming in uneven, rasping gasps that rattled through his body. His head, once held high with the regal bearing of a king, rested limply against the column, his hair—normally as radiant as molten silver—now clinging to his face in damp, matted strands streaked with grime. “Ereinion!” you cried, your voice breaking as you rushed toward him, your heart pounding with a desperate urgency. Dropping to your knees beside him, the impact sent a jolt through your body, but you hardly noticed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, as you struggled to comprehend the sight before you. The image of him—majestic and unshakable—was seared into your mind, making the frailty before you all the more unbearable.

His head lolled weakly toward the sound of your voice, the faint motion almost imperceptible. The once-brilliant light of his eyes, so piercing and filled with unyielding resolve, was dulled and unfocused, shadowed with pain. His gaze flickered, struggling to find you through the haze that clouded his vision. “You…” he rasped, his voice faint and broken, barely louder than the rustle of the wind through the battlefield. “You shouldn’t… be here.”

Each word was a laborious effort, his breath hitching between syllables, as if even the act of speaking threatened to drain the last reserves of his strength. His lips, cracked and pale, trembled as he tried to form more words, but the effort was too much. He winced, a low, pained sound escaping him as his body sagged further against the column, his armor groaning faintly with the movement. “It’s… not safe,” he managed at last, his voice no more than a whisper. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment, and in their depths, you saw a desperate mixture of fear and defiance—a king still trying to protect his people, even as he lay broken and bleeding on the battlefield.

Tears stung your eyes, blurring the devastation around you, but you refused to let them fall. Shaking your head fiercely, you denied the weight of his words, even as they pressed down on your heart like a stone. “I couldn’t leave you,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady, a quiet plea wrapped in defiance. The quiver of emotion was undeniable, yet behind it burned the resolve of someone who would not—could not—abandon him. “Not like this,” you added, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

For a fleeting moment, a faint, shadowed expression crossed his features. Was it a smile? Or a grimace of pain twisted by fading humor? It was impossible to tell, and yet it brought a flicker of warmth to the icy fear that gripped you. His lips, pale and bloodied, twitched faintly. “Stubborn,” he murmured, his voice rasping and soft, as if the word cost him more strength than he could afford to lose. There was a glimmer in his dimmed gaze—a whisper of the man you knew so well—but it was fleeting, almost drowned beneath the sheer effort of staying conscious. His hand moved, a barely perceptible twitch at first, his gauntleted fingers trembling as they struggled to lift from the bloodstained ground. The motion was agonizingly slow, faltering and weak, but it was unmistakable—he was reaching for you. The gesture, though small, carried with it the weight of his unspoken thoughts: a need to hold on, to connect, to find something in you that could anchor him to the rapidly slipping thread of life. Yet his strength failed him, and his hand fell limply to his side with a soft, metallic clink, his breath hitching as the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body.

For Gil-galad, each breath was a battle, a desperate effort to push against the darkness that loomed closer with every passing moment. The gash across his chest throbbed with unrelenting fire, the raw edges tearing at his resolve with every shallow rise and fall of his lungs. The world around him felt distant now, muted and slow, the roaring of the battlefield reduced to a dull hum in his ears. Even the smoke-filled air seemed to press down on him like a suffocating weight. Yet through the haze of pain and weakness, there was you. Your voice, tremulous but determined, broke through the fog, and it grounded him, calling him back from the brink. He wanted to tell you not to waste yourself on him, not to sacrifice anything for a life that was already slipping through his fingers. But even as he tried to speak, his chest tightened, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his throat, where they burned unspoken.

He felt the warmth of your presence, the way your trembling hands hovered near him with desperate purpose. It cut through the cold spreading through his limbs, a fragile thread of comfort in the encroaching void. He couldn’t see clearly anymore; his vision blurred with pain and fatigue, but he thought he caught the golden shimmer of your hair, bright even in the smoky gloom. And then, a strange sensation stirred within him as you began to move, deliberate and measured, as if you were preparing for something monumental. Through the fog of his thoughts, he felt the lightest brush of your fingers against his chest, the silken strands of your hair brushing the edges of his torn armor. It was a delicate touch, gentle but unyielding, and somewhere deep within him, the faintest flicker of hope awoke—a fragile thing, like a single spark in a vast, dark void.

For Gil-galad, it was a strange mixture of sensations a deepening awareness of his own fragility, the oppressive weight of his injuries, and yet, beneath it all, the soft hum of your power stirring against his skin. It was faint at first, like the distant rush of water in a still forest, but it began to grow—a steady, rhythmic pulse that reached into him, seeking out the places where he was broken and fragile. He wanted to speak again, to ask what you were doing, to tell you it wasn’t worth it. But even as he opened his mouth, the words faltered. Instead, he let himself drift into the sensation—the warmth of your gift pushing back the cold, the hum of life within your golden strands, and the steadying presence of your will. For the first time since he had fallen, the pain seemed to recede, just slightly, and in its place was the faintest whisper of hope. It was fragile, precarious, but it was there.

Closing your eyes, you drew in a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your emotions to settle into stillness. The noise of the battlefield, the lingering cries of the wounded, and the acrid scent of smoke and blood faded into the background as you turned your focus inward. And then, without thought or effort, a melody welled up within you, rising like the dawn. It was ancient and familiar, as though it had been etched into your very soul, waiting for this one moment to emerge.

Your voice, soft and hesitant at first, trembled on the first note, the words tumbling forth like a fragile stream. But with each passing breath, it grew, steadied, and strengthened, carrying with it all the love, hope, and fierce determination that burned within you. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine… What once was mine.” The melody swirled around you, weaving itself into the air like a living thing, delicate and ethereal yet unyielding in its purpose. As the song poured from your lips, the very world around you seemed to hold its breath. The clash of swords and the distant cries grew faint, the weight of the battlefield retreating, as though time itself had slowed to honor your plea.

A faint, golden light began to bloom, first from the tips of your hair, then spreading outward like the first rays of sunlight piercing a heavy fog. It was warm and luminous, chasing away the gloom and shadows that clung to the edges of the ruined field. The glow radiated through each strand, spilling down to your hands where they hovered over Gil-galad’s broken body. The light wrapped around him, tendrils of golden radiance curling and twisting, seeking the places where his wounds ran deepest. Slowly, the glow seeped into the jagged tear across his chest, its soft, unyielding warmth mending torn flesh and shattered bone with a gentle but deliberate grace. It wasn’t harsh or sudden—it was like the steady growth of a tree, natural and full of purpose, filling the spaces where death had begun to creep.

As the magic coursed through him, you felt his body stir beneath your hands. A low, pained groan escaped his lips, weak but unmistakably alive. The tension in his frame, once so taut with pain, began to ease as the warmth suffused him, chasing the chill from his limbs. His breathing, shallow and labored only moments before, grew deeper and steadier, each breath less of a struggle. Color returned to his pallid face, faint at first but spreading with every moment, a soft flush blooming in his cheeks. The harsh lines of anguish etched into his features began to soften, his expression relaxing as the weight of his injuries faded. And then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing silver-grey eyes that shone brighter than you had dared to hope.

His gaze found yours almost instantly, locking onto you with an intensity that sent a tremor through your chest. There was clarity in his expression now, a sharpness that had been dulled by pain and exhaustion before. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the world around you forgotten. His eyes, still lined with the echoes of his ordeal, held a silent question, a mixture of awe, gratitude, and something far deeper. You didn’t need to answer him—not with words. The glow that lingered in the air around you spoke for itself, as did the steady hum of life now coursing through his body. He was whole again. He was alive. And for the first time, you dared to believe he would stay that way.

“What…?” His voice, though hoarse and still faint, carried a steady strength now, a grounding quality that hadn’t been there moments before. He struggled to lift his head, his gaze trailing over the glowing strands of your hair, then settling back on your face with a look that made your heart ache. “Your light…” he murmured, awe thickening his tone. “It is like the Silmarils… like the Trees of old.” His voice faltered, not from pain but from reverence, as though he were speaking of something sacred. The wonder in his eyes was enough to take your breath away.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, unchecked, a mix of relief and the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The fear, the helplessness, the agonizing moments where you thought you would lose him—all of it fell away, replaced by the quiet, profound joy of seeing him alive. “You’re safe now,” you managed, your voice breaking and trembling under the weight of your relief. “You’re going to be alright.” For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to reconcile the miracle of what had just happened. Then, slowly, his trembling hand lifted. Though the movement was unsteady, it was deliberate, his fingers brushing gently against the strands of your hair. The light still lingered there, soft and radiant, casting a warm golden glow over his pale skin. His touch was barely there, reverent, as if he feared disturbing the fragile magic that had just saved his life.

“You…” His voice broke, thick with emotion. He swallowed hard, his silver-grey eyes never leaving yours. “You are a miracle,” he said finally, his tone raw, each word weighted with meaning. “I thought I was lost. I thought I had fallen too far. But you…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as though words could never fully express the depth of his gratitude, or the wonder you had awakened in him. Your hand found his, stilling its trembling with your touch as you brought it to rest between you. “You owe me nothing,” you said softly, the sincerity in your voice unwavering. Your other hand still rested over his chest, where the wound had been, as if grounding yourself in the knowledge that he was whole once more.

“Just stay with me. That’s all I ask.” His eyes searched yours, deep pools of emotion swirling in their depths. There was pain there, yes, but also resolve and something else—something fierce and unbreakable. “I will,” he promised, his voice quiet but filled with a steadfast determination. “For as long as I draw breath, I will stay by your side.” The words settled into your heart like a vow, binding in their simplicity and power. Around you, the battlefield remained—a grim tapestry of ruin—but in this moment, it felt as though the world had stilled. All the pain, the chaos, the shadows of despair fell away, leaving only the connection between the two of you.

The golden glow of your hair began to fade slowly, retreating into the silken strands until it was just a memory of warmth and light. Yet even as the light dimmed, its presence lingered—soft, radiant, and unforgettable. Gil-galad’s hand tightened slightly over yours, his strength returning, a silent reassurance that he was still with you, that he would not leave. You gazed at him, the bond between you forged anew, stronger now than it had ever been. It felt eternal, a connection born not just of love, but of trust, of sacrifice, and of something neither of you could fully name but both understood. You knew, with every beat of your heart, that this bond would endure, unyielding even in the face of the storms that lay ahead.

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

Adar was not one to show weakness easily. His centuries of life had been filled with war, loss, and burdens that would break lesser beings. He had carried the weight of kings and battles, the anguish of personal sacrifice, and the scars of old wars. Yet, now, as he staggered back from the sharp blow that had struck him, a gnawing realization crept through him—the inevitable truth that perhaps this time, his strength might not be enough. The gash across his side was deep, the jagged edge of the wound still bleeding freely, crimson staining his armor and the ground beneath him. It was a pain unlike any he had known before, not just from the physical injury, but from the suffocating weight of something far more pressing—the slow, creeping sensation of his life force ebbing away with every labored breath. His body, usually a pillar of endurance, now felt fragile, betraying him in a way he could not ignore.

His hand, once steady and resolute, trembled as he pressed it to the wound. His fingers, slick with blood, failed to staunch the flow. Each pulse of his heart sent a sharp pain through him, as though his very veins were protesting. He could feel the coldness creeping up his spine, seeping into his bones, and it was as if every fiber of his being was being pulled toward the ground, toward something darker, something final. His breath grew ragged, his chest heaving in shallow gasps, as though he were trying to hold on to something that was slipping further out of reach with each passing moment.

The battlefield around him—once so vivid, filled with the sounds of clashing steel, shouts of victory and defeat, and the sharp cries of the fallen—now seemed distant, muffled, like the echoes of a dream fading with the dawn. The smoke, thick and choking, hung in the air, curling around him like tendrils, making the edges of his vision blur and shift. The screams of the dying seemed far away, as though they were happening on another plane, not here where he stood. His world was narrowing, his mind sinking into a fog as the weight of his years and the exhaustion of the battle pressed down on him. For the first time in centuries, Adar felt the unmistakable pull of mortality—of being human again. In his long life, he had endured so much, but this wound, this agony, seemed different. The sensation of his life slipping from him wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual, as though he were being drawn into the shadows, away from the living, from the war, from everything he had fought for.

He staggered slightly, trying to hold himself upright, his knees buckling as the world around him seemed to tilt. His once-proud stature faltered, and he could feel the weight of all his choices pressing down on him, the ghosts of his past whispering in his ears. Yet he fought to hold on, to remain anchored to the world he had fought so hard to protect. But the cold was relentless now, and his vision—already clouded by the growing darkness—began to fade. His body felt heavy, as if it were made of stone, and every movement, every breath, seemed like a struggle against an inevitable force. For the first time, Adar wasn’t sure he could fight it.

But then, like a beacon cutting through the storm, you appeared. Through the haze of blood and exhaustion, Adar’s bleary eyes strained to make sense of what he was seeing. His body was failing him, but still, there you were—moving toward him with a grace that seemed to defy the chaos of the battlefield. Your presence pierced the dissonance around him, a light that cut through the crushing darkness, a warmth he hadn’t known he still longed for. His heart, which had long since learned to steel itself against all emotions, gave a weak flutter at the sight of you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to pull you close and shield you from the brutality that had consumed him, but his body refused to obey. The gash on his side burned with a ferocity that seemed to steal what little strength remained in him, and the darkness, relentless in its grasp, began to creep back over his vision.

Through the fog, he heard your voice—a sound like the calm before a storm, full of resolve and something else he couldn’t quite place. It was a lifeline, a tether pulling him toward the last remnants of himself. “Adar!” you called again, your voice edged with fear, but not for him. No, it was the fear of what was to come, the fear of losing him. He tried to speak, to reassure you, to tell you that this burden was not yours to bear. But the words, the familiar comfort of his own voice, refused to come. His throat felt like dry stone, his breath shallow and ragged. Instead, he could only manage a faint sigh, a sound that conveyed the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His body was failing him in ways he had never imagined, yet in that fleeting moment, as he lay there before you, there was something else—a flicker of hope sparked within him, kindled by your unrelenting presence.

You didn’t hesitate. There was no fear in your gaze, no hesitation in the way you moved toward him with such purpose. It was as though nothing else in the world mattered except reaching him, saving him. And there was something else there too—something deep in the way you looked at him. Something ancient, something far beyond the mortal realm. In that moment, the pain of his wound faded into the background, overtaken by the force of that unspoken connection between you.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady despite the storm of emotion swirling in your eyes. Your touch, gentle but firm, brushed against his bloodied side. Adar’s breath hitched at the contact. The tenderness of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he forgot the battlefield, forgot the war, and forgot the agony wracking his body. It was as if you had reached into the very core of him, grounding him, reminding him of what it felt like to be human again, to be cared for, to be seen. “Hold on,” you whispered, the words soft but filled with a power that seemed to resonate with something far beyond your years. Your voice was a balm, and despite the dark tide pulling him under, he felt a warmth spreading from the place where your hand rested on him, steadying him in ways that no blade could ever do.

