#sacrilege chalice

[revenant-coining]

Holy Dagger | Unholy Chalice

(pt: Holy Dagger | Unholy Chalice /end pt)

Holy/Divine Dagger (link); a queer person who’s presentation is stereotypically considered unholy/sacrilege in nature, but the user sees it as holy/divine.

Unholy/Sacrilege Chalice (link); a queer person who’s presentation is stereotypically considered holy/divine in nature, but the user sees it as unholy/sacrilege.

we feel like these experiences could be described by chalice & dagger, but we wanted a term that was more “upfront” about it ^u^ (smiling emoticon).

holy/divine dagger for cam!

tagging; @radiomogai

[redacted-coiner]

Chalice & Dagger

[PT: Chalice & Dagger]

Chalice, a queer person who’s presentation is inherently holy/divine in nature.

Dagger, a queer person who’s presentation is inherently unholy/sacrilege in nature.

[Chalice ID: in Alt text]

[Dagger ID: in Alt text]

[Tag] @radiomogai, @liom-archive, @imoga-pride, @presentationflag-archive + @rabidbatboy

DNI is listed within my pinned post. Please go read it before interacting with any part of my content. Ask to tag!

[heich0e]

tw religious imagery/sacrilege + mentions of blood

priest!geto who's approached by a member of his congregation, a promising, devout young man who's missed mass now for three weeks in a row, but reappears at the church one night asking to be blessed looking like a shell of the person suguru knows him to be.

"yuuta, are you well?" he asks, a comforting hand coming to rest on the younger man's trembling shoulder.

the boy—because that's what he is really, with his toes barely past the periphery of adulthood—hangs his head, his breathing laboured like he can't quite draw in a full breath. when he finally meets his priest's gaze, his eyes are hollow, and suguru sees for the first time how he appears to be drained.

yuuta tells him everything.

a demon. a succubus that came to him in the night. he hasn't slept in weeks, haunted by the memory and yearning for the next time it will appear. he's barely in his right mind as he recounts it, but suguru listens faithfully. blesses him once his story is done. promises to help him.

he sends yuuta away with that promise, and then he begins his preparations.

"well," your voice is smooth and sweet like honeyed wine as you appear before his eyes. he didn't even blink, but suddenly you're there. "you're not yuuta."

suguru smiles, gently marking the page in his book and closing it in his hand. "i'm not."

"oh," you coo—with what sounds like excitement in your tone—your eyes widening as you take him in. "a priest!"

suguru runs his hand along the front of his black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. the roman collar at the base of his throat is surely what's given him away.

your eyes flicker around you, turning slightly to survey the scene. on the floor of the church basement, geto had carefully drawn the sigils needed to summon you—the ritual he'd unearthed in an old religious text in his research. yuuta's blood had been the final element—the part of him that tethered the boy to you—that would help to make the call.

"a summoning ritual," you muse, perhaps even a little impressed, as your eyes flicker along the sigils. your gaze slides over to meet his once more. "how archaic."

"but effective," suguru notes, his tone light and pleasant, and you smile a little—though there's no warmth in it.

by your feet, beside the train of the red tendrils that cloak you—though suguru can't quite be sure whether they're silk or smoke or something different altogether—a small chalice of yuuta's blood rests. you crouch down, dipping the very tip of your finger into the cup until it's coated in scarlet. you lift the digit to your lips, licking it away with your tongue. you maintain eye contact with the priest on the other side of the room all the while.

you hum around the finger caught between your lips. "this is my yuuta's blood."

"it is," suguru agrees.

"i thought he'd be here," you pout at him, "you tricked me."

the priest laughs a little at your expression, and the sound seems to intrigue you. you lick your lips.

"so,"—you inch a little closer to the edge of the circle that binds you—"what can i do for you father?"

"you've been causing a lot of problems for poor okkotsu," suguru notes, but his tone is still surprisingly amiable.

"but he's so much fun to play with," you reply, sighing in contentment as though you reflect on your time with the young man fondly.

suguru steps up to the edge of the summoning circle as well, observing you quietly. your interest in him grows more evident with every passing second, the expression on your face so keen it's as if you're barely containing your desire to reach out and touch him yourself.

"you're beautiful," suguru remarks lightly, his eyes curving up into two crescents as he smiles at you.

your eyes widen, your ruby lips parting in surprise before a devious smile twists them upwards.

"that's blasphemy, you know," you tease him breathlessly, pressing as far forward as the constraints of the ritual allow.

suguru's head tilts to the side in confusion. "your very existence is proof of our Lord. your beauty is a testament to His divine creation. in what way could that ever be sacrilege?"

you blink, your smile slightly falling as suguru's own twists higher.

you inch back.

"yuuta will be so relieved to be free of your possession," suguru says, his tone warm and proud.

he takes a step forward over the line of the summoning circle and you flinch.

he shouldn't be able to do that.

he takes another step towards you.

"come," he says, his hand outstretched "let us join together in blessing."

[barok-vanzieks]

Is it acceptable to dunk a cookie in wine?

