#oc: Wulfwryn

[captainderyn]

It’s always such a lovely experience working with @sbeep especially when it means bringing my lotro characters to life <3

This time around I snagged Wulfwryn post War of the Ring, looking on Raenor and little Faewryn as she stands watch in her role as captain of the Guard.

Thank you sbeep!! I dunno how you pull my vision for my characters right out of my head and put it on paper but you do it everytime

[queen-scribbles]

Wulfwryn x Halthiras for the OC date meme for some lotro shenanigans :P

Depends, where are they having this date? Bc if it starts in the Shire, I feel like they're both gonna drink too much hobbit ale and things are gonna get FUN. xD While Wulfwryn may stop herself at tipsy, Hal--despite his membership to the Inn League--does not have a high alcohol tolerance. He'd probably be in that "pleasantly dizzy, self-preservation significantly lower but not quite drunk" stage, which would mean a lot of Wulfwryn convincing him not to walk on fences etc until he sobers up. At which point he's profoundly apologetic and embarrassed and checks at least five times he didn't do anything too awful(by which he means both coming on too strong--he wouldn't--and too dangerous/embarrassing she had to save him from xD). The rest of the night probably involves them sitting in a field looking at the stars--and potentially fireworks, if it's the right time of year--and maybe just a little making out.👀👀👀

If this date starts anywhere OTHER THAN a Shire tavern, it very likely begins with Hal asking Wulf if she wants to meet (some of) his animals and I hope she knows what she's getting into if she says yes. He has the raven. bear, and bogstalker Lore Master comps, six or seven horses(Summer Faire one is his favorite), and... at least fifteen pets(including but not limited to hedgehog, black cat, brown and white rabbits, white puppy, brown bat, brown sheep, and snowy owl). So if they do that, it'll take an hour or two easy of hanging out with various animals, then he'd suggest going for a walk and talking. (He's most comfortable in nature, so it's him subconsciously hoping to make this more relaxing, even if he forgets to check whether she would also find that relaxing, but he'd be fine if she'd rather sit inside to talk.) Would probably also end sitting somewhere to admire the sunset/night and a kiss, though it would be more... chaste, for lack of a better word, and less "making out", though he wouldn't be opposed if it still went there. :3

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 1: "That was good work."

Prompt: "That was a good work."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: None

Warnings: None

Summary: Eldarion has been training with Wulfwryn in the art of the sword since he was a boy, yet he still cannot best her in combat. Frustrated with this, it takes Wulfwryn sharing some of her own wisdom to reflect that perhaps not seeing combat is a blessing and not a failing.

Read on AO3

---

Watching her mother spar was something Faewryn would never tire of. The elegance of her blows and parries were like the most intricate steps of a festival dance and the way she wielded her sword and shield was just as natural as the way her father held his lute. 

Faewryn, however much she adored watching her mother spar, never wanted to partake. Aside from wielding a sword—or dagger, bow, glave, or any other weapon—feeling so unnatural to her despite any number of practice hours that she was more apt to cut off her own hand than cut an opponent, she had no desire to lose time after time. 

This particular time, after many times before, finally frustrated Eldarion to his limit, and he drove the tip of his sword into the soft dirt of the sparring arena and leaned against it. Despite the cool autumn air, his face was flushed with exertion and sweat pooled on his brow, sticking his mused hair to his forehead. He shook his head like a wet dog before scrubbing his hand through the damp strands. 

“That was good work, Eldarion.” Wulfwryn praised, leaning her sword and shield against the weapons rack. She ran her sleeve over her forehead, her own face red with exertion. They’d been going through session after session back to back with no end in sight. 

Faewryn rested her forearms on the half wall, pressing onto her tiptoes and rocking back down as she called, “You nearly had her that time!” 

The glare leveled at her made her dissolve into giggles that she stifled with her hands. She knew the look her mother was giving her without looking—she wasn’t meant to heckle or tease any of her trainees, no matter if that trainee was her dearest and longest friend. 

Eldarion huffed, the most petulant he would let himself get. “I’ve been training with you for years, yet I’m still getting my ass kicked like a tot with his first wooden sword.” 

Wulfwryn leveled a look at him with raised brows. 

“Hardly a tot.” Wulfwryn admonished. “You know I go especially hard on you, as your father instructed me to.”

Faewryn pressed her tongue to her cheek, already rehearsing in her head how the next part of the conversation would go. It was the same every time, with the same answers again and again.  

“That’s exactly it! If I cannot hold my own here, how am I meant to ride with you on missions? I am nearly in my twenty-third year yet I have not ridden out once with our guards. You have soldiers younger than that!” 

If her mother’s sigh was an indicator, she also knew how this song and dance played out. Faewryn mouthed along as the two went back and forth, every word near correct. 

“You shouldn’t be so eager to go chasing down rogue orc bands. They’re a brutish bunch, and the ones that still persist after all these years after particularly sturdy.”

Eldarion was quick to counter, as he always was, “It looks shameful to have the son of the king fresh as a welp in actual battle.” 

“Have you perhaps considered that we who fought in the war don’t wish the same for our children? That we’d prefer to keep sparring exercises as learning and not life or death?” This was always the line that shut Eldarion up before, and it worked no different this time. He snapped his mouth closed and Wulfwryn nodded as if content this would be the conclusion. 

She hefted up her shield again, gesturing for Eldarion to pick up his sword once again. He did with a weary breath. 

“I know you’re eager to put this to use, I know you wish to prove yourself, but truly how long do you think I’ve been studying the sword?” Wulfwryn asked. 

Both Eldarion and Faewryn hesitated, weighing the odds wrongly answering such a question. 

“…years?” Eldarion finally answered in a hesitant, small voice. 

Wulfwryn tipped her head back with a full-bellied laugh. “A great many years! I’ll leave specifics to your imagination. Now, think: you’re trying to cram a lifetime of training and true battle experience into a handful of years. You’ll get there, I promise, hopefully with far less pain and trial than I.” 

She gestured to his sword, still in a resting position. “Now, again.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 8: "Are We Happy?"

Prompt: "Are we happy?"

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Spoilers: None

Warnings: None

Summary: Two years after the War of the Ring, as the Third Age fades into the Fourth, Wulfwryn and Raenor enjoy a private moment during the Midsummer festival as the reality of the war's conclusion finally sets in.

--

Midsummer spilled across Minas Tirith in a sea of brilliantly colored flowers and silken banners flying in the wind. The White City buzzed with activity, from artisans preparing booths of their wares, to florists arranging bouquets and garlands of every type and color. From every storefront and tavern the delicious smells of baking and roasting food filled the air. 

This was the first year the forges weren’t bellowing to make armor and weapons, the first year that the bakers and delis had abundance to set out trays of fresh breads and muffins. 

Two years ago, the War of the Ring, as it was called, ended with the destruction of the One Ring. For the past year, Gondor and many others fought tooth and nail to rebuild from the horrors it had experienced. This new year marked a step into a new Age, one hopefully calmer and slower than the last. 

Wulfwryn and Raenor walked hand in hand through the markets of Minas Tirith, each holding a steaming honey pastry in their free hand. Though the city was still in the process of rebuilding and the gaping wounds were still evident in the white stone of the buildings, many of the scars had been slowly built over. 

“It still feels strange to walk about without armor and a sword on my hip.” Wulfwryn said as they paused at a bench at the far end of the market tier, near a secluded garden that had been planted among the rubble of what used to stand there. 

Raenor hummed in agreement from behind a mouthful of pastry. “This is the longest we’ve been in one place.” 

Their travels had brought them all over Middle Earth, and even once the War officially ended, they’d spent much of the last year seeing each other only in spurts between Raenor’s travels to Rivendell to aid the elves departing for the Grey Havens and Wulfwryn’s frequent skirmishes with bands of orcs still coming from Mordor. 

