#the beauty of these elfs..... unparalleled

[bluejay-makes]

Nightime chat in the wagon 🌜

Commission for the angelic @feikuro

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Head Canons:

Past the Point of No Return

Yandere Fae Enemy General x Healer Fem Reader

TW: Yandere themes, yearning, delusional behavior, etc.

Corvin Fausto was never one to believe in fate. He truly believed he’d never find his destined one since he lived a life of war. He was the young general of the fae army and lead them to numerous victories against the invading humans… but their elven brethren that turned their backs on the fae and began to help the humans. Which made this war suddenly shift against the fae. A betrayal the fae could not forgive the once peaceful elves for.

He was able to hold the enemy forces back long enough to escape, but they had damaged his wings beyond immediate repair. He’d likely have to go into hiding for a few months until he’d recover… but how? He was being relentlessly hunted by humans.

Corvin hid himself in a small cave, hopeful he could rest here for a while without getting caught… but his hopes were dashed when he saw the form of a young woman tilt her head at him in curiosity.

“Hello? Is someone there?” Corvin didn’t dare speak when a young elf appeared before him. Her beauty was unparalleled, but her ears were much smaller than most elves… she was a half elf.

(Your name) gasped at his wounds in shock. She quickly reached into her satchel to pull out various salves to put on his wounds.

Corvin made an attempt to try to push her away, but he was so weak from blood loss. The last thing he saw was her smiling face as she reassured him with her soft words, “it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

When Corvin came to, he was shocked to find himself in a warm cabin rather than in the forest. His eyes were wild as he searched around but he quickly winced when he shifted his wings too sharply. Corvin was surprised to be patched up and cleaned… where was his armor?

“Oh! You’re awake!” Corvin whipped his head around to spot (your name) leave her bedroom, a soft smile on her lips. “Are you hungry? I have some soup over the fire-“

“I’m your enemy.” Corvin told her with a glare. “You should have left me to die-“

Corvin was shocked when (your name) shook her head and gave him a smile. “That doesn’t matter. You still needed help and it’s my job as a healer to help the wounded.”

Corvin was surprised when she went over to the hot cauldron to pour him a bowl of soup. The half elf placed the bowl beside him. “You can recuperate here for the time being. I’m helping you simply because I want to.”

“My name is Corvin Fausto. What’s your name?”

“I’m (your name).” She gave him a gentle smile that reminded him of spring. And for the first time in Corbin’s long life, he felt his heart flutter.

Corvin hesitantly drank the soup before he smiled softly to himself. He’s never received such care before… did he truly deserve her kindness?

As the days melted into months, Corvin grew attached to (your name). She was kind yet she was stern. Her care never had ulterior motives yet she also didn’t allow him to disrespect her because of her race. She fascinated him. For the first time in his life, Corvin was enthralled.

Corvin found himself helping her around the humble abode. He’d clean, gather herbs with her, fetch firewood, or help her cook. It was such a domestic life together that Corvin slowly began to wonder if she’d want to continue to live a life like this with him. Would she want an idyllic life?

“It’s been really nice having you around, Corvin.” (Your name) beamed at the fae who blushed. His hands itched to intertwine with hers. “I think you have a week left until you’re fully healed!”

Corvin felt his blood run cold with the words. A week… did she want him to leave? He thought they had a special relationship. No. He wouldn’t let her go! (Your name) was his destined mate. The one he’s waited his whole life for… and he’d be damned if she rejected him.

“If you ever get injured again, my door is always open-“ (your name) is surprised when she’s suddenly pulled into his arms in a tight embrace. “Corvin?”

“Come back with me… no.” Corvin thought for a moment. His people would terrorize her if he brought her back, they could hurt her. He could abandon them right? The fae would understand… a destined one was a rule they all abided by. “Let’s just stay together here, in your cabin.”

(Your name) raised a brow. “What do you mean, Corvin?”

(Your name) felt her blood run cold at the crazed look in Corvin’s eyes. “We can live together here in your cabin, far from everyone… far from the war.”

Corvin glanced around the cabin with eagerness. “I think there’s space for two little ones… we can start our life here!”

(Your name) tried to pull herself away from his grip, but Corvin was latched on like a tick. “Corvin, you’re scaring me.”

“You’re my destined one.” Corvin replied in a breathy whisper. “That’s why you saved me despite me being your enemy… you saved me because you knew we were meant to be.”

[dhampling]

one fem!reader, 2k

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?”

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

-

astarion is a newly-minted girldad. that's it. that's the plot.

word count: 2,028

an: fluff, fluff n more fluff. no smut this time. soon. promise. parts ONE and TWO linked respectively but can be read alone.

-

“She’s asleep, Astarion!” 

You are wide eyed, furious; speaking in a whispered shout at your husband.

His pale hands flit across the ties of your shirt, frisking every which way they turn. You slap them off like flies on fruit.

“Even more reason to take advantage of the situation, if you ask me.” He murmurs hungrily in your ear, hands now circling down to your waist to tug on your waistband.

“It’s a fine job I didn’t ask you then!” Gritted teeth. Eyes aflame. Cornered against the dresser.

The crib beside your bed holds your infant daughter - skittish and fresh to a world wholly unknown in every sense of the word. She rests rarely and wails often for company in these early months of being alive with you both. Pallid and red-eyed yet beautiful beyond comparison and entirely yours. 

Seeing you together brings him joy unparalleled. 

