#reflected back and forth and back and forth

[callipraxia]

I’ll admit it - thinking of ‘but what will people think of me?’ has stopped me short of writing things before, in everything from writing actual content to writing part of a review on a friend’s story. “What will [Friend] think, seeing that I know that? Even if I explain the actually relatively innocuous reason why I know it, would they even believe me? This is an issue of how something is portrayed in media that I feel pretty strongly about, but in context, it might be better to just…drop it.”

I…tried actually including a detailed example of my next point here, drawing from Anon’s Robert Jordan remark, but it ended up breaking the thousand-word limit before I even got past the introductory explanations, so I guess I’ll write a separate essay about why I don’t really agree with the “dudebro is secretly obsessed with lesbians and BDSM” line of thinking, maybe link it back here later if I remember. In the meantime, the point was - if I start thinking “dang, I think Author X has an Issue with Y,” it’s usually a lot less because of what the author leaves in than what the author leaves out. As an author, one deliberately chooses to explore certain topics, including dark ones that reflect the issues that preoccupy us (isn’t Anne Rice’s work supposed to be kinda messed up? I mean, I’ve never read a word she wrote that I can recall, but aren’t they all, y’know, horror novels?). As distasteful as we might find it, incest and pedophilia and sexual assault and suicide and all those other words you can’t use on YouTube are real things that happen every day. There’s a plethora of reasons why any given author might want to explore such issues in writing, and at least half of ‘em have nothing to do with sex. I’ve never heard anyone imply that Dostoyevsky must have been really, really turned on by the thought of attacking pawnbrokers with axes, much less that he ever committed a murder in real life just for the heck of it. From what I’ve read - though to be fair, my reading on the subject is not extensive - Nabokov probably wasn’t really a pedophile, and Mario Puzo probably had nothing to do with real-life organized crime. I have heard a few people suggest Stephen King must be a perverted serial killer in real life to write what he writes, but those people were idiots. And so forth. Point is, an author examining evil through a certain point of view really should not lead to the assumption that the author has done or wants to do any of those bad things. That’s why we say that authors use their imaginations when they’re working.

Plus, well…nine times out of ten, nobody’s going to make you read a book. If you really can’t read a book without getting uncomfortable because you can’t stop thinking that X or Y means that the author might have wanted his wife to put him on a leash and spank him, you can almost always just…put down the book and go read something else. You can also do this if you’re uncomfortable with Anne Rice apparently having conflicting feelings about God - that isn’t a potential theme that bothers me, but I know people who would be upset for days about reading something that even hinted at someone Having Questions about the divine. Heck, I have a few books I 99% enjoy and I just skim over or entirely skip parts that involve actions I find uncomfortable - my one hard rule is that I won’t willingly even skim anything where bad things happen to pets, but even then, I don’t assume that everybody who ever earned a Newbury Medal is a bad person who likes thinking about such things. I just don’t read their books. Unless you are compelled to do otherwise for a class* or the like, just do thou likewise.

*I was, very reluctantly, compelled to read two books in my undergraduate Adolescent Literature class where bad things happened to dogs; it was the first and last time in my life that I’ve ever tried to get out of reading something, but the professor didn’t believe what I could bring myself to explain about just how negative of a reaction I knew I would have if I read any books with dying dogs in them. Now I still have one of those scenes lodged in my carousel of intrusive thoughts that drive my anxiety level up and make it really difficult not to engage in compulsive behaviors whenever they rudely shove their way up to the front of my brain, but I don’t think badly of Sherman Alexie because of it.

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[chancloud8]

PART 12.

<< previous chapter || next chapter >>

series masterlist.

series summary: you and chan get matched up on a forum for people who suffer with insomnia and spent most of your sleepless nights texting each other. neither of you expected to fall in love..

pairing: bang chan x reader

tags: smau, written part, first time facetiming, FLUFF

a/n: it's a little short, about 0.9k, but its a smau after all ;) I hope you like it my darlings <3

The screen of your iPhone lits up as you wait for the outgoing facetime request to go through. The camera automatically turns on, showing you your flushed face and wild hair.

'Fuck,' you mutter, quickly dragging your fingers through your hair in attempt to fix it. 

This is really happening. 

Chris is about to see your face, hear your voice and you're about to see him. 

You frown at your own reflection as you wait for him to accept the video call, wondering if you should have put on some make up or brushed your hair. 

The screen goes black for a moment and all thoughts leave your mind when Chris comes into view. 

'Holy shit,' you blurt out before you can help yourself. 'You’re not real.' 

Chan blinks once, twice, and then he doubles over and laughs. It's a beautiful sound, even better than hearing it in all the skz code video's you watched, and you can't help but giggle along with him. 

'I'm sorry, but you just look way to beautiful for a sleep deprived person,' you tell him when you finally stop giggling. 

Chan smiles and shakes his head, his ears turning red. 'Says you.' 

'Mhm, I did,' you nod, grinning at him. 

The next five seconds are silent as you just take a moment to look at each other. Chan is dressed in a white tank top and a black sweater vest that's sliding off of his broad shoulder. His hair is messy, but cute and his face is bare of any make up and just as pretty as all the pictures you've secretly saved on your phone. 

Chan giggles again and hides his face behind his hands, causing you to burst into another fit of giggles yourself. 

'Look at us,' you laugh. 'We can't even look at each other without giggling. What are we? School girls?'

'I blame sleep deprivation,' Chan smiles, shrugging his shoulders. 

'Don't we always?' 

‘Maybe, but it's easy.’ 

You laugh again and nod in agreement. 

‘I was wrong about you though,’ Chan says, tilting his head as he watches you. ‘You’re not just gorgeous, you're beautiful, absolutely stunning.’ 

‘Chan!’ You yell, ducking your head as your cheeks heat up. ‘Stop that.’ 

‘Why? It's the truth,’ he giggles, petting his red cheeks with his hands. ‘You deserve to know the truth.’ 

Your entire body feels warm by his compliment and you just know that your red cheeks match Chris'. 

‘You’re on to talk,’ you say, deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine. ‘You’re the most beautiful man I've ever had the pleasure to talk to.’ 

Chris sputters and hides his face again. 

‘I am not!’ 

‘Yes you are, have you seen you?’

‘I have, so I know it's not true. Do you see this nose?’ Chris frowns pointing at his face. 

‘Yeah?’ You raise your eyebrows at him. ‘It's a very pretty nose.’

Chan groans and shakes his head, clearly not agreeing with you. 

‘I have a million Stays who will back me up on this,’ you laugh. ‘You better start believing it.’ 

Chan pouts and it's so cute that you can't help but giggle again. 

‘You’re way cuter than I am,’ he says, a smile already back on your face. 

‘Nu-uh, we're not going to do this back and forth thing, cause we'll be here forever and it's too sappy.’ 

Chan’s about to reply when someone seems to walk into his room. His head snaps to the side and he frowns, shaking his head. A male voice is speaking rapidly in Korean and when Chan stands up and leaves the screen, all you can do is wait and wonder. 

There's yelling, the slam of a door and then Chan is back into view. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. 

‘What was that all about?’ You ask him curiously. ‘Everything alright?’

‘Uhm, yeah, that was just my roommate being nosy.’ 

His roommate, meaning Yang Jeongin.

‘That was Jeongin?’ You grin. ‘Why did it sound like you kicked him out of your room?’

Chan clears his throat and rubs his neck again, his lips puckering like he's debating what to tell you. 

‘You did, didn't you?’ You chuckle. ‘Scared I'll ask for his number next?’

Chan rolls his eyes and drops his hand into his lap. ‘No, I'm just–’ he falls quiet and bites his lip. ‘I just want to keep you to myself for a bit.’ 

Your eyes widen and your jaw nearly drops open and his confession. 