Raenor had returned to Gondor to winter here, and revealed that he was there to stay. While it was an adjustment to living in one place, in not being in constant danger or flight to the next mission, they were recovering slowly. 

Even the frequency of Wulfwryn’s skirmishes had started to decline, marginally, but still a decline, and her focus had turned more to training the newest set of city guards. 

They ate their pastries in a peaceful silence, basking in the sunlight and smells of the blooming flowers. The noise around them was of celebration and the normalcy of daily life, none of the urgency they’d grown so used to. During their travels, the only time Wulfwryn could recall a feeling like this was in the Shire. 

Wulfwryn ran her thumb along the simple, twined silver band around Raenor’s ring finger, twisting it back and forth idly. 

“Is this what contentment feels like?” she wondered aloud. Raenor raised an eyebrow at her in a silent question and she added, “Are we happy? Have we finally done it?” 

When was enough going to be enough? Had they earned this? They had both fulfilled their ends of this long journey, Wulfwryn had seen her goal of finding her rightful king to fruition. 

Raenor softly smiled, pulling Wulfwryn’s up to press a kiss to the kindred ring on her finger. They’d exchanged their vows together privately several months previous, and had been committed to each other in kind far longer, but drawing attention to the ring still sent a pleased thrill through her. A physical reminder of all the ways things had changed since their journey began. 

“I think we’ve done it, meldanya.” Raenor said. “We’ve very well earned it.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 7: "Follow me if you want to live."

Prompt: "Follow me if you want to live."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

WARNINGS (PLEASE HEAD): General dark tone, descriptions of battle gore, death, and violence. Mentioned character death. Implied/depicted trauma responses and PTSD.

SPOILERS: Battle of the Isen Ford questline, Troubled Dreams quest

Summary: After the Battle of the Isen Ford, Wulfwryn's mind dwells on the fight, much of the violence in her journey bubbling to the surface. An old friend appears to guide her through the darkness of her own thoughts.

-----

The battle at the Isen ford replayed again in Wulfwryn’s dreams, as though the waking hours of horror from that day were not enough. 

She’d fallen to sleep only after her body had hit the point of such sheer exhaustion that it had given out, only for her exhausted mind to revisit the events of the day. That itself was not a new experience for Wulfwryn, more times than not the nights after an encounter or a battle would be spent in fitful spurts of sleep as her mind unpacked and repacked what had happened. After the events of Moria and of Orthanc, the restless nights became more and more frequent and her dreams less vision of what had actually occurred, taking on embellishment that jolted her awake in cold sweats and gasping breaths. 

The bottleneck of the Isen Ford dissipated beneath Wulfwryn’s feet, materializing instead into Grimbold’s forward camp. The campfires flickered in dreamy blue, and no soldiers dwelled around or rested in the empty tents. 

“You are caught in the throes of sleep it seems, Wulfwryn.” 

In this camp she did not expect to find a figment of Candaith, and the noise that broke from her at the sound of the Ranger’s voice was that of scabbed over grief. The first time she’d met and traveled with Candaith felt so long ago, in such a distant past before everything spiraled so far out of her control. Yet here he now stood before her, an amused brow arched. 

He held out a hand, gesturing her to walk with him. 

“Walk with me for awhile, friend, perhaps we can leave this night behind.” 

Wulfwryn fell into step beside him, “You are not real.” she said, voice ragged. 

“I exist still in your thoughts, and your memories. That has not changed.” Candaith corrected gently. 

She stumbled as their hazy ground beneath her feet ripped again, as still water did when a stone was dropped in. She gasped, nearly falling in her attempt to leap backwards. 

Corpses surrounded them. Rohirrim in their greens, their steeds laid beside them. The fur bundled coats of the dwarves of the Misty Mountains and Moria, the grey and black cloaks of the Grey Company. 

So much loss along her journey, so many people ripped away senselessly. 

Wulfwryn took several stunted breaths, pushing her revulsion down, and forced herself to look at Candaith. The wraith of her old friend looked around, face impassive. 

“I do hope you are able to find restful sleep a the end of your road, friend.” He said. “This is quite a heavy burden to bear, if this is what your sleeping hours contain.” 

Shaking, Wulfwryn picked her way through the corpses littering the ground and fell into step next to Candaith again. She supposed neither of them had corporal bodies in her dream-state, but it almost felt like there was a friendly brush against her shoulder, a steadying presence. 

Wulfwryn tried to focus on Candaith’s words as he spoke to her, filling the silence between them. The words flitted in and out of understanding, seem to her to come from deep beneath water at times. She would then blink, give a shake of her head, and pick up again on what he was saying. Even if the did not catch all the words, the cadence of another voice inside her own head was comforting all the same. She latched onto that, and the horrific scene around her greyed out. 

Then he stopped, and held out his arm in front of her to stop her too. 

“The one who plagues you returns to disturb your sleep further.” he said. “Let us meet him, and keep him from disturbing you longer.” 

Though they only walked a few steps, the gate of Grimbold’s camp came into focus before them, the burning torches on either pillar failing to truly pierce the darkness before or after the gate. 

Candaith was no longer beside Wulfwryn, instead standing just on the far side of the gate. He waved her on, extending his hand out to her. “Come along friend!” he called. “Follow me if you want to live free of this horrible weight.” 

“You will never shake me.” A lumbering. looming shadow took shape in the shadows left by the torches. 

Weight slammed into Wulfwryn like a load of rocks being dropped into her arms and she scrabbled to regain her footing. Her knees buckled and she loosed an agonized scream. Raenor, broken and bloody just as Morflak promised he’d be every time she stepped out of line in Orthanc, lay limp her arms.  

Her knees hit the dirt and she cradled him close, brushing aside his dirt and blood crusted hair with shaking fingers. His skin was ice cold, blue tinged. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and bruised. 

“This is what will always await you.” Morflak snarled, his horrific face contorted into a grotesque smile. 

She choked on a sob, too breathless for it to escape. 

“Wulfwryn!” Candaith called, beckoning for her again. “You must follow me. Shake his malice, it is not real.” 

She shook her head, bending over Raenor’s body and hiding her face in his hair. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” she moaned in stuttering, gasping repetition. She could not bear to look into the beady, evil eyes of Morflak, could not force her rigid muscles to move and run by him. 

She heard Candaith as if from very far away, as he encouraged her to lay aside her fear, as that was Morflak’s power. That none of this was real, it was a shadow in her mind. She curled further in on herself, fingers tightening in the blood stiffened fabric of Raenor’s clothing. The tang of iron was going to suffocate her, the overpowering smell of a battlefield—

Then, smoke. Embers burst bright as stars behind Wulfwryn’s tightly closed eyelids. 

A torch, torn from the pillar of the gate, lay beside her now, though it did not burn or smolder the grass. A torch, as Amdir had wielded before the Nazgûl the night he and Aragorn had freed her from the dank prison cell. Such a simple tool, as Aragorn had weilded against Amdir when he had become gripped by Darkness. 

“Seize it!” Candaith shouted. “Hold onto that light and let it strengthen you.” 

Wulfwryn laid Raenor down, lunging forward to grab the torch. Morflak approached, laughing. 

“Your little sword was barely enough to down me, maggot. You think a torch will do the job?” 

She crouched, brandishing the torch in front of her. Never before had she felt so small, so helpless, so far removed from the warrior she’d trained and claimed to be. In the moment, she felt smaller than a child, painfully unworthy of the titles she’d earned for herself. 

She was no warrior, no guardian, no hero. 

She was terrified. 

The light of the torch spread around in a half-circle in front of her. The shadowy figure of Morflak flickered as the torch light touched him. His face screwed up and Wulfwryn gave a breathless, unamused laugh. 

That wasn’t supposed to work. 

“That’s it, Wulfwryn!” Candaith encouraged, beckoning her more intensely. 

She took another step forward, the light pouring over Morflak and his figure flickered more. Looking over her shoulder, she found that Raenor’s crumpled body was going translucent, like dissipating smoke. 