He has, genuinely; never been prouder of anything of his doing - saving the Sword Coast is a drop in the ocean that is completely and utterly awash with love for your youngling. The mistaken mess of his own bastard elven vampiric genetics now born unto another. This time it would be right. The hunger, the rot; the abuse and neglect, they were hundreds of miles away.

He would make it right. 

But it was already so. She was here, and you all cried together in that dark, sweaty birth chamber. His great guttural sob at her birth, wracked with emotion he never knew he could possibly be permitted to feel on this immortal coil. Your genuinely feral howls of pain turned weeping with pure joy.

Two full days of agony unlike any you’ve ever endured and she had arrived, breathing; wailing; skin of a changeling in birthing viscera and lungs keen to rival any bellow of the Gods.

Astarion weakly clinging to you both; tears salting your lips and wetting her tiny head for hours on end. 

The great weight of another being on your shoulders. His sincere - yet cliche - fervently whispered oath to her just moments after being placed in his arms.

She is home. She is loved beyond any unit of measure. She will want for nothing, and she will never know anguish like that of her parents and their complex lives. No matter who she is or what she becomes, she has two people who are in her corner. She will be fierce if she so desires. Cunning. Witty. Roguish. Barbaric. Horrid. 

It didn’t matter. It never would. 

She was yours, and his; and she would always have a choice.

He had spoken with her for hours, the nurse whispered to inform you once you had awoken from the deepest slumber of your life. Even then when you looked he was hanging over her small form in her cot, running his lithe fingers over her tiny hands and feet in a repetitive soothing pattern. 

When you queried the topic of conversation he simply looked at you with a grin so lovesick it would flip your stomach completely. Butterflies.

-

“We deserve a bit of fun though, darling. Mummy and Daddy’s evening off? No?” 

Astarion pouts, wrapping his arms around you - still pinned against the dresser - and inhaling your scent deeply. 

You return the gesture and cough reactively.

“You stink of Noblestalk. I know your tricks.”

You playfully shove him away and tiptoe from your room to the landing, the pale elf hot on your heels.

“I have never stunk in my life, thank you.” He sulks. 

You pointedly stop to look at him, before picking up a basket of waiting laundry and descending the stairs. He follows.

“I’m trying to fuck you, dear. Don’t make it weird.” He rolls his eyes and huffs. 

You hum. 

“Corpses tend to smell awful.” 

“Warning.”

“You started it.”

“Touché.”

A beat of silence.

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?” 

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

“You’re getting rusty.”

He captures you in a kiss as you reach the bottom of the stairs, slow and patient. Holding your free arm to keep you close. 

“Look at me. I’m the epitome of the fatherly jester!’

Waggles his free hand.

‘I have been blessed with brains and humour anew by the birth of our daughter, clearly.’

He grimaces.

‘Not necessarily superior versions of either, but I - am - changed.” 

From the moment of her conception you’d felt it. An old wives’ tale. The night you’d agreed to mother a brood alongside him, you knew she was there. That she was her. That she was brewing as something brilliant deep inside you and nothing would be as it was ever again. 

He’d called it ridiculous, gestured wildly and rolled his eyes to the deepest hells, but a hazardous hope never left them until you’d far missed your bleed and it was confirmed to be true.

From that moment onwards, something shifted even further in Astarion. 

The domestic tether to your townhouse in the city - no longer just a convenience to remain a steady base for you both, but a fundamental part of his scene setting, to plant roots and grow together. Two centuries of rot and abuse, and his reward was finally nearing completion.

His nesting phase began far earlier than yours and with greater intensity than you could’ve matched even without the issue of your later-heaving belly. Entire pinboards tacked with decadent fabric swatches for every occasion - be it swaddling or nursery curtains. Tailor’s tape around his neck each morning and notebook in hand to note your measurements and take inventory of your wardrobe; ensuring you never looked awry or felt anything less than wholly comfortable. 

Because gods forbid ill-fitted clothing stand in the way of you and your brutal vomiting spells, obviously. A pointed click of his tongue as he fixes your sleeve.

In the middle months of your gestation, the typically discerning clientele who visited you and Astarion in your tailor’s store at the dead of night were the first to become privy to the news. Rounder by the week, flushed; brimming with a deep fatigue and yet somehow absolutely aglow.

Children to be fitted for yet another presentation evening placed sleepy hands on your belly with a saccharine softness. Their parents jostle you - sometimes in congratulations, sometimes to whisper in sheer curiosity. Dhampir are a notoriously rare breed, and you’re certain there were rumours of a third party involvement in the process.

‘No, no. We just tried really, really hard.’ You’d smile, as if in a blissful stupor from just the recollection. He’d turn to you with his ridiculously brilliant hearing; needle between teeth, brow raised; lips upturned in a slight quirk. Devilishly handsome, never anything less.

-

You drop the laundry basket in the kitchen corner. A stuffed bear falls from it. Clive.

A pause.

“You never asked what I did with that shirt, you know.”

It takes you a moment to recall which shirt he’s referring to. He sits at the table and watches you lazily.

“Which? The one for Mr. Chugley? I didn’t think it needed much by way of adjustment, at least?”

A stale piece of burnt toast sits on the counter untouched. You bite and chew and bite and chew like a woman who has never once tasted a morsel so divine; so untainted by the evils of hot butter and a filling bronze crunch.

“Oh - Bunt? Gods, no.’