Anonymous,

To pair cookies with wine is much like filling a hallowed chalice with milk; as close to sacrilege as one could possibly get under the circumstance. Still, supposing some utterly confused soul has already committed the appalling deed of pouring milk into such a vessel... I suppose one might as well indulge in the cookies, as well.

Yours in distaste,

Lord Barok van Zieks

[therookandthecrow]

My Durge Rhyleth leans heavily into the themes of sacrilege. He'd totally be panting the words of that 'Father forgive me' prayer beteeen moans while he fucks Enver in a mating press over the altar of Bhaal. There is nothing quite like a breeding ritual between the son of Bhaal and the chosen of his sworn foe.

These guys f*ck quite nasty. On their first night together after they'd offically become a couple, they both drank some of one another's blood from chalices in a ritual to bind themselves together in a wicked way that caught the ire of both Bane and Bhaal. It was almost like a wedding, maybe it was one.

[heralds-bah-commune]

hey! could we get a lvl 5 headmate package for an angel/catgirl persecutor? one of our members is feeling less “real” and wants something more to latch onto. she would also like as many neopronouns and xenogenders as possible if that’s ok to ask for.

— 🌲/🍥

a new flower has blossomed! 🌹

angel/catgirl, persecutor, lots of neos & xenos ... [LVL 5 PACK]

══════════════════

name(s) ;; lilith, cass, raven, sara, vic

pronouns ;; she/her, they/them, xe/xem, ze/zir, shx/hxr, thxy/thxm, meow/meows, paw/paws, cat/cats, soft/softs, gray/grays, wing/wings, ey/em, fly/flys, fade/fades,🐾/🐾self, 🕊/🕊self

age ;; 22

species ;; angel/catgirl

gender(s) ;; fxm, graygender [colour], piercedcatinvi, catbeing, cutangelcattic, persecuticfem, dovething, sacrilege chalice

orientation(s) ;; aromantic, shadowlesbian

role(s) ;; persecutor

source ;; brainmade

sign-off(s) ;; 🐾📱

══════════════════

appearance ;; 5'10", with a lean muscular frame. light scars and stretch marks across light tan skin. grey eyes & hair. grey cat ears & striped tail. white dove-like wings can grow out of back. nose piercing. casual dress & sleepwear. see below for picrew.

personality ;; soft and a bit shy. xe's easily frightened and made anxious [one could say shx's a... scaredy cat? sorry]. cat hates being sick, even a little bit, and will do anything to avoid it and to treat it once it's happened. fade's jumpy around people.

══════════════════

likes ;; scrolling on wikipedia & web md, medical dramas, strawberry candies, sad pixar movies [shx just gives me that vibe?]

dislikes ;; headaches, being away from phone/computer

possible front triggers ;; getting sick

══════════════════

cisid(s) ;; permascarred, ciswhite, hypochondriac

transid(s) ;; transwasian, permaonline, transtroll (homestuck), transchronicallyill, oceanbreezescentian, transfeedingtube, transdepression

trisid(s) ;; trischronicallyonline

kink/fetish/para(s) ;; dacryphilia, masochism

══════════════════

moodboard ;; found here

playlist ;; "the way things go" - beabadoobee / "keep you safe" - the crane wives / "hospital beds" - florence + the machine / "again & again" - the bird and the bee / "not yet titled" - emhahee

kinlist ;; dove therian

bonus info ;; harms the sys by looking up/reading things that purposefully trigger them, and by googling even the most minor medical symptoms. interested in learning french. emetophobic.

[galactic-academia]

Love One Another (As I Have Loved You)

Continuation to Finding God and Divine Wrath

Rating: M; minors, pass your way.

Category: F/M

Fandom: The Young Pope

Relationship: Lenny Belardo x F!Reader

Tags: language, sexy times drowned into metaphors, angst, unrequited (?) love, Chrismas mass, Reader smokes cigaret and has hair long enough to get pulled; TW: rejection, loneliness. Read as "The author chose not to warn for content, or Archive Warnings could apply, but the author has chosen not to specify them" on AO3. Don't hesitate to message me to get more informations if you want to read this story but don't feel like starting it without full warnings.

Words: 873

Notes: Set before Lenny became pope, but after he became Cardinal and the Archbishop of New York. Don't blame me, blame the Noots (don't, for I love my Noots).

Masterpost | Ask | Guidelines |

This is ridiculous.

You and Lenny… It has always been complicated. You’re both piggy-headed and have far too much pride for anything between the two of you being a bed of roses, even without considering his situation. But this outdoes all the shit you’ve come through.

There, on a Christmas day, you’re chain-smoking on your couch while glaring at your TV. Monseigneur Belardo is celebrating mass into St Patrick’s Cathedral before thousands of believers, since the whole affair is broadcasted on TV. And truly, this is ridiculous. 

He’s been babbling for almost an hour now, about love, and peace, and forgiveness and you would laugh your heart out if you weren’t so goddamn mad. Please, Lenny Belardo doesn’t know shit about peace and has never practiced forgiveness. As for love… He shouldn’t be authorized to even spell the fucking word.