Tears streamed down her face as she gave another baffled laugh, pushing forward again. Though the figure of Morflak stepped back, his form shimmered into a haze. 

Gripping the torch for dear life, Wulfwryn hurried for the gate and flung herself through. 

Instead of finding Candaith waiting for her, she slammed back into her own body and jerked upright. 

Gasping, Wulfwryn pressed one hand to her chest to try and keep her galloping heart in her chest. With her other hand she reached out to rest on Raenor’s back. Deep in sleep, her hand rose and fell with his breaths. 

He was here, he was safe. 

She was here, she was awake. 

She scanned the camp around them, filled with the living, breathing soldiers remaining after the battle at the Ford. 

The gate was lit by the burning torches on either side, spilling light across the camp. 

There was no Morflak, and there was no Candaith. 

Wulfwryn drew her knees up to her chest, pulling her hand over her mouth, and muffled a sob. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 5: "It's a new day, let's go."

Prompt: 5. "It's a new day, let's go."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor, (still platonic) Eldarion/Faewryn

Warnings: None

Spoilers: A blink and you'll miss it spoiler for the war-steed questline.

---

The morning was still young when something sent an extra pillow flying into Faewryn. She jerked awake with an indignant and startled shout, grabbing the pillow and hurling back where it had come from. 

It connected with a satisfying thwack, with an event more satisfying grunt of “Oof!” 

“Eldarion!” she groused, collapsing back into her nest of pillows and tugging her blankets back up around her chin. “How did you get in here? It’s dawn.” 

Her dearest friend and biggest pain in her ass flashed a lopsided smirk at her, clutching the pillow she’d thrown at him against his chest. 

“It is not dawn,” he corrected, mimicking her dramatic tone. “it is mid morning and you told me to come wake you this morning.” 

Faewryn grunted, pulling her blankets further up now so only her eyes peeked out. 

“The girl who made that request was mistaken.” she mumbled from her cozy nest. “Today is a new day and she no longer believes in awakening early.” 

It did not appear to be mid-morning outside, the autumn morning was crisp and grey. The morning chill permeated the stones that made up her home and she dreaded putting her bare feet on them; the chill would rise even through the rugs that coated the floors of her bedroom. 

Eldarion went to the alcove in the wall that stored her clothes, rummaging through her things. She scowled, contemplating the merits of throwing another pillow to deter him. But that would require removing her arms from the warmth her body heat had created beneath her covers and braving the air. 

He tossed a woolen tunic and a knitted shawl at her, along with a pair of thick socks. Blessedly, he did not go through the rest of her drawers. It didn’t matter that they’d been close since childhood, she still did not want someone else going through her drawer of underthings. 

“It is a new day.” he agreed. “And today’s Faewryn appears to have forgotten that she requested I wake her up to see her mother off.” 

Faewryn shot up, tossing her covers aside with a curse, “Today’s that day? How could I forget! How much time do I have?” 

Eldarion stepped into the doorway, starting to pull it closed until he was just around the edge of it as Faewryn hurtled out of bed and began tugging her layers on. 

“You still have some time,” he assured. “They haven’t mounted up yet. So let’s go.”  

The scouting missions her mother rode out on to patrol the areas surrounding Minas Tirith had started to become further and further apart and the days she camped out in the wilderness between townships eased as the threats from after the War of the Ring began to subside. 

From her earliest memory, Faewryn always remembered her father taking her to see her mother off and wish her a safe journey. The tradition had lasted years, even now, when technically she was almost of age and could justify not attending each morning departure. To not wish her mother good luck felt like inviting any manner of awful superstition. 

“Is my ada already out there?” She asked, voice muffled as she tugged an overcoat over her head then pinned her shawl around her shoulders. 

Eldarion ducked out of her way as she rushed through the doorway, making a beeline for her boots at the door. She laced up her boots in record time and then they were off, practically sprinting through the streets. The morning was early enough yet that only the shopkeepers and other workers were milling about, leaving the stones clear. 

“Our time frame is not truly so dire!” Eldarion gasped as he followed after Faewryn, stumbling in his attempts to take the shortcuts and paths she could find with her smaller, more lithe, stature. “I was merely joking!” 

Faewryn burst into the outlook just above the stable courtyard. A group of guards milled about, some upon their horses and doing loose circles to limber up their mounts, while others adjusted their equipment. Her mother was already atop her mount, a steel gray beauty gifted to her by a thane’s wife in Rohan itself. Her father stood with one hand on the horse’s reins, the other atop her mother’s leg as they spoke in hushed tones. 

“Emel, galu!” Faewryn cried, waving her arm wildly above her head. “Good luck, mama! Good luck everyone! Ride safe!”  

Those traveling with Wulfwryn today looked up and many smiled, waving back. Several guards in Wulfwryn’s company were ones that Faewryn had known for most if not all of her life. The others were still new, and while they did not greet her with the same excited joy, they still lifted their hands in acknowledgement. 

Wulfwryn scanned the level before finding Faewryn and smiled, raising her hand to blow Faewryn a kiss and give her an equally as enthusiastic wave, “Melin gin!” She called back in the way she always did. “We’ll return soon!” 

In a few moment’s time all the riders were mounted, and Wulfwryn gathered her company to ride for the lower levels. Faewryn and Eldarion watched them go the whole way until they disappeared from view, as Raenor did. Though he lingered in the courtyard long after Faewryn and Eldarion turned to leave. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 2: "It's been a long time."

Prompt: "It's been a long time."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: None

Summary: A young Faewryn spins tales of the Dunedain, playing pretend in a grand adventure. Along the way she learns of old friends of Raenor and Wulfwryn.

Translations:

Telellë: little elf Ada: dad henig: my child emil: mother

----

Tales of the Dunedain were fraught with danger, adventure, and feats that defied what seemed possible. The stories swirled vividly in Faewryn’s mind, spun by the skillful voice of Aragorn to a rapt Eldarion and her the afternoon prior. Both her ada and mother had told her bedtime stories of rangers as well, and she knew the songs her ada sang of them by heart. 

This afternoon she was not Faewryn, the Gondorian half-elf, but one of the Dunedain, proud and tall, forging through distant lands, searching for a foul creature that threatened all of Man. The stone around her did not make up the walls of her family home in Minas Tirith; it was a forgotten hideout in the deep woods. Within her hideout she peeked through the windows—watching for the signal that marked a sighting of her mark. 

There! A bird call. That was the signal, she had to move now! 

Faewryn scrambled down from her perch by the window, scanning the room for her supplies. She snatched her wooden sword in its cloth sheath from the doorway of her bedroom as well as the dark brown throw blanket from the foot of her bed. Slinging the blanket around her shoulders, she tied it in a fumbling knot, only for it to come undone and fall around her feet as soon as she moved. 

That wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all. She had to make haste! The Enemy could escape at any time. 

The bird call sounded again, more urgent this time, and Faewryn gasped. She hurried into her parents room, tugging along the small stool from the corner of her own bedroom. 

Using the stool, she stepped onto it and reached for an ornate wooden box sitting on the dresser. Her mother had taken it down several times for her to sort through the broaches and cloak pins, and if there was something she needed urgently now it was a pin. 

Her mother had always cautioned her not to prick her fingers on the sharp edges, but she’d never cautioned Faewryn about using one at all…

A shining cloak pin caught her attention and she picked it up, balancing it in her palms. It was a black broach emblazoned with a six-pointed white star. It reminded Faewryn of her mother’s daily uniform—the colors matched and the star echoed the ones that surrounded the White Tree on all the banners around the city. 

She let the box drop closed and hopped off her step stool, running back to her discarded cloak. Once more the bird all sounded and she fumbled with the pin. 

“I’m coming!” she called, finally getting the clasp to snap. With that she ran for the door, shoving it open with a grunt. Just to slam into a veritable wall of heavy fabric. 

The Enemy was here!