He sips his stone-cold tea. A fresh film wobbles on top.

‘Bunt Chugley.”

A snort of laughter sends it straight back through his nose and out onto the table. You begin to choke on your toast.

“Bunt Chugley.” You giggle, crumbs spilling from your mouth.

Astarion stands to wipe himself down, creasing over with an escalating laughter.

“Bunt Chugley.”

He waggles his hands, eyes heavy lidded with lack of rest. 

He looks purely maniacal.

“That’s- that’s what we should-’

You stop for breath, cackling now; hands over knees for a brief moment.

‘We should call the next one Bunt Chugley.”

He launches into a wheezing fit.

“How- How would that even work, darling? Like Bunt Chugley Ancunín, or- or-”

“No! No, no. Just that. Bunt Chugley.”

You hold both hands to your eye as if framing a canvas, looking through the gap at the ludicrous proposition in front of you. 

He takes a moment to still. Smiles at you dopily.

Crosses the floor and brings both hands down to your waist with a gentle grasp.

“I am so sorry, my love.” He grins and holds his forehead against yours.

You look at him, dazed.

“Hmm?’

He simply looks up. 

A profoundly gut-wrenching wail becomes apparent to you from above. Your face falls.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Astarion.”

-

He’s up the stairs before you can comment further, swiftly darting back into your chambers and grinning with an unbridled joy - though, you note, with lack of rest that grin is beginning to look more insane by the hour.

“Sweetheart! My darling girl. Shush now. You’re sounding something absolutely wicked.”

You watch on from the doorway, arms folded; stale toast in hand and jaws meeting in a firm chew.

He’s far too good with her. 

It somewhat surprised you at first just how innately fatherhood came to him, but as he picks her up and cradles her intently it’s as if there are fractures of his own childhood coming back. How he was loved, how he was held. 

A piece of him, now alive and breathing again after all these years of death.  

He coos at her, bouncing her small frame gently in his arms and hushing her with each wail. It takes very little for soft mewls to take their place as she reaches aimlessly in his direction. 

He leans towards her grasping fingers and allows her to take one of his ringlets from the front of his head as he kisses her tummy. She’s enthralled by him; recognises him. She wants to know more of him. 

As he lifts his head her grasp remains firm.

“We have some work to do on your sleight of hand, I think. Not to worry.” 

Ever so gently, he unpicks her fascinated fingers and kisses them all in tow. Her face looks almost ready to crumple before he reaches for one final kiss on the very top of her head.

“There, now. All better. Back to sleep?’

A gurgle. A puzzled blink.

‘Absolutely. Mummy does look particularly radiant today, doesn’t she? I’ll be sure to send your regards.”

He catches the smile on your face. Winks your way.

“You’re getting the baby to flirt on your behalf now?” You tease.

“That’s the lady of the house to you. She was simply passing on her praises.” He whispers as he places her back into her crib and steps back fondly. Sidles over to you as you finish the last bite of toast and pulls you in for a soft kiss.

“Stop playing coy. I know you feel the same way I do.’

He whispers down at you.

‘You want another one, don’t you?’

A kiss on the very top of your head.

“You’re projecting.” You smile.

You can’t deny him for long, he knows this. You don’t particularly want to. 

Since becoming a mother you’ve taken to parenthood almost as naturally as he has; and when the topic has come up since you’ve struggled to say no and mean it.

“Think, though. The sooner we try again, the sooner we can begin building our little mercenary force.” He looks at you with the face of a man who thinks he’s just had a really good idea.

“Oh! Yes! You’ve sold me!’

You pull him into a long kiss, the kind that still makes you swoon after all this time together. He tastes like cold tea and smells so clinical you can’t help but laugh heartily as you pull away.

‘That Noblestalk is getting to me. Have a bath and try again with a little less?”

He scowls before narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It just might, my darling dearest.” 

You wink this time.

The bath starts running before you’ve fully made it back down the stairs.

[bagofshinyrocks]

Green-Eyed Monster

Prompt: Established relationship; Reader is jealous of someone flirting with their spouse Thranduil, who is oblivious [inspo from @nightfall-writer]

Featuring: Thranduil Oropherion x GN!Spouse!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: nothing besides my "Tauriel and Legolas are BFFs" propaganda

You had no reason for envy. 

You were happily wed to the love of your life. Joined the royalty of Eryn Galen through your marriage to the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion. Doted upon by your husband, and cared for by your subjects. You wanted for nothing.

And yet… in had crept “the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on” (Othello III:3).

There was never any doubt in your mind that Thranduil was faithful to you. His love for you was as unwavering as water downhill. As was yours for him.

He couldn’t help but smile when he saw you, and all but melted into your embrace in the privacy of your bedchambers. The touch of your hand more calming than chamomile. The taste of your lips more intoxicating than wine. Your bare skin more alluring than a soft bed after a long day.

But as wise and regal as your husband was, he could be a bit thick in the head at times.

It had been a whole ordeal for the two of you to come together in the first place. A host of conspirators, led by Legolas and Tauriel. An idiotic dance as the two of you convinced yourselves that your feelings were unrequited. You were surprised that your now step-son had not smacked either of you upside the head at least once. His patience was unparalleled. In this instance at least.

So you couldn’t quite blame your husband for not recognizing others’ romantic interest in him.