The first time you fucked Lenny, long before he became the a Cardinal and the Archbishop of New York, it wasn’t about love. Transgression, yes; sacrilege, certainly; but “love” was never mentioned. But when he cupped your hips in his large, almost trembling hands to receive the bestowal of your body like he would hold the chalice with the wine become blood of Christ; when he came to your altar as often - in not more - as he went to Jesus’ one, maybe it didn’t need to be told? Maybe Lenny didn’t need words and labels to love you.

What a fool you have been.

When Lenny’s been called to a “higher destiny” than the one he had in your humble city, you followed him. No question asked. You left your job and you sold your house and you came to New-York, ready for a new life, and you weren’t afraid, for Lenny was with you. Should have been with you.

But you wouldn’t believe what a fucking cardinal has to do. Meetings, business trips, phone calls to one end of the world and then the other. Masses, benedictions, public appearances, preachings… Maybe he has some time to pray, while he’s brushing his teeth… 

He didn’t have time for you, and his secretary was beginning to be rude with you; when she hung up on you after one too many calls to his office, you lost it. You went to his place and cried for him until the security came and tried to make you leave and Lenny stopped them. For the first time in weeks, he finally was before you.

You weren’t prepared to get sermonized.

“This is my life, now”, he has said, “I’m a servant of God and I must honor Him”.

And it hurts you to think back about it now, the tears in your eyes and the tremor in your voice when you told him “I thought you loved me”. What a stupid thing to say in the first place…

“I only love God.”

Now, it seems laughable how, the closer to God he thinks to get, the more his heart desiccates. It didn’t make you laugh, then.

To see him spout all that nonsense in front of an adoring audience, it riles you up. You can feel it simmer low in your belly. Isn’t he pretty, that bastard, all in white; an albino peacock doing a cartwheel in front of its court. And that smile… You’ll never get tired of that smile. It calls troubles, fun troubles; a bratty behavior met with a few, powerful slaps and a punishing pace. You can almost still feel his hand pulling on your hair.

Fuck, you liked it when he lost control over himself and get a little rough with you. You suspect he came harder when he could see tears rolling down your cheeks.

As the choir ends and Lenny comes back to his pulpit, opening his arms and making his voice vibrate through the cathedral, you can’t help but rub your thighs together. It’s been too long. And why not, after all? Isn’t Christmas about love? It would be relevant, for once, giving yourself some love on Christmas day, yeah? So you drown out Lenny’s soliloquy - the man has always been his better audience, anyway - and let your fingers play another anthem; your eyes never leaving his angelic face.

You push yourself over the edge quickly, never better served than by yourself, yeah? Well… It’s efficient, at least. In a haze you see the assembly get up and turn to each other to shake hands, kiss on the cheeks - sometimes both - and Lenny stays there, petrified. Alone, standing high in a storm of people bending toward each other, let in peace to witness his fellow human beings show affection to one another. Just as he asked them to.

And, once again, you would laugh - if you couldn’t feel your heart shattering into your chest. He looks both so majestic and lonely in the center of that magnificent cathedral, surrounded by those ethereal lights. You miss him.

Not five minutes after the end of the Service, as you’re still breathing a little hard, your phone lights up and starts to vibrate. You shouldn’t pick up, not after the crap he dumped on you.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shouldn’t pick it up.

You shoul-

Back to The Young Pope Masterlist

[koko-mochi]

This may be United Church of Christ sacrilege or whatever but I really don't like The New Century Hymnal. I support inclusive language in church, certainly, and I understand why it's in there, but I think the NCH implementation of inclusive language is often really clunky and awkward to sing.

I also am super uncomfortable that the authors of the NCH felt it was okay to change the words to African-American spirituals. It feels gross, and at odds with this mostly-white denomination's effort to be more inclusive and diverse. Those are not our songs to change, that should be clear at this point.

Honestly, we can have meaningful and inclusive church musical experiences without appropriating the traditions and experiences of the black church. I've worked with UCC congregations who have done bluegrass, celtic music, plainsong chant, brass quartet, string quintet, folk guitar, Taize chant and more vibrant musical traditions that bring life and light to worship.

There are other inclusive hymnals available that do all this better. The Chalice Hymnal is a huge improvement, and the UMC hymnal supplement The Faith We Sing is a diverse and inclusive collection of hymns that fits into the rich musical tradition of the Methodist church. It's sad to me that for so many UCC churches The New Century Hymnal is the default because frankly, it ain't great.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Music For the Soul by Alexander MacLaren

Worship God

"Give unto the Lord the glory due unto His Name: bring an offering, and come before Him: worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness." – 1 Chronicles 16:29

Ask yourselves, not whom do you worship before the eyes of men, but who is the God that in your inmost heart you bow down before? What do you do in the dark? That is the question. Whom do you worship there? The other thing is not worship at all.