With a great battle shout, Faewryn freed herself of the Enemy’s clutches, shaking the cloth sheath off of her sword after wild waving it about and taking up her stance for battle. 

“Come no further, Enemy!” she cried, brandishing her sword. 

Her mother rocked back on her heels before an amused glint flashed through her eyes. 

“Telellë, you have caught me unarmed!” Wulfwryn exclaimed. 

Faewryn grinned, gesturing broadly with her sword. “Surrender, you can’t win!” 

Wulfwryn gave a beaten sigh, lifting her shoulders up and down dramatically with the motion. “So it would seem…” She said before smiling. “But you’ve underestimated me, warrior!” 

Before Faewryn had the chance to react she was scooped off her feet and hoisted over Wulfwryn’s shoulder. She squirmed but couldn’t free herself and her sword clattered out of her hands. 

“Ada!” She howled, tossing herself around. “Ada, I’ve been captured!” 

Wulfwryn grunted, letting Faewryn down. 

”You’re getting big, henig, I won’t be able to capture you much longer.” she said. 

Faewryn scampered over to her ada, who appeared around the corner. Raenor ran his fingers through her hair as she melted into a hug. She glowered at up at him from beneath furrowed brows. 

“Your warning call didn’t say the enemy was right there.” 

Raenor tossed his free hand up in an oh dear gesture. “Ach! I was never made for scouting. You fight bravely though, henig.” 

Wulfwryn eased herself into a crouch, waving Faewryn over, “What’s the broach you’ve chosen today? Let me see.” 

Faewryn protested when Wulfwryn went to unclip it, tugging her ‘cloak’ more tightly around herself, so she leaned closer to inspect it instead. Her lips pressed together in a wistful smile as she ran her fingers over the six pointed star. 

“Ah, have I ever told you of the story behind this one?” she asked. 

Faewryn shook her head but pointed to the embroidery on Wulfwryn’s overcoat, “No, but I thought it looked like yours, emil.” 

Wulfwryn pushed herself out to her feet, holding out her hand to Faewryn. “Would you like to hear the story?” She asked. 

Grabbing her hand, Faewryn held out her other hand for her father. Raenor fell into step alongside her, holding her hand even as they had to bend and stretch to go single file though the door. 

“Of course I want to hear it!” Faewryn exclaimed, clambering onto her mother’s lap as Wulfwryn pulled out one of the chairs at the table. 

Wulfwryn wrapped her arms around Faewryn, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Raenor settled in on their other side, leaning his forearms onto the tabletop. 

“That star is that of the Dunedain.” Wulfwryn started, tapping her finger against the cloak clasp. “This one in particular came from a group known as the Grey Company.” 

Faewryn looked down at the broach, mouthing the name to etch it into her memory, “Did you travel with them, emil?” 

“Ay, both your ada and I traveled alongside them for quite a time, through Dunland and times before. It’s been…I’m not sure I can put a count on how many years ago that was.” 

“It’s been a long time.” Raenor agreed. “It is a great honor to receive one such star, and I’m ashamed to admit my own was lost to a place dark and foul during our travels.” 

Faewryn ran her fingers over the indentations of the engravings, eyes wide. 

“Does that mean you’re Rangers?” she asked in awe. 

Wulfwryn laughed, “No, alas, we were simply honored with a token of their kind.” 

A sorrowful look crossed her face and Faewryn shimmied closer, wrapping her arms around her mother’s shoulders. Wulfwryn held her close, deep in thought for a long moment. 

“They were very, very good people.” she finally said. “Would you like to hear some more stories?”  

[captainderyn]

I am Very Normal about finally getting a war-steed like I've been working towards for 10 years in this game mhm super normal about galloping around Rohan with Wulfwryn's Big Steed.

(Also exciting news: after 10 years (well, 4 since I made Wulfwryn) her name is officially Wulfwryn in game instead of Wulfwry. Shoutout to whoever finally coughed up the 'n' that's been taken for years)

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 3: "I know you better than that."

Prompt: "I know you better than that."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: Implied torture/brutality, implied/mentioned injury

SPOILERS FOR: The end of the Dunland epic (kind of), the beginning of the Rise of Isengard expansion

Summary: After the events that befell Wulfwryn and Raenor when leaving Dunland, the words of elves preparing to leave for the Grey Havens fester in Wulfwryn's mind. Raenor knows that something is bothering her, it is just a matter of sorting through the half-truths she allows herself to admit.

Translations:

meldanya: my beloved

--

All around them, Rohirrim soldiers shuffled through their nightly routines. Canvas tents rustled closed, the fires still burning outside crackles, and the soft, but constant, din of voices dropped down to a murmurr. 

The noise was a welcome hum after the ringing silence of the pits beneath Orthanc, broken only by the roar of the work camp as Raenor had been dragged to and fro. He shuddered and gave a shake of his head to break his thought spiral, focusing instead on rewrapping clean gauze around his hands. 

“Let me.” Wulfwryn settled down next to him, holding her hands out expectedly. Her voice was still raw and ragged after all the smoke and vapors she’d inhaled running around the orcish work camp, among worse things her overseer had forced her to endure. 

“Raenor.” she said, firmly grabbing his attention. With a shaky breath he held out his hands and Wulfwryn began the process of unwrapping the first gauze he’d attempted. After Moria, coupled now with Orthanc, his hands shook worse than before, his joints aching at the repetitive motion. A healer should be able to wrap his own wounds, but Wulfwryn’s touch grounded him in a way caring for his own hurts didn’t. 

His love’s face was grave as she wrapped his hands and forearms, her eyes darting across the healing red gashes where he’d been chained and other spots where harsh hands had taken joy in meeting his flesh. Whether it had been worse than under Moria, he would not and could not consider. 

He remembered very little of their time beneath Orthanc, only snippets in a dark, earthy cell and other times in the cold halls of the tower, chained beside the White Wizard like a creature on display. In his hazy memories, the most vivid was that of murderous rage, an unknown and sickly cold feeling, when Wulfwryn’s overseer had slammed her to the ground solely for speaking to him in elvish. 

Raenor squeezed his eyes closed, opening them when the pressure of Wulfwryn’s wrapping became tighter. He winced, flexing his fingers, and she paused. 

“You worry about me.” he said matter-of-factly, but not happily. He didn’t wish for her to worry about him. He’d caught the way her eyes strayed to him more frequently, assessing and gauging if they should press on. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes flicked to his face and she pressed her lips together. 

“Of course I worry about you.” she said. “I worry about your healing progress, that our travels won’t hinder that. Your progress under the golden leaves of Lorien…I fear it’s been reversed entirely.” 

She stumbled over her words, sidestepping what exactly had reversed his progress.  Raenor could not escape the thoughts of what happened beneath Orthanc; Wulfwryn was unable to speak it aloud at all. 

When they’d escaped the deep halls of the dwarves he noticed she’d begun to monitor more carefully.  Since they’d entered the Gap of Rohan, her presence had turned into that of a fretful shadow. It was beginning to take a toll on her; their bedroll at night was more often than not empty as she sat unnecessary watches, pacing the perimeter of their camp into the wee hours of the morning. 

He reached up his free hand to cup her jaw, bringing her hollow and tired eyes to his. Her nostrils flared in the way they always did when she fought back emotion. 

“I know you better than that, meldanya, than to believe you when you tell me it is simply my injuries you worry about. Something is eating you alive.” 

Wulfwryn cradled his hand against her jaw in her own, running her thumb lightly against the back of it. She opened her mouth, then closed it, again and again, fighting for what words she wanted to say as though they were stuck. 

“I never should have torn you from Rivendell.” she finally said haltingly, though the minced words were built upon layers and layers of guilt that Raenor had steadily peeled away though their conversations across their travels. 