His heart raced, a desperate echo of life, fighting against the pull of oblivion. But with you there, with your gaze unwavering and your touch so sure, he felt the stirrings of something—something more than hope. It was as if, in that moment, he was no longer alone. And though he could not move, though his vision blurred and the cold crept in, he found a new strength rising in him, a quiet defiance against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. It wasn’t just a flicker anymore. It was a spark. And that spark, ignited by your presence, was enough to keep him tethered to this world—at least for a little while longer.

You reached for his injury with the care of someone who had touched the very fabric of life itself. Your hand brushed lightly against his bloodied side, and the sensation of your touch sent a tremor through his body, a shiver that wasn’t born from cold but from the sheer force of the energy you radiated. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was imagining it—the way the light seemed to gather around you, how the very space around you seemed to hum with something beyond him, beyond anything he had ever known. His breath stilled in his chest as he watched, wide-eyed, as your long, (your hair colour)—once lifeless and heavy—began to shimmer. The strands of it caught the dim light of the battlefield, then glowed with an ethereal radiance, soft and vibrant like starlight reflecting on the still surface of a deep lake. The glow pulsated gently, almost as if it had a life of its own, curling in the air around you like an extension of your being.

With a steady, graceful motion, you leaned closer, the light from your hair wrapping around his wound like a warm, shimmering ribbon. It was as though your hair itself had become an extension of your will, an instrument of healing—its glow bathing him in a tender warmth, coaxing his body to respond, to fight against the ravages of injury. Your voice broke through the chaos, a soft yet powerful melody that seemed to echo in his very soul. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine, Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine.” The words, unfamiliar and yet oddly comforting, seemed to wrap around his heart, wrapping him in an embrace that transcended the physical realm. As you sang, he could feel the magic pouring through him, like a river of light and warmth filling every corner of his being. The wound on his side, deep and cruel, began to respond to the energy surrounding him. The jagged edges of his torn flesh smoothed themselves, the bleeding slowing and then ceasing altogether. It was as if time itself bent to your will, erasing the pain, erasing the damage, and with each passing second, the agony that had once clung to him began to fade away. The blood-soaked fabric of his tunic no longer clung to his skin, the crimson stain receding as though it had never been.

Adar could feel the weight lifting from his body, the exhaustion that had pulled at him for so long beginning to ease. His breath, which had been shallow and labored, slowly began to even out, the tightness in his chest loosening with the soothing magic you invoked. The light from your hair wrapped around him like a blanket, gentle but insistent, coaxing the wound closed, mending what had been broken. Each pulse of the glow seemed to pull him further from the edge of darkness, and though he could barely grasp the magnitude of what was happening, he felt the healing begin to take root in him.

The gash that had once seemed so insurmountable was now no more than a faint line across his side, the skin already knitting itself back together, leaving only a trace of the injury behind. His body, once heavy and unresponsive, now felt lighter, as though the burden of the battle had been lifted from his shoulders. And though the pain still lingered at the edges of his awareness, it was no longer the consuming force it had once been. Instead, there was a quiet calm that settled over him, a peace that only deepened as the last notes of your song faded into the air. His breath, once ragged and strained, grew more steady and assured with each passing moment. Slowly, the fog of exhaustion began to clear, replaced by a sharpness that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The clarity in his mind came as a surprising relief—like the mists parting to reveal a sky he thought he’d never see again. Adar blinked, feeling the weight of his body ease, but he was still weak, still trembling slightly from the ordeal. And yet, he could now focus, his eyes locking onto yours.

The glow from your hair bathed you in an ethereal light, casting a soft radiance that made everything around you appear to fade into insignificance. It was as though you were not entirely of this world, something more, something beyond. In that moment, as he looked at you, there were no words that could encompass the depth of his feelings. He had lived a life filled with loss, pain, and the burdens of responsibility, but in this instant, before him, was something he had long ago abandoned—a flicker of something beautiful, something sacred. Something that made the world seem just a little more bearable.

“You…” His voice came out hoarse, weak from the strain of the battle and his body’s fragile state. He cleared his throat, trying again, but the words felt too small, too inadequate for what he was experiencing. “What are you?” It was a question born from awe, from confusion, and from something deeper—something that had stirred in him the moment your magic had touched him.

You smiled softly, your lips curving into something gentle, something reassuring. Your hair, still glowing faintly, pulsed in time with your heartbeat—a rhythm that somehow felt like a promise. “I am just someone who won’t let you fall.” The sincerity in your words struck him with the force of a thunderclap, and something in his chest clenched painfully. The raw, unguarded emotion in your voice—how it came from a place of such quiet strength—made his heart ache in ways he had long forgotten how to feel. In all his years, he had seen many faces of suffering, many moments of hopelessness, but never had he encountered something so purely selfless. The magic you wielded, the way it flowed from you with such ease, was beyond anything he could comprehend. It was not just a force of nature—it was a gift. A gift so rare that it seemed as though it had no place in the broken world they lived in.

Adar’s trembling hand reached out instinctively, as if drawn to you, as though he needed to touch you to make sure you weren’t some fleeting illusion. His fingers brushed against the soft strands of your hair, and a strange sensation washed over him, as if by touching you, he was touching something far older than even himself. It was as though the very fabric of the world itself had passed through him in that brief connection.

“I owe you my life,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion—rare, raw, and unguarded. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet they were the truest he had ever spoken. He had always been one to carry his burdens alone, to face the storm without ever asking for shelter, but now, in the wake of your magic, there was no denying it. He owed you more than he could ever express. You shook your head, a soft, almost imperceptible motion, and gently, your hand closed around his. “No,” you murmured, your voice tender and firm. “You owe me nothing. Just live, Adar. That’s enough for me.” The weight of your words settled into his chest, heavier than anything else, and for a moment, the world seemed to still around him. In that quiet space between the past and the future, he felt the enormity of what you were offering him—not just life, but the chance to live without the burden of guilt, without the crushing weight of a world that had never been kind.

He couldn’t speak at first. The words that hovered on his tongue felt too insignificant to capture the depth of what he felt in that moment. But when they came, they were a whisper, barely audible yet clear in their sincerity. “I will stay, for as long as you’ll have me.” And in that moment, surrounded by the ruins of a battle, amid the wreckage of war, there was a warmth that seemed to push back the cold shadows that had once threatened to consume him. The light of your hair, still glowing softly in the aftermath of your magic, seemed to envelop them both. The world outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant, as the promise in your eyes shone brighter than any star could. Whatever came next, whatever storms the world would throw at them, it no longer seemed like an insurmountable challenge. Not with you by his side.

#thranduil #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #thranduil of mirkwood #Gil galad #Gil galad x you #Gil galad x reader #gil galad rings of power #gil galad of lindon #Adar #Adar x you #Adar x reader #daddy adar #adar rings of power #adaration #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

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transbookoftheday · 2 years ago

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Leave Trans Kids Alone

Inspired by David Tennant's "Leave Trans Kids Alone You Absolute Freaks" shirt, here are some amazing trans middle grade and picture books you should read:

Book titles:

99% Chance of Magic by Amy Eleanor Heart, Abbey Darling and Luna Merbruja

Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston by Esme Symes-Smith

Jamie by L.D. Lapinski

Camp QUILTBAG by Nicole Melleby and A. J. Sass

Dear Mothman by Robin Gow

Moonflower by Kacen Callender

Joy, to the World by Kai Shappley and Lisa Bunker

Ana on the Edge by A.J. Sass

Girl Haven by Lilah Sturges, Meaghan Carter and Joamette Gil

Obie Is Man Enough by Schuyler Bailar

Alice Austen Lived Here by Alex Gino

The House That Whispers by Lin Thompson

Both Can Be True by Jules Machias

The Tea Dragon Festival by K. O'Neill

Different Kinds of Fruit by Kyle Lukoff

Jude Saves the World by Ronnie Riley

Tiger Honor by Yoon Ha Lee

The Ship We Built by Lexie Bean

Rabbit Chase by Elizabeth Lapensee, KC Oster and Aarin Dokum

Skating on Mars by Caroline Huntoon

Tally the Witch by Molly Landgraff

The Beautiful Something Else by Ash Van Otterloo

The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith

The Fabulous Zed Watson! by Basil Sylvester and Kevin Sylvester

The Ojja-Wojja by Magdalene Visaggio and Jenn St-Onge

Too Bright to See by Kyle Lukoff

The One Who Loves You the Most by medina

Me and My Dysphoria Monster by Laura Kate Dale and Hui Qing Ang

When Aidan Became A Brother by Kyle Lukoff and Kaylani Juanita

Calvin by J.R. Ford, Vanessa Ford and Kayla Harren

#trans books #middle grade books #picture books #trans book of the day #queer books #transmasc #transfem #nonbinary #david tennant #good omens #leave trans kids alone

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welcomingdisaster · 6 months ago

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Daily Affirmations

- I am an artist and a craftsman. I paint with watercolors, teal and white, and I bend silver to my hands.

- I am capable. I have an eye for hue, for shape, for purpose.

- My father is proud of me. I bear his name, and his blood is within me, and I shall live up to it.

- The world is full of darkness and smoke, and we make beautiful things.

- Nothing will last. Not the land, not the tower, not the fortress—not the trees which give us light nor my grandfather’s sharp grey eyes. By our art we must be remembered, as he is.

- The stronghold falls. I paint with watercolors, blue and black and grey. It is beautiful.

- I can earn my place in the underground city. My hands will show my worth, though my father laughs and tells me not to bother.

- I can please the king, bask in the sunshine-brightness of his gaze, the crystal beauty of his voice. I can catch in silver the kindness he shows me.

- I need not my father’s love. I need not my father’s love. I need not my father’s love.

- The king is dead. I paint with watercolors, orange and yellow and green. It is beautiful.

- I can leave the city, and the shame which follows me, and the ash and blood on my skin. The fall of the city will not touch me. My father’s death will not touch me. I twist braids of silver and gold. I sketch passageways. I cut crystal. Nothing can touch me, for I am of metal and stone, and I do not feel.

- I can build Nargothrond into Eregion’s gardens, her domed temples, her crystal passageways. I keep the ghost by me, and turn to it to a friend.

- I am not my father. I am not my grandfather. I have the love of my kin and quarrel with none. I paint with water colors, indigo and silver. It is beautiful.

- I will make something of this land, and it will last. I need not my name, and yet I will fill it.

- The Valar have chosen me for a reason.

- This is worth the cost. It must be.

- I need not Galadriel’s love; she is headstrong and takes ambition for folly. I need not Elrond’s love; he is kind, yet young and weak yet of spirit, swayed too easily by the king’s word. I need not Gil-galad’s love; he fears anything he cannot control.

- I am capable. I have an eye for spirit, for power, for purpose.

- I know what I am doing.

- I will make something beautiful, and it will last.

- I am an artist and a craftsman. I bend silver to my hands. I paint with watercolors, crimson, and I wait for

#lena speaks #my fic #celebrimbor

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weclassygirl · 5 months ago

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visions

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: the high king makes his judgement, a new path opens

warnings: none

word count: 2,3k

author’s note: here we go, part two for bound… and soon more to come, let me just get their story straight. enjoy!

”The Woodland Realm has exiled you, why should we aid and welcome you in Lindon?” no greeting, no smile, you already feel that this conversation will take a toll on you.

“Did you believe me to be dead? Or did you wish for it?” you ask and curse yourself for your tongue speaks quicker than your mind. Gil-Galad looks at you with disdain. You try to calm your growing anger. “Whatever Oropher told you is not true.”

“Is it not?” he questions and steps closer. The guards watch your every movement, waiting for you to slip up, to give them a reason to attack. “Were you not the Elf that nearly killed a fellow companion because her anger grew into rage?”

An accident. A mere accident that decided the fate of your life.

“I never meant for—“

“But you did.” he cuts you off. You look to Galadriel who stands next to Elrond, he turns away from your sight but the Commander watches the scene unfold.

You wrote to her, countless times to seek her aid. Elrond as well. All of your letters went unanswered and you thought that perhaps an order was given to burn any passage written by you.

Gil-Galad regards you. “You sought out that which is forbidden. Lindon, Greenwood or any other Elven realm will not stand by it.”

You look up at him, the golden crown that adorns his head, gleaming in the sun. He looked like an emissary from the Valar themselves. Your eyes travel to your hands, so much harm they once caused. Gil-Galad waits as you try to gather your words.

“If you wish to punish me, do so when the blade at my neck is yours. I will not be humiliated. Not again.” you say through your teeth.

The Elves whisper around you.

Witch.

Traitor.

Morgoth’s servant.

Banish her.

Send her away.

You hear another whisper, so quick you almost miss it. Almost.

“Defiance does not suit you.” Gil-Galad states. He looks down at your hands, the dark fingertips as if dipped in black ash. The marks on your body, some symbols and some written in Black Speech. The sight disgusts him and for a moment he pities you and what you’ve endured for centuries. “You will fulfill your punishment in Eregion.”

You gawk at the High King as he makes his decree. “Eregion?”

He returns to his place by the Tree and the guards flank your sides, ready to take you away. “Be glad it’s not my blade at your throat. You will be confined in chains at all times, ones that will subdue your magic. Lord Celembrimbor will see to it. He makes them as we speak.”

Chained once again. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, perhaps it’s best not to show any emotion while the others are looking. You let the guards take you away and you cast one last glance at Galadriel and Elrond. He meets your gaze finally and bows his head. You don’t know when you will see them again.

The guards chain you and tie your hands to the reins as the company gathers. You in the middle while four of them surround you. Most of the supplies for the journey were given to you, to weigh down your horse should you try to escape.

The road goes ever winding and after a few weeks of constant travel you reach the gates of Eregion. The Elves gather on their balconies, look through the arches to catch a glimpse at you.

The word has reached here as well.

You wonder why they take such interest in you but it is quickly dismissed. You dabbled in the dark arts, once made a mistake that scarred your path and were a prisoner of Morgoth, but you never served him faithfully, only to survive. The Elves had become paranoid.

The spell you cast was an accident, your companion was alive, received a wound in the process but survived.

Your curiosity however, you could never contain it and the darkness was alluring. It’s a shame to admit to it but it's a necessary truth.

However you don’t think yourself evil, yes you were quick to anger but who wouldn’t be after years of torture?