‘I mean, just until we've had our date,’ Chan continues before you can speak up, his ears turning red. ‘I just got you back, I don't want them to scare you off again.’ 

‘Okay,’ you smile gently at him, butterflies erupting in your stomach. 

Chan lets out a breath of relief and smiles back. 

‘I can't believe THE Christopher Bangh is being selfish right now,’ you tease, wiggling your eyebrows at him. ‘All because of me.’ 

‘All because of you,’ Chan agrees, letting out another giggle. ‘Hasn’t everyone been telling me to be more selfish? I guess all it took was for me to meet you.’ 

‘I’m flattered,’ you smile, placing your hand on your heart to show him how much you mean those words. ‘Seems like we can be thankful for our insomnia after all.’ 

Chan makes a face and the both of you laugh again.

The sound of both of your giggles does something to you, it makes you feel things you’ve never felt before and you just know that you will never get enough of whatever it is that Chan is making you feel.

a/n: Ugghh they're so cute!! I hope you liked it! <3

taglist: @jaeminie-cricket @jeonginsbaee @staylovesmiley @newbbystay @cashtonsbetch @mariahxrrera @kaleigh-2002 @silencionyx @smileykiddie08 @my-neurodivergent-world @yaorzu-blog @yoongiismylove2018 @staytinyluv @bookswillfindyouaway @queen-thiccness @notastraykid @ateez-atiny380 @estella-novella @furfoxsake22 @hyunjinhoexxx @insomnjen @girl-in-love-with-kpop @vivilovesuu @velvetmoonlght @skz8love @corgilover20 @littlelostdemonofthelight @stephanieeeyang @zulie-and-cats @chanshugsaretherapy @pizzalove5000 @dazzlingjade @milie-com @thequibbie @channiesrightasscheek @strawbrriz @delulustardust @velvetskize @channiefever @luvbangchan @aalexyuuuhm @katsukis1wife @herpoetryprincess @ye0lkkot @glitterywastelandgardener @vampcharxter @boi-bi-ahaha @mlink64 @greyyeti @mariteez

[catcherwrites]

The first batch of my Arc 3 concept designs are finally done! It felt fitting to begin with the three who started it all: Rayla, Callum, and Ezran

Check out the more in-depth story and design choices below

Rayla

In the wake of S7’s Finale, Azymondias wasn’t just a 2-year-old King of the Dragons, but the only surviving Archdragon. That means he’s a very important figure across Xadia and the Human Kingdoms – and needs to be protected. Shortly after the events of S7, Rayla reclaims her title as ‘The Last Dragonguard’ and resurrects the order to act as Zym’s attendants, advisors, and protectors. She’s spent the last few years travelling between the Storm Spire, the Silvergrove, and Evrkynd, helping where she can and leading her fellow guards (who may be revealed in a later post). Rayla’s relationship with Callum has grown stronger than ever. Even though they’re holding off on marriage until Aaravos is dealt with for good, Callum gives her the Xadian equivalent of a promise ring he handcrafted (Ethari helped). With them both feeling secure with each other, they are more comfortable with being separated…but that won’t stop them from being attached at the hip whenever they’re near each other.

Going into these Arc 3 designs, I had a much clearer image in my head of Rayla compared to the other characters in my lineup. Using reference images of Tiadrin and Lain made creating Rayla’s Dragonguard uniform feel very bittersweet. Unfortunately, from a creative standpoint, uniforms run the chance of limiting the personality in a character’s design. I tried offsetting this by making Rayla’s undershirt and embedded gemstones in her armour more Silvergrove-y than Dragonguard-y. I also kept Rayla’s iconic belt, Arc 2 colour scheme, and added some of Ethari’s swirls where possible. Beyond the uniform, I kept going back and forth about her hairstyle. Keep the Arc 2 bun? Return to Arc 1’s style? Braided? A simple ponytail? Eventually, I settled on a half-up braid that let my sleep-deprived brain think I was getting the best of both worlds.

Callum

Ezran was disappointed when Callum turned down being his High Mage again, fearing that he’d lose his brother’s support in the council room. In reality, stepping down as High Mage meant that Callum could step up as Crown Prince. In the years following S7, Callum splits his time between assisting Ezran and studying magic on expeditions across Xadia. One of those expeditions leads him to Aaravos’ book in Elarion, which helps him delve deeper into the other primal sources. He’s fully mastered Sky and Ocean magic and has grown incredibly proficient at Earth magic. To Callum’s dismay, even with the help of Lujanne, Ethari, and Aaravos’ book, he still isn’t clicking with the Moon arcanum. He also hasn’t fully unlocked the Sun arcanum, but he’s getting very close and is a strong fire mage when wielding the Staff of Ziard. By Arc 3, Callum has gained the title of Archmage – and people far and wide seek him out for magical assistance, leaving him overworked and exhausted.

I was very excited to come up with Callum’s Arc 3 design for one reason: the parallels. His Arc 2 outfit is meant to resemble Viren, as Callum had taken his place as the High Mage of Katolis. But because he is no longer ‘High Mage,’ and instead ‘Archmage’, Callum’s Arc 3 outfit is intended to reflect Aaravos. I tried to do this with his uncovered arms, the open coat, and the vaguely celestial elements on his tunic. The geometric pattern on Callum’s coat is meant to look like a feather (symbolising his first primal source) while in the style of his Arc 2 coat. Rayla gifted Callum a matching belt buckle to hers (though with a moon opal for emergencies), which he wears alongside his uneven towers buckle from Ezran. His hair is mostly the same, except slightly longer, because I don’t see overworked-mage Callum caring about his hairstyle.

Ezran

S7 was a massive tipping point for Ezran: losing his brother, his true heart, and almost losing himself to the cycle of violence. While he stopped before he could go too far, Ezran was unequivocally changed by what happened. After Aaravos’ defeat, Ezran has been overseeing Evrkynd’s construction, ensuring it’s a safe home for humans and Sunfire elves who lost their home. However, it is also open to anyone, regardless of their origin. While he and Queens Janai and Amaya decided the people would rule the city of Evrkynd, Ezran continues to rule wider Katolis alongside his council. He does spend most of his time in Evrkynd for his royal duties, but Ezran is learning to take breaks – occasionally joining Callum, Rayla, and Zym on small getaways. As is tradition for anyone in the royal family, Ezran began combat training in his mid-teens with Soren as his teacher. He’s grown quite good and can hold his own in a battle (long enough for his Crownguard come to his aid, at least).

Ezran’s design in TDP has always been one of the simplest ones, probably symbolising his humble personality despite his status. I tried to maintain that effect in his Arc 3 outfit but with one major alteration. Going into this design, I wanted Ezran’s struggle in S7 to have had a visible impact on him by including armour in his design. His outer tunic is now gambeson, and his shoulder pads are scuffed-up leather. If he decides to wear it, the gold studs on Ezran’s shoulders are where his cloak will latch on. As should be expected from an age jump this severe, the biggest change to Ezran was his build. He’s finally overtaken his brother in height, much to the dismay of both Callum and Rayla, and is expected to be as tall as Harrow when he’s finished growing.

[thyras]

→ of great blessings

PAIRING → annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 8.5k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → visions, pregnancy, lots of angst, dad!sauron

SUMMARY → your visions and premonitions since wearing nenya have never been wrong, and what you see now frightens you to your core.

AUTHORS NOTE → alright this chapter has been the bane of my exsistance and i am washing my hands of it. writers block took over so much for this that i kinda will not be surprised if y'all don't like this chapter. i'm drained after this one. we are going to start steam rolling to the end now. the timeline is gonna shift a little as pregnancy for elves take for fucking ever, so yeah. 