He held the silence between them, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. They both knew he’d left Rivendell not only on his own volition to take on the quest Elrond presented him, but also out of his own need to escape the sorrows his home held for him. Those words were just the easiest ones for Wulfwryn to fall back on, the same ones she used to break the dam of whatever truly was on her mind. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes went glassy and she tilted her head back, blinking at the ceiling of their tent. 

“Our journey has done nothing but cause you harm of late.” her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I fear these last months have done nothing but break you.” 

In some ways it was true, Raenor ceded, his physical body and spirit had been permanently altered by the enemies they faced. Just as his mind had been altered forever by the fall of Edhelion centuries before. 

“I have persevered through many tragedies and harms.” he said softly, pressing for what was beneath yet another mental wall that Wulfwryn struggled against. 

She swallowed, pressing her cheek into Raenor’s hand and shutting her eyes tightly. 

”We have passed many elves in the Great River and before that travel for the Grey Havens for less than what you have endured. When will I push you so far, put you in such danger, that you too will be so desperate for escape as to depart these lands?” 

The words tumbled out of Wulfwryn in a rush and she gasped a tiny breath, as if they were a flooding torrent she’d been trying to hold back. She pressed her lips together until they paled, shoulders giving a telltale shake that belied the wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes. 

In the gaping silence Raenor left as she grasped for words, Wulfwryn opened her eyes to look at him. Her expression was pure devastation and he knew her well enough to know that whatever was going to well to the surface had been festering within her for a long while. 

“It is my hand, my sword, my body that is failing to keep you safe. Every time I fail to keep you out of the hands of the Enemy, I sour this world for you further.” 

He realized now just how many elves they’d spoken to in the course of their journey that lamented their oncoming departure from this world. How many had spoken as though this lifetime was a shadowed mockery of lives they’d lived before. And just how despairing that may seem to a mortal who lives but one short life. 

Though his other hand was half wrapped and the poultice would smear, he brought his other hand to Wulfwryn’s face and pulled their foreheads together, blocking out the world around them. Wulfwryn heaved a shuddering breath. 

“This world is not yet ruined for me, meldanya.” he assured. “These difficult times are but a fraction of the times ahead. I would not be so easily persuaded to leave you.” 

“I am not worried about you leaving me.” Wulfwryn argued, though there was a sorrowful lapse at the end of the sentence that did nothing to convince him otherwise. “I simply do not wish to see you snuffed out so completely.” 

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I will not be, I promise. I am far sturdier than you care to admit.” 

--

NOTE: if anyone would like further context for the events that transpired in Moria, my fic 'My World Is You' centers around those :)

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 15: "Let's try this."

Prompt: "Let's try this."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor, Faewryn/Eldarion

Warnings: Mentions of parental death, grieving.

Summary: Wulfwryn began the idea of a candlelight vigil for those she'd lost on her journeys across Middle Earth. Faewryn continues it in honor of both her father and mother. She vows to finish one of her father's songs in his honor, though grief is proving a difficult mire to wade through.

--

Candles burned down to the base of their wicks, a flickering sea of soft yellow light along the wall around the White Tree. The waning lights reflected in pools of wax collecting in jars, softly dished plates, whatever people thought to carry the candles in. 

When Wulfwryn had started the vigil, just between her and Raenor, to remember those they’d left behind on their journal across Eriador and beyond, it had been a candle per person they’d lost along the way. It had blossomed the first year after the War of the Ring, when Wulfwryn had introduced it to the denizens of Minis Tirith, to include a candle for the people lost to them too. It had never been centered around the Citadel, candles instead were set up in homes, on the walls spanning the levels, until the White City was aglow. 

For years now, Faewryn spent a long night in reflection, first one, but now two candles burning staunchly in front of her, surrounded by the growing reminder of Minas Tirith’s grieving and solidarity. The city mourned the passing of not only this own kin, but two of its heroes. 

Three years and the wound of laying her mother to rest still ached. Sometimes she still caught herself looking up when the guard patrons rode back in through the gates, or listening for her mother’s commanding voice when they ran their morning drills in the courtyard. She still could not look at her mother’s portrait without her heart wrenching agonizingly in her chest. 

Her ada had tried for two long, miserable years to stay for Faewryn. The phantom feeling of the last hug she’d given him, his body itself feeling like it was wasting away with his heart and spirit, on the docks to the sea. She remembered the soft fabric of his tunic, wet with her tears as she’d pressed her face against her father’s chest, his grip on her tight as his apologies and love washed over her. 

He would have stayed to see his daughter grow older, that much she knew. But alongside him left the last pocket of elves he’d known in Rivendell to bear him safely to the West. Watching her father succumb to grief and waste away would have broken Faewryn beyond repair. Elves were not made to bear the agony of mortal grief, especially those who’d already experienced so much suffering in their years as her father had. 

So a candle burned for him now too, and in the waning hours as dawn crept closer, she plucked the strings on a lute painted by his and her hands together over the years. The lute he’d borne for many years, since he’d returned from Edhelion, sat above their mantle, age worn and weathered and having played enough songs to earn its retirement. 

The instrument in her hands was one of the last crafted by the woodworkers of Imladris, gifted to her the first time her parents had brought her to walk the paths of Imladris as a child. She played it absentmindedly, wrapped up in her own mind as she spun words from half-remembered pages and hummed melodies. Her voice, soft but clear as a mountain stream, wove her father’s and mother’s tongue together. 

“I think this is the most people who have shown up yet.” Eldarion eased down next to her, his shoulder brushing hers. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck with a sniffle, the shoulder-length mess of his hair tickling her nose. The part of his sentence he’d cut off—since the first vigil for Wulfwryn—hung heavy in the air.

She wanted to put all the gratitude she should feel into her voice, but all it came out as was exhausted and flat. “A lot of people sat with me for hours.” 

“Wulfwryn and Raenor are still beloved in memory.” 

Such a simple statement shattered Faewryn to the core. She hadn’t cried the whole vigil, not the guards who had trained and served under Wulfwryn approached her like family, not when the local musicians came up to tell her they missed her ada’s music. 

Now, she cried. Heavy, fast-flowing tears that felt like they had no end. 

“I promised ada I’d finish this song.” she whimpered.

Eldarion rubbed his hand up and down her arm, drawing her close, “Which song is it?” 

Faewryn wiped at her eyes, though it didn’t stem the tears. It felt like nothing would at times. 

“He was writing it for mama.” she faltered as her voice broke into another sob. Eldarion let her breathe through it without pressing, his arm a steady weight around her shoulders. 

She gestured wordlessly to the bundled papers she’d set down beside her, tucked into a leather-bound cover. 

“I can’t make sense of his notes.” she said helplessly. “Half of it calls to her prowess in their journeys and tells of their adventures, part of it cries his love to her. Yet still, other fragments are just his grief pouring through.” 

She didn’t mention that trying to read Raenor’s inattentive, rushed handwriting when his hand had simply been an extension of the swirling ideas in his mind, and translating it presented its own issues. She was too ashamed to admit that despite being raised to speak and understand her father’s tongue, some of his shorthands eluded her. 

Eldarion contemplated, then stood. Faewryn followed his movements, eyebrows drawing together as she resisted the urge to reach out for him. 

“So soon?” she asked, sounding pitiful to her own ears. 

Eldarion held his hand out to her, making a grabbing motion when she did not take it. 

“I have an idea.” he said. 

Faewryn took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, though she looked at the sky, then at the candles burning low. 

“It isn’t dawn yet.” She checked the sky again. “Dawn is still a ways off, yet.” 

“I think your father would appreciate us working on his song more than he would sitting in mourning.” Eldarion countered, tugging her along with him. 

Faewryn dragged her feet, still not convinced, “I don’t see how leaving will help.” 

“You said his notes are a mixture of all manner of feelings and memories right?” Eldarion turned them down a side street, putting their feet on a familiar path. They’d walked this hundreds of times--her, Eldarion, and her parents--on their way down to the bustling market. “Let’s try this--if we walk and talk not only in a place so heavy with grief, maybe the pieces will start to fall together.” 