Celebrimbor stands in front of the gates with a man by his side, he holds a wooden box. When the guards help you come down from the horse you think of making a run for it but that would only prove your actions further.

Guilty and convicted.

One of the guards gives Celebrimbor a scroll, he reads through the letter from Gil-Galad with further instructions. He nods and twists the scroll back. He looks you up and down, your dress dirty at the hem, your wrists bound in shackles once again. You looked clean, no blood, no dirt, you never attacked the guards that accompanied you.

“Well then, I assume you never were to Eregion?” he asks out of pure curiosity.

“Once. Merely passing through.” you say and look around cautiously, Celebrimbor notices.

“Be at ease. You’re here in a form of punishment but I would like to see it as a form of shared work.”

You raise an eyebrow at his statement. “What will my duties be here?”

“You,” he starts and grabs the wooden box from the man beside him. When he opens it you notice two identical bracelets made of silver. “You will be an aid in my forge, however some… requirements must be fulfilled.” he explains and takes the bracelets. He steps closer and silently asks you to give you his hands. You do so hesitantly as you cling to your magic one last time.

He puts the bracelets on your wrists and tightens them ever so slightly, you would have to cut off your thumb if you wanted to free yourself and you did not want to witness that sight.

“This will hold your magic, you can still heal yourself and others should the need arise but until the High King gives a different command, they have to stay.” he taps them slightly and you think back to the way Sauron tapped your chains so often when coming up with another ways to seduce you into darkness.

He was persistent but you were glad you had someone to talk to, even if it was Morgoth’s right hand.

A shiver runs through you and your head whips back when you hear Black Speech in your ear. Celebrimbor looks the way your eyes fell but sees no one. “What is it?”

You shake your head and slowly turn to face him. “Nothing, I…“ you look back to where the sound came from. “…thought I heard something.”

The guards look at you as they mount their horses, ready to return to Lindon. One of them stays as he awaits a letter from Celebrimbor. He gives it to him, previously written since he knew you would not resist.

The Eregion guards take over and lead you to your chambers, as you settle and clean yourself up. You stand under a stream of water and look over at the bracelets, you try to tear them away, bent them out but the metal is sturdy. A perfect craftsmanship, you would expect nothing less from the grandson of Fëanor.

A knock comes at the door, the man that accompanied Celebrimbor at your arrival.

“If you’re finished I’ll take you to the forge.” he informs you and you follow him through the halls. You’ve put on a newer dress, the old one was the only piece of clothing you were left with on your journey to Eregion. The darker shade of blue fabric clung to your body and flew behind you with each step you took.

You visited Eregion briefly, a stop on your journey to Greenwood. You used to craft as well but never bore the talent such as Fëanor’s. You used magic to create whatever your heart desired, you used it when building your home in the north of Greenwood.

The woodwork became your craft rather than precious metals and as you enter the forge you begin to miss the comfort of your home.

The Elven smiths glance at you as you enter but continue with their work. Celebrimbor comes down from the gallery to show you around. “I believe you’ll come to enjoy it, I heard you once tried to create something as well.” he asks and you look down to the beaten ring you’ve made centuries ago. The black stone inside it broken but still held within the grasps of the uneven metal.

“A foolish attempt.”

He places a hand on your shoulder. “Not foolish. Perhaps with a bit more practice…” he says, leading you to a desk where a few jewelry pieces lay. Ring with green emerald, a necklace that shone like starlight, a golden bracelet with the most detailed design you’ve ever seen. Weapons laid there as well, shining metal in the dim light, handle wrapping around the blade. You stare in awe.

“Are you certain you have not bested Fëanor yet?” you ask genuinely but think that a bit of flattery on your end might help get out of your chains quicker.

Celebrimbor smiles and gestures to the forge. “Come, we have work to do.” and you follow.

You work for years under Celebrimbor, the Elven smiths have taken to converse with you even if at first they were avoiding you like a plague. With time you have learned to enjoy the craft, a slow process but it kept your life steady. No Morgoth, no torment, a temporary home.

The only pain you felt was the lack of magic in your life. You worked as a healer from time to time but it never compared to the dark arts. Your hands trembled at times as if trying to contain the power from bursting within you. And the visions didn’t help.

They came gradually, growing more persistent with each month of your stay in Eregion. A shadow, always the same and always cunning. It whispered into your ear, showed you the power you could possess. You almost gave in the first night it came.

But you felt it the most one day in the forge.

The same piercing pain you felt when you left Forodwaith. You hold to the table you’ve been working on, the saw and the pliers forgotten on it. The sound they made drew the attention of Mirdania.

“Are you alright?” she comes to your side as you claw at the fabric above your heart. You don’t hear her and shut your eyes as the ringing in your ears grows.

Celebrimbor hears the commotion and quickly comes to see the problem. When he sees you with your hands covering your ears his sight falls on the bracelets that subdue your magic. Could they have weakened?

But there’s nothing that would indicate that you used it.

Mirdania steps aside as Celebrimbor replaces her. His hands rest on your shoulders as you open your eyes. His voice is muffled as he calls your name.

“What’s happening?”

You shake your head, unable to answer and for a split second you see the same shadow behind him, it seems to be smiling.

Celebrimbor sees your frenzied eyes and tries to point where you’re looking at. The Elvensmiths gathered look helpless as no one knows how to help you.

The shadow vanishes as quickly as it came and the ringing in your ears stop. A drop of blood flows out of your nostril and you hear it as it falls to the ground. Your hand goes to your mouth and wipes away the blood, it’s then you notice your fingers. Where once they started to fade from the lack of dark magic, the mark showed up again.

Celebrimbor looks warily, the bracelets he forged would contain your power, he would know you used it even if done so unconsciously. The situation troubles him, the High King must be informed.

You grab him by his tunic as he stands up, the look on his face telling you his intention. “Don’t tell him, please. I didn’t use it, I swear.”

“How do you explain it then?” he points to your fingers curled around the fabric.

“It’s not my doing.”

“Then who’s?” he kneels down at your eye level.

You think over his question and dread the answer. You suggest Morgoth but would his influence still remain after all these years? You think of Sauron but you witnessed his death. Forodwaith is the only answer, centuries you spend there have left a mark, for you it’s the only explanation. You could not escape darkness even if you wanted to.

“He must be informed.” he leaves you with these words and you storm out of the forge. The guards close behind you as you run to the gardens and cover yourself underneath the shadow of a tree. It’s nearly dusk and you curse under your breath in every language you know. Black Speech makes its way on your tongue unconsciously and the guards tense up.

You stay there for a while until the cold wind beats against your skin. You look down at your hands and notice the black starting to fade once more, your head rests against your knees as you look ahead.

You close your eyes when you see it again, out of the corner of your eye but ever so watchful. It takes a form this time, not of a shadow but a man. You look away and his hand slithers under your chin to make you look up at him. When you do, you see perfectly green eyes and the stubble adorning his face, he looks at you so gently you nearly forget he’s the reason for your hauntings.

“Let it in.” he whispers. “A witch should practice her craft.”He returns to shadow and passes through you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you wake up in your bed. You look around and hold your head in your hands.

What is happening?

next part -> deception

#i’m back with more #it will be a slowburn obviously cause i love to torture myself #sauron x reader #sauron #rings of power #lord of the rings #witch!reader #tolkien #elf!reader #hopefully I haven’t made a loophole for what I have in mind for the future parts

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tootoomanycats · 2 months ago

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The Plan

Chapter One: Best Laid Plans...

Pairing:

Gil-Galad x Human Reader Fem

Word Count: 6,415 words

If you prefer to read on AO3 its HERE

Summary: (SET IN THE RINGS OF POWER TV SERIES) (Takes place years before the first episode) As time settles the world’s chaos, Gil-Galad begins to feel an unusual boredom. After centuries of war, his days are now filled with mundane paperwork, the ink on the parchment mocking him with its monotony. When he receives a letter from Master Boat Builder Cirdan, asking for aid for a small group of humans whose ship has sunk, Gil-Galad agrees, recognizing his duty to help. Upon meeting the High King, you are caught off guard by an unexpected attraction. With your ship at the bottom of the bay, you aim to use your charm to secure a new vessel for yourself and your crew. However, as days go by, Gil-Galad's genuine compassion and kindness complicate things. The initial plan to flirt and deceive begins to clash with the genuine emotions that develop. You find yourself torn between the charming facade and emerging feelings for the High King. As the truth looms closer, the question remains—how will Gil-Galad react when he learns the real reason behind your visit?

Warnings:

Mentions of fire

Descriptions of injuries

Descriptions of partial nudity

Reader is not a holy good person.

Two ideots pining and refusing to acknowledge it.

Not Beta Read

(smut stuff will be in chapter two, promise)

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone!

It’s finally here! Thank you for being so patient while I finally got this done and posted. In my overeagerness, I was hoping to get this finished on New Year’s Day, but sadly, life and depression got a hold of me. I have entirely rewritten this chapter and how it plays out over four times. This time, I finally had to reel my worry that this wasn't good enough and just be okay with where it was. Please note that I'm writing this without sitting to very strict guidelines of what elves are commonly like in the book. I am writing Gil-Galad and Elves with the idea that history books and lore always paint figureheads and royalty as if they lived by strict morals and values. And I think it's much more interesting if we see what Gil-Galad would have experienced if he had fallen in love, and it, in the end, was kept secret from history. You'll notice that Elrond isn't going to be in this; that is because at the same time this story is going on- I have a one-shot of what Elrond is doing elsewhere. I am working on it, but I have no set date for finishing it as of right now. As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks. Have you fed your starving artist today?

Tea.

Every night since his arrival in Grey Havens, the Master Boat Builder has made a point to enjoy a cup of tea before heading off to bed. Be it rain, snow, or shine, that cup of tea will always be had.

The weather was sublime this evening: cool temperatures, clear skies, and a calm breeze. Weather being what it is, he opened the workshop’s doors to watch as the sun’s last glow gave way to darkness.

Once the last sip was finished, he reached for the large doors to close them for the night. But as he pulled the last one, a shimmer of light in the water caught his attention; its reflection was unusually bright.

Leaning out the side, hand gripping the door handle for balance, he gasped in shock at finding the source. Just a few leagues away was a double-masted ship- inflamed.

Its bow was raised dramatically into the cool night air, exposing an accumulation of maritime fauna. The vessels aft dragged along the sea bed, echoing whenever it hit high points of rocks. What wood was visible was already ashes or becoming the next fuel source for the inferno. Screams and bodies jumping into the river could be heard above all else.

Running out of the boat house, Cirdan reached the town’s warning bell. Its massive size was stuck from disuse and rust. He kicked hard and kept kicking until his ankle and foot burned in protest, until finally, it groaned in movement. The piercing sound of the tocsin woke and alerted those who lived nearby as he shouted, “FIRE!”

It became chaos as orders were given, supplies packed, and horses mounted. The few elves who could, followed the older one, sprinting to offer aid to the tragedy’s survivors.

——

Wet, freezing, and homeless.

The strength it had taken to carry your first mate from the ship’s bowls to the deck had caused more than one muscle to pull. Short as he is, the man is surprisingly heavy.

Unfortunately, jumping from a burning ship was more manageable than carrying him to shore. As the line of buoyancy and gravity met, a new struggle began as you started to stand halfway out of the water.

Heavy, wet clothes worked against frozen, numb limbs with each soaking step to dry land and out of its icy grip. Ankles almost twisting with each slippery step on the shore rocks before finally collapsing onto soft sand.

A small blessing was the man you had carried came too with only a few short chest compressions. You joined him on the sand once he could fully sit up and catch his breath.

What was left of the crew watched as the top of the crow’s nest disappeared, the bay groaning and gurgling in its consumption. The ship you and many others once called home had been swallowed into the water’s depths.

A hand gently pressed into your left shoulder, its callouses felt through the singed holes of your shirt—the contact causing you to look at the much shorter man. “I’m sorry, Captain. You did your best.”

The words meant well, but instead of commiserating, they reminded you that this was your failure. When the sensation of your throat tightening and eyes misting began, you shook your head. There would be no grieving until a new home was acquired.

Looking back at the shorter man, face composed and emotions pushed to the side. “Do we know where we’ve landed, Sal? I didn’t have time to look at the map; when I saw the opening, I thought it would be the only chance for our escape.”

Sal’s singular green eye widened before looking around the visible area, knowing he would be the only one of you to see in such darkness. “Not sure, we’ve never been this far north before.”

Not good.

Standing up, you internally shivered as the sensation of wet, sandy, cloth peeled from your damp, chilled skin. The only possessions left were on everyone’s backs, holes and all.

A strike of panic set in at that realization. Taking inventory, a hand reached up to count the baubles that adorned your earnings, relieved to feel all was accounted for. Looking down at the blistered and burned fingers, you grimaced at the thought of how bad the pain would be when removing the various roughly smithed rings. One of the bands looked almost embedded past the first few layers of skin, potentially touching bone.

Sal had followed in checking his personage for anything of value, even lifting his eye patch and ensuring that the smooth, unpolished diamond he kept was still hidden in the empty socket.

“We’re going to be stuck on land until a new home can be procured.” Turning, you saw the group huddled together for warmth, teeth chattering as they shivered.

“From here on out, it’s dry land rules and roles. We’re starting from nothing, so best behaviors until that changes.” At the nods given in response, you turned to your first mate. “We need to start a fire; we don’t need anyone dying of hypothermia-“ Everyone froze at a distinct sound.

Hoof-beats.

The sound rumbled further up into the tree line, accompanied by voices that called out, echoing into the fjord. Lanterns swayed and grew brighter with each moment the owners grew closer.

Head snapping back to the others, you whispered, “Remember the rules. No one speaks until I say so.” A groan caught your attention just before Sal almost lost his balance. “What's wrong? Why-“ Pulling your hand away from the back of his head, you felt the warmth just as you smelt its metallic scent.

Your hand was entirely coated in bright red blood from just that moment of contact; a quick glance back at the sand where he had first laid showed a small puddle where the ground's compression had helped to pause the bleeding, only momentarily. “Why didn't you say anything?” you hissed before trying to apply what little pressure your pain-filled hand could tolerate. A gruff whisper was his only response: “Didn't want to worry you.”

“Idiot” was the only word that could be mustered while ideas sprinted in your mind at what to do next. The lanterns were getting closer, the voices becoming more evident each second. It was a gamble, but it was the only possible choice you could see.

“Someone, help us!” Shouting into the night air, voice raising louder with the following sentence. “Pirates have attacked us!” At first, the crew members' confusion read clearly on their faces, until your stern glare made them realize what was happening. One by one, they began clutching various parts of their bodies, crying out and groaning in pain.