And do not forget that all such diversion of supreme love and dependence from God alone is like the sin of the men in Ezekiel’s vision (Ezek. 8), that it is sacrilege. They had taken a chamber in the very Temple, and turned that into a temple of the false gods. Who is your heart made to shrine? Why! every stone, if I may so say, of the fabric of our being bears marked upon it that it was laid in order to make a dwelling-place for God. Who are you meant to worship, by the witness of the very constitution of your nature and make of your spirits? Is there anybody but One that is worthy to get the priceless gift of human love absolute and entire? Is there any but One to whom it is aught but degradation and blasphemy for a man to bow down? Is there any being but One that can still the tumult of my spirit, and that can satisfy the immortal yearnings of my soul? We were made for God; and whensoever we turn the hopes, the desires, the affections, the obedience, and that which is the root of them all, the confidence that ought to fix and fasten upon Him, to other creatures, we are guilty, not only of idolatry, but of sacrilege. We commit the sin of which that wild reveler in Babylon was guilty, when, at his great feast, in the very madness of his presumption, he bade them to bring forth the sacred vessels from the Temple at Jerusalem: "And the king and his princes and his concubine drank in them, and praised the gods." So we take the sacred chalice of the human heart, on which there is marked the sign-manual of heaven, claiming it for God’s, and fill it with the spiced and drugged draught of our own sensualities and evils, and pour out a libation to vain and false gods. Render unto Him that which is His; and see, even upon the walls, scrabbled all over with the deformities that we have painted there, lingering traces, like those cf some dropping fresco in a roofless Italian church, which suggest the serene and perfect beauty of the image of the One whose likeness was originally traced there, and for whose worship it was all built.

The imitation of the object of worship has always been felt to be the highest form of worship. Many an ancient teacher, beside the Stoic philosopher, has said, " He who copies the gods worships them adequately."

[violetvalentine]

~Tempting Offer~

Outfit:

Dress: [The Forge] - Minerva Outfit - Black

Puffy Sleeves: [:MILKBATH:] - Cupid Sleeves - (Reborn Event - Event - February 2024)

Sheer Sleeves: REBIS - Dentelle gloves - OMNIPACK - (GOTHCORE - Event - Feb. 2024)

Accessories:

Collar: ANTAYA - Jewelry Set "Eva" - FATPACK

Chest Piece & Scars: [Cubic Cherry] - {Cupid} mark

Goblet: Sacrilege - Eternal Damnation/Chalice

Body:

Hair: [monso] - Saber Hair - Fatpack

Lipstick: TOP1SALON - HD CORPSE LIPSTICK

Head: Lelutka - Avalon

Body: eBody

[xbeast-bunnyx]

Tennessee Whiskey

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[io-archival]

Tome - someone who is both a chalice and a dagger.

Chalice - a queer person who’s presentation is inherently holy / divine in nature.

Dagger - a queer person who’s presentation is inherently unholy / sacrilege in nature.

[IMAGE ID: two rectangular flags with seven evenly-sized horizontal stripes each. each of them have these top three stripes: dull green, medium green, and dull yellow. the first flag has these bottom four stripes: pastel yellow, light pink, hot pink, and red-orange. the second flag has these bottom four stripes: cream, pastel pink, dull light pink, and dark dull pink. END ID.]

tomelust: a gender related to being a tome, and the sin of lust; being a lustful tome.

tomechastity: a gender related to being a tome, and the virtue of chastity; being a chaste tome.

colors inspired by @honey-makes-mogai's sin+virtue genders!

@radiomogai @liom-archive @obscurian @redacted-coiner

[apostate-in-an-alcove]

I want to get one of those fancy gold and jewel encrusted communion chalices from a Catholic Church so I can drink out of it on the regular.

[holysaintscathedral]

I want to sit in the front row of pews so that I can flash my panties at the priest while he's up at the pulpit and altar. I'll sit with my legs just a little too far apart and let my skirt ride up my thighs just a little too far. He'd stumble over his words momentarily before carrying on as if nothing had happened, believing that the incident was an accident and I had meant nothing by it. Maybe he'd remember what I did long after Mass had concluded, the titillating sight of my panties and bare thighs giving him something to think about when he's alone at night.

[chickenparm]

Governed by the Flesh (Copia/Reader)

the things i do out of love for my friends.....

anyway merry christmas here's some Ghost(the band, not the hot military man) sacrilege that i drive-by dropped in the parm palace ghost channel like a week ago to feed the simps @ink-and-dagger had to help me tag this cause i just call him "red guy"

---

Copia/gn!Reader 1,147 Words - NSFW Blasphemy, blowjobs, deep-throating, finger-sucking, oral fixation

---

Stained-glass shimmers above. The moon, full and heavy, casts just enough light to send beams to the congregation of two down below. Panes of red, white, grey, all leave geometric shapes across the floor that would draw your eyes on any given evening if not for the man that waits patiently for your approach. 

One, two, three steps leaves you within arm’s reach, a respectable distance from amused eyes and glimmering regalia. To the left and right, framing him with all his divinity on display, standing sconces flicker across gemstones and gold threaded through heavy crimson fabric. The chalice in his hands seems lacklustre compared to the radiance of your Cardinal.

Pink darts out, wetting his lips in preparation for the simple exchange. 