There were nobles from other lands, elf, dwarrow, and man alike, who were visiting. After the Battle of the Five Armies and the retaking of Erebor by the line of Durin, he decided (i.e. he was persuaded) to expand trade relations, renew treaties, and welcome ambassadors. It seemed that almost every month brought someone new to his halls.

And you weren’t surprised that someone else would find your husband attractive. Not at all.

When you first met him, you could barely breathe. Ageless beauty. Sleek, shining blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Luxurious clothing and jewelry with more detail than one could find in a day. Voice and speech that crept into your ears and made a home in your mind. You found the Sindar attractive the moment you saw him.

For an ambassador or noble to find Thranduil handsome meant their eyes functioned in some capacity. To find his voice and speech charming, their ears. That did not bother you. It was when their feelings changed like yours did, from aesthetic appreciation to romantic desire.

And he was oblivious to it all. Your speechlessness the day you met, your intimidation at meeting a king. The eagerness for those to meet with him, an eagerness to engage with Eren Galen and its wealth of materials, labor, and beauty.

Jealousy seemed so irrational an emotion. Thranduil was wholly yours; inattentive towards other romantic pursuits. Doted upon you. Craved your company and affection at all times

But it ate at you. Others and their lingering glances. Flirtatious words. Gentle brushes against him. And the ugliness of what you felt.

Your marriage was still recent, especially by elven standards. You didn’t want to make a fool of yourself. To act like a child who refuses to let others play with their toy. You would turn away and pretend you did not see it, or skip meetings you were not invited to.

Thranduil was concerned. Held you close at night. Reminded you how much he loved you and how brilliant you were. How lucky he was to have you in his life and as his spouse. He must have thought that all the social engagements were draining you. 

“I thank you for meeting with us, sir.” You stood from your seat at the head of the table, and everyone else leaped to their feet. It was still a little strange for so many people to hang on your every word. “I will bring your proposal to King Thranduil shortly.”

The man from Dale beamed and bowed low. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Most of the councilors filed out, but the nobleman scampered over to your side. Another low bow which you met with a nod.

“Long have I heard of the beauty of elves, Your Majesty…” A quirk in your eyebrow reminded him of his place, and he quickly caught himself. “The beauty of your halls, your craftsmanship and arts. It is an honor to see it all.” 

You gave him a polite smile. “Thank you, sir. You are too kind.”

He opened his mouth again for more flattery, but another voice interrupted. One from the doorway.

“Meleth nín?”

There stood your husband, dressed in robes blue as water in moonlight. A tall crown of silver branches. White stones imitated snow and ice amongst the delicate wire.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said, not even sparing the nobleman a glance, “but I must speak with my love now.”

The nobleman quickly excused himself, but hadn’t the chance to leave the room before Thranduil had your hands in his, and his lips on yours.

When he leaned in, you expected a chaste kiss against your cheek. Instead, one hand settled on the back of your neck, and the other placed your hand against his chest. Its opposite quickly mirrored and both of your hands held the fabric of his robe.

Your lips were shiny and your face warm by the time your husband pulled away from you. All the tension had melted from him, and he wasted no time in pressing his forehead against yours and letting his eyes flutter closed again. Once his breath came easy again, he gave you a chaste kiss on the nose.

“Forgive my forwardness, meleth nín,” he cooed in Sindarin, a gentle brush of his hand over your cheek.

“Nothing to forgive, husband.” A kiss to his nose. “How could I be upset at the notion that my husband, the most handsome of all who have lived, live now, and will ever life, desires me?”

A smile at your words, and another kiss on your forehead.

That evening, the two of you were entwined on the couch in your apartments. His head rested against your chest, against your heartbeat, and your fingers combed through his hair and rubbed his back.

A fire crackled in the hearth, and two half-drunk goblets of wine sat on the table at your elbow. A comfortable silence, broken after a good while by a single word.

“Beloved,” he asked quietly.

“Yes?”

“I have a confession. And need your advice.”

The hand formerly in his hair transferred to gently scratch the back of his neck and you briefly squeezed him close with the other arm. He adjusted so he could look up at your face a bit better.

“Of course, meleth nín. What is it?”

“When you were speaking to that man from Dale… I had a foolish thought. Jealousy. I’ve felt it a great deal over the past few weeks, thought I never acted upon it. Until today. I feel childish now, interrupting and publicly expressing physical affection in neither the right time nor the right place. I-”

You cut him off with a kiss to his lips. A startled noise from him, then he pulled himself further up the couch so you could kiss more passionately. He wasn’t entirely sure why you were so taken with the idea of him being so immature, but he was glad you weren’t disappointed.

A quick huff of breath as you pulled apart.

“I love you so much,” you panted, then breaking into giggles. His brows furrowed.

“What is so funny?”

You kissed his nose. “Because I have been feeling jealous the past few weeks. And I hadn’t a clue you were feeling similarly.”

“Why are you feeling jealous?”

“Because,” you flicked his chest, “you have an entourage of nobles, merchants, and ambassadors doting after you. And I was disappointed in myself for being so immature.”

“I do?”

A very unregal snort from you. “Meleth nín, for one so wise, you are so…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

More giggles from you. “Very well.”

He rested his head on your shoulder and his nose was tucked comfortably against your throat. The soothing warmth of his breath and the movement of his chest almost lulled you to sleep.