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

The warmth of the sun kissed your cheeks as the soft bristles of pale purple blossoms trailed across your skin. A youthful giggle filled the air, mingling with the golden light. Your eyes turned toward the toddling infant as she struggled through her first steps among the blossoms. Her red hair gleamed in the sun’s glow, a striking inheritance from her father.

“There you go,” Mairon encouraged, pride lacing his voice. “Just a few more, sweetheart.”

Your gaze finally landed on your husband, his arms stretched wide, ready to catch her should she stumble. His eyes sparkled with a fatherly love that warmed your heart. You leaned back on your hands as the infant tumbled into her father’s arms, a fit of giggles bubbling from her lips as he scooped her up and pressed a gentle kiss to her small head.

Watching him with her sent a warm, steady thrum through your chest, a love so deep it left you breathless. This was all you had ever wanted to give him—the peace and harmony he had spent a lifetime searching for, the same solace he had once found in you in those elder days. Yet, there had always been something missing, a fragment of your fëar left unhealed, a wound time alone could not mend. It had always been your desire to share in this great joy, as was the way of all Elves—a love that endured beyond the confines of time, woven into the very fabric of Arda.

You had longed to be like Thingol and Melian, bound in a love so profound that it transcended the ages. To love as one, to bring forth a fëa as pure and radiant as Lúthien herself—a child who was a reflection of both your souls, a harmony of light and strength. And now, as you watched your husband cradle your daughter, her laughter ringing like the sweetest song, you knew that dream had finally come to life.

But something twisted deep within you, and suddenly, your eyes burned with unshed tears as the scene before you shifted. The sunlit meadow and the laughter of your child faded into darkness, replaced by the acrid scent of smoke and the searing heat of fire. The riverbank lay scorched and marred by the devastation of war, its once-tranquil waters reflecting only ruin.

Behind you, Eregion burned—just as Laureandor had, long ago. Panic seized your chest, your heart hammering as your frantic gaze swept through the chaos, desperate to find the fiery hair of your daughter.

And then you saw her.

Hand in hand with her father.

His golden hair gleamed like molten gold amidst the flames, his striking presence unchanged—except for the smile that curved his lips. A smile not of warmth, but of something darker. Something cruel. His icy eyes, once filled with love, now glowed with a devilish light as he looked down upon the fragile, childlike frame beside him.

Your breath hitched. The world around you trembled.

No.

Your body jolted upright, the sudden movement nearly sending Annatar tumbling from the bed. Your breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, each sharp intake searing your lungs. The dream clung to you like smoke, vivid and raw, its horror so tangible that you struggled to separate illusion from reality. It had felt so real—too real—so consuming that for a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure if you had truly escaped it.

“Mori?” His voice was laced with concern.

You turned to him, your wide eyes locking onto his face. Fear curled in your chest, rising like a tide, for in his gaze—those piercing blue eyes, that familiar smile—you saw the echoes of your nightmare. A cruel reflection of what could be.

Everything you had dreaded.

The pain of a child born into his shadows.

The inevitable weight of his past, now intertwined with yours.

As the haze of the dream slowly receded, his eyes—no longer filled with the malice of that nightmare—softened with quiet concern. The piercing chill you had seen within the dreamscape had vanished, replaced by the worried tenderness you had come to know so well.

Gently, he reached out, brushing a few strands of damp hair from your sweat-slicked brow before his fingers trailed down to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, grounding, an anchor pulling you back from the lingering edges of fear. You exhaled shakily, leaning into his palm, finding solace in the familiar heat of his skin, the scent of him—real and unwavering.

A small, fragile smile ghosted your lips as you closed your eyes.

“It was only a dream,” you whispered against his palm, as much to reassure yourself as to ease the worry in his gaze.

Annatar's brow furrowed, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your cheek. "What did you see?" he asked softly, his voice laced with quiet concern, yet tinged with something else—something unreadable.

You hesitated, the weight of your dream still pressing upon your chest. How could you put into words the beauty you had witnessed, only to watch it twist into something dark and terrible? How could you explain the unbearable fear that had gripped you when you saw him, standing amidst the flames, leading your child away?

"I…" Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "I saw us. And… a child."

His hand stilled against your skin, his sharp blue eyes flickering with emotion—too fleeting, too complex for you to decipher.

"A child?" he echoed, his tone carefully measured.

You nodded, swallowing hard. "She was beautiful, Mairon," you murmured, your voice trembling. "She had your fiery hair and green eyes. We were on the riverbank, surrounded by sage blossoms. You were teaching her to walk, and she was laughing…"

For a brief moment, the warmth of the dream returned, the golden light, the sound of her laughter—but it was fleeting. The memory of what followed crashed over you like a wave, drowning it in fire and shadow.

Annatar’s fingers tightened slightly against your cheek, his gaze searching yours.

"But?" he pressed gently, sensing the fracture in your voice.

You inhaled shakily, trying to steady yourself, but the words still came out fractured. "But then… everything changed. The meadow was burning. Eregion was in ruins. And you—" You stopped, the image of him in the flames seared into your mind. "You were different. Your eyes were cold… cruel. You were leading her away into the fire."

A heavy silence settled between you, thick with unspoken fears.

Annatar’s hand dropped from your face, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, laden with unspoken fears and painful truths. Annatar’s hand slipped away from your face, his expression unreadable, carefully composed as he processed your words. Yet you saw it—the flicker of something beneath his guarded exterior.

You watched him, your heart aching at the distance that seemed to widen with each passing moment. The warmth of his touch had already begun to fade, replaced by a cold uncertainty that settled deep in your chest.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “It was just a dream, Mori. Nothing more.”

But you heard the strain beneath the calm, saw the tension in the rigid line of his shoulders. This wasn’t just about a nightmare—it was about something deeper. The unspoken fears that had lingered between you since the beginning. The shadows neither of you dared name.

"Was it?" you whispered, the words fragile, hesitant. "Or was it a glimpse of what could be?"

His eyes snapped to yours, something sharp and unguarded flashing through them—pain? Anger? Fear? For the briefest of moments, his mask slipped, revealing a piece of his carefully shrouded thoughts.

Annatar’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the smooth expanse of his skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, carefully controlled—but the tension within it was unmistakable.

"You doubt me still."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, weighted with something raw—hurt, resignation, the quiet ache of an old wound reopened.

Your heart clenched at the distance in his tone, the way he withdrew not in body, but in spirit. Desperate to bridge the widening space between you, you reached for him, your fingers brushing tentatively against his arm.

“No, Mairon," you murmured, your voice soft, pleading. "I don’t doubt you. I doubt…” You faltered, struggling to give shape to the gnawing fear in your heart. How could you explain the unease that lurked in the edges of your love? The whisper of doubt that no matter how fiercely he fought against it, no matter how much he tried to change, the darkness within him might one day rise again—might consume you both?

Annatar’s eyes—brilliant, piercing—locked onto yours, holding you there, unraveling you. His hand hovered for a moment before settling over yours, his grip firm but not unkind.

"You doubt what?" he pressed, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. His gaze burned, searching you for something—an answer, a reassurance, a truth he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Because you knew that whatever you said next would change everything.

You took a deep, steadying breath, knowing that your next words could shift something irrevocably between you. The weight of centuries—of love, pain, betrayal, and forgiveness—hung thick in the air, pressing down on your chest.

"I don’t doubt you, Mairon," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of your heart. "I doubt… the darkness that still lingers within you. The part of you that you’ve fought so hard to control, to change."

Annatar’s expression remained carefully composed, but you caught it—the flicker of something in his eyes, brief yet unmistakable. Pain.

His grip on your hand tightened, so slightly it might have gone unnoticed, but you felt it. A silent plea. A warning.