Sal chuckled in your arms, shaking his head before he lost consciousness, his full weight now on you to hold up. Once the owners of the lanterns broke through the bushes, they rushed in to help. But it was clear that there was surprise on both parties’ sides when seeing who the other was.

Elves? Just how far north had you drifted?

Cirdan was genuinely shocked at what he and his townspeople stumbled upon. When first spotting the burning ship, the assumption was that the sailors aboard would be his own kind—not humans. As the others rushed to those rolling in agony on the sand, he quickly made his way to where you were struggling to maintain balance while holding a relatively short man.

Finally, you allowed the tears to flow, teeth chattering as the adrenalin began to wear off and what little warmth you had dissipated. “Please, help us.” The older elf’s heart broke at the sight before him, and within the hour, you and your crew had been taken back to town to be tended to.

By midnight, Sal’s head had been stitched and bandaged. Once asleep, the shorter man's snoring rattled the walls of the boat builders' small home. The other members' wounds had been cleaned before special herbs that none of you recognized were placed over them. With no spare rooms, Cirdan was left to care for the ship’s captain on his dining table.

The first rinse to clean the wounds on your palms had not been too painful. But as the elf used various instruments to take out the bits of splintered wood, broken threads of rope, and shattered glass, you began to think that he was torturing you instead of healing.

At another flinch, Cirdan’s focus shifted to take in your exhausted face. The grimacing expression telling how much you were ready to be done with the tedious task before you both. “Almost done. I am pleased to say you will still have full use of your hands.” He whispered.

As everyone else slept, only a few candles lit the small area needed to see as he worked. In search of distraction from the sensitive and tender discomfort, attention shifted to the papers scattered around the table he had you perched on. The first few were just lists and notes, but something caught your eye.

It was beautiful.

Triple-masted, square-cut sales, the hull was designed in such detail that it felt like, with one good shake, it would drop out of the page into the water.

As you became further engrossed with the drawing, you unknowingly leaned further and further. Cirdan looked up, ready to ask you to sit still again. But when he followed where your attention had gone, he smiled softly before gently guiding your palms back into the position needed. Focusing back on digging out a particularly stubborn glass shard, he egged on your curiosity. “If you enjoy that one, you should see the one you are sitting on.”

When a deep blush of embarrassment spread across your face, he chuckled. “Here, let me help.” With the boat master’s aid to lean to the opposite side now, he pulled free the design to lay the now crinkled paper on the table for easier viewing.

Just like the previous design, this, too, was stunning. Were such ships possible to build? Once back to work on your hands, you took the opportunity to shift your attention from the design to begin admiring the unique features of the elf's home.

Intricate hand-carved details were everywhere. Spiraled door handles, doorway arches with such delicate flowers and vines it was a wonder they didn’t break, and the wall next to the dining table was carved from ceiling to floor, detailing a flock of cranes surrounded by tall standing trees.

“Did you design them?” Attention back to the page that had previously been sat on. An idea began to form in your mind at his nod and smile. “They’re beautiful; building something as grand as those must take a lifetime.”

“They are, though I am not sure if they will ever be brought into existence.” The tone of his voice tells of the pride in his creations and the enjoyment of such praise.

Allowing your voice to soften, your head tilting, and your lips turning up at the corners as you spoke, “They’re unique. It's so clear in everything you touch that this is what you were meant to do.”

As you continued, the tips of pointed ears peeking out from silver hair tinged in a faint blush. “Every detail thought through so clearly,” Cirdan gulped as he nervously tried to focus on the task before him.

But the poor boat builder struggled even more when you teasingly smiled while praising his work. “Even your door handles and chairs adorn your touches.” Your eyes locked for a moment, just long enough to see the faint tinge of a flustered blush topping the apples of his cheeks. A single fluter of your lashes and you glanced at his lips for a moment before returning to the pages laid out.

“Um, Y-yes. Yes, I feel such joy and fulfillment in what I do and what it means for my people.” He placed the metal instruments down on the woven cloth that held other items, ones that looked sharper and more intimidating the longer you looked. The response was a murmured thank you as he began placing crushed herbs over the now clean wounds. As the gauze was wrapped around each finger delicately, it was Cirdan’s turn to ask a question.

“I am curious about your ship; it saddens me that I did not have a chance to see its beauty.” The fingers he still wrapped tensed in his hands; at looking up, he saw how the color left your face, eyes turned down; it was clear you weren't there with him at that moment. “Oh, I am sorry,” turning, he brought a warm cup of tea to your lips, your hands still unable to hold anything. “In my curiosity, I did not think of your pain and loss.”

The elves' eyes watched subtly as your lips curled and then relaxed to part, observing how your throat swallowed the warm liquid he had provided. Patiently waiting until you had your fill before putting the cup down and turning back to finish bandaging up to your wrists.

Cirdan finished the bandaging with the last wrap around your wrist. In the time it took to stand, gather the instruments, and look between you and his designs on the table, an idea began to form at the front of his mind. “Is it difficult to ascertain a new vessel in your homelands?” His back faced you as he cleaned the blood from the metal objects in the sink.

His shoulders dropped as your voice broke. “My home is very far from here.” For the second time in the night, the boat master felt his heartbreak at such sadness.

That settles it, then. He had to do something. There was only so long and so little room that Grey Haven’s harbor could offer hospitality, not to mention there being no clear path ahead for you. “What I say next, you must know, is not meant to push you out.” He watches the way you curl into yourself, preparing in resignation already.

“My home is small, not suited to provide the proper healing your crew needs. I will send a message to my king-,” Your eyes widen, shaking your head as you tell him no. But he will hear none of it. Raising a hand to stop your protests, the elf continues, “I will write to my king and ask that he finds it in his heart to show compassion, especially to those that deserve it.”

You tell him you don't know how to repay his kindness; he scoffs and drinks the now-cold tea to hide the blush dusting the apple of his cheeks. The rest of the night is spent playing a few games of chess. It would have just been one, but with your hands being as they are, you kept accidentally bumping multiple pieces around. With each game, the conversation turned back to ships, elven ships.

As the darkness of night began to give way to the first glow of dawn on the horizon, Cirdan excused himself to write the letter that would be sent ahead to Lindon’s Capital. At that same time, you went to Sal. Gently, you slinked into the bedroom so as not to wake the rest of the crew before sitting on the edge of the bed that was so graciously granted to your first mate.

“Sal, Sal!” You voiced louder than planned at the shorter man’s deep sleep, which refused to release him. Finally, the rough shake to his shoulder roused him. “Wha-Whats going on?” With a quick hand over his mouth to quiet him down, you pressed a finger to your lips before whispering. “I have just spent the last few hours speaking with our new friend. He has been very kind.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at the responding wiggling eyebrows, his single eye wide in excitement. “How kind?” You leaned in to reply with a whisper, a wicked smile its companion. “Kind enough to ask if his king would help us.” Sal’s jaw dropped in shock before punching your shoulder. “How in the hell did you pull that off?”

Sitting straight, the back of your hand pressed to your forehead, sighing dramatically before speaking, “Who will take pity on little ole me, a female captain with no ship to call home? My poor crew, so ill, that even elven healers struggle to help them.”

Shaking his head while chuckling, Sal crossed his arms while wiggling more comfortably into the bed’s soft feather pillows. “So what’s the plan?”

Your smirk grew at the question.

———————

With the first rays of morning light, a plan in motion, and rules set in place, you met with Cirdan and the escort outside his home, where a hiccup had already appeared.

You nervously approached the giant beast, flinching back when its large nostrils grunted out a rush of breath. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Can I not just walk behind?” A sympathetic smile graced the boat master’s lips as the other elf mounted their steed. “Walking would take extra days that your crew may not have. If you are unsure of riding alone, ride with the escort; they will ensure your safe arrival.”

Anxiously, you nodded in agreement, unable to see a different path around the logic presented. A few awkward jumps and one petrified yelp later saw you and the expert rider heading up the road to the capital—the poor elf at the mercy of your fearfully white-knuckled grip in their ribs. The pain in your hands be damned.

Lindon’s Palace

My Dear King,

I write to you earnestly, asking that aid be offered to someone deserving of such compassion. A pirate attack has left my new friend without a ship or home, and a crew suffering from ailments beyond my healing capabilities. The ship's Captain will arrive with an escort so that you yourself can make sound judgments of their character.

Gil-Galad re-read the letter. In his years of friendship with the Lord of Grey Haven, only a handful of times had the elder asked for royal assistance, unlike some of the other stewards of his kingdom, who seemed to lack such abstention.

He sighed when sid-eyeing the pile of letters and scrolls stacked high upon the oak desk, still awaiting answers. Fiddling with the paper’s edge, unrolling it further as he sat in thought, a previously unseen line of penmanship caught his attention.

I suggest conversing over a game of chess; you may be pleasantly surprised as I was in their company.

Your Faithful Friend, Cirdan

With a scoff, he flicked the paper back to its place on the desk's clutter. It had been hours, and barely a dent had been made in the mountain of documents that had arrived the day before.

With his kingdom settling into a gentle rhythm after so many years of war, the High King started feeling something unexpected- boredom. Gone were the days of extreme stress, battle planning, and mourning for his people. Now, they were filled with small pleasantries, mastering crafts, and, unfortunately, paperwork.

Leaning back into the hand-carved chair, fingers rubbed along the pulsing ache of his forehead, pain caused by the hours of eyes straining on documents.

A groan left his chest when an unfortunately familiar warmth spread across the top of a kneecap. The morning’s rays had started to inch into his room, their gentle cares on his vestige announcing that another sleepless night had passed.

Muscles ached and throbbed as he stood to stretch before walking to the window to watch the sunrise. His attention to the sunrise over the horizon was shifted down from his room in the tower at the arrival of a horse carrying two persons.

One was an elf, and the other a human woman. It was hard not to chuckle while watching as her arms shakily reached out to the escort to assist in the dismount from their horse, legs wobbling once on solid ground. As the escort walked off with the creature to announce their arrival, she stayed in place, observing the entry area's flora and white-barked trees.

It was rare to see a human in his kingdom. Even in memory, it was a struggle to gleam the last one and when they came. It was not surprising, as curiosity peaked about the mortal creature that had appeared at random.

That is what he told himself, at least, as his eyes fixated on the wild wind-swept hair that glowed from the crepuscular rays of morning. And repeated internally again, when observing the silhouette outlined from the sheer fabrics she wore when bending to smell a vine of jasmine.

The voice was not repeated a third time when his eyes honed in on the gentle slopes of her bust; nipples pebbled hard by the cold morning's dew. Each movement allowed more and more to be revealed by the fabric's owner. The tall elf’s heart rate panicked at admiring rounded hips that harmonized with the tops of plush, strong thighs and a waist--

When a knock raps at the bedroom door, he jumps, placing a wide palm to his chest, letting out a breath he was unaware was being held. With a final glance back at the woman, he shakes his head and asks the attendant to come in.

“High King, a visitor has arrived from Grey Haven to speak with you. Master Cirdan has sent them.” Gil-Galad froze, and his heart rate, still yet to calm down from moments ago, increased.

A quick glance to the desk where Cirdan’s note sat, as its words read out in his mind. Certainly, she was not the captain he spoke of. What in the world was that blasted boatmaker thinking? The shorter elf’s expression made Gil-Galad realize he took longer than usual to respond.

“I will be there in but a moment. Please see that our guest is attended to until then.” Gil-Galad’s eyebrow quirked as his attendant paused awkwardly, a tilt of his head letting the shorter elf know to speak. “Sire, your meeting with the human may need to wait a few days so that-“ Gil-Galad held up his hand as the memory of sheer fabric flashed away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Master Cirdan has informed me that the aid needed for the human stands on the direness of time. I will meet with them first during my morning meal; that should allow a better inclusion of my schedule.”

With a swift nod, the shorter elf leaves to inform the morning staff of the changes. In the reflection across from where he stood, exhausted eyes and a stern expression looked back. In a singular sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when it seems a moment to himself has appeared, the morning maids come in to prepare a bath and lay out the royal robes.

In toe behind them, the royal retainer began listing the days itinerary, explaining how every minute of the hours were filled with meetings, agreements, and document signatures. With a singular sigh and torpid blink, he turns to take the prepared bath and begrudgingly get the day started.

When an attendant had come to gather you and usher the way to an empty grand dining room to wait, it felt like a small gift.

Palpations had been occurring every few minutes since the moment your feet touched the ground after riding for hours. Hopefully, this would give time to help calm them. Chalking the rapid heart rate up to nerves and still feeling so tired, you reminded yourself that rest, food, and sleep would come eventually. But the plan took precedence over everything, no matter the cost.

The first few minutes were spent sitting at the opposite end of the room’s expansive stone table, until those nerves raised back up—skin itching, and not just on the slowly scabbing wounds of your hands. Legs crossed only to un-cross and then cross again. The liquid in the glass of wine on the table rippled from how hard your knee bounced. When all this did nothing to aid in the growing feeling of unease, you resorted to pacing back and forth, back and forth, until the feeling of dizziness came on.

At the sound of your stomach echoing into the quiet room, you side-eyed the table. The temptation was hard to resist at the site of the varying fruits, cheeses, bread, and dishes for breakfast. While subtle, the aromas still had made their way to your nose.

With a head shake, you continued pacing; by now, you were sure that a grove had been worked into the floor. Glancing back to the chair at the opposite end of the table, a small tremor corded its way from where the palpations started to both of your poor, still wobbling legs. One misstep, one accidental insult, and the plan would be over before it could be put into motion.

With a deep breath, you hoped to calm your heart’s racing; nervousness would not be an ally. Another breath, followed by many more in succession. Still, the beating thrummed with such intensity it felt as if the betraying organ was in your throat, determined to expel itself and do a jig at your feet to taunt you.

Distraction.

Distraction would help, you hoped. Turning around, you desperately tried to focus now on the grandiose tapestry that hung twenty feet in the air. Its textured masterpiece taking so much space that the raw threadbare edges touched the flooring and side walls.

Red, look for something red. Rose bushes came into clarity on the lower section. A breath, this one a little easier- but still, your chest held tight. Animals, find the animals. Swans were flying in the open sky of the fibers- was that a unicorn?

Each detail of the textile artwork helped to distract from the sensation that rattled against your ribs. In a further attempt to add comfort, you wrapped your arms around yourself, desperately hoping to soothe the nerves that struggled to dissipate.

____

Even after the warmth of a bath and fresh clothes, Gil-Galad found his heart rate had yet to slow since looking out the window. Surely it was just another sleepless night of work that made it hard to calm such a tempestuous beating? Obviously, this peculiar feeling was not brought on by how his mind's eye sought to wave the memory of curves, backlit in a warm glow—always right when mental clarity was needed.