“I don’t think feeling jealousy is a bad thing,” you mused, fingers tracing the embroidery of his leisure dress. “It is a natural part of our behavior, to feel protective of things we love. And you weren’t rude or aggressive, for which I would have been unhappy. I’m glad you love me so much that somewhere in you,” a tap to the side of his head, as if to point the spot out, “a primal sliver encourages you to keep me all to yourself.”

A deep kiss from your husband. One hand behind your neck, cradling your head. The other crept between your back and the couch, fingers pressing into your flesh, pulling you into him as if any distance between you two still existed. You were smiling wide against his lips.

“How silly we both are,” he chuckled after leaning back for air.

Your fingers combed through his hair, finally settling to gently scratch the scalp around his ears.

“Indeed we are, my love.”

Enjoy reading this? Here's a link to my other works! Thanks for reading :-)

Posted: 2024 March 7

[hellcatalex1]

Part 3- Together (Unbinding the Curse)

Astarion x Female Elf Durge

Post game, One year after the fall of the nether-brain, Spawn Astarion.

Triggers: blood, adult language, adult themes, nightmare, trauma.

Gale nods and steps aside, allowing you and Astarion to approach the pedestal. The box seems to pulse with a quiet energy, as if it were alive and aware of your presence. Astarion’s hand hovers above it, his fingers trembling slightly, betraying the emotions he’s trying to keep in check.

You place your hand on his, grounding him. “Whatever happens, we face it together, remember?”

He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. Finally, he nods, and together, you lift the lid of the box. Inside, nestled in a bed of velvet, is a small, crystalline vial. The liquid within shimmers with an ethereal light, shifting between shades of silver and violet. It’s beautiful, but there’s something about it that makes your skin prickle with unease.

Gale leans in, his eyes wide with awe. “This is it. A phylactery of ancient Netherese origin. It’s said to contain the essence of a long-dead archmage, one who sought to transcend mortality itself.”

Astarion’s breath hitches. “And you think… it could do the opposite for me?”

Gale hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “The Netherese were obsessed with bending immortality and mortality. Their magic was unparalleled. If this phylactery holds even a fraction of that power… then yes, it could cure your vampirism, or at the very least, alter it.”

You feel a surge of hope, but it’s tempered by caution. “What are the risks?” You ask.

Gale’s expression darkens. “The magic within is volatile. The phylactery was designed to bind a soul to it, preserving the owner’s essence. If Astarion uses it, it could merge with him in unpredictable ways. There’s no guarantee of what he’ll become… or if he’ll survive the process.”

Astarion’s gaze locks onto the vial, the conflict evident in his eyes. The chance for a life free from the curse of vampirism that has haunted him for centuries, but at what cost? He could be free… or he could lose everything, including himself.

You tighten your grip on his hand. “Astarion, you don’t have to do this. We can find another way.”

He shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. “How long have I waited for this moment? The chance to be free, to walk in the sun again, to live without the constant hunger gnawing at my soul? I can’t just walk away from it now. But…” He pauses, his voice softening. “I promise I won’t rush into this decision."

The room is thick with tension as Astarion weighs his options. Finally, he looks to you, his expression resolute. “What do you think? Should we take this chance?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you consider his question. You think back to everything you’ve been through together, the battles, the close calls, the quiet moments of tenderness..... and then Cazador. You’ve always been stronger together, but this… this is different. This is a risk that could change everything.

“I think…” you begin, choosing your words carefully. “I think this is a decision that can’t be rushed. We need to understand exactly what we’re dealing with. If there’s even a chance this could help you without destroying who you are, then we should explore it. But we do it cautiously, step by step, with all the knowledge we can gather.”

Astarion nods, relief washing over his features. “You’re right. We’ve faced too much to throw it all away on a whim.”

Gale looks between the two of you, then gestures toward the phylactery. “There may be a way to learn more before we decide. The phylactery is linked to the spirit within. I could attempt to communicate with it, to see if it’s willing to share any knowledge. It’s a delicate process, though, and there’s no telling how the spirit will react.”

“Then let’s do it,” Astarion says, his voice firm. “We’ll gather every piece of information we can before making a decision.”

Gale nods and begins to prepare for the ritual, drawing intricate runes around the pedestal and muttering incantations under his breath. As he works, you and Astarion step back, watching him with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Shadowheart, who has been silent until now, finally speaks up. “This is dangerous, but I understand why you’re doing it. Just know that whatever happens, you have my support.”

Astarion glances at her, surprised by her words. “Thank you, Shadowheart. That means… more than you know.”

She gives him a small, genuine smile before returning to her usual stoic expression. “Just don’t do anything reckless, alright?”

“No promises,” Astarion replies with a wink, though there’s a seriousness in his tone that you don’t miss.

Gale finishes his preparations and takes a deep breath, turning to face the three of you. “I’m ready. This will take all of my concentration, so I’ll need complete silence. If anything goes wrong… well, let’s just hope it doesn’t.”

You and Astarion exchange a glance, then step back to give Gale space. The air in the room grows thick with tension as Gale begins the ritual, his voice rising and falling in a strange, melodic chant. The runes around the pedestal glow with a soft, golden light, and the phylactery begins to pulse in time with Gale’s words.

As the ritual continues, the light from the phylactery intensifies, filling the room with an otherworldly glow. You can feel the magic crackling in the air, and a sense of dread creeps into your chest. This is no ordinary magic, this is power beyond comprehension, and it’s dangerous.