Faewryn followed reluctantly, though she supposed it wouldn’t hurt. The hours of stagnation on her attempts to finish the song had left a dour feeling over her. 

“I suppose it's worth a try.” she sighed. 

Anything to finish her ada’s song. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 9: "Don't listen to me, listen to them."

Prompt: "Don't listen to me, listen to them."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: This one is a dark one again. Mentions/implied torture, mentions of injury, general dark and angsty tone.

SPOILERS: For the beginning of the Rise of Isengard.

Summary: Trapped and imprisoned in the orc pits of Isengard, but kept separate, Wulfwryn sneaks down to see Raenor. Her resolve to do what must be done is waning, and it is on him to convince her to keep going, no matter the risk to him. aka I put them both through the horrors again I'm sorry

--

Sneaking away from the kitchens in the orc pit beneath Orthanc risked both Wulfwryn and Raenor’s lives. Yet it was a risk Wulfwryn could not bear to not take. 

Raenor stuck his hands, bruised and bloodied beyond recognition, through the bars of his cell. He could barely make it past his forearms and Wulfwryn pressed her forehead against the rusty bars just to feel his hands cup her cheeks. 

The time they had before Morflak became suspicious about her delivering slop to the caged prisoners was slipping through her fingers. She’d been lucky today, lucky that infighting among his suborinates had drawn his attention away so he had not been able to mark the exact minute that she had left. 

It still was not enough time. 

Raenor pressed their foreheads together, or the idea of their foreheads, his thumbs bushing across her cheekbones. 

“Meldanya,” he murmured in raspy elvish. His voice, shot and raspy, hurt her worse than any knife could. “Don’t listen to me, whenever the White Wizard drags me before you again. Whatever he has his lackeys do, whatever tool he tries to make you fold, do not listen. Listen to them, your overseer, these monsters, and bide your time.” 

“Raenor,” Wulfwryn pleaded, cradling his hand against her cheek. “You ask too much, asking me to stand by idly. I cannot let them break you.”

His eyes, glassy with pain but steely, focused in on her. Her resolve began to crack as she met his gaze, her eyes burning. 

“I can’t.” she whispered. 

She’d failed him in Moria, allowing him to fall into the hands of Mazog, and she failed him in the prison caves of Tál Methedras. Never before had she been so easily overpowered, so helpless to stop the forces at work around them. 

If it were just her, she would grit her teeth and bear Morflak’s cruelty alone. She could shoulder it, even if it broke pieces of her off in the process. 

But knowing Raenor languished down here except when Sauraman wished to tout him around like a songbird for show, to try and bend Wulfwryn to his will…

That did not break pieces off of her, it corroded her very foundation, the very core of her. She did not sleep at night, she could not shake the heavy dread that weighted her chest down. 

“You must.” Raenor shifted, brushing a kiss across her forehead that barely reached through the bars. Wulfwryn stifled a sob. “And you will. Melin gin, meldanya.” 

Morflak’s furious voice boomed down the hallway, calling for his wayward ‘maggot’. 

Wulfwryn flinched, squeezing her eyes closed and pressing Raenor’s fingers tight to her skin where they rested against her skin. Then she took a deep breath, pushed it all down, and stepped back from his cell. 

Raenor retreated into the deep shadows at the back of his cell, settling back against the wall. 

Taking the heels of her palms, Wulfwryn brushed away her tears and Raenor’s bloody fingerprints from her skin. With a swift kick, she sent what remained of the slop bucket spilling across the floor, then picked up a dirty rag as though she attempted to clean it up. 

She grit her teeth to the paint of pain as Morflak seized her by the back of her hair, yanking her to her feet, and snarled at her for skulking around. She cobbled together the facade of a meek, panicked story about spilling the bucket and not wishing to attract rats. 

And thus the act began anew once again.

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 4: "No, we're not doing that."

Prompt: “No, we're not doing that."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: Descriptions of battle, light descriptions of gore Spoilers For: The Fords of Isen questline of LOTRO, the Battle of the Fords quest(s)

Summary: Wulfwryn and Raenor face the battle at the Ford of Isen with Prince Theodred and his men. The tides of battle turn, and not in their favor, and Raenor is faced with persuading Wulfwryn to turn her back on the fight.

---

The tides of the battle shifted faster than they could be stemmed. Their position in the Ford of Ise, at first a bottleneck to halt the sweeping onslaught of orcs became the Rohirrim’s trap as the shoulder to shoulder warfare made it impossible for their horses to pivot. 

Raenor looked wildly around, his hands bloody as he tied a tourniquet tight around a man’s leg, broken and gushing from where the soldier’s horse had collapsed on top of him. 

“There’s nothing you can do, lad.” the soldier wheezed, though Raenor was centuries older than him. The soldier placed his hand on Raenor’s wrist, halting his progress on knotting the gauze, “I would not be able to get out on my own, nor would I be able to face my fellows and wife after failing so horrible on this field.” 

Raenor’s brows knit together and despite the pressure on his wrists he tied off the tourniquet. He hadn’t the heart to tell the man the tourniquet was already soaked through, nor that it had been a hopeless endeavor from the start. 

“You fought bravely here.” he said instead. “You’ve fought well to defend your prince.” 

The soldier released his hold on Raenor, leaving behind a scarlet handprint. 

“Go save the others.” he pleaded. “Do not waste the time on me.” 

Turning his eyes to the sky, Raenor sent a quick prayer to whatever gods watched over these men to guide this soldier safely on before standing at the soldier’s request. 

There were few to save, and fewer that he could safe without getting trampled by feral orcs with rough blades or terrified warhorses without their masters astride them. 

“Prince Theodred!” the agonized cry ripped across the battlefield, stalling everything for a moment’s time into a tunnel of shocked silence. Then the sounds of battle roared back to life: the clanging of blades, the screams of horses, the shouts of men. 

Several Rohirrim horns hollored at once, sounding for a retreat. The command echoed across the battlefield, a call-and-return between the soldiers that remained in the bloodbath. 

“Come on, elf!” One soldier paused his horse, which jigged with the whites of its eyes rolling and its coat shining with scarlet, and held out his hand to Raenor to pull him into the saddle. “We must ride now!” 

Raenor stepped back, waving the Rohirrim onward. 

“I must find Wulfwryn.” he said, urging the rider onward again. The man instead held out his hand more insistently. 

“The guardian?” The rider scanned the battlefield. “I am certain she will find her way back to camp, should she still draw breath, but if you are to survive as well then you must flee now.” 

Raenor shook his head, stepping out of reach of the rider. He knew how it looked—armed not in the heavy riding leathers and chainmail of the Rohirrim and lacking the plate armor Wulfwryn herself wore and carrying only a small sword among his pouches fo healing supplies. 

“Leaving without her is not an option.” he insisted, bowing his head in thanks all the same. Before another choice was made for him, he ducked into the fray. 

Many of the orcs were occupied chasing after the fleeing riders or still clambering through the barricades set up at the front of their bottlenecked position. It bought him enough space, on foot instead of on horseback, to weave between the foul smelling creatures and over the bodies of the fallen. His stomach churned at how poorly this battle had turned and he kept his eyes forward and his ears straining for Wulfwryn’s familiar voice. 

He found her in the middle of a ring of slain orcs, sword and shield bloodied. Her battle-harried eyes widened when she saw him and she was quick to place herself between him and the pending onslaught of enemies, head turned between them and him. 

“Raenor! You are meant to be on the sidelines, aiding the Rohirrim that need healing.” She heaved out between heavy breaths. Sweat soaked her face and neck, her skin flushed red from the exertion of battle. 

He grabbed her arm, tugging towards the fleeing Rohirrim. “They’ve sounded the retreat, our time to leave is fading fast.” 