When reaching the dining hall, Gil-Galad held up a hand to let his attendant know he would be entering the room alone, unannounced. Cirdan had made it clear that he should make a sound and solid judgment of the Captain's character before making any decisions in the offer of aid. A wisdom he would heed. Speaking would also be better without extra eyes watching. However, it would have been better if his mind had been allowed to think of questions to ask before this moment.

Quietly, the private royal entrance opened, its door only opening for him and him alone. Stone that once lay flat and blended into the wall shifted back, then slid just enough for his size to squeeze into the room—unnoticed. The internal expectation from past interactions with mortals was that his guest would be gorging themselves on the food laid before them. But once inside, surprise met that expectation. The only other chair besides his sat empty, the dishes untouched.

There, at the other end of the room, unaware of his presence, you stood. Elven ears picked up the sounds of deep breathing, eyes watching as your heavily bandaged hands rubbed your arms while swaying gently from side to side. Gil-Galad’s eyes trailed once more to the clothes draped on your figure. Cirdan had dressed you in something so sheer?

Perhaps the boat builder had not realized that the gift offered to you had been- No. Cirdan was too bright and observant to have missed something like this. That old perverted- at the memory of this morning, the realization he had no hill to stand on and judge hit him.

Yet, he could not look away. The tension came back to his chest, and just as it began to crawl its way down, inch by inch, to an area of his body that he refused to acknowledge, panic set in and forced the moment to break.

“You have yet to eat.”

With a yelp of shock, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Turning with wide eyes and a hand to your poor, overworked, thumping heart. Finding the voice’s owner standing at the opposite end of the room.

When first trying to picture what an elven king might have looked like, your imagination pulled from what was known of your own kind. Rulers that were repugnant, rotund, and gangrenous from a life of riches and idleness.

What you did not anticipate was to be greeted with the amused expression of a very tall elf, whose attractiveness you pretended not to feel any way about. It took a moment for the shock to pass before finding yourself. “N-no.” A breath. “No, I felt it would be rude to eat before my host arrived.”

It was as if time had frozen for a moment, two statues unmoving as they visually memorized what was in front of them. Sheer fabric clashed with the opulent, almost excessive layers of gold on the opposite side. Warm brown eyes, unblinking in their seriousness, scrutinized the shocked hesitancy in your own.

When you both tried to speak simultaneously, a polite smile graced his lips as he motioned for you to go first. A thanks would be the best choice, grateful that such a renowned, elven king would spare an hour to hear a poor human captain’s woes. Pleasantries to be embellished so prettily in their bestowment.

Sadly, that option would be ruined by a comically loud growl from your stomach, no doubt retaliation at being teased for so long by such appetizing smells. Gil-Galad watched as your eyes shut laggardly before opening again, now refusing to meet his own from embarrassment.

He gave you a gift of mercy in finding the strength to choke back a laugh. “It would appear that, as a host, I have been discourteous to test the patience of such a considerate guest.” Motioning for you to sit, he continued, “Please, eat. I would ask if you are hungry, but I believe that answer has already been given.”

Unlike the High King, you did not find the strength to choke back a laugh from the jest. When your eyes met again, an expression of mirth greeted the faint blush of your cheeks. Gods have mercy; this was going to be a challenge. The elf barely said two sentences, and already, you were struggling.

Gil-Galad gulped as you pulled up your chair to sit more comfortably; he could not understand the reasons for his nerves. His gaze trailed once more to the unexpected guest across the table, unknowingly unaware of the detail being taken in of your personage.

In the earnings that dangled down to the tops of your collar bones, polished beads of sea glass glowed, backlit by the candles behind you. Indigo-dyed whalebone and sea urchin spines brandished with petrified beads of amber hung on uneven lengths of fishing wire.

Rough and raw cut jewels adorned roughly smithed mental bands, assorted in the widths of rings that hung from your neck while your fingers healed. He would admit that such ornaments are much more maximal and eclectic than is commonly seen of his own kind.

His heart rate, which had just calmed, began racing again as he watched your lips part, tongue welcoming a bite of food. His vision tunneled to take in greater detail when your brows knit together in pleasure as the flavors danced across your palate.

Blinking, he pulled himself out of the hyper-focus when reaching forward to grip the golden handle of a wine glass. Trying to calm the returning tension he had felt when watching you from when he first entered the room. This was going to be a problem.

Light filtered off your fork, hand tremoring in hunger as the choices become overwhelming. It felt as if the room was getting darker and hazy around its edges. Cirdan had offered food when playing chess, but between the pain in your hands and the nausea from still coming down from the adrenalin of survival, any thought of eating was quickly turned down.

On top of that, the ship had floated for two days into the fjord without a bite of food or water. To say you were starving was an understatement. It took every ounce of self-control not to gorge like a wild animal after the first bite into a roasted pear with salted honey, its juices bursting in your mouth.

“Lord Cirdan wrote that your ship and crew were attacked by pirates and are in further need of aid.” The question caught you off guard, cheeks chipmunk-ed out at trying to fit as many roasted butter beans into your mouth as physically possible. Peeking up, it was obvious the elf knew exactly what he had done from the smirk that pulled from the edges of his lips.

As desperate as you were to swallow your way out of this, chewing was the only option. Could you simply spit out the beans? Yes, but that would only cause further humiliation for him to watch the act. Quickly grabbing the napkin laid under the other silverware, you covered your lips and cheeks as you chewed quickly, jaw clicking from the strain.

When finally able to get the last bit down to respond, another question was put forth. “What exactly happened to your ship, the- what was its name?”

Cirdan had been correct in knowing his king would hold no punches in the judgment of your character. Gil-Galad knew that his questioning was starting to get under your skin. And what better way to begin seeing someone for who they are than by seeing how they handle their frustration?

As the minutes passed and no response was given, his eyebrow raised expectantly. Were you trying to formulate a lie? At the tilt of his head, his eyes hardened. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled hollowly, feeling a spark of enjoyment in watching Gil-Galad’s expression change to irritation as you spoke. Two could play at that game. “Only waiting to see if there are other questions, Your Majesty. I do not wish to offend such a curious mind by interrupting its thoughts.”

Gil-Galad knew that if he were here, Elrond would snort out his wine. It appears that the High King would also be judged on how his temper would be handled. Raising his palm, he gave the motion to speak.

With a deep sigh, you tried to calm the frustration that had been brought forth. “My crew and I were set upon by pirates three days ago; their cannons tore holes into the hull of my ship. By some miracle, we escaped from being boarded, but in our escape, I had steered us into a waterway that none of us recognized.”

When no interruption came, you continued. “Lord Cirdan had seen my ship just as it began taking on more water than we could bucket out.” It was unnerving being watched so intensely, warm eyes unblinking in their judgment of every word uttered into the air. “He was kind enough to offer aid. But he realized we have no way of getting home, at least not any way that would not take years on foot.”

Still not a blink from the scrutinizing gaze, you gulped to wet your now cotton-dry throat as sweat dripped down your neck. “Asking for help is not something I have any practice in. But for the people that depend on me, I will do anything in my capabilities to see that they survive.”

Silence stretched between you both. Gil-Galad contemplated your tale, sight now set on the wine glass before him. When speaking of your crew and their care, he could sense no lies, but why was his gut tightening, waiting, and expecting? It felt as if something was missing. Perhaps speaking of such a harrowing escape was not something you wished to delve into further detail.

Or -gods forgive him- the tightening that was felt had nothing to do with your words, and more to do with the internal befuddlement trying to be ignored since your arrival.

You watched as golden fibers wrapped around the barrel waist in front of you strained against expanding ribs. A deep, belly-filled breath was exhaled slowly and quietly in contemplation. As his lips parted to speak, the dining room’s doors opened. The shorter elf that first guided you in giving a small bow.

“High King, I apologize for the interruption, but the lords are gathered and waiting for you.” Whatever tension that had been building was broken instantly. Fresh air from the outside corridor wafted in, and both of you took the opportunity to breathe.

The sound of chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood, an air of equanimity held in his stance as he stared down at where you still sat, slouched back into your seat. “Please forgive my sudden departure. I would like to continue this discussion later this evening if you are amenable to the offer.” He continued at the single nod you gave while walking over to his attendant.

“Please see that our guest is given a room and fed.” At the bow of the shorter elf, the two of them slowly walked out into the hall, leaving you to watch as the door closed behind them. Once Gil-Galad was certain that you could not hear, he leaned down to whisper one last order. “And see to it that she has…warmer attire prepared. I would not wish for our guest to take a chill from the temperature tonight.” At the hesitant bow given before the shorter elf left, Gil-Galad realized he was not the only one struggling whenever what you were wearing was seen.

Once alone, he sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. It had only been a singular hour of the morning, and already, it was obvious that the day would be as long as it was stressful.

I have this idea that Gil-Galad is never truly content. War? -Hate it. Calm and tranquil? - Bored out of his mind. So when this Captain comes around he both loves and hates how hes feeling. I'm working on outlining the next chapter but it may take a bit before its edited and posted. So please be patient. Love you all and hope you enjoy and are surviging my friends!

Tag list below ⬇️ If you would like to be added to The Plan's tag list please comment to let me know.

Current Tag List:

@morganas-pendragons @clairevoyant813 @wild-typo-turtle @liar-anubiass-blog @0heimwaerts0 @melithril @yesnessieme @perse-cora @xcrybaby555x @angel-astre @aliives @inyx-writes44 @lifthy70-caladiel @charcoai-gray @supernaturalcat7 @moifcuv @ladyoflindon @affabletimelady @ladygrimmx @somethingabitspecial-blog @tjada-works-the-nightshift @kateris-world @99sunflower99 @vampireinadumpsterfire @chaotic-tes-posting @stardustcasey @fandomsbecausewhynot @small-carbon-lifeform @amblingmuse

All cat art used on this blog are by the artist Valioart found on pintrest.

#gil galad #tootoomanycats #the rings of power #ereinion gil galad #gil galad fanfic #gil galad x reader #high king gil galad #gil galad x you #gil galad smut #erenion gil galad #rings of power smut

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desire-mona · 8 months ago

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what i think my mutuals look like

u may be in here, u may not, doing as many as i want, if ur not in here then that doesnt mean i dont luv u :3 i hav a lot of mutuals

naut - i actually know what he looks like but in my mind. raggedy anne

harper - a mix between abed and gillian anderson

kiwi - young hugh laurie

my one tomska mutual - youll never guess

kae - meeks but somehow gayer?

kola - that one rsl photo combined with her actual face

ok computer - her pfp LOL

grey (musi) -s1 wilson

eli - i know what they look like actually so just. their face

joan - elvira

ami - abed, funnily enough

joel - straight up a dog

lisa - neil perry but specifically that one photo used as a pfp at one point

shui - also abed

john - phoebe from friends?

tiffany - again, i know what she looks like

marley - also s1 wilson but its different. like younger

sun (both of you) - ethan hawke in Dad specifically

bones - spock

reese - also spock but if spock was cosplaying neil perry

housewifemd - if house and wilson steven universe fused

ghostie - if jesse pinkman cosplayed frank n furter

joon - gender swapped neil perry

clara - gender swapped pitts

sid - richard cameron

tyty - his face!

ania - a vague cross between ginny danburry and gender swapped steven meeks

autumn (nocti) - her pfp

indie - also richard cameron

finn (occams chainsaw) - s1 gregory house

finn (puckspoetry) - neil perry but like. modern au?

bubble - gender swapped todd anderson but pink?

manda - thirteen (specifically thirteen with bangs)

tristan - his face. but also jesus

lovechild - NOT TAYLOR SWIFT. her face actually cuz i got secret access

dream(duality) - house when he went to that one migraine guys lecture thing

aspen - his face if it was more taublike

chandler - HIS face but more houselike

syd - allison cameron in black and white specifically

soph - rose tyler

hunny bun - martha masters

rain - i newly know what she looks like however she does still look like house in my mind

katie - neil perry at the play specifically

pinkie pie - pinkie pie

raph - steven meeks if he was dan howell circa 2009

dewi - charlie dalton

regulus - all 4 beatles combines into one being

jareth - todd anderson with white hair?

gil - his face mixed with rsl circa 2001

lesbians for trobed - trobed combined into one being

elmo - carrie

luke - thirteen (no bangs)

will - helena bonham carter in frankenstein (1994)

cuntstruck - that guy who wrote let it go (not the frozen song)

zeth - zeth

blue - allison cameron

blue - dick grayson

(im sure the blues can tell who is who)

thiam - jschlatt circa 2020 SORRY

valerie - martha masters allison cameron steven universe fusion

ash (crow king) - stretched james wilson

nico - stick dead poets society if he was also tyler joseph

percy - robin williams if he was a teenager

ashy - her face mixed with belle

nick - rsl and winona ryder steven universe fusion

matthew - youll never guess. anyone but barry boys next door

el - richard cameron AGAIN

sammy - their face mixed with neil perry gayface

birdy (demon or) - james wilson circa s3 ALSO U JUMPSCARED ME WITH THE PFP CHANGE I WASNT EXPECTING A FOOTBALL ERA

daisy bell - dana mythic quest

maddie - abed in her artstyle specifically

missy - TROY TIGER!!!!!!!

rubester - daria? idk why

#desire mona #long ass post jesus #hello everyone!#luv my mutuals #thoughtsing

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 3 months ago

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Freudian Symbolism: Sauron x Galadriel in Season 1 of "Rings of Power"

There are no sex scenes in “Rings of Power” and never will be. But there’s a lot of sexual symbolism happening. And, as I’ve mentioned in my original post, Freudian symbolism has been widely used by cinema to covey sexual acts, especially in productions that can’t or won’t straight out show it to the viewer.

These sexual acts are taking place within in the narrative. The characters are interacting sexually. But the scenes aren’t graphic in nature, like we are use to nowadays. These narratives devices were very common in past decades, when cinema couldn't show explicit sexual content and the studios had to be creative. So these sex symbols have been widely used, and are recognizable.

Yes, I’m going down this rabbit hole, again, inspired by @princessfantaghiro and @rey-jake-therapist. Might do a post on Season 2, as well.

I’m like Sauron: rubbing symbolically Haladriel sex in Galadriel’s your face(s).

I’ve already discussed the Freudian symbolism of this gesture, several times, and it’s very obvious, too. It is penetrative sex: a crown (clitoral symbol) penetrating a sword (phallic symbol).

I would like to revisit and elaborate on my original post about this subject:

Enduring Headcanons

To get this topic out of the way: if you are still holding on to “Elven sex culture” or “Elvish sex magic” because the Tolkien fandom keeps neglecting context, Tolkien letters and Christopher Tolkien notes, you can find a explanation here.