Suddenly, the light from the phylactery flares, and a ghostly figure begins to materialize above it. The figure is translucent, its features shifting and indistinct, but you can make out the shape of a humanoid man, tall and regal, with eyes that burn like twin stars.

Gale’s voice falters for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure. “Great spirit,” he intones, his voice steady. “We seek your knowledge. Tell us, what is the purpose of this phylactery? What power does it hold?”

The spirit’s eyes flicker, and when it speaks, its voice is like the whisper of a thousand souls. “This vessel holds the essence of my life, the culmination of all my power. It was crafted to preserve my soul, to grant me eternity beyond death. But in the hands of another… it can do more. It can transform, it can enhance, it can elevate… or it can destroy.”

Astarion steps forward, his gaze locked on the spirit. “And if I were to use it? What would happen to me?”

The spirit’s eyes narrow, its form shifting ominously. “You seek to escape your curse, to walk in the light once more. The phylactery can grant you that, but it comes at a cost. The power within is too great for any mortal to wield without consequence. You would be changed… perhaps beyond recognition. Or you may be consumed entirely.”

The room falls silent as the weight of the spirit’s words sinks in. The choice before you and Astarion is clearer now, but no less daunting. The power to be free from the curse is within reach, but it could come at the ultimate price.

Gale finally breaks the silence, his voice subdued. “We have our answer. The risk is great, but so is the potential reward. Astarion… the decision is yours.”

Astarion looks down at the phylactery, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turns to you, his eyes searching yours for guidance. “What do you think, love? Do we take the chance, or do we walk away?”

Your heart aches with the enormity of the decision. You think of the life you’ve built together, the love you share, and the future that could be waiting for you. But you also think of the risk, the possibility of losing Astarion, of him losing himself.

After a long, agonizing moment, you take a deep breath and speak the words that have been weighing on your heart. “I can’t make this choice for you, Astarion. But whatever you decide, know that I’m with you. Always.”

Astarion’s eyes soften, and he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m grateful every day that you’re by my side.”

Astarion holds you for a long moment, his breath warm against your ear, before finally stepping back. He gazes at the phylactery with a mixture of longing and trepidation, as if the weight of centuries is pressing down on him all at once.

“This could be the end of everything,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Or the beginning of something new.”

You reach out, gently touching his arm. “Whatever happens, you won’t face it alone.”

Astarion nods, his resolve hardening. He turns back to Gale, who is watching with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “I’ve made my decision,” Astarion says, his voice steady. “But I need to know more. How do we use the phylactery safely? How do we ensure it doesn’t destroy me?”

Gale frowns, clearly thinking through the possibilities. “The ritual would be complex. We’d need to draw on the phylactery’s power carefully, channeling it into you in a controlled manner. If we’re not careful, the energy could overwhelm you, or even shatter your soul.”

“Then we need to be careful,” Astarion replies, his eyes glinting with determination. “We’ve faced worse, haven’t we?”

Shadowheart steps forward, her gaze serious. “If you’re going to do this, we’ll need to make preparations. We can’t just rush into it without knowing the risks. We should seek out more knowledge, find someone who understands the Netherese magic better than we do.”

Gale nods in agreement. “There is a sage in Waterdeep who specialize in ancient magic. We could consult them, gather all the information we can before we attempt anything. It’s not a decision to take lightly.”

You look at Astarion, feeling a pang of relief that he’s willing to approach this with caution. The thought of losing him to this ancient magic is too much to bear.

“What do you think?” you ask, searching his eyes. “Should we find these sages and learn more?”

Astarion considers this for a moment before nodding. “Yes, it’s the wise thing to do. We’ve come this far, we can afford to wait a little longer. If there’s any chance of doing this safely, we need to take it.”

Gale claps his hands together, clearly relieved. “Excellent! I’ll make inquiries right away. We should have some answers within a day or two. In the meantime, we can rest and prepare ourselves for what’s to come, you are all welcome to stay here in my tower."

Shadowheart crosses her arms, her gaze lingering on the phylactery. “This is a dangerous path we’re walking. But if it means giving Astarion a chance at a better life, it’s worth the risk.”

The four of you agree to set out the next day to seek the counsel of the sage. For now, there’s nothing more to be done but wait. You retreat to your shared quarters in Gale’s tower, the weight of the decision still heavy on your mind.

Inside the room, the atmosphere is different, more charged with the unknown. Astarion seems restless, pacing the length of the small space. You watch him for a moment before standing and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find the answers we need,” you say softly.

Astarion stops pacing and looks at you, his eyes reflecting a thousand unspoken thoughts. “You’re right,” he says finally, his voice tinged with both hope and fear. “I just, this is the closest I’ve ever been to truly being free. And yet, it’s terrifying. What if we can’t control it? What if I become something monstrous?”

You step closer, cupping his face in your hands. “You won’t,” you say firmly. “You’re stronger than you know, Astarion. We’ll take every precaution. We’ll make sure you come out of this whole.”

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes as if drawing strength from your presence. “I trust you,” he whispers, his voice almost breaking. “I trust you more than anyone.”

You pull him into a tender kiss, letting the connection between you speak the words that neither of you can fully express. When you finally pull back, Astarion seems calmer, more grounded.

“Let’s get some rest,” you suggest, guiding him toward the bed. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

He nods, allowing you to lead him. As you lie down together, he wraps his arms around you, spooning you from behind. The chill of his body against yours is comforting, a coldness you have gotten used to, something that was unique to him.