"I know you’ve changed," you continued, your voice steadier now, gaining strength. "I’ve seen it, felt it. The love you show me, the tenderness… it’s real. I don’t question that. But I also know the darkness hasn’t disappeared. It’s still there, buried deep, waiting."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, to speak the fear that had haunted you since the dream.

"And I fear…"

The words trembled on your lips, but you could not stop now.

"I fear that one day, it will call to you again. And I fear that when it does… you will answer."

A heavy silence settled between you, deeper than before. Annatar did not move, did not speak, yet something in the air shifted, charged with an emotion you could not yet name.

And for the first time, you did not know what he would say.

Annatar’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence between you stretching wide, a chasm neither of you dared to cross. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.

“You’re right,” he admitted, the words falling heavy between you. “The darkness is still there. It will always be a part of me, just as the light is a part of you.”

He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “But you’re wrong if you think I would ever willingly choose that darkness over you. Over us.”

His hand tightened around yours, almost painfully so. “Do you think I don’t fear the same things?” he asked, a rare, desperate edge creeping into his voice. “That I don’t lie awake at night, terrified that I might one day lose control and hurt you? That I might become the monster I once was?”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. The carefully constructed walls he had built, even with you, seemed to crack, revealing the turmoil that lay beneath.

“But I fight it,” he continued, his voice fierce now. “Every day, every moment, I fight against that darkness. For you. For us. For the life we’re building together.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, moved by the passion, the pain in his words. You reached up with your free hand, cupping his cheek, your fingers brushing against skin that had known both cruelty and tenderness.

“I know you do,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “And I see that struggle, Mairon. I do. But the dream…”

“Was just a dream,” he interrupted, though his tone was gentler now. “A manifestation of your fears.”

But you knew it was not.

You had seen too much, felt too much. In the time since you had been chosen to bear Nenya, visions had come to you—fragments of what was to come, glimpses of futures that others could not see. And every one of them, in its own way, had come true.

And now, here he was.

He had persuaded Celebrimbor to forge the Rings, using your gentle guidance to shape their purpose. He had earned the trust of the people of Eregion, weaving himself seamlessly into their world. And now, he stood before you, offering what he knew you most desired.

A future. A child. A life beyond war and shadow.

But at what cost?

Your fingers trembled against his skin, your heart caught between love and doubt, between the man you cherished and the darkness you feared.

And deep within, you knew—this was not just a dream. It was a warning.

You took a slow, steady breath, steeling yourself for what you needed to say.

“Mairon,” you murmured, voice gentle but unwavering. “I know you believe it was just a dream. But… it wasn’t. Not entirely.”

His brow furrowed, concern flickering through his features, shadowed by something deeper—an unease he did not yet understand.

“What do you mean?”

You hesitated, the weight of your words pressing heavily upon you. How could you explain? How could you make him see what you had seen? The visions that had plagued you since you accepted Nenya, the fleeting glimpses of futures unfurling at the edges of your consciousness—both breathtaking and terrible?

"Since I began wearing Nenya," you said slowly, carefully choosing each word, "I’ve had… visions. Fragments of what is to come. And in their own way, every single one of them has come to pass."

Annatar stilled.

For the first time in this conversation, you saw something shift in his eyes—not just surprise, but something colder. Sharper. A flicker of wariness, of understanding.

You knew what he was thinking.

If your visions had always been true, then what you had seen in your dream—the fire, the ruin, the cruelty in his gaze—was more than fear. It was prophecy.

And that, more than anything, was what unsettled him.

He held your gaze, his expression unreadable. But you could feel it—the quiet storm brewing behind his eyes, the unspoken thoughts racing through his mind.

“And what is it you saw?” he asked at last, his voice deceptively calm.

You swallowed hard, but you would not falter.

“I saw you,” you whispered. “I saw our child.”

You inhaled shakily, forcing yourself to continue.

"And I saw fire. I saw Eregion burning. And you..." Your voice wavered, but you pushed forward. "You were leading her away. And you weren’t the man sitting before me now. You weren’t the man I love."

The silence between you grew heavier, denser, as if the very air had thickened with the weight of what had been spoken.

Annatar did not move. Did not speak.

And you feared, deep down, that in this moment, your vision was already beginning to come true.

Annatar’s expression hardened, his eyes turning cold and distant. A wall rose between you, thick and impenetrable, the warmth in his gaze vanishing like embers smothered by ash.

For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching between you, vast and unyielding. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured, but the tension thrumming beneath it was impossible to miss.

“So this is what you truly think of me,” he said, his words sharp, each syllable cutting deep. “After everything we’ve been through, after all I’ve done to change, you still see me as a monster waiting to emerge.”

Your heart clenched at the pain woven into his anger.

“No, Mairon, that’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” he cut you off, his eyes flashing like cold steel. “You’ve just told me you’ve seen a future where I betray you, where I lead our child into darkness. How am I supposed to interpret that?”

Desperation surged through you as you reached for him, but he pulled away, rising swiftly from the bed. The loss of his warmth was instant, leaving you cold, bereft.

“Mairon, please,” you pleaded, your voice cracking beneath the weight of your emotions. “I’m not saying this is what will happen. I’m saying it’s a possibility we need to be aware of.”

He turned to face you, his jaw taut, his expression a careful mask of control—but you could see the fury and the hurt roiling beneath the surface.

“A possibility?” he scoffed, his voice tinged with bitterness. “One that you seem all too ready to believe in.”

You flinched, as if struck. His words, so sharp, so heavy with pain, tore into you.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, the ache in your chest unbearable. “I love you, Mairon. I believe in you. But I can’t ignore what I’ve seen.”

Annatar’s gaze darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And what would you have me do?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Abandon our plans? Our future? Everything we’ve worked for?”

You shook your head, tears burning at the edges of your vision. “No, of course not. I just… I need you to understand. To be aware of the danger.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, devoid of anything but frustration. “Aware?” he repeated bitterly. “Mori, I am always aware. Every moment of every day, I fight against the darkness within me. For you. For us. And yet, it seems it will never be enough.”

His words shattered something inside you.

You rose from the bed, closing the distance between you once more. This time, when you reached for him, he did not pull away. But he remained rigid beneath your touch, his body taut with unspoken emotion.

“Mairon, please,” you whispered, your voice thick with sorrow. “I’m not asking you to abandon our future. I’m asking you to be cautious. To be vigilant. To remember what truly matters.”

His eyes bore into yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths.

“And what is truly important, Mori?” he asked, his voice low, intense. “Tell me.”

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, reaching for the truth that lay at the heart of everything.

“Us,” you said, your voice firm despite the tremor in your chest. “Our love. The life we’re building together. The life that was torn from us. That’s what matters most.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, only searching your face as if trying to decipher something hidden within you.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his body eased.

And for the first time since your dream, you felt a sliver of hope. 

As if your vision had been nothing more than the manifestation of your own fears—born from the weight of what he was trying to accomplish here, from the precarious balance he walked between light and shadow.

Annatar’s eyes softened, the sharp edges of his anger beginning to crumble. Slowly, he reached up, his hand covering yours where it rested against his cheek.

“Us,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word, testing its weight. “Our love.”

You nodded, feeling the first stirrings of hope pierce through the fear that had settled so deeply in your chest.

“Yes,” you whispered. “That’s what matters most. That’s what we need to protect, above all else.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching yours with a depth that sent a shiver down your spine. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tinged with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“Do you truly believe I would ever willingly choose darkness over you?” he asked. “Over the life we’re building?”

Your breath hitched.

He had before.

He had chosen to run from you rather than face the curse at your side, rather than fight for you, for himself. He had believed, then, that his only choice was to protect you by abandoning you. And if that choice had been easy for him once—what would stop him now?

You hesitated, the weight of history pressing heavily between you. His question hung in the air, demanding an answer you weren’t sure you could give.