In short, the “Concerning the "Laws and Customs among the Eldar” chapter in "Morgoth's Ring” is not how Elves actually behave sexually in the legendarium. There is no “magical bound” happening between Elves when they have sex; the “union of souls” the fandom keeps talking about is creating children (not the actual sex act); and for the Noldor sex doesn’t equal marriage, they need more than that to recognize a wedding took place (a tribute, usually a jewel); Ósanwë has nothing to do with sex, it’s telepathy. These are fanon, not actual “Tolkien canon”. By all means have all the headcanons you want, just don’t come crying about it on my posts.

So, yes, it’s entirely possible for Galadriel to have had sex with Halbrand-Sauron in Season 1, without it “breaking the lore”.

Galadriel the Virgin

Just before Galadriel runs into Halbrand-Sauron in the Sundering Seas, she’s evocative of Joan of Arc.

Which is very fitting for her character at the beginning of Season 1: Joan of Arc was put on trial because of blasphemy (wearing men’s clothes), acting upon demonic visions and refusing to submit to the authority of the Church. Galadriel is shipped off to Valinor because of her endless pursuit for Sauron (acting upon demonic visions), and her continuous disobedience of High King Gil-galad’s commands. And like Joan of Arc, we also see her wearing armor (men’s clothes).

Joan of Arc also took a vow of chastity and pledged her life to expel the enemies of France. This also mirrors Galadriel’s husband being presumed dead ever since the end of the War of Wrath, and her vowing to hunt down Sauron (the enemy of Middle-earth).

And now we enter theological territory: virginity (in women, because men are allowed everything, but that’s a question for another time) has spiritual power in many religions. In Catholic-Christian, a virgin body is considered the most sacred shrine of God’s earth, because it has the gift of creation. Joan of Arc was a virgin but she had her virginity questioned and put on trial, too, and was examined twice.

Joan of Arc was burned at the stake (fire) and her ashes where thrown at the river (water). In “Rings of Power”, it appears the Elves enter Valinor through the Sun itself (fire), but Galadriel jumps off ship into the sea (water). This is, yet, another connection between Galadriel’s character and Joan of Arc, only in Galadriel’s case represents rebirth.

Sexual Awakening

In Freudian symbolism, water imagery is, indeed, connected to birth, rebirth, renewal, and transformative experiences in general. Whatever happens to Galadriel next will be a life-changing situation.

Water is also symbolically of wish fulfillment, especially connected to sexual deviation and/or repressed sexual desire. Which is very interesting in Galadriel’s case, because she jumps off ship to continue her hunt for Sauron, but the words that echoed on her mind before her final decision are her brother’s, Finrod: “sometimes we cannot know until he have touched the darkness”. Interestingly enough, ships are also considered clitorical symbols.

"It's me. The object of all of your sexual nightmares.”

In Freudian symbolism, pulling someone out of the water, is meant to illustrate a hypothetical parent, usually mother-child relationship, and, curiously enough the first character who helps Galadriel get into the raft is a woman, but she also rejects her next. Symbolically, this scene is also rejecting this angle of symbolical interpretation. We'll have this meaning later on with Elendil and Galadriel, when he even compares her with his own children.

Who truly “fishes” Galadriel out of the sea is Sauron himself. The object of her obsession, which caused her to be condemned to be “burned at the stake” aka thrown into the sun (return to Valinor), by her “Church” authority, the Noldor. The scene is embracing the sexual deviation interpretation, as we'll see in a moment.

To analyze the Freudian symbolism of the sea we have to go to a philosopher whose work inspired Freud himself: Friedrich Nietzsche. Especially since we are working with the themes of sexual deviance and repression of sexual desire in this scene. And here’s your explanation for Sauron’s unhinged predatory expression when he takes Galadriel out of the water.

There is also a lot of phallic imagery in this raft design; symbolically Galadriel is also entering Sauron’s sexual domain, here. And she, literally, finds herself surrounded with symbolic penises.

Nietzsche uses the open sea as a metaphor for the unknown and the unexplored, where the traditional molds of morality are abandoned. The open sea is an invitation to embark on a journey into unchartered moral waters: a place where "right" or "wrong" don't exist, a moral grey area, and a breeding ground for moral decay.

For Nietzsche, the open sea represents a Godless world. Which is very fitting for a demon such as Sauron, who turned his back on God (Eru Ilúvatar) and sided with Melkor/Morgoth (Satan), and, at this point of his character arc, is seeking for redemption. In short, the open sea symbolizes infinite freedom and potential depravity; which are characteristics often associated with the Christian Devil (Morgoth), whom Sauron serves.

The open sea it’s textbook “live dangerously”, where all sort of morally questionable and reprehensible actions can happen. And this idea of the “open sea as a grey moral area” isn’t exclusive to Nietzsche or Freud, we also find it in female poets like Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson; where the ocean is a symbol for moral and sexual exploration.

There’s also a storm in these scenes: in Freudian symbolism, storms are representative of emotional repression. Storms, heavy rain and thunder indicate feelings of sexual frustration, anger and sadness. Heavy rain is also associated with renewal, while thunderstorms reflect emotional conflict.

Galadriel reaches out to Sauron in this scene. What does this mean? Symbolically, she wants to him to take her out her sexual “dry spell” existence. She’s sexually frustrated. and he’s in the same situation. Which makes sense with her unvoluntary chastity vow (Joan of Arc), and him being trapped in a cave being goo for hundreds of years. And he “accepts her plea” and jump into the ocean to rescue her, signaling he shares her want.

All of this symbolism will also echo in Season 1 finale, when Sauron “returns” Galadriel to the raft to pitch his proposal to make her a queen. What Sauron is truly offering Galadriel, on a symbolic level, is infinite freedom of self and raw sexuality.

She refuses his offer and says she “should have left him on the sea”. Galadriel is expressing regret over her own sexual impulses and returning to her chastity vow. Then, we have all of this splashing water around them, framed in a very different way from the scenes in 1x02. Splashing water has been used as a device/symbol for fulfilled sexual activity in cinema for decades, now. So, yes, they most likely did it. Sauron-Halbrand and Galadriel had sex in Season 1.

"He really seduced her" (Charlotte Brändström)

Galadriel was reborn after she emerged from the sea. She was “fished” out of the ocean by Sauron, a symbol of sexual depravity whose sexual repression mirrors her own (open sea). She enters his sexual domain (raft). Halfway through their interactions, Galadriel reaches out to him, consumed by her own sexual frustration, but she’s conflicted about her feelings (storm). He shares her emotions and is willingly to give her what she needs (saves her from drowning). After the storm comes a calm: they have reached an understanding.

Interestingly enough this symbolic understanding of their mutual sexual desire and needs (clear skies) is them lying down on the raft:

Now, the seduction begins.

And Sauron initiates it by handing Galadriel a bowl of food. This is what Freud called “oral gratification”, connected to his theory about the psychosexual stages of development. Here pleasure is the core theme, associated with emotional and sexual nourishment. Sauron offers food, and Galadriel is emotionally hungry for it, and accepts with no hesitation.

And he grins. Sauron is pleased with himself because Galadriel accepted his sexual invitation. And also, in Freudian symbolism the mouth is a symbol for the female genitals, while the spoon is a phallic symbol. The act of eating symbolizes sexual intercourse (= interaction between male and female symbols). He’s fantasizing all kind of sexual scenarios here.

In Freudian Symbolism, knifes/daggers/lances/swords (any object resembling the penis in shape or that can be used to penetrate the body and cause injury) are phallic symbols. Meaning, they represent the penis. An erection (in which the penis raises itself against the force of gravity) is usually represented in connection with an air element (it can be ballons, airplanes, missiles, rockets, flying, snakes, etc.).

Symbolically, this is the first sexual interaction between Galadriel and Halbrand/Sauron. He has an erection, and she is touching it.

That's symbolic handjob, for you.

In the same episode, the Númenórean smiths tease Sauron, and ask how close is he with the "she-elf". This Maia is eating ("sexual intercourse") clams, here. Worldwide, the clam is a clitoral symbol, meaning it represents the female genitalia. What does this means? Eating Galadriel out is, probably, what Sauron wants.

In 1x05, after some flirtation happening between Galadriel and Sauron, she’s handling a bunch of swords (phallic symbols) right in front of him. Literally. She’s training the Númenoreans and is surrounded by men eager to… learn from her, and at awe by her. She’s very skilled with those swords.

Sauron decides to peacock and assert his dominance in this scene: the only “sword” Galadriel will be handling around here is his, and he’s the best at it, too.

Speaking of objects representative of genitals: the roles are reversed in Galadriel and Sauron’s characters in Season 1. Galadriel is the one who carries the phallic symbol (dagger), while Sauron carries the clitoral symbol (pouch). But they do exchange these objects a few times throughout the season. In Freudian symbolism, the interaction of male and female symbols represent sexual acts.

“Come with me to Middle-earth and I’ll give you this… pouch.”

In 1x05, they are back to the ocean, aboard of a clitoral symbol (ship). And Galadriel climbs stairs to reach Halbrand. Staircases are one of those classic and universal cinematic devices to signal female sex appeal. Every man on board is at awe of her, but she only has eyes for Halbrand-Sauron.

But stairs, especially climbing, also have a well-established sexual meaning in cinema: they represent the sexual act.

However, we aren’t shown any interactions between these two characters on the ship, on a voyage that lasted from 1 to 2 weeks, depending on the weather conditions.

The only “clue” we got is that they were, at one point, awake at the same time, and that Galadriel has been up for at least one hour, as she tells Isildur, in 1x06. Sauron doesn’t need to sleep, but Galadriel does (even though not as much as if she belonged to the race of Men).

Galadriel has her hair braided, which is the first time we see this hairstyle on her in “Rings of Power”, because in 1x01 she had her hair down. Indeed a braid is more practical for battle, but braids also have Freudian symbolism attached to them. Braids are a phallic symbol, and Galadriel on a clitoral symbol (ship), meaning we have two sex symbols interacting, indicating sexual intercourse.

The next scene Galadriel and Sauron share together is their chasing after Adar, when they prevent each other from killing him. We know that Galadriel has some darkness within her since 1x01, but Adar tells her something interesting, that resonates with other lines in Season 1:

Halbrand (1x05): “What do you know of darkness?” Adar (1x06): “It would seem I'm not the only Elf alive who has been transformed by darkness.” Sauron-Finrod (1x08): “Touch the darkness once more”.

Is this an indication that Galadriel got “transformed” by the “darkness” (Sauron) somewhere in the middle of these events?

Because, as @rey-jake-therapist correctly pointed out, we underestimate the importance of the “touch the darkness once more”. This implies Galadriel has already “touched the darkness” and Sauron is asking her to do it again.

Back to 1x06, after the Adar business, we have the “I’ve felt it too” scene, where Sauron expressed his desire to bind them together. And if we remove the “fighting” (which is also be a symbol for sexual intercourse), Sauron’s quote sounds very intimate and romantic: “at your side, I... I felt... If I could just hold on to that feeling, keep it with me always, bind it to my very being, then I...”

But after Halbrand-Sauron is summoned by Queen Míriel, Galadriel has an intriguing scene all by herself. She cleans the black blood (Adar’s) from her dagger, and looks ashamed and guilty doing it. And she does this after saying "I've felt it too".

The subtext of this act can be very sexual, especially if we take into account her previous invocation of Joan of Arc (virgin), the black blood/seed (the same color as Sauron’s) and the symbolic penis (dagger). Symbolically, this can indicate she’s attempting to keep her sexual rendezvous with Halbrand-Sauron a secret. A dirty secret she’s deeply ashamed of.

And for my Half-Maia Celebrían enthusiasts out there: after the volcano eruption, in 2x07, the first place of her body Galadriel touches is her lower stomach, her womb. Why?

When she’s finally able to get up, she searches for Halbrand. And we also see her acting maternal with the angsty kid in town, Theo, next. After an episode where Adar mentioned “Halbrand’s” “woman” and “child”. You all know I’m not a believer in Half-Maia Celebrían theory but there are some intriguing clues on both Season 1 and Season 2.

Next, Sauron pretends to be injured and Galadriel takes him to Eregion. In my opinion, the injury wasn’t fatal. I think he really wanted to be near Galadriel, even though he didn’t know for sure she would take him to Eregion and Celebrimbor, because Sauron doesn’t have the gift of foresight. Anyway, it was clear Sauron indented to forge two wedding rings, one for himself and the other for Galadriel.

On my original post I made the case for “sexy time” happening for the first time at Eregion, but now I’m convinced it might have been sooner. Sauron was there for three weeks, as that’s the time Gil-galad gives Celebrimbor in 1x08. Galadriel became suspicious of him the day after their arrival, probably. While something might have happened there, too, from the symbolism we got, it might have happened sooner than expected.

#saurondriel #haladriel #sauron x galadriel #galadriel x sauron #galadriel x halbrand

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thyras · 3 months ago

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→ of new beginnings

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 6.4k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → 18+ mdni - mind manipulation s*x (bruh i have no idea what the heck to call it), unprotected p in v, masturbation (fem), reminiscing, lots of foreshadowing (LIKE LOTS)

SUMMARY → after the fall of your city and beleriand, you build a friendship with a certain elf by what seems like chance and over the centuries he welcomes you into his counsel. though your fëa grows restless as your wayward husband seems to grow in the shadows.

AUTHORS NOTE → okay so lots of quenya names and sindar names are used. i had to come up with so many that it made my brain hurt cause ya know I did not know if in the lore anyone knew sauron by mairon before the fall of numenor (could not find anything in any of my lore books) reader goes by her sindar name now only people extremely close her like celebrimbor and eärlindë use her birth name. this is where the canon gets very loose y'all ❤️ also I wanna premise that this story is basically a rewrite for my dark!reader fic, so from now on I will be implementing things from the original idea to keep it sort of in that wave length. also we will be slowing down with parts for a while as I am to the point where I had written to, so it may be a day or two until I get the next part up.

PARTS → masterlist

Tears traced cold paths down your cheek, falling as silently as the ash drifting through the air. You turned back, stealing one last glance at the city that had stood defiant against time, a place you had watched rise and fall with the ages, now reduced to embers and smoke. Towers that once gleamed like stars in moonlight were skeletal ruins clawing at the sky. The air tasted of sorrow and soot, and your heart clenched as the truth burned within you: the shadows had come, as foretold.

A soft touch on your arm broke your reverie. You turned to see Eärlindë, her features etched with a quiet grief that mirrored your own. Her eyes, the color of an overcast sea, held you with a tenderness you didn’t deserve.

“Come,” she urged, her voice a melody too fragile for this broken world. “We have to keep moving.” Her hand rested on yours, warm and grounding.