But sleep doesn’t come easily. The weight of the decision hangs over you like a storm cloud, the potential for both great reward and terrible loss swirling in your mind. Every time you close your eyes, you see the phylactery, glowing with that strange, ethereal light, and Astarion, standing on the precipice of a future that could be either wondrous or disastrous.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and you drift into a fitful sleep, your dreams filled with visions of ancient magic, swirling shadows, and Astarion’s face, torn between hope and fear.

Click here for part 4

[gardensofthemoon]

44, Finrod and beor :3

44 - out of lust. prompt list here

At first there was a voice. Lush, lilting, melodious. It sang of unspoken dreams, unconquered lands, of kinship and love and hope.

He woke up from his slumber well rested, his heart thrumming with joy for the wonders of the world.

Then, there he was, sat near the hearth, fine-boned hands strumming the cords of a great harp. His voice rose, powerful as a river tumbling down from the frozen crests of the mountains, piercing as an arrow caught in flight. It seemed as if the land itself awakened to the spell woven by the singer, roots curling towards the figure, green leaves budding from dark, dead branches into a symphony of spring.

Balan looked at the golden being that had appeared as a spirit amid the bedrolls of his people. He looked, and couldn’t look away.

The creature, he thought, must have been one of the elder gods of the stories spun by the wise women of his village. A divine being from the unseen realms across the sea. He was singing in an ancient tongue, but Balan found he understood the calling. Come, the singer said. Come with me, and fear not, I will show you the way. Golden-haired he was, and fairer than any living man or maiden his eyes had ever happened upon. His bearing and manner had such grace that he hadn’t encountered before, and he was cloaked in finery befitting of a king, gold glinting on his fingers and gems gleaming around the long lines of his throat.

Balan felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, twisting.

“Who are you?” he croaked. He was the first to speak; the rest of his fellows were silent, as in a trance.

The being met his eyes, and a strange frisson coursed through Balan, he felt like sinking into a frozen lake; the eyes of the golden creature were brightly burning with a fey fire.

The stranger smiled, and Balan knew he was lost.

—

“My king,” Balan said in the dream. “Let me offer you my love.”

He dreamt of the elven lord each night. Of the unparalleled beauty of the golden king, of the curve of his mouth, of the dance of his fingers upon the harp. Of his voice, as a thousand songbirds singing, as lightning breaking upon the heavens. Of burning.

The tales had spread silently, legends of great warriors fighting against the dark foe in this new realm called Beleriand. They told of tall kings and fair faces and eyes lit by unearthly flames that speared human hearts with their strange glow. Of beings that knew no death but the one brought by blade. They told of enchantments, and of songs of such power no mortal dared sing.

Balan knew himself bespelled. It could not be helped. He walked in the shadow of the golden king wanting to touch that which was eternal. A man untouched by rot, more beautiful than the sun in the sky.

He wanted him. He wanted the king, and he dreamt of him.

During the long hours of the night, deep in slumber, he saw the king smiling. The fire swallowed him, burned inside him, lit the pyre of desire inside his belly.

In his dreams, he dared to touch the elf, and as passion surged he grabbed with unworthy hands the marmorean face and kissed the smiling mouth of the king. In his dreams, the golden being remembered his name.

Yet in the waking world, the king called him vassal.

[sitp-recs]

FINALLY read heal thyself as per your recommendation (it's been in my marked for later for months yet somehow I kept forgetting?) and it's just as amazing and beautiful as everyone said, cant believe I haven't read it sooner. There's no real purpose for this ask I just feel the need to gush about it with someone who I know understands😭❤️ but her draco is perfect, his characterization, redemption arc, it's everything I never knew I needed. Reading about his struggle and determination to be good—and finally being able to celebrate the rewards of his hard work was so touching? to witness... I literally had to take breaks because of how much this fic made me feel. Going to spend the rest of the night drowning in astolats fics

Ahh anon your ask got me emo all over again, I love this fic so so much and I’m so pleased that you also felt transformed by it! Sharing this feeling of awe and mutual understanding about a fic with another reader is something really special. HT is hands down the best Draco arc I’ve read in years, which is not surprising if we consider not only Astolat’s talent but also the fact that this fic is 100% Draco-centric and for the most part of it there’s no Harry or romance to distract from his individual journey.

I love how you described his redemption path, the fact that for once he got to make a choice about his own life, then reaped the fruits of his hard work (and how brilliant is that he decides to pursue Healing out of pride and spite? So on brand 😂). I think you chose a perfect word to describe our experience “to witness…” that’s exactly how it felt, a privilege to watch him getting the nuance and character development he deserved. I appreciate that Astolat took the time to explore his arc over the span of a few years, it made his success and happy ending even more powerful and satisfying! I can’t think of a better way to spend the night than reading the rest of her catalogue, you’re in for a treat!

Lol okay you gave me an impossible mission there, I gotta say similar characterizations are very hard to find outside of Astolat’s work, her Draco is very peculiar after all. And I feel like HT is unparalleled way beyond his characterization. I’ve been in the fandom for two decades and have never read anything like it before or since. So leaving any comparison efforts aside I’ll suggest these, which have some of my favorite Draco arcs:

The Compact by astolat (E, 64k)

Hermione frowned. “The real question is why the magic of Britain would be failing now, in fact.”