“I want to believe you wouldn’t,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But, Mairon… you’ve chosen darkness before. You ran from me, from us, when the curse first took hold.”

Pain flickered across his features, old wounds laid bare in the space between you.

“That was different,” he argued, but the fire had faded from his voice. “I was trying to protect you then.”

You shook your head, your hand slipping from his cheek to press against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“And in doing so, you nearly destroyed us both,” you reminded him gently. “Your intentions may have been good, but the outcome…”

You trailed off, overwhelmed by the memories of those dark years. The weight of his absence. The devastation of believing he had chosen power over love. The aching, unrelenting certainty that he had abandoned you because he had feared himself more than he had loved you.

Annatar’s expression softened further, sorrow and regret etching deep lines around his eyes. He covered your hand with his own, his fingers twining between yours, grounding you.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, rough with something raw. “I made the wrong choice then. But I’ve learned from that mistake, Mori. I won’t repeat it.”

You wanted to believe him.

Oh, how desperately you wanted to believe that the love you shared, the bond you had fought so hard to rebuild, would be enough to keep the darkness at bay. But the vision lingered, a shadow curling at the edges of your mind, whispering that love alone had never been enough to save him before.

“I want to believe that,” you murmured, the tremor in your voice betraying the doubt you couldn’t silence. “But the future I saw…”

“Is not set in stone,” he interrupted firmly, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his touch warm and grounding.

His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, as if he could soothe away your fears with touch alone.

“We shape our own fates, Mori,” he murmured. “No vision—no prophecy—can take that from us.”

It came as no surprise when the first stirrings of new life graced you just days after your vision. The power of the ring upon your finger had known—had always known—that you would be granted what you desired most.

But it did not quell the fear.

A fear born of that very ring.

There were days you longed to slip it from your finger, to cast it aside and free yourself from the weight of its premonitions. To unshackle yourself from the knowledge of what was to come. Other days, you wished to turn a blind eye, to live out your immortal life in blissful ignorance—unburdened by foresight, untouched by the shadows of possibility.

And yet, deep within, you understood the truth. Futures could change. Paths, ever winding, could shift toward another destination.

But Morgoth’s curse remained.

It kept the ring upon your hand, bound you to its whispers, to the knowledge you could not unlearn. And despite everything, despite the fear curling like smoke in your chest, the need to be in his arms—to be enveloped in his aura—surpassed it all.

You trusted him, of course you did.

But doubt had crept in, insidious and unrelenting.

He could reassure you a thousand times, but you knew him. Truly knew him. And just as surely, you knew what this darker version of him was capable of.

Your fingers ghosted across the fabric of your gown as you sat at the table in Celebrimbor’s study. Excitement stirred within you, a quiet thrill at the thought of the new life you would grow, shape, and mold in your image. Yet beneath that joy lurked the deeper, unspoken truth—you knew what they could inherit. And you knew what that would mean to him.

Turning slightly, your gaze drifted down into the forge below, where Celebrimbor and Annatar stood, engrossed in pleasant conversation with Durin as they handed over the newly fashioned rings. The soft glow of the dwindling fire illuminated their forms, flickering off Annatar’s golden hair as he gestured fluidly, speaking in that smooth, measured cadence that had once soothed you beyond words.

Your thoughts drifted, lingering upon your husband.

Would they inherit this form’s features—the golden radiance of Annatar? Or, by some chance, would they be marked by Mairon’s truer essence?

You hoped for the latter.

Fiery red hair as bright as the sun itself and soft sea foam green eyes that would shine like emeralds in certain lights. Would they have those delicate, reddish freckles across the bridge of their nose?

But in truth, you did not know. How could you?

You understood little of how Maiar conception worked, nor did you care to unravel its mysteries.

All that mattered was this—you were finally having what you had dreamed of for Ages.

Your nurturing nature finally felt satisfied—whole—as your fingers idly traced the silken fabric of your gown. You would raise them in the light, in the beauty of all living things, ensuring they would never feel the touch of shadow.

"Everything okay, my lady?"

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. Immediately, your hands slipped away from your stomach as you looked up to meet his gaze. His brow was raised, curiosity flickering behind his eyes.

"Yes," you answered quickly, offering a small, reassuring smile. "How do they like the rings?"

Celebrimbor stepped closer, settling into the chair across from you.

"They are satisfied with them," he replied, his tone measured, thoughtful. "They will let us know if any problems arise."

You nodded, a small smile touching your lips as you glanced down at the papers spread before you.

A beat of silence passed.

"Are you sure you are alright?" Celebrimbor’s voice softened, his perceptive gaze studying you carefully. "You look pale."

"I am fine."

It was a lie, but a necessary one.

Celebrimbor seemed satisfied with the answer, though the weight of his questioning gaze lingered, unwilling to fully retreat.

You seized the opportunity to shift the conversation. "What was this I heard about a gift?" you asked, picking up your quill and turning your attention back to the designs before you.

Celebrimbor’s expression softened into a smile. "I wish to gift the Dwarves with something—to honor the great friendship we have built."

You glanced up at him again. "What do you have in mind?"

He exhaled, thoughtful, but before answering, his gaze flickered over you once more.

"I have ideas," he admitted, but then his tone shifted, firm yet kind. "But after all this hard work, Thilwen, I think you should rest. I'll handle this myself with the other smiths, and you—" he gestured toward you, his brows knitting slightly, "you take a break for a few days. You look like you need it."

"I can—"

Celebrimbor held up a hand, stopping you before you could argue further.

"Please," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Do it for me. You have worked night and day since we began forging the rings, and I will not have you running yourself into the ground on my account."

You exhaled softly, offering him a half-smile. Before you could say more, he reached across the table, his fingers curling around yours with quiet reassurance. His thumb brushed absently over the top of your hand—a small, familiar gesture of comfort.

"I will finish up here today," you conceded, squeezing his hand lightly, "and then I will do as you ask."

Celebrimbor smiled, warmth flickering in his eyes as he gave your hand a final, reassuring squeeze.

"Good," he said. "Besides, I know Erynwen has been upset that you haven’t had time for her."

You giggled, already picturing the little girl’s excitement. She was probably chomping at the bit to spend an afternoon at the riverbank, eager to hear more of your husband's stories. You had been so consumed with your work that, in the past few weeks, she had been the furthest thing from your mind.

And that thought—more than anything else—made you realize just how much you truly needed the rest.

Erynwen sat beside you amidst the soft grasses and blooming flowers, both of you gazing up at the vast expanse of blue sky. Wisps of white clouds drifted lazily across it, shifting and reshaping as they danced upon the wind.

Every so often, Erynwen would point out a pattern—a creature, a ship, a story waiting to be told. Her wondrous imagination had always captivated you, a gift as pure as the light itself. You had only ever wished to nurture it, to encourage her to see the world with the same boundless wonder she so effortlessly carried.

Erynwen’s small hand slipped into yours, her fingers warm and trusting as she turned to face you, her eyes alight with curiosity.

"Thilwen," she began, her voice soft but eager, "will you tell me another story about him?"

A smile touched your lips, warmth blooming in your chest at her request. Erynwen had become enamored with the stories of your husband, her young mind filled with visions of the great smith who had captured your heart so long ago.

Since opening this part of your life—since allowing yourself to speak of him more openly—it had become second nature to share his story, to weave the tale of who he was now.

It felt only right.

To tell of his light.

"Of course," you replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "What would you like to hear about today?"

Erynwen's brow furrowed in thought, her lips pursing as she pondered the question. A long moment passed before her expression brightened, her grin spreading wide as excitement sparked in her gaze.

"Tell me about when you first met him," she said, bouncing slightly where she sat. "What was he like when you first saw him?"