You swallowed the storm in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the crackle of distant flames. “I’m sorry this all happened.” The words hung in the air, incomplete. You couldn’t bring yourself to finish the thought, couldn’t tell her who had truly done this. Who had torn her brother from her arms and led ruin to your gates.

You. It had been you. Blinded by a love as poisonous as it was intoxicating, you hadn’t seen the truth until it was too late.

“This is not your fault,” she said firmly, her words meant to heal. But they did not. They only deepened the wound, the knowledge that it was all your fault—a betrayal born from love.

You glanced back once more at the burning remnants of Laureandor, the jewel of your heart, now a scar on the horizon. Slowly, you closed your eyes and sealed that image away. The ache in your fëa—your very soul—was unbearable, but to keep moving, to survive, you had to let him go. You had to let the love you had for that beast burn with the city he had destroyed.

Ahead, the River Ascar shimmered beneath the moonlight, its current whispering promises of passage and pain. A voice called out, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to see Eäriel responding to another elf, their voices weaving together in the growing darkness.

“Are you from Gondolin as well?” the stranger asked as your group neared the caravan of elves.

Eäriel shook her head, gesturing to your small, beleaguered group. “We are from Laureandor. Orcs attacked four days ago. We are all that is left.”

The stranger’s face fell, sorrow filling his ancient eyes. “Join us, then. High King Gil-galad has set up refuge across the mountains.”

Eäriel and Ulmoion exchanged somber glances before nodding their thanks. As preparations began to merge your group with theirs, you busied yourself helping the wounded into carts and steadying horses burdened with supplies. The sound of soft weeping and labored breaths filled the night, a grim symphony of survival.

You turned to assist one last figure, only to collide with an elf carrying a crate. The collision sent him staggering, the contents of the crate jingling ominously. He barely caught himself, and your hand shot out to steady him. His eyes were wide, not with anger but with fear, his gaze darting to the crate as though it held something more precious than gold.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, a faint chuckle slipping out as you noticed the spilled covering revealing bottles of wine. Your laughter faded as something else caught your eye—a glint of metal nestled between the bottles. An ornate hammer. One almost as old as you.

The elf’s voice, barely above a whisper, broke the moment. “Thank you,” he said, pulling the covering back over the crate in a quick, practiced motion. He turned to leave, but your hand shot out, gripping his arm like a vice.

“Did you steal that?” you demanded, your voice a low hiss beneath your hood. His eyes, wary and sharp, flickered over you before settling into an unreadable mask. The hammer in that crate wasn’t just a tool—it was a relic something from a place that shimmered with even greater light.

“Why on earth would I steal something that is rightfully mine?” His voice was low and sharp, like a blade drawn across stone. His storm-grey eyes, piercing and unrelenting, flicked down to the chain around your neck. They lingered there, taking in the fiery red jewel resting against the fabric of your gown, its light dim but unmistakable.

Surprise caught your breath. Instinctively, you clutched the jewel, the warmth of its magic pulsing faintly against your palm, and tucked it hastily beneath the folds of your dress. The movement was quick, but his gaze didn’t miss a thing.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his brow arched in a look of mock curiosity. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone cool and measured, “it is you I should be accusing of theft?”

His face was still gentle, but there was a slight tension in his jaw that told you he was not going to take anything but the truth.

“Care to explain how such a treasure came into your possession?” he added. You swallowed hard, your throat tight, and fought to form a careful, elusive answer to his pointed question.

“I… inherited it,” you managed, the words thin and brittle.

The elf shook his head, stepping closer, his boots silent on the soft earth but his presence heavy and unyielding.

“I can recognize the work of my lineage,” he said, his voice steady yet laced with frustration. “And that jewel… it bears the unmistakable craft of my grandfather’s hands. Its design is not one to be mistaken.” His stormy grey eyes held yours, their depths now simmering with annoyance at your evasion. “So I will ask again, my lady—where did you acquire that jewel?”

You hesitated, each second feeling like an eternity under his piercing gaze. At last, you dropped your eyes, your voice lowering to a solemn whisper.

“It was a gift,” you admitted, “one that I bestowed upon my late husband.”

His expression shifted at once. The hardness in his eyes melted, replaced by a shadow of sorrow. The lines of his face softened, and he seemed to draw back just slightly, as though your words carried a weight even he could not bear to challenge.

“He returned it to me for safekeeping,” you continued, the words growing heavier as they fell. “But I shall never see him again.”

The silence that followed was profound, the grief in your voice settling between you like an invisible barrier neither dared to cross. He reached out, his hand brushing your shoulder with a softness that spoke of understanding, a gesture of condolence that stirred something deep within you.

“Please forgive me, my lady,” he said, his voice quiet and genuine.

You waved him off with a gentle smile, a mask of composure hiding the turmoil within. “I should not have accused you in the slightest, my lord. Forgive me—it is not every day one meets a member of the house that crafted the Silmarils.”

His nod was slow, his gaze weighted by a sorrow that seemed to rise from some hidden depth within him. For a moment, it lingered, almost pulling you into it, but then it faded, replaced by a measured calm.

“What was your husband’s name?” he asked, the question as delicate as the night breeze.

Panic flickered in your chest, though you did not let it touch your expression. You could not tell him the truth, could not reveal the name that would betray so much. Mairon’s identity was a closely guarded secret to you as it should be with who he was, but this elf’s knowledge and intentions remained a mystery.

“Among my kin, he was known as Mornatano,” you said smoothly. “But he held others, names he rarely spoke of.”

His brow arched, intrigue flickering across his face. “Dark Smith?” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue with a hint of curiosity. “An unusual name for one who was gifted an honor of such noble origins.”

You shrugged lightly, maintaining the guise you had carefully woven. “We were both Moriquendi, my lord. As is my lady Eäriel, whom I serve as ward. She and I hail from the Nandor who chose to remain behind, though my husband’s origins were a mystery even to me. He never spoke of his kin.”

The elf studied you for a long moment, his grey eyes unreadable, as though weighing your words and searching for truths beneath them. You held his gaze, steady and composed, even as your heart raced. If he doubted you, he did not show it, though the silence between you hummed with unspoken tension.

“I am Celebrimbor,” he finally said, his voice steady, carrying a quiet pride. With a slight bow, he added, “Son of Curufin, and of the House of Fëanor.”

You inclined your head in return, the ghost of a smile gracing your lips. “Tintilmë of Laureandor,” you replied, your voice smooth, though you felt a flicker of apprehension when his expression shifted.

His eyes widened with recognition. “Wife of the Golden Realm smith, am I correct?”

You nodded, keeping your smile gentle, though a ripple of fear coursed through you. “Indeed,” you confirmed, the words light on your tongue despite the weight in your chest.

“Please,” he pressed, his tone eager yet polite, “you must tell me more. I never had the chance to travel south and witness his work, but I’ve heard tales—wonders that bordered on legend.”

A soft giggle escaped you, the sound as involuntary as the warmth that rose in your cheeks. Mairon had always had that effect on people, enchanting even those who only knew him by reputation. If they only knew the truth—if they knew the things you knew about him—the stories would be very different indeed.

Celebrimbor’s hand found your arm, a gesture of camaraderie, and together you rejoined the caravan, falling into step with the others. As the journey continued, you spoke of your husband’s creations, weaving stories of brilliance and artistry. You described the works of his hands with care, each word imbued with the love you still felt for him, though tempered by the sorrow that lingered in your heart.

Unbeknownst to either of you, this moment of shared admiration would one day ripple through the tapestry of your lives, binding you and Celebrimbor in ways neither could yet foresee.

Unknowing to the both that this would one day benefit the one they called Sauron, and his grand design.

“I wish to seek pardon for my sins,” Sauron declared as he approached Eönwë, his footsteps slow yet deliberate. The remnants of Beleriand stretched out behind them, a haunting reminder of the ruin left in the wake of war. He stopped a short distance from where Eönwë stood, the wind tugging at his dark cloak. “I wish to repent.”

Eönwë regarded him carefully, his bright gaze steady and unyielding. “I cannot give you what you seek,” he said, his voice quiet yet firm. He took a measured breath, trying to temper his suspicion. Sauron was not easily trusted, his reputation a shadow that stretched far and wide. Yet as Eönwë studied him, he saw something he had not expected—the glimmer of true anguish in the Maiar’s eyes.

This was not the fear of the Valar’s judgment. It was something deeper, something ancient and raw, woven tightly into the very fabric of his being. Eönwë felt a pang of reluctant empathy but dared not let it cloud his judgment. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, and against his better judgment, he asked, “Why do you truly seek pardon?”

Sauron’s brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. His hesitance was palpable, the normally unshakable being caught off guard. He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of the question.

“If I am to bring your request to Manwë himself,” Eönwë continued, his tone softening slightly but remaining firm, “I must know the truth.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Sauron’s jaw tightened, his composure faltering as his gaze dropped to the ground. Embarrassment flickered across his face—an almost mortal expression, startling in its sincerity. The feelings he harbored for you weighed heavily on him, a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resolute. “I made a promise,” he admitted, his words heavy with emotion. “To someone who deserves a world far greater than the one I have wrought. A world I swore to give them, to share with them for all eternity.” His hand clenched at his side as he spoke, as though trying to steady himself against the gravity of his own vow. “I promised to break the curse Morgoth placed upon them. To heal what I have shattered.”

His eyes lifted then, meeting Eönwë’s once more. There was no malice there, no hint of the deceiver he had been. Instead, there was pain—a raw, unguarded pain that pierced through the façade he had carried for so long.

“But to do so,” he continued, his voice almost breaking, “I must first seek forgiveness. I cannot undo what I have done without the aid of the Valar. And for that… I must repent.”

Eönwë studied him in silence, the tension between them stretching like a taut string. He saw the conflict in Sauron’s fëa, the genuine longing for redemption tangled with the shadows of his past. Slowly, Eönwë nodded, though his expression remained measured.

“I will bring your request to Manwë,” he said at last. “But know this—redemption is not easily won, even for those who seek it with pure intent.”

Sauron bowed his head, accepting the weight of those words. He had made his vow, and he would see it fulfilled, no matter the cost. For you, his light, he would endure anything. Even the fires of repentance.

When Eönwë returned to deliver Manwë’s verdict, the tension in the air was palpable. Sauron stood tall, his form a dark and imposing silhouette against the fading remnants of Beleriand. But as Eönwë spoke, his voice calm yet resolute, the anger and fear simmering within Sauron rose to the surface, raw and unrestrained.

Eönwë’s gaze flickered with dismay as he finished relaying the conditions. “If you truly seek repentance,” he began again, his tone unwavering despite the fury radiating from the other Maia, “you must return to Valinor. There, you will be stripped of your power for a time and bound to your fair form. You will never again leave the Blessed Realm.”

Sauron’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, but Eönwë pressed on, though the weight of what he had to say grew heavier with each word. “True repentance,” he continued, “requires sacrifice. You must relinquish what you hold most dear to prove your loyalty and virtue. Only then will Manwë lift the curse and free them from the shadow that stains their fëa.”

Sauron’s breath hitched, and his expression twisted with rage and despair. The thought of you—the light of his existence—being free of Morgoth’s curse should have been a source of hope, but the price demanded of him turned that hope to agony. To leave you behind, to know he would never again see the one being who had brought him peace in the chaos of his existence, was an unbearable torment.

Eönwë could see the conflict raging within him—the anguish and resistance. “This is the only way,” Eönwë added softly, his voice touched with a hint of sorrow. “Redemption is not given lightly, nor is it won without cost.”

Sauron turned away sharply, his shadowy cloak swirling around him, as if to shield himself from the weight of the decree. His mind raced, his heart torn between the love that had driven him to seek forgiveness and the sacrifice that love now demanded. How could he leave you behind? How could he give you freedom at the cost of his own soul’s greatest tether?

But there was no other choice. Manwë’s judgment was final, and if Sauron wished to fulfill his vow—to free you from the darkness that lingered within you—he would have to relinquish you forever. True repentance demanded nothing less.

That was not how it happened, though.

For all the cowardice he carried in his heart, for all the intoxicating taste of power he had once gained, Sauron could not accept the verdict. He convinced himself that he could do better, that he could stay in Middle-earth and use the brilliance of his craft to heal you and the world itself. Not through the will of Manwë, but through his own hands, his own cunning. Only then, he thought, could he feel true repentance—if it was he, your beloved, who granted you salvation as he had vowed so long ago.

And in that moment of defiance, he turned his back on the light once more.

The shadows welcomed him with open arms as he descended into darkness, his heart hardening against the call of redemption. He began to plan, his mind racing with schemes and designs. He would forge anew, build an army of unparalleled might, and reshape the world until it bent to his will. One day, he would find you again, and when that day came, he would hold the power to rid you of the curse that clung to your fëa.

No Valar would dictate his actions, no decree from on high would chart his course. He was no longer Mairon, the Maia who once walked in the light.

He was the Dark Lord now, and the Dark Lord bowed to no one.

You step into the small library, the scent of aged parchment and cedarwood enveloping you as your skirts billow softly behind. Light streams through the arched windows, casting golden patterns on the floor. Across the room, Elrond Peredhel rises from his seat, his warm smile lighting up the space as he strides toward you.

“My Lord Celebrimbor did not notify me you were arriving,” You say, Elrond’s hands gently clasping yours in greeting. “It is so good to see you.”

His expression is filled with genuine delight, and when he reaches up to touch your cheek, the gesture is imbued with a familial affection that eases the tension in your chest.

“It warms my heart to see you well,” he murmurs, his voice as soothing as a lullaby. For a moment, the two of you stand in silence, the years of friendship filling the space between you. Then, with an unspoken understanding, he releases your hands, and the two of you begin walking side by side toward Celebrimbor’s private study.

“Lady Eärlindë sends her regards,” Elrond says, his tone tinged with amusement. “She is most insistent, though,” he continues, glancing at you with playful mischief, “that you come to Lindon in a year’s time to celebrate her betrothal.”

“My dear Elrond,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a smile just as teasing. “You know well that Gil-galad and I are renowned for never seeing eye to eye.”

Elrond chuckles at this, his laugh a quiet, melodic sound that fills the library with warmth. “You and Galadriel share in that sentiment,” he quips, his eyes glinting with humor.

As the two of you make your way through the quiet halls, the air between you is light, the weight of past burdens momentarily lifted. Here, amidst the tranquility of the library and the company of an old friend, you find a fleeting but much-needed sense of peace.