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.” You murmur in response, a reflex manifest from a thousand, thousand repetitions of this very ritual. Parting your lips, your tongue slides from behind teeth that had been grit moments before in an effort to control your physical reactions to the heaviness of incense and intent in the air. 

Refusing to look away from mismatched eyes lest his expectations be dashed into disappointment at your failure, you miss that the fingers that come to rest on your tongue are dreadfully empty of the Eucharist that should have accompanied his arrival. Instead, the flavor is of worn leather, laced with the crumbs of what might have been. 

The weight is enough to push the soft underside of your tongue into your bottom teeth, harsh to the point of tasting iron. There’s no instinct to pull away from him; it’d been ground out of you like sandpaper to the softest of wood. The ultimate trust he demands from you is the only real request he makes - everything else is an afterthought, a byproduct of interwoven ideals.

When your eyelids flutter, your jaw dropping to its widest at his behest, that is when his fingers move further. The smooth drag of leather is sweet, even as your taste buds grow used to the exquisiteness of his insistence. Only when his folded third and fourth fingers bump your chin do you allow your mouth to close around the digits he’s offered you. 

Long fingers press dangerously close to the back of your throat, curved against the rear of your tongue, as if he were reaching inside for whatever he pleased to extract from you. Your heart, your bones, your very soul if he demanded it be reaped from you. 

“‘The generous will themselves be blessed, for they share their food with the poor.’” His fingers retract just enough to allow your tongue freedom of movement, an expectation for you to dutifully answer that which you’ve been asked. “Is my Body to your liking, cara?”

Your response, muffled as it is, is loud and clear. “Yes, your eminence.”

The wet slide of his fingers fills the room, echoing off arching columns and shining windows. At their exit, he drags them down your chin, leaving two parallel trails of your saliva across your skin as if he were marking you for sacrifice. The loss of his hand is felt for only a moment before his palm curls at your shoulder, pressing firmly to direct you to your knees. 

“The Body is received. But what of the Blood, hm?”

Direct, with expectation laced through it, even as your mind feels thick and muddled. With shaking hands, you reach to the folds of his garments in search of what he withholds from you. Those very hands are snatched at the wrists, the chalice of Eucharist tumbling to the floor and scattering its contents across the floor. 

The sound of little wafers tumbling down the stairs at your back nearly drowns out the hiss between your teeth as he grips at you. The manacles of his fingers are stronger than any steel, holding you in place while he admonishes your greed. “The Body and Blood are given, not taken.”

“I’m sorry, Car-”

“Hush now, cara.” Your wrists are released to swing down to your sides, shoulders back and head tilted to implore him for mercy that he hoards in abundance with a greed of his own. Frugal as he is with his forgiveness, he nonetheless curls his thumb and forefinger about your chin and pulls your mouth open once more. 

A tilt of his head, appraising your supplication, he releases you from your guilt. “Your impatience isn’t counted among your vices. It is… a compliment that you are constrained by your eagerness to please. Follow the rules, and your worship will have room to grow, yes?”

A little nod, a quirk of his lips, his free hand moving to where you’d been attempting to intrude. The means to your end is upon you, passing over your extended tongue just as his fingers had done. Whatever he had taken during his exploration, it is returned tenfold as your lips wrap around his cock. 

The throb on your tongue is his appreciation for your efforts, though you’ve learned your lesson and wait for him to gift you with his Body, his Blood, his Soul, his Divinity.

Fingers still wet with your saliva wind into your hair, gripping tightly and holding you steady for the intrusion. Inch by inch until it grows harder to breathe around him, he only stops when your lips press against the base of his cock, throat spasming in objection to him, even as every other piece of your being begs him to find a way further.

The air tastes heady as he pulls back, allowing you to heave it into your lungs before he snatches your freedom away once again. The pace is slow, allowing you to grow used to the shape and feel of the Cardinal from the tip of your tongue to the back of your throat. When you catch his pace, it changes as swiftly - faster, shallower, grinding until your nose is pressed against his pubic bone harshly. 

“‘The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.’” His voice quakes, a mixture of exertion and pleasure lacing each consonant and vowel lovingly. A statement is made that you’re unable to answer, barely coherent enough to comprehend, as the unholiness of the universe is concentrated in this very instance of space and time. “I will govern you, cara. But it’s neither life nor peace that I bring to you. It is chaos and death, sublime rapture of absolute hedonism.”

And it takes everything in your very being to answer him, fingers scrabbling at the frayed edges of your sanity to craft a single muffled, “Amen” around the length of his cock in your throat, on your tongue, stretching your lips. 

The tense of his hand in your hair is all the warning you receive as he finds his rapture in you. 

[demonscantgothere]

Bedside bonding, it is.

With Music That Scares the Profane by Helholden

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (TV 2022), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types

Warnings: Teen And Up Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply, F/M, Complete Work

Relationship(s): Galadriel/Halbrand (The Rings of Power), Galadriel/Sauron (Yes, you read that right. It’s more obvious in this one.)