A wistful smile tugged at your lips as your mind drifted back to that golden day so long ago. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sweet scent of of the forest carried on the breeze, and that first glimpse of him, standing tall and radiant against that tree.

"He was unlike anyone I had ever seen," you began, your voice soft with reminiscence. "His hair was like molten copper, shimmering in the sunlight. And his eyes... they were the most vibrant shade of green, like the first tender leaves of spring."

Erynwen’s eyes widened, her imagination already painting the image in her mind. "Was he handsome?"

You laughed softly, giving her hand a playful squeeze. "Oh yes, very handsome. But it was more than that. There was something about him—a presence, a radiance that seemed to emanate from within. It was as if he carried the very essence of creation, a spark of the divine."

Erynwen sighed dreamily, resting her chin in her free hand. "That sounds so romantic."

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest at her innocent wonder. If only life could remain so simple, so untouched by the shadows that inevitably crept in.

"In many ways, it was," you agreed, your thumb absently brushing over the back of her small hand. "I had never felt the need to bind myself to another, but something deep in my fëa told me that his song matched mine in ways no other could."

You paused, the memory wrapping around you like the embrace of a long-lost friend. That time had been simpler, effortless. To love Mairon had been to love divinity itself, and back then, he had been just that.

A wider smile touched your lips as his words echoed in your mind—the image of him standing before you, a book clutched tightly to his chest, lingering just for a few more stolen moments in your presence.

Then, Erynwen’s voice pulled you back to the present.

"You love him still? Even though you are with Lord Annatar now?"

Your breath caught slightly as her icy-blue eyes searched yours, unblinking and filled with childlike curiosity. She did not know. She could not know.

Your fingers moved to gently cup her cheek, and you offered her a reassuring smile.

"I do. More than anything." You paused, your thumb brushing tenderly across her soft skin. "But in a way, Lord Annatar reminds me of him."

You would never tell Erynwen the truth—that he and Annatar were one and the same. It was a secret you could never risk sharing. For if the darkness that still clung to him ever returned, you would not let it taint her innocent image of him.

Silence stretched between you for a moment, the distant hum of nature filling the space. Then, her voice came again, softer this time—uncertain, vulnerable.

"Are we going to stop reading once you have your baby?"

Her fingers tightened slightly around yours, and when you looked at her, you saw something fragile in her expression—a fear she had not voiced before.

Surprise flickered across your face. Surely, no one had a clue yet. But then again, Erynwen’s curiosity surpassed all others. She had always known more than she let on.

Your heart softened at her innocent question, and you wrapped an arm around her small shoulders, pulling her close against your side. She nestled into you, her head resting against your chest as you stroked her silky hair.

"Of course not, dear one," you assured her, your voice gentle but firm. "Having a baby will change some things, but it will never change how much I care for you. Our reading time is special, and that won’t go away just because I become a mother."

Erynwen looked up at you, her icy blue eyes wide and hopeful. "Promise?"

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. "I promise. You are like a daughter to me, Erynwen. And that bond is unbreakable, no matter what changes life may bring."

Relief washed over her delicate features, and she hugged you tightly, her small arms wrapping around you. You held her close, your heart swelling with love for this precious child who had become such an integral part of your life.

As you sat there, embracing Erynwen amidst the swaying grasses and wildflowers, a gentle breeze caressed your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of the blossoms. The moment felt suspended in time, a brief respite from the worries that had plagued you since your vision. Here, with Erynwen's innocent trust and unwavering affection, the shadows felt distant, less threatening.

But even as you savored this peaceful interlude, you knew it could not last forever. The weight of your secret, of the life growing within you, pressed against your consciousness. You would have to tell Annatar soon—and you knew that conversation would not be easy. Though he had reassured you after your vision, promising that your love would be enough to keep the darkness at bay, the fear still lingered. How would he react to the news that your dream was already becoming reality?

As if sensing your unease, Erynwen hugged you tighter, her small hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. You focused on the warmth of her embrace, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, allowing her presence to ground you in the moment.

You knew you could not hide from the truth forever. But for now, in this peaceful glade with Erynwen in your arms, you let yourself believe that everything would be all right. That the love you shared with Annatar, the life you were building together, would be strong enough to weather any storm.

You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of Erynwen's head as you held her close. The gentle breeze continued to whisper through the grass, carrying with it the distant chirping of birdsong. For a few precious moments, you allowed yourself to simply be present in the tranquility of the scene, your fears and uncertainties temporarily held at bay by the warmth of Erynwen's embrace and the serenity of the meadow around you.

After a time, Erynwen stirred, lifting her head to gaze up at you with those perceptive icy-blue eyes. "Thilwen," she began softly, her voice tinged with a wisdom beyond her years, "it's okay to be afraid sometimes. My aunt says that's how we know something really matters to us."

A lump formed in your throat at her words as you blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, moved by Erynwen's innocent yet profound wisdom. You gently cupped her cheek, offering a watery smile. "Your aunt is a wise woman," you murmured.

Erynwen beamed up at you, leaning into your touch. "I just want you to be happy, Thilwen. You and the baby. And Lord Annatar too."

Your heart clenched at the mention of your husband. If only it were that simple—to ensure happiness for all of you. But life was rarely so straightforward, especially when it came to Annatar and the complex tapestry of your shared history.

"I want that too, little one," you said softly. "More than anything."

Erynwen studied your face for a moment, her young features etched with a thoughtfulness beyond her years. "Sometimes the things we want most are the scariest to reach for," she said quietly. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

Her words struck a chord deep within you, resonating with a truth you had long known but struggled to embrace. How many times had you allowed fear to hold you back, to keep you from fully surrendering to the love you shared with Annatar? Even now, with the miracle of new life growing inside you, doubt still shadowed the edges of your joy.

You drew in a deep breath, letting Erynwen's wisdom settle over you like a balm. "You're right," you murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Fear is a heavy burden to carry.”

Erynwen's face lit up with a radiant smile. "Yes,”

You couldn't help but return her smile, marveling at the purity and wisdom of her young heart.

Erynwen nodded sagely, her expression so earnest it made your heart swell. She settled back against you, resting her head on your chest once more as you both gazed out over the sun-dappled riverbank. For a while, you simply sat in companionable silence, the only sounds the gentle whisper of the breeze and the distant trilling of birdsong.

As you held Erynwen close, her words of wisdom echoing in your mind, a sense of calm determination settled over you. Love had always been the most powerful force of all, and it was time you trusted in the strength of the bond you shared with Annatar. The fear of what the future may hold had haunted you for too long, casting shadows over the joy and wonder of the new life growing within you. But no more.

You would not let the ghosts of possible futures rob you of the happiness of the present. Annatar deserved to know the truth, to share in this miracle with you. And together, fortified by your love, you would face whatever challenges lay ahead. United as one, just as you had always been meant to be.

You stood on the balcony, gazing out over the starlit expanse beyond Eregion. The crisp night air was a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere inside. The gathering had grown overwhelming—too many eyes, too many whispers. They all thought they were discreet, but you could feel their curiosity, their speculation.

You had not yet found the strength to tell him the truth, and in your avoidance, you had begun evading his presence altogether. Even in the same halls, you had ensured that your paths did not cross, retreating into your work or your chambers whenever he entered a room. Not even allowing him to lie with you anymore.

But he noticed.

Of course, he did.

And yet, he did not push.

For all his persistence in other matters, he had given you space. He had honored your silence, though you knew it was not without effort. He remained close, always lingering just at the edge of your awareness, watching, waiting—never pressing, but never straying far.

So it was no surprise when you felt his presence behind you now.

"Needing some air?" he asked softly as he stepped beside you, his voice gentle, careful.

You turned to him, forcing a pleasant smile, though you did not answer his question.