Once you arrived at Lord Celebrimbor’s study, the elven smith stood near the side of the room, engrossed in a parchment held lightly in his hands. His head lifted at the sound of your entrance, and a subtle smile touched his lips, though his expression remained thoughtful. Elrond moved toward the centerpiece of the room—a display holding Fëanor’s hammer. His hand hovered over it, as if the weight of its history reverberated even through the air around it. You took a seat on one of the chairs near the edge of the room, watching the two elves, your mind already awash in memory and emotion.

“Fëanor’s hammer,” Elrond mused, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “The tool that wrought the Silmarils. The jewels that contained the very light of Valinor.” His gaze shifted briefly to Celebrimbor before returning to the hammer. “Strange, isn’t it? How one object could be responsible for creating such beauty—and so much pain.”

You met Elrond’s solemn gaze, your own face shadowed with sorrow. The pain was always near, a fresh wound that never fully healed—the burning of your city, the shattering of your illusions, and the searing truth of your husband’s identity. You breathed deeply, steadying yourself against the ache.

“True creation requires sacrifice,” you said softly, your voice carrying a wistful weight. You paused, allowing the bittersweet memory of your husband’s words to settle. “Something my late husband often told me,” you added, a fondness creeping into your tone even as Celebrimbor’s gaze softened with shared sorrow.

The smith stepped closer and rested a hand on your shoulder, the warmth of the gesture offering an unspoken understanding of the grief you carried. Your hand instinctively moved to the chain beneath your gown, its familiar weight a small comfort. Though it had been centuries since you last opened your mind to him, whispers of his fate persisted—rumors that he had disappeared into shadow after Morgoth’s fall. Yet deep in your fëa, you felt a stirring certainty that those whispers were untrue, that somewhere, he still lingered.

“They say Morgoth found the Silmarils so beautiful,” Celebrimbor began, his voice contemplative, “that after he stole them, he spent weeks gazing into their depths, unable to do anything else.” His hand squeezed your shoulder briefly before he moved to the hammer, lifting it gently in his hands. “It was only when one of his tears fell upon them, and he saw his reflection twisted by his evil,”

You smiled faintly, a memory of long ago surfacing—a time when you had accused Celebrimbor of stealing the very hammer he now held. A soft laugh escaped you, the moment so distant it felt almost like a dream.

You were a tome of your husband’s work, never truly forgetting how a great smith of Aulë himself crafted marvels and forged minds as well as hearts to his work. The secrets you carried, the deeper truths of your husband’s legacy, remained locked within you, known only to you and him. Yet the wisdom you shared with Celebrimbor had undoubtedly shaped his work, even if the deepest truths were withheld.

“That the reverie was broken,” Celebrimbor finished his thought. “From, that moment, he looked upon the light no more.” He sighed, envy and awe mingling in his tone. “Fëanor’s work nearly turned the heart of the great foe himself,” he marveled, a short, incredulous laugh escaping him. “What has mine ever accomplished?”

You stood and approached him, your voice gentle. “It has turned our hearts, my lord.”

Celebrimbor glanced at you, his expression questioning, but Elrond nodded in agreement, his voice steady as he added, “It has turned many an elf’s heart.”

The smith’s gaze shifted between the two of you, uncertainty softening his posture. “My work will never compare to your husband’s,” he said, almost reluctantly. “For he was revered as one as great as Aulë himself, even surpassing Fëanor in his craft.”

Elrond turned to you, his brow furrowed in surprise. “You never told me your husband was a smith.”

You shrugged lightly, offering a pleasant smile. “There is a great deal I have not told you. But that is neither here nor there.”

Celebrimbor interjected, his voice carrying an almost teasing reverence. “My lady, Thilwen, is quite the expert on her husband’s craft.” The Sindarin name, though still strange to you, had grown familiar in this land. It was a shield of obscurity, one that kept the curious at bay. “She remains a great help to my work, even now as we aspire to do far more than both Fëanor and Morion.”

A shiver slid down your spine at the mention of the name, so close to the truth it was almost too much to bear. You swallowed hard, trying to mask the unease that briefly flickered across your face. If either elf noticed, they gave no indication.

“My lady?” Celebrimbor prompted, his voice pulling you back to the present.

You crossed the room to the drawing table, your fingers brushing against the neatly arranged parchments. “An age ago, our kind brought war to these shores,” you said softly. “Now, we wish to fill them with beauty.”

Celebrimbor joined you, his presence steady at your side, as you reached for a few pieces of parchment and began to unfurl the plans for the new forge he wished to create. Together, you sought to transform pain into beauty, forging a new legacy for the ages.

As if it could somehow soothe the guilt that gnawed at your heart, the weight of everything you had brought to ruin through your husband’s deeds lingered, a shadow that never fully lifted. Not a day passed when you did not think of those centuries, the countless moments spent in the light of him. Twined in his arms, the world seemed to disappear, and in those fleeting instants, you were bound not just by love but by the very melody of your fëar—two threads woven together by the Song of Ilúvatar itself.

You had been his anchor, the one who tamed the tempest within him, the breaker of the Shadow that clawed at his heart. But when the curse of his master fell upon you, the mark of Morgoth’s malice staining your existence, he faltered. In his desperation to shield you from it, the man he had become unraveled, retreating from the light you had brought into his life. He turned away from the path of redemption, the path he had painstakingly carved, only to fall once more into the abyss of his former self.

Morgoth had known—he had always known—what could unmake him. It wasn’t power or fear or promises of dominion that could shatter his resolve.

It was you.

You, his single weakness. You, his enduring light, the only thing that could pierce the armor of his resolve.

And so, when the curse reached for you, when it threatened the existence of the one thing he could not bear to lose, he surrendered. He fought with all the fire of his being, but it was not enough. The desperation to save you, to undo the harm wrought by Morgoth’s will, drove him to forsake the light entirely. He gave himself to the darkness without hesitation, sacrificing even his fëa, the essence of who he was, if it meant sparing you from the pain and ruin his master had promised.

In his love, he had lost himself. And though you carried his light still, it was buried beneath the weight of his shadow.

As you readied yourself for bed, the gentle strokes of your brush through your hair carried your thoughts back to a time long past. A faint smile curved your lips as an old memory surfaced, warm and bittersweet. It was not uncommon for your mind to drift this way, for elves never truly forgot, even when the memories brought pain. Your fingers lingered at the ends of your hair, and for the first time in centuries, you felt the faint, magnetic pull of the chain and ring calling to you from their place in the ornate jewelry box before you.

The pull was subtle yet undeniable, a whisper tugging at the edges of your mind. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you reached out and opened the lid. There they lay, nestled on rich velvet, their beauty undiminished by time. The silver chain glinted faintly, its luminous blue jewel as vibrant as the rolling waves of the Bay of Balar, alive with an inner light that seemed almost otherworldly. Beside it rested the ring, its band shining with a brilliance reminiscent of the Great Trees themselves, its creation born of love and the yearning of a soul that had once known no limits.

Your breath hitched as you gazed upon them, your fingers twitching as if to reach for them. But you did not. Instead, you closed your eyes, the ache in your chest swelling. You had closed the door to those memories long ago, sealed it tightly against the pain. It was too much to bear, too dangerous to relive. These trinkets, once symbols of unshakable love and devotion, had become harbingers of anguish.

For it was not just your heart they affected, but your mark. That cursed scar, the remnant of Morgoth’s malice, a stain you could not cleanse. Whenever you dared to wear the jewel or the ring, the dark tendrils of the scar would stretch further, twisting and writhing, their shadowed reach dimming the light within you. The shadows of your chambers would stir, the stillness broken by whispers that chilled you to your core. Sweet nothings, they would murmur, tender and cruel in equal measure, taunting you to follow their call into the Void.

You pulled your hand back sharply, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. The memories, the scars, the love—it all felt too much. Closing the lid with trembling fingers, you pushed the box away and turned from it, your heart heavy with the burden of a past that refused to be forgotten.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as your fingers brushed over the chain resting around your neck. Though it had once belonged to him and had adorned him for centuries, it now felt as though a fragment of his very essence was captured within the fiery red jewel. The light of his being seemed to pulse faintly there, a protective presence that wrapped itself around you, shielding your peace. Or perhaps it was the trinket’s origins—crafted from the purest ores and the most radiant jewels of Valinor—that imbued it with such a profound and unyielding power.

Your gaze lifted to the mirror before you, and you studied your reflection. Despite the weight of the Ages you had endured, your delicate beauty remained untouched, as vibrant and eternal as the first dawn of Arda. The glow of your skin, the timeless grace in your features, and the quiet strength in your eyes spoke not of weariness but of an existence that, though burdened by pain, endured with unbroken resolve.

A smile graced your lips, soft and wistful, and you were certain it was that same smile that had first captivated him. But it was not merely your beauty that had ensnared him—it was your fëa, radiant and unyielding, that had undone him. It was your essence that had drawn him from the abyss, pulling him so far from the darkness that he had nearly returned to the being he once was, before shadow had ever tainted him.

In your presence, his heart had swelled with a purity and joy so profound that it seemed boundless, uncontainable. It was a joy that eclipsed even the echoes of his master’s will, a light that had reminded him of all he might have been, and all he could still strive to become.

But Morgoth envied his serveant so that Eru had gifted him such a beautiful being to share his existance with, or he was so disgusted by Mairon’s enchantment with you, a being of orgins he wished to mock. And in that envy or digust he had taken Mairon and turned him back to the very being Mairon had fought so hard to extingush inside of him.

You rose from your seat, slipping off your robe and carefully extinguishing each candle, one by one, until the room was cloaked in soft shadows. Crawling into the embrace of your warm sheets, you settled against the familiar softness, though your heart ached for what was no longer there. Your head turned, your eyes falling to the untouched pillow beside you.

Fingers brushed lightly across its surface, tracing invisible shapes into the pristine fabric as if by some miracle, you might conjure the presence you longed for. You could almost see him there, the glint of emerald eyes gazing back at you, and the wild, gingery strands that always seemed to catch the light. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you imagined your hand ghosting through his hair, teasingly brushing against the delicate curve of his pointed ear before he would pull you close, his arms encircling you in an unbreakable hold.

A happier time, you mused, your heart heavy with longing. Closing your eyes, you surrendered to the ache, wishing for just one more moment in that long-lost warmth.

In your dreams was where you found him most. Though not as strongly as you once did. He would often invade your dreams to spend delicate but passionate moments with you in the days after he left. His fingers ghosted over every inch of your soft skin, bringing up the fire that only he could bring up inside you.

As you felt the wet ache fill you on this night, something was different. The shadows seemed to dance around the room more than they usually did. The usual pain you felt with them was no longer there, only the ghost of a touch that you had never truly forgotten.

“Mairon…” you whimpered in your half-dreaming state. The ghostly shadow touches morphed and molded into the warm caress of his perfect hands.

“My sweet Mori,” his voice whispered into your ear, the nickname sending waves of relinquished pleasure through your entire being. It had been an achingly long time since his lips had graced your presence with that name. “My divine Moriquendi,” his shadowy lips ghosted over your ear as you now felt the weight of his warmth encasing you. His teeth grazed against the shell of your ear as you whimpered against the touch.

“Please,” you whimpered as his shadows nestled into the moon of your thighs, right where he was made to be. Your fingers moved to push up your gown to reveal the slick opening before moving to run your fingers down to your needy core, your fingers tracing through the arousal pooling there. His ghostly lips traveled down the flesh of your neck to your clavicle as those hands ghosted over your breasts, drawing a sharp breath from your lips.

“Be a good and faithful wife. Show me how much you have missed me, divine,” You did as he asked, and like so many times before, you slipped your fingers into your needy cunt. You imagined him seated deeply inside of you, pushing at the door to your womb in a way he only could.

His touch grew heavier as he seemed to caress over the jewel and chain he once wore. You reached and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, a blissful smile touching your lips as you looked into those emerald eyes of the dreamlike version of your husband. His throat worked as he looked upon your face. “There is nothing I would not do for you.” You whisper, reciting the words you had told him when he confronted you about Morgoth’s curse and who he really was.

Those ghostly, pillowy lips met yours with a desperate force you had never felt in him. His fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed lightly as the feeling of your fingers was replaced with the ghostly feeling of his cock. Thick and hard, veins creating the ridging that perfectly matched your own. Your hips arched into the touch as he began to rut into you like how he had done thousands of times before, though this time it felt completely different.

Moans and whimpers left your lips like the sweetest of christenings over this moment. The pain of his animalistic thrusts caused tears to fall from your cheeks in desperation for him to go harder and tear you apart, only to remake you into his perfect wife once more. His beautiful and divine elven wife, the very being his dark fëa called for.

“So good for me…taking all of me…” His voice panted against your cheeks as his lips ghosted over your tears, kissing them away. “So faithful…so loyal to me,” he said, brushing his nose against yours as you reached up in the dream and cupped his face. Your fëar singing in harmony once more as they had long been quiet for so long that you had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Mairon—” You trailed off with almost a whimpered plea as your core coiled in need of release. “Don’t leave,” you pleaded. He kissed your lips once more and quickened his pace as his hand snaked down to meet your engorged mound, pulsing with impending release.

“I have you, divine; I will see you through this, I promise.” He vowed, and with that, you came over him in a relief that you had not felt in centuries. Your core pulsed against his ghostly cock until he rutted into you one final time, groaning as he now found his relief. He filled you with his essence once more, and you felt your body react in the same way it always had, arching to take every drop until he coated every part of your womb. Hoping and wishing for that miracle to finally happen. But it never did, and you had grown okay with that.

He took a moment to breathe before rolling his back onto the mattress of your home in that golden place, keeping you astride him so you were coated fully with his mark. You felt the warmth of his touch tracing up your back as you nestled into the crook of his neck. His smokey scent covered you in the dreamscape, pulling you deeper into this place. This moment was one you had wished to have forever.

But as with all the times before, his ghostly touch started slipping away. Though with one parting kiss, he spoke one last time. His fingers ghosted through your hair. “This is not the end, Mori, I will come to you, and we will have our forever, my love,”

And like a whisper carried away by the wind, he faded from the dreamscape, retreating back into the shadows that claimed him. Your heart clenched with an ache so deep it felt as though it might shatter. Your fëa reached out instinctively, searching through the vast emptiness of the Void for his presence, yearning for even the faintest trace of him.

But there was nothing—only coldness and the unyielding weight of the grief that had lived within you for centuries, filling the spaces where his light had once been.

“I’ll be waiting,” you whispered into that endless darkness, your voice trembling yet resolute. You hoped, prayed, that somehow he could hear you across the immeasurable leagues that separated you.

You were patient. You were loyal. And you would wait for him, even if it took an age—or many more.

#sauron x reader #halbrand x reader #the rings of power #trop fic #rings of power fic #sauron #halbrand #mairon x reader #mairon

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