“What?” Wulfwryn cried, resisting his tug but not pulling herself away completely. She scanned the field around them, eyes darting between the wounded, the fallen, and the swarm still amassing at the gates beyond. “No, we aren’t doing that. We can’t! The important of holding this spot was insisted upon.” 

Raenor stepped towards their escape, pulling on her again. She yielded a step towards him, but her body still strained in the direction of the fighting. 

The next wave of orcs broke down broke down another barricade, their snarling cries of victory quickly getting drowned out by their stomping steps. 

“I know, meldanya, I know. But we must yield.” Raenor stepped in front of her, breaking her concentration on the orcs. She was taunt as a bowstring, practically quivering with the tension. 

Her eyes bored into him, brows drawn low over her eyes as she looked up at him. 

”There are still wounded out there.” she said sharply. 

“And we cannot help the wounded if we are dead.” Raenor snapped back. “The Prince is wounded or dead, staying here will be fatal.” 

He was only speaking her own words back at her, for she’d told him the same sentiment many times when they’d first traveled together. It was with great effort that she finally took a step towards him, then another, and another until they reached a warsteed that still lingered on the battlefield. 

The creature was shaking, sweat and blood soaked along one flank in a way that did not bode well for its owner, but allowed them both to mount. When asked, it broke into a flat gallop out the bottleneck of the ford and towards the Rohirrim forward camp. 

As the sounds of the forsaken battlefield quieted into the background, Raenor shuddered, and tried to push the bitter thoughts of failure aside for now. A long night stretched before them, of sutchering wounds, poulticing bruises and sprains, and making those who would not see the dawn more comfortable. 

Wulfwryn was silent as they galloped, her entire body tense. Every few strides she would glance over her shoulder, eyes lingering on the battlefield. I should have done more. He knew that would be what haunted her tonight.

[captainderyn]

What Might’ve Been

Wulfwryn and Amdir in Archet, if she’d allowed herself to get closer to him instead of simply pining.

(I couldn’t find a reference of Amdir without his hood…so I made him my hot ranger man 😌)

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 12: "Did you hear that?"

Prompt: "Did you hear that?"

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor (implied)

Warnings: None

Summary: Overnighting in a small inn in an even smaller town, Wulfwryn expects suspicion in regards to her elven traveling companion. When Raenor is approached about his lute and a request for music, Wulfwryn braces for the worst. But there are some things that transcend all manner of people.

---

An elf turned heads in a small, local tavern of a human township. Far removed from Rivendell or Lothlorien, or even the elf-havens of old, the hum of a tavern in the evening ground to near silence as Wulfwryn and Raenor settled into one of the old, rickety alcoves. 

Wulfwryn adjusted her sword beside her, eyes roving around the single room of the lower story. A handful of rooms were up the stairs, one of which she’d reserved for them for the night, and she wished to know how tightly the door should be locked. With all the odd sorts wandering about and strange happenings occurring, people’s suspicious fuses were all the shorter. 

“You can relax.” Raenor laughed at her, voice light as spring sun as he settled into his chair, laying his lute across his lap to fuss with the strings. “I don’t see any harm coming to us here.” 

“They’re staring at us as though we are a three headed wolf.” Wulfwryn muttered, unclipping her heavy traveling cloak and letting it pool around her hips. “I don’t trust it.” 

Raenor looked up at her with a half smile. “You fret so much. Did you always travel so…tightly strung?” 

Wulfwryn pressed her lips together to keep from making a face and narrowed her eyes at him. She was loath to admit it was a recent change in her traveling behavior. When she’d made the trek from Gondor to Bree initially she’d thrown herself into whatever seedy inn she could find; both for the food and shelter and for the information those places could provide. But when one such seedy inn led to her sitting in the prison Strider and Amdir had pulled her from, her trust had been slashed. And, though she’d rather keel over than admit this aloud, she despised the thought of putting Raenor at risk by drawing him into some inn that would incite the ire of the locals. 

“People have not been kind of late.” she insisted, though Raenor simply shrugged her off. 

Since leaving Rivendell he’d begun to come out of his shell despite the nature of their mission, as if he’d flung aside the mantle of grief he’d carried for centuries and had discovered a new zest for life. He explored everything as though it was brand new, and treated every experience like it was a story to be explored. 

She herself hoped one day she could fling aside her own grief in such a way, though she knew the depths it had wracked Raenor. 

“‘Cuse me ser.” a weedy, uncertain voice startled them both. Wulfwryn’s hand went to the pommel of her sword, though it was just a young woman, eyes wide and hands wringing together. Her eyes darted from Raenor’s painted lute to his face--to his ears. 

Wulfwryn tensed, but Raenor smiled and greeted her kindly. 

“We saw your instrument ser.” the woman gestured to his lute, then to the group huddled around one of the big tables. “We were wondering if you played. Our bard walked out, see, didn’t like the darkness edging towards this town or something of that kind. And we’ve been left wanting for music…” 

She trailed off, drawing her lower lip between her teeth and rushed to add, “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.” 

Wulfwryn went to protest as Raenor stood, but he planted his hand on top of her head and shook her head back and forth as if shaking the protest from her. 

“You worry too much.” Raenor insisted again, “It will be fine. A song won’t spell the end of the world.” 

She leaned back, crossing her arms together in front of her on the table. It may not spell the end of the world, but it would spell the end of whatever merriment these people felt tonight if they spoke ill of her traveling companion. 

He was a light in these shadowy times--she wouldn’t like the ill-informed judgements and assumptions of others snuff it out. Not when he was beginning to burn so brightly once again. 

Raenor hopped up on the little dais by the fireplace, this inn’s makeshift stage where a bard once set up shop. He plucked a few experimental strings on his lute, the firelight casting peaks and shadows over the rich engravings and swirling paintings. A few patrons crept closer, peering at the peaks of the Misty Mountains he had painstakingly painted over the course of years. 

The first few verses he sang, mostly to himself, were elvish hymns and the long lyrical pieces that Wulfwryn had followed to him when they’d first met. The sort of music that washed over you, threads that he skillfully wove into a masterful story though you did not understand the words. 

Wulfwryn tensed as patrons of the tavern murmured amongst themselves. A few were enraptured--namely the girl who had first approached Raenor. She practically had stars in her eyes as she rested her cheek on her forearms, rocking slowly to the story. 

But then, to Wulfwryn’s shock, Raenor tested a few more chords then launched into a well-known, basic tavern melody. 

The patrons alit as the change registered with them.

Before long, Raenor had the crowd gathered around him, singing along with the upbeat, jaunty melodies he played. It continued on like that until their voices tired and they began to break apart for the night. 

Raenor beamed, giving a playful little bow to the raucous amusement of the group. Wulfwryn watched with awed eyes, drinking in his smile and the shy way he accepted the thanks of those who had just wanted music and nothing more. 

How harshly she had judged them. 

“Did you hear that?” Raenor exclaimed as they climbed the stairs to their own rooms for the night. Rooms that Wulfwryn did not think she would have to lock as tightly as she had thought. “They were all singing along! Marvelous, absolutely marvelous!” 

Wulfwryn smiled, brushing her shoulder against his. “I did not know you had so many common tavern songs up your sleeve.” 

Raenor laughed, “I may not have spent as much time among humans as some of my fellows, but one thing you learn is that drinking songs transcend both time and company.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 11: "Well, that went great."

Prompt: "Well, that went well."

Fandom: LOTRO Pairings: Raenor/Wulfwryn (though romance not featured heavily in this prompt) Warnings: None Spoilers: A Game of Brigand Bashing quest

Summary: Wulfwryn plays a game of Brigand Bashing with the children of Langhold. For the first time in a long time, Raenor seems a glimmer of joy beneath the surface, until duty calls them back once again.

---

The heavy weight that lay across Wulfwryn’s shoulders seemed to lift as she ran across the clearing chased by a hoard of clamoring Rohirrim children. The group had first started by running from her, shrieking and laughing as they’d avoided the plush baton she’d tried to ‘strike’ them with in a game they titled ‘brigand bashing’. 