His icy gaze studied you in the dim light, flickering with something unreadable. "Mori," he breathed, his concern slipping through the carefully controlled cadence of his voice. "Is it something I said that night—"

You shook your head immediately, cutting him off before he could finish.

"No," you said quickly, but the way his face twisted in suspicion told you he did not believe you.

He knew. He always knew.

He could sense when you were hiding something, could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing between you. And now, as he studied you, his icy eyes darkened with quiet resolve.

You knew he would not let this go. Not this time.

Not until you told him the truth.

Annatar stepped closer, his hand rising to gently cup your cheek. His touch was warm, familiar—a tether in the storm of your thoughts. For a moment, you leaned into it, craving the comfort only he could provide. But then, the fear came rushing back—cold and sharp, curling around your heart like an iron vice.

You pulled away.

"Mori, please," he murmured, his voice low, tinged with something rare—desperation. "Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. The words were there, lodged in your throat, desperate to be spoken. But how could you tell him? How could you burden him with this knowledge, with this responsibility, when the shadows of your vision still lingered at the edges of your mind?

And yet—when you met his gaze, saw the love and concern shining in those icy depths, you knew.

He deserved to know.

He had the right to share in this moment, to experience the joy and wonder of this new life growing within you. This was not just yours to carry.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you reached for his hand, your fingers twining with his.

"Mairon," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."

His fingers tightened around yours, his thumb brushing soothingly over your knuckles.

"Whatever it is, divine, I'm here. Always."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your heart swelling at the depth of his devotion. Drawing strength from his touch, from the unwavering love in his gaze, you found the courage to speak the words that would change everything.

"I'm with child," you whispered, the words hanging between you, heavy with meaning.

For a long moment, Annatar was silent. His expression was unreadable, though you felt the slight tightening of his fingers around yours, heard the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath.

Then, slowly—as if realization was unfurling within him in waves—his eyes widened. Shock. Wonder. And something deeper—fear, perhaps—flickered across his features.

His free hand drifted toward your stomach, hovering just above the fabric of your gown, not quite touching.

"You're certain?" he breathed, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of the gathering inside.

You nodded, a watery smile touching your lips despite the anxiety still curling in your chest. "Yes. I've felt the stirrings of new life for a few weeks now."

Annatar exhaled slowly, his eyes closing briefly as he absorbed the magnitude of your revelation. When he opened them again, they shone with something raw, something unguarded. Love. Awe. And the barest flicker of uncertainty.

"A child," he murmured, almost to himself, as if testing the weight of the words on his tongue. 

His hand finally settled over your stomach, his touch gentle, reverent. You placed your own hand over his, your heart fluttering at the intimate contact. For a moment, everything else faded away—the distant chatter of the gathering, the cool night breeze, even the fear that had plagued you for weeks.

There was only this.

The warmth of his touch. The love shining in his eyes. The miracle of new life blossoming within you.

Without another word, Annatar pulled you into his embrace, his arms encircling you, his face burying into the crook of your neck. You could feel it—the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, betraying the depth of his emotion.

He held you tightly, as if afraid you might disappear if he let go.

"Mori," he whispered, his voice thick with feeling. "This is… I never thought—"

He trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.

You understood.

The idea of creating life, bringing a child into the world—one who was part of both of you—was overwhelming in its magnitude. It was a responsibility, a blessing, and a vulnerability all at once.

Gently, Annatar pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. His eyes searched yours, filled with a tenderness so deep it made your breath catch.

"Mori," he breathed again, his hands trembling slightly as they held you.

His gaze, filled with wonder and reverence, washed away the last remnants of your fear.

This was right. This was how it was meant to be.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was at once tender and consuming, fierce and full of devotion. He poured everything into it—his love, his devotion, the quiet awe that radiated from him in waves.

And you melted into him, your hands slipping into his golden hair, holding him close. For this moment, there was no past, no future. Only now. Only him.

When you finally parted, breathless and flushed, Annatar rested his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he whispered fervently. "Both of you. More than anything in this world or beyond."

Tears of joy trickled down your cheeks as you smiled up at him, your heart so full it felt fit to burst.

"And we love you, Mairon. Always and forever."

A quiet chuckle left him—almost disbelieving—before he slowly knelt before you.

His hands settled over your still-flat stomach, awe flickering in his gaze.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, sensing your hesitation. "We will appear as if we are merely speaking."

You glanced toward the gathering beyond the balcony, ensuring no one was watching, before looking back down at him.

Reverently, almost as if in silent worship, Annatar caressed your stomach, his hands warm against you. "My sweet child," he murmured, his voice soft, filled with tenderness. "You will be as radiant as your mother, and I will love you with all my being, just as I do with her."

Your heart swelled at the sight before you—this powerful being, the one whom others feared, kneeling in devotion before the life you had created together.

Your fingers combed through his golden hair, marveling at the strength of your bond, the depth of this love.

Slowly, Annatar pressed a gentle kiss just below your navel before rising to his feet.

He gathered you into his arms again, holding you as though you were the most precious treasure in all of Arda.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You nestled closer, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"No, my love," you murmured, "thank you—for giving us what I have always desired for us to share in."

Annatar tightened his hold around you, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his love chase away the last remnants of fear.

The future was uncertain. But in this moment, you knew—together, you would face whatever came.

For a long while, you simply stood there, entwined in each other’s embrace, the world beyond fading into insignificance.

Until—

A quiet throat cleared behind you.

You both turned just as Celebrimbor stepped into view.

Before the illusion fell away, you and Annatar slowly, reluctantly, separated.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” Celebrimbor said quietly, his voice careful, measured.

You shook your head, gathering the folds of your gown as you took a step away from Annatar, placing distance between you before the illusion of normalcy could break.

"No, not at all," you replied smoothly, forcing a composed smile. "I was just about to rejoin the gathering."

You stepped past Celebrimbor, pausing only briefly before glancing back at your husband.

Annatar stood where you had left him, his golden gaze steady upon you. A small, knowing smile graced his lips—a silent promise, an unspoken bond only the two of you shared.

And in his eyes, that glint of something more.

The love you now bore together, for the tiny life growing within you.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, a quiet joy that only he could truly understand.

With the slightest inclination of his head, Annatar acknowledged you—not as the godly being he was, but as a man who loved you, who had just learned he would soon love another.

And with that, you turned back toward the gathering, slipping once more into the world that did not yet know the truth of the miracle that now lived within you.

[iamanartichoke]

Wow, this post unlocked a memory I haven't thought about in years. People probably don't remember GreatestJournal (RIP), but it was another LJ clone that I started using for storybook role-playing wayyy back in the day and then, when GJ died, InsaneJournal rose from its ashes and became our hub, and in addition to using the right icons for the post occasion, the role-playing community amped it up to 1000, bc we would have our "played-by" (the actor/actress chosen to portray our character) and then have hundreds of icons of our PBs using various facial expressions, poses, etc, and when commenting back and forth we had to make sure our icon usage reflected our PB's mood / energy, etc. It was definitely its own little culture within a culture.

there's a post going around asking for your most millennial take and mine is that the livejournal icon ecosystem was essential for a certain type of fan and this loss of critical habitat is why the bios of so many people under 25 are Like That

[howparadoxical]

DC characters as Tarot Cards. Batman Edition

Bruce Wayne - The Emperor

Logic, Structure, having control and thriving when able to provide his strengths to others

Dick Grayson - The Chariot

Unstoppable force unmatched, Determined and steadfast on his path

Alfred Pennyworth - The Hanged Man

Non-action, waiting for events to unfold yet never quite involving himself with the change itself

Barbara Gordon - Seven of Pentacles

Maturity hard won, willingness to do the hard and intense work other cannot. She anchors the spontaneity of others

Jason Todd - The Wheel of Fortune

Repetition of habits, going back and forth between recognizing and denying his role in the cycle

Tim Drake - Three of Wands

The understanding things could be done better, seeking to improve himself and do something that matters

Stephanie Brown - The Star

Hope after going through hell, Ability and new desire to guide others with her new-found resolution

Cassandra Cane - The Hermit

Desire to know oneself, unattached to material things, reflection through isolation

Damian Wayne - Six of Wands

Discovery of goodness, acknowledgement of need to grow and forgiveness of himself for not being perfect

Duke Thomas - Two of Pentacles

Striking a balance in conflicting interests, transitioning through past to future, finding his limits

BONUS!