Tags: Galadriel, Halbrand (The Rings of Power), Elrond Peredhel, Sauron, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Denial of Feelings, Nature Versus Nurture, Existential Angst, Existentialism, Good and Evil, Tragic Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Doomed Relationship, Unresolved Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Hints of Sauron!Halbrand, But Can Be Read As Just Halbrand, If You're Not Down With That Train, Post Episode 7: The Eye, OTP: Keep It With Me Always, OTP: Bind It to My Very Being

A/N: So, apparently, I can't let go of this Sauron!Halbrand thought. Such sweet, sweet sacrilege. Elrond makes an appearance.

Summary:

The room, if it could even be called that, was high-vaulted and hued like that of nature in first bloom. The walls were of elegantly twined tree trunks still young and green despite their age. High above him and made of thousands of crisp leaves was a roof; through it, beams both yellow and gold shot down from the invisible sky somewhere beyond them. It was, plainly put, a little piece of paradise hidden within Middle-earth. There was a pang in his heart; for it reminded him of the home he had forsaken so long ago in order to go on a perilous journey that never ceased to come to an end.

This, he knew, was the home of the Elves.

* * *

 I have passed from the outermost portal        To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;    What care though the service be mortal?        O our Lady of Torture, what care?    All thine the last wine that I pour is,        The last in the chalice we drain,    O fierce and luxurious Dolores,        Our Lady of Pain.

   Love listens, and paler than ashes,        Through his curls as the crown on them slips,    Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,        And laughs with insatiable lips.    Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,        With music that scares the profane;    Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,        Our Lady of Pain.

—Algernon Charles Swinburne, “Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)”

  * * *

In the midst of a reverie, a light ripple and splash filled his ears from the left. Halbrand rolled his hand to the side and opened his eyes, which took more effort than he expected of it.

The room, if it could even be called that, was high-vaulted and hued like that of nature in first bloom. The walls were of elegantly twined tree trunks still young and green despite their age. High above him and made of thousands of crisp leaves was a roof; through it, beams both yellow and gold shot down from the invisible sky somewhere beyond them. It was, plainly put, a little piece of paradise hidden within Middle-earth. There was a pang in his heart; for it reminded him of the home he had forsaken so long ago in order to go on a perilous journey that never ceased to come to an end.

This, he knew, was the home of the Elves.

“You are awake,” came a voice from the left, followed by what sounded like the trickle of raindrops into a pond.

Halbrand cast his gaze toward it, and he smiled when he saw the blur of Galadriel’s golden tresses come into view. He had to blink away the distortion, bringing her face into clarity before him. Her brow was lined with worry; in her hand, a clean linen cloth dampened with water from a silver basin at his bedside. She wrung it between her fingers, more drops of water slipping down from whence they came.

“Alive, more like it,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse. He looked right, and then left again. “I don’t remember getting here. What happened?”

“You fell,” Galadriel informed him. “Off your horse. I had to carry you the rest of the way.”

Halbrand chuckled, though his chest hurt from it; sharp spasms shot through his abdomen. “You,” he managed to say, trying to sit up with effort that felt futile, “carried me?”

Galadriel placed one hand, still dampened, onto his chest to usher him back down onto the bed. “Rest now,” she murmured. There was a tiny smile on her lips. “You are not as heavy as you look.”

Halbrand snorted. “I forget,” he offered, looking at her pointedly. “Elves.”

“ . . . Elf,” she corrected him. Her smile did not falter.

Halbrand coughed, let his head fall back to the pillow beneath him. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling of leaves as Galadriel took the cloth in her hand and placed it upon his brow. The water was cool and refreshing against his skin. He closed his eyes briefly before reopening them, looking back at Galadriel once more. She was so focused on the task at hand; a simple gesture of kindness that could be read as something more if he allowed himself to entertain that notion. He entertained it; his hand reached up to catch her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it slowly.

Galadriel lowered her gaze from his forehead directly to his eyes. “Let me finish,” she urged, and his hand fell away from her. He closed his eyes, allowed her to touch the damp cloth to his temple and against his hairline. When she finished, she brought forth a silver cup. It gleamed; the drink within smelled both floral and sweet. “Drink this,” she told him. “It will help you heal.”

Her free hand slid underneath his head and helped him rise. Halbrand drank the liquid; it was languid for it tasted sweet, but it was as clear as water. Galadriel helped him down once more, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. His head lolled to the other side. The world blurred yet again. “ . . . What was in that?”

“If I told you,” Galadriel said with a small bit of humor in her voice, “I may never hear the end of it.”

Halbrand’s hand shot out to grab her arm. “Please,” he asked her, “stay.” A twinge of fear filled him as the world slipped away from him. His vision grew dark, frightening him. For loss of control was his greatest fear, and now his senses were leaving him, one by one, trickling away like the water from the cloth in Galadriel’s hand. His heart sped up even as the world slowed down, and he felt Galadriel place her hand upon his cheek, her thumb a gentle caress against the darkness that clouded his vision.

“Be at ease,” she whispered to him, but in the darkness there was no ease. There was no peace. He had learned that a long time ago, and he feared it with every fiber of his being.