Now it appeared that Wulfwryn was the brigand, and the children were trying their hardest to bash her. She stumbled to a half as five smacked at her legs in quick succession, raising her hands in surrender. He could not remember a time in recent memory that her smile had been so easy or her laugh so bright as it was right now as she called for a truce. 

The kids, all panting themselves from exertion, willingly collapsed in a circle around Wulfwryn as she eased herself onto a fallen fence beam and leaned her forearms across her knees. 

“Consider me beat, brave warriors.” She said and the children cheered among themselves, exchanging high-fives and pats on the back. If Raenor were to guess, there weren’t many times these days that the group of children in this town had a willing participant in their game. 

The children played like they were planning out a full scale battle. The Thane's daughter already had the air about her of a seasoned warrior, though she herself had never seen combat. 

 That very girl watched Wulfwryn with rapt attention as Wulfwryn launched into an animated story, drawing a map in the dirt with a stick and waving her free hand around. 

Raenor was too far to hear exactly which story she was telling, and did not dare to move closer. Though the children hardly had the same reservations as their parents and elders, they were still uncertain of him as an elf and he didn’t dare ruin their fun. 

The peace was broken moments later as one of the Riders approached. Dala drew his horse up at the edge of the clearing in a rustle of equipment and snorting. 

“I did not realize the folk of Gondor wasted their time on children’s games.” he called by way of greeting. Perhaps there was meant to be a touch of humor in his voice, though it fell flat. “That must be quite the luxury.” 

Wulfwryn’s body seized back all the tension it had momentarily loosed, her shoulders going rigid. 

“Well, that worked out great.” Wulfwryn grumbled, buckling her belt back around her waist. The worry lines between her brows and aside her mouth deepened as she attached first her sword to her belt, then her shield to its guige and slung it across her back. “I try to show the locals we aren’t a threat by entertaining their children with their game and it seems all I’ve done is earn their ire.” 

Raenor watched Dala glower at them from beyond the clearing wall and noted the rapid tapping of his foot. “Uncertainty and tension don’t breed hospitality.” he said, half in agreement and half in placation. It did little, as Wulfwryn followed his gaze and heaved a sigh. 

She tossed her braid over her shoulder, tugging her gloves back on. Though she’d opted against her usual heavy armor for their touch-and-go missions across the Great River and Gap, she still remained prepared to fight at a moments notice. Whatever Dala had tasked with them now, it certainly was not going to be peaceful. 

Raenor fell into step next to her as she made her way towards the guard, “The children were enraptured by your stories.” 

Wulfwryn’s lips tugged up into a tight smile. “I would have loved to tell them more. It is a sad day when children as young as that play in preparation for war.” 

 Dala nodded to them as they got close enough to hear more clearly. The children streamed back into the camp with a flurry of sullen greetings and thank you’s to Dala and Wulfwryn respectively. 

“Adults in this town do not waste time with child-games, Wulfwryn. If you wish to face brigands, it appears a small band of them have returned from exile to harass a local farm. Instead of playing with our idle children, you could perhaps prove yourself useful by dealing with real enemies, eh?” he said and again, the humor did not reach the far reaches of his voice nor did his smile reach his eyes. 

“If that is what you require of us, then we shall gladly do so.” Wulfwryn replied tightly. “I hope the Rohirrim do not always look down on providing their children much needed smiles.” 

Dala’s lips pressed into a thin line and any remaining pretense of humor dropped from his voice. 

“Smiles do not win wars nor keep them safe. I assume you understand this.” 

Wulfwryn set her jaw, eyes stormy. Raenor nudged her, hard, with his shoulder. Such a sharp tongue was unusual for her, though it had been lashing more frequently as of late. 

Her eyes flicked to his then back to Dala and she took a breath, forcing her posture to relax. 

“Of course, tell us what you need of us, and we will return with haste.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 6: "I'm not giving up."

Prompt: 6. "I'm not giving up."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor (implied)

Warnings: None

SPOILERS FOR: The 'Reasonable Request' quest and the Noriel and Wynmar quests in general.

Summary: Raenor debates with Noriel about loving a human in an attempt to get her to open up to what she truly wishes for. Noriel pushes Raenor, as so many have before, oh whether his choice to love Wulfwryn is a reckless pursuit of heartbreak.

---

The affection of elves was difficult to obtain and even more fiercely guarded. Elves had a centuries, if not longer, lifespan to mull over love and tended towards holding onto that love until the end. As such, elves often waited years to finally decide who that One would be and were cautious to what many mortals would call the point of folly. 

Raenor, supposed, he had been the same. For several centuries he’d devoted himself to his studies under the tutelage of Talagan in Edhelion and thought of little else but his literature, music, and the history around him. Then for longer, darker years, he’d wandered Rivendell like nothing more than a wraith of who he’d once been as he’d grieved and questioned his place in this world. 

“You threw all of it away for a human woman.” Noriel scoffed as he drew to a close his own story that she’d asked him to tell. She looked over at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’re throwing centuries of love and steadfast company away for what…fourty years? That is a mere blink in our eyes.” 

Raenor hummed in discontent, leaning his forearms against the stone wall before them. Across the pavilion, Wulfwryn and the Rohirrim Wynmar gathered their weapons to head into the wilds of the Great River. No doubt to have a conversation as necessary and unpleasant as the one he had walked into presently. 

He grew weary of the interrogation he faced each and every time one of his kindred saw the woman he chose to walk beside. The indignation that he would be so reckless, the declaration that he was making a horrendous mistake that he would regret for the rest of his years. 

“You looked stricken when I said that no elf of this age would love a mortal, for their lives are fleeting as a breath.” Noriel continued. “So in some part of you, you must recognize that you are damning yourself to grief untold.” 

Raenor steeled himself with a breath, schooling his face into an impassive expression as he turned his gaze away from the retreating forms of Wulfwryn and Wynmar. 

“You and many others think that I acted foolishly and without thought, implying that the feelings we find ourselves with are cold and calculated measures taken.” he said, words clipped. “Yet I would rather savor a taste of the best years than deny myself the chance at all.” 

Noriel’s expression screwed up as though she tasted something sour. “I just simply cannot see how it would be worth it!” she said. “The thought of the inevitable…nay, I cannot bear it.” 

Nor could Raenor, some days, when his own mind betrayed him and ruminated on exactly what it would feel like to have Wulfwryn ripped away from him. Yet, he’d had many others torn from him who were meant to be eternal. The years they were granted were not a guarantee. Talagan had lived many years before Raenor and was meant to live many more alongside him, yet the Dourhands had squandered that. 

“True, those days will be dark. But I am not giving up on the affection I feel nor the partnership I’ve built just because I fear for the future.” Raenor softened his voice as it had sharpened into daggers. “Mellon Nin, I believe perhaps the grand ideal you use to deny yourself what you want is just a masquerade for fear.” 

Noriel looked down, running her fingers along the grooved lines of the stone. 

“How will you bear it?” she asked softly. “When it happens?” 

He did not have an answer for that and he pondered in his silence for long moments. “I do not know, truly.” he said. “I suppose the same way I bore the grief of Edhelion. With the aid of those around me to lessen the pain.” 

Time may have passed in swathes of grays and blurs and he may have wandered aimlessly and without passion for living during much of that time, but he had come out on the other side of it. Wulfwryn herself had helped guide him, though she hadn’t known it at the time, from the last clutches of his grief. Just as he had, unknowingly, pulled Wulfwryn from her own sorrow. 

Raenor and Noriel stood there together in contemplation, in the quiet stillness that could fall between two elves when there was no sense of urgency, until Noriel took a long, ragged breath as if struck. 

Something had come over her, as her voice shook when she asked; “Is it worth it? To love like that?” 

There was no hesitation in Raenor’s voice when he answered near immediately: “I would do it a thousand times over, just to experience life alongside her again and again.”