Robin, as a concept - The Fool

Excitement before beginnings, confidence untested but life changing

[oasisofgalaxies]

ill make my thoughts more coherant later rn im just gonna listen and go hehehehe

[angelsdvsts]

the undeniable chemistry reflects so well despite the two only standing inching apart from one another -- the whispering causes tingles to run down her spine -- yet she acts as if none of it was occurring. lips pressed together, nodding her head. "i think you enjoy it a little too much, getting in my head like that..." would never admit out loud that the game was only fun when she got the higher up. "or you just enjoy keeping me as an option. . . making sure what no one else could have me, once you get bored of everyone else you hit me up." tired of the back and forth, if he really wanted her he wouldn't be afraid to admit it instead of playing stupid little mind games with her. "you're the one who can't seem to leave me alone. . . you're the one who came with someone else, yet somehow you're still over here talking to me instead."

Wesley’s gaze darkened as he leaned in closer, the air between them crackling with that same magnetic pull, both enticing and dangerous. His breath was warm against her skin, his voice smooth, almost like a whisper meant only for her. "You think I enjoy messing with you?" He let out a low chuckle, lips barely brushing her ear as he spoke. "Maybe I just know exactly how you like to be played with…how you always come back for more." His hand lingered, lightly grazing her arm, a silent promise of just how much control he had over the situation, whether she liked it or not. "Cut me out, huh?" He smirked, his voice laced with that dark allure. "You keep saying that, but every time you try, you’re pulled right back in. Isn’t that funny?" He tilted his head slightly. "But go ahead, find someone else. I’m sure they’ll be perfect. Just don’t come running back when they fail to keep you on your toes like I do."

[wistfulwatcher]

emily prentiss + leaving and coming back for her family

[simplysparrow14]

Pikelan is probably the most complex CR ship and more people need to realize that instead of branding it as the "haha funny gnomes" ship.

because the entirely of Pikelan revolves around Scanlan, a very charismatic bard who flirts with literally everyone around him but is head-over-heels in love with his cleric friend but is tragically dogshit at expressing it so he resorts to doing crude bits and gags that ultimatly mask who he truly is.

And then you have Pike, a cleric brimming with self-confidence, who absolutely loves Scanlan for who he is, but is constantly getting mixed signals, because on one hand, he's constantly doing crude jokes and flirting with every person he sets his sights on (even so far as going after his unknown daughter) but on another, he tenderly holds her while she's bleeding and he's constantly at her side during battle and even tends to her emaciated brother for her and it's beautiful to watch, but the moment, the moment she brings it up, he reverts back to his crass personality and it just leaves her reeling about who he truly is.

And then we get to Bards Lament, and Scanlan, after tip-toeing around his true emotions for so long, finally snaps and lets everything he's been feeling (all the pain, and self-loathing manifested as anger towards everyone else, because even in his darkest moment, he's still so dogshit at expressing it for what it truly is) and Pike, who's been wrestling with these mixed signals, finally gets his true feelings on what he feels, calling her magic weird, hating that the same magic that has kept him alive and safe for so long brought him back to his sad existence, hating her for doing it. In the end, Scanlan leaves, just as Pike left the first time and the second time. And Pike stays behind, watching as he heads towards somewhere where she cant follow, abandoning the team and her and grog and everything they've built for themselves. She loves him, and him leaving brings her to that point.

The two are split apart, and despite the anger and hurt, the need for connection with each other is so strong. Scanlan reveals that he dident fully leave Taldorei at first, that he was only 20 miles away in another town entirely, listening to Pike's earing conversations. And eventually, when Scanlan is on another continent, he finds a temple of the Everlight (or just simply begins talking to Everlight) and prays, prays for guidance on finding forgiveness for what he said and did. He's deeply in love with pike, and still is, going to her god for answers to his problems, the quickest connection to Pike that he has between one giant ocean and a continent.

And Pike, despite holding a very rightful disdain for what he said to her, keeps him up to date, informs him of her happenings with the people of Whitestone. She should fucking hate his guts and yet the person she wants to speak to at the end of her day is a bard who (for all she knows) threw his earing away and traveled to some far off place, forever gone from Vox Machina, from her. Yet she keeps speaking.

They switch roles, with Scanlan becoming the quiet solitary one seeking forgiveness for his actions and Pike becoming the people oriented one.

When they reunite, it's tense and sad and angry. So many things said in anger and hurt and they don't really know where to step in the case that something, anything might send them back to that angry, angry place. And suddenly their back at the same place they were before, before the fight.

Pike is, again, trying so hard to sift through the mixed signals he's giving because he's being Scanlan again! Charming bard, essential party member, more confident than he's ever been! but now he's standing near the back and holding his hands and apologizing with a soft voice that she hasn't heard in over a year and a half and rebuilding the bridges he's burned and she doesn't know what to think!

And Scanlan is giving an honest effort at trying to fix what he's broken. He's working harder than ever, he's apologizing. He tries very hard to have conversations with people and fixing what he can. But, again, he's Scanlan, who is less dogshit at expressing what he feels, but still pretty dogshit none the less, and now he's a crime boss and still a beloved bard, but he's also surrounded by the friends, some of them he loves so dearly and he's trying, he's trying so hard

Eventually, everything is forgiven and in the end, Pike and Scanlan come to term with themselves and each other. Pike comes to terms with knowing that Scanlan is a complex person, a broken person just trying to figure his way through this world, just as she had done.

in the end, Pike becomes the person Scanlan feels the most free to be around, one where he doesn't have to put on the mask of a performer, where he can just be Scanlan the gnome instead of Scanlan, bard extraordinaire. and Pike comes to terms with knowing that Scanlan is a complex person, a broken person just trying to figure his way through this world, just as she had done before.

and together, they are beautiful reflection of each other.

[icewindandboringhorror]

indeed my exact process once every 8 months or so

[stivya]

WAIT. DID KALADIN EVER SEE THE OCEAN? i know i made a beach au once but he needs to see the ocean at least once in his life. The ocean could fix him.

[tetzoro]

happy tuesday friendz & gooood morning ! i was up all night plucking little stars from the night sky to place on everyone’s head for good luck today ✩ — ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ! i hope today is magical is for you all <3

[blonde-and-cat-suc]

If Adora and Catra both did crap to hurt each other then why do I never see comics abt Adora feeling like crap and feeling bad for hurting Catra

[prolibytherium]

The assumption that modern (read: abstract) artists are all or mostly rich people whose wealth, free time, and social mobility is solely responsible for allowing them to paint Line On Canvas or etc and therefore the "I could do that" sentiment is like rooted in class struggle or whatever is funny to me

I don't disagree that part of the "I could do that" impulse is sometimes about seeing the (TINY minority) of that art that actually sells for more money than you make in a year, having the impression that it's low effort low skill garbage, and feeling frustration in that, but it's just not accurate to think modern (abstract, which is what people mean) art is Like That in any capacity that any other art form is not

[sunshinetrinket]

i am glad i know you. thats all, i just am happy you exist

hey nonny thanks. i'm happy you exist too, keep doing it. keep being kind keep loving its all we have