“Galadriel—”

She shushed him. “Be at ease,” she repeated, and the world before him darkened into blackness that overtook his mind as night overtakes day. The last thing he felt was her thumb brush across his cheekbone, and then he knew no more.

 * * *

When Halbrand awoke again, he was in the same bed as before. He was not so sure how long he had been unconscious, but the golden tones had left the light which bathed his surroundings. Everything shone like a mist of silver, and he knew it was nightfall. Whether he had been gone for hours or days, he could not tell. Thirst parched his throat, and he tested his strength by pushing himself up on his elbows; that much he could manage with ease. Days, he surmised. There was no way only a few hours had him feeling as healed as he was at the moment.

Upon his bedside table was a silver pitcher and chalice, the cup already filled with sweet scented liquid. He scooped it up and smelled it first. It was different from whatever Galadriel had given him before, and he gulped it down quickly, some of the liquid spilling over onto his chin. Using his sleeve, Halbrand wiped it off. He put down the chalice, and surveyed his environment. Not another living soul was present, and he glanced down at his torso.

Pulling back the blanket and lifting up his tunic, his bandage-wrapped middle appeared to be clean through the white cloth. He lowered his shirt, rising from the bed. Surely, there was food available somewhere. The pangs of hunger resonated deeply in his stomach. He had to have been asleep for days. There was no other explanation for it. Halbrand took a step forward, and stumbled; his hand grasped for purchase on the nearest surface—part of a tree, or a piece of it, but it looked and felt like no tree. Its smooth bark shot ever upwards, and his eyes tried to follow it, but the sight became dizzying, and he lost his balance once more.

“Lord Halbrand,” came her faded voice from one side. He felt her hands steadying his waist; a slight being, and yet filled with strength. Her touch kept him upright, and instead of fighting it, he leaned his shoulder into her. “You should not be standing.”

“Where did you come from?” he asked, his voice sounding slurred. All right, so he wasn’t fully back to normal just yet.

“I went to find you something to eat,” Galadriel informed him. “I thought you might be hungry when you woke. You had been on the edge of waking for a few hours, tossing ever fitfully in your sleep—”

“I didn’t ask where you were,” he said, interrupting her. “I asked where you came from. I didn’t see you—” He stumbled again, grabbing Galadriel’s shoulders to remain upright in her embrace. He had such astute vision compared to her. How did she sneak up on him? His mind swam, vision swimming too, and his grasp on her tightened.

“You need your rest still,” was all Galadriel said in response, and she urged him back toward the bed. “You are not yet well enough to be walking—”

“I am,” he argued, pushing against her guidance. His force tumbled them both against the smooth bark of a pillared tree. Her back collided with it, and he, with her; she was so close to him, she filled his senses all, and his hands slipped from her shoulders to find her face, palms cupping her cheeks. They were warm to the touch; her breath was hot.

“Lord Halbrand—”

He put a single digit against her lips. “Shh,” he said. He had nothing to say; it wasn’t for that he requested her silence. He merely wanted a moment to absorb this finely into his memory, etch it out in painstaking detail the way her golden strands fell across her face to frame it, how her lips parted ever slightly in surprise, how her breath caused her chest to rise and fall shakily. How the fabric of her dress ruched together with each breath, and how temperate she felt pressed against his body. His wound burned suddenly, but he ignored it. He leaned in to kiss her, and she let him.

Everything was silent. Not a chirp from a bird, nor a sound of walking foot abound. He heard only how their breaths mingled as he kissed her, and she tilted up to him, both of them forgetting his injury for the moment.

It panged again, causing him to break the kiss and look down. He pressed his forehead to hers. Only instead of seeing his abdomen, he saw her chest, for they were still pushed up against each other. Halbrand’s fingers fell from her face to trace the outline above her bosom where her skin was bare, and Galadriel’s breath hitched in her throat.

The reverie was broken with the clearing of a throat—not Galadriel’s, and certainly not his own. Halbrand glanced up, lifting his head.

Standing at the other end of the room was an Elvish man, robed in fine green velvet with chestnut hair and sharp features. Even sharper were his eyes. He held one arm across his chest, brow furrowed at the compromising sight of them. Halbrand felt Galadriel put the gentlest amount of pressure against his shoulder, and he pulled off of her, nearly stumbling. She had to catch him once more, and he had to grasp her as well to keep his balance.

“Elrond,” Galadriel addressed the stranger, guiding Halbrand back to the bed. Halbrand allowed her, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the other Elf.

“ . . . Galadriel,” the Elf greeted her back. He, too, kept his eyes on Halbrand. Halbrand could read the distrust in them, and it angered him. “Lord Halbrand,” Elrond finally said, never breaking eye contact with him. “Galadriel has told us much about you as we healed you as best we could. I hope you are feeling well?”

Halbrand slowly released a held breath. “ . . . Yes,” he said at last. “I am well. As well as can be expected,” he coughed. “Where am I?”

“You are in Lindon,” Elrond informed him. The Elf began to walk towards them, taking his time. He never took his eyes off Halbrand. “Should I ask them to bring you some food? You must be terribly hungry . . . ”

“I have brought him something to eat already,” Galadriel intervened. Halbrand glanced up at her. His eyes fell to the small wooden table at his bedside. Atop it, there was a wrap, neatly tied shut, and the warm smell of baked Elvish bread emanated from within it. It was the first time Halbrand had smelled it, even though it was fresh. “Thank you, Elrond, for your concern. I can see to it from here.”

Elrond didn’t seem as though he wanted to let it go, or leave them alone again. Halbrand wondered how much the Elf saw before making his presence known. It wasn’t like it was accepted, or even encouraged, for their different kinds to mingle. Tragedy, they said. That was how it usually ended, did it not?

“Are you sure?” Elrond continued, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Halbrand, though he addressed Galadriel. “They had made some splendid—”

“Yes, Elrond, I am sure,” Galadriel interrupted him. Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Halbrand watched Elrond carefully, his own fingers seeking out the fabric of Galadriel’s dress as she stood beside him next to the bed. He wrapped his hand in the cloth, grasping it in a tightly clutched fist. Elrond’s eyes fell down to it, catching the subtle movement. The look on the Elf’s face flared with fury.

“I can bring at once—”

“Elrond, that will be enough,” Galadriel demanded, and finally, the Elf looked between the two of them in something that spoke of both resentment and defeat.

“I will come back to check on you later,” Elrond said at last, this time to Halbrand, and he bowed ever slightly. He never broke eye contact. “See to it that you get proper rest,” he told Halbrand, casting his gaze one last time to Galadriel. “When you are done here, High King Gil-galad wishes to speak with you concerning the . . . Man.” His voice held a twinge of disdain as he spoke the final word, but he bowed to Galadriel all the same.

“Of course,” she agreed, bowing her head in his direction as well.

When the Elf was out of sight, Halbrand waited a little while longer before releasing the ruched fabric of Galadriel’s dress from his hand. He looked up to her; she was frowning at him.

“You did that to antagonize him on purpose,” she said carefully.

“What if I did?” Halbrand asked, feeling a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “The Elf probably had it coming . . . ”

“It is not like that,” she disagreed. “He is my cousin.”

“Oh,” Halbrand said halfheartedly. “Well, in that case, I have nothing to worry about.”

Galadriel’s eyes darkened. “What would you have to worry about?” she inquired, and Halbrand lay himself back down onto the bed; it was as soft as a cloud, and he hummed in response.

“ . . . Do you really have to ask?”

He glanced up at her, wondering at the expression on her face. She seemed to be regarding him herself, her gaze roving over his form before looking him in the eyes. Galadriel sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, laying a hand upon the coverlet just an inch away from his own hand. “I do not know what this is,” she admitted without fear, but Halbrand caught the way she swallowed against a lump in her throat. Ever so subtle, but it was there.

His hand sought out hers on the coverlet, and he twined their fingers together. She let him. His thumb traced little circles over the warmth of her skin, and he saw the color rise in her cheeks. Halbrand smiled at that.

“I do,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips and placing a kiss atop her knuckles. He rested their hands upon his chest after that, still smiling at her.

It unnerved her. He expected that. Her breathing quickened, and her cheeks flushed pink. He loved it. Every moment she tried to fight it, he loved watching it unfold behind her stoic eyes. She allowed her hand to rest with his; did not try to pull it away from him. Her chest rose and fell; her expression saddened before him, and he saw the slump in her shoulders as she let out a small sigh.

“What is it?” he asked.

Galadriel only shook her head, though; she would not deign to answer him. Leaning over him, she placed the softest of kisses upon his brow. When she pulled back, there was pain on her face. It was true; their different kinds were doomed when intertwined; each story in their history spoke of the tragedy that befell those who sought it out. Either she was not there yet, where she could no longer bring herself to care, or something still held her back for other reasons. It still mattered to her, her fate. His fate. Together, entwined, it would be disastrous.

Or would it?

They were both told that, from the very beginning, but it did not stop those before them from resisting the pull. He remembered Melian and King Thingol, Lúthien and Beren . . . such tragedies they left behind them. Such sweet tragedies. But, at least, for what brief moments they had it, they had embraced their doom in full knowledge of what might come forth due to their actions. From the fall of great kingdoms to this little moment between them, there were a thousand and one reasons not to go down this path. Would he be able to pull himself back from the precipice should he fall, or would his doom be sealed along with all the rest that came before him?

He was not ready to let this go so easily.

“Rest,” Galadriel whispered against his brow, cupping his cheek with her free hand. “In the morning we will have time to speak further on such matters . . . ”

“You Elves always say that, I bet,” Halbrand quipped. His voice turned solemn, though, when he spoke next. “Morning does not always come for the rest of us.”

Galadriel pulled back from him, gazing sadly at his face. She brushed his cheek with her fingers, pulling them away at last, leaving cold tendrils in their wake. “Morning will come for you, Lord Halbrand,” she assured him, and she left it at that, rising from the bed and untangling her fingers from his. She smiled at him one last time, turning away at last and leaving him by himself.

Her words caused him to swallow against the dryness in his own throat. He closed his eyes, shutting out the light.

Hopefully, she was right.