A Young Radical's Guide to Love by blamebrampton (T, 66k)

Memories of the war are still fresh, which is all the excuse Decent People need to do appalling things. In this quietly waged conflict, Draco Malfoy is happy to be on the right side of things for once, and even happier to find he’s not alone.

Who we are in the shadows by quicksilvermaid (E, 100k)

What happens when you’re forced to become the very thing you despise? Ex-Auror Harry Potter, tossed out of the Ministry for something he had no control over, has been looking for a way back to his former life.

A Thousand Beautiful Things by geoviki (M, 104k)

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym (M, 131k)

Seven years out from the war, Harry learns the hard truth of old history: it’s never quite as far behind you as you thought.

By the Grace by lettered (T, 140k)

Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.

And some short fics you might enjoy as well:

And Save Me From Bloody Men by blamebrampton (T, 10k)

Draco Malfoy once watched others fighting to stop the world falling apart. This time, he's not just watching.

Rebuilding Draco Malfoy by khasael (E, 11k)

Draco wants to do something to get his life back on track, but no-one seems to be taking him seriously – until he finds himself in an Auror training session led by Harry Potter.

The Loathly Worm by Selden (E, 12k)

When Draco Malfoy is forced to go undercover among the remaining Death Eaters in the aftermath of the war, the last person he expects to find there is Harry Potter.

Unfinished Business by cupiscent (E, 20k)

Ten years after the War ends, Harry and Draco still haven't got their act together. But maybe it's not too late.

Vortex by xanthippe74 (T, 20k)

Who would want a soulmate who was a schoolyard bully, a Death Eater, and a convicted felon? Certainly not Harry Potter. And Draco is determined to take this secret to the grave.

Slithering by astolat (E, 27k)

Draco found the nest down in the Manor’s cellars, while he was clearing them out.

[wastrelwoods]

in a game where you can be any number of ethereally beautiful young elf maidens the rush of making your player character middle aged and green and kinda fucked up in the face and body is really unparalleled. that is the power of jehan to me

[moonchildsorcery]

alora lightcrown

⚡︎ On the 20th of Famerule, Alora Lightcrown, high-elf, was born in a druids grove in the High Forest, Moonlight Haven. The night Alora was born, the deity of nature, Silvanus, conjured a beautiful, majestic, yet powerful storm that covered the entirety of the High Forest. A lightning strike Silvanus imbued with powerful arcana, came down onto Alora the moment she was born, gifting her intense, unparalleled, storm sorcery powers. Silvanus blessed Alora with these gifts, knowing they would be in good hands, knowing she would use these powers to continue maintaining balance and to be a guiding light for many. When Alora was born, her parents and fellow druids noticed right away her powers were extremely unique from theirs.

Alora grew up alongside her druid mother, Aislinn, and her archdruid father, Morphus Lightcrown. Morphus was an extremely powerful archdruid, respected by many. He has a very unique gift given to him by Silvanus, a gift needing to be used with the utmost care: the gift of foresight; to see into the future. Morphus was blessed with this gift to provide guidance to those that needed it. Her father, knowing her destiny that she will be greatly needed, a light for many, gently guided and watched over her.

During her childhood, her parents witnessed how potent Alora’s power was. Alora spent 80 years, most her her elven youth, growing up with her parents and druid family. She was raised in the ways and teaching of the druids, which grounded her, and made her want to use her powers for good and to aid come naturally. Unlike most mages, who typically crave power and status. Anytime a threat got too close to her home for her liking, she would easily decimate all of them, and naturally developed an instinct and want to protect and defend.

A few days before Alora’s 80th birthday, her parents and her agreed that it would be best for Alora to develop her talents outside the grove, and while she was still young in her elven years. As talented as her parents and family at the grove were, none of them had the knowledge or insight to truly help Alora hone in on her powers. Her father, knowing how needed Alora would be, encouraged her this was the right path, without revealing too much of her destiny. She set off to Silverymoon the day after her 80th birthday to seek mentorship.

She found mentorship under an archmage, Zephyr “Surge” Thunderwind, another storm sorcerer, and lived in his mansion in the Northbank of Silverymoon with four other sorceress’s who have been under his mentorship for sometime now. Surge was a well known archmage, with his history and talents being recorded amongst wizards and scholars. He was respected. Being a storm sorcerer, Surge claimed that he would be Alora’s best, and only choice for mentorship, fully understanding her powers. Surge had strict rules, Alora quickly learned from the other sorceress’s that they were not allowed into any magical good shops without Surge’s explicit permission, repeated Surge’s viewpoint that the mage college’s don’t teach magic the way Surge does, and that his way of teaching is the best way, and that the college’s spew conflicting and inaccurate information about spell and magic use. Thus, putting Surge and his teachings on a pedestal. Surge also monitored their whereabouts, money use, and they all had curfews. The sorceress’s also shared that Surge took them in when they were in a mentally vulnerable state, praised him, and felt like owed him their life for taking them in. Surge maintained and pushed the belief that power should be respected, and the more powerful can freely look down upon the weaker. Knowing Alora’s natural talents and abilities, pushed that she should be careful with who she conversates with, that not everyone should have the privilege of knowing her or her lending her power for just anything. He very often praised her, even in front of her sorceress sisters, telling them that they would never amount to the power Alora naturally had, even if they tried.

Alora stayed in Silverymoon from the age of 80-120, continuing to develop her powers. She would every now and then visit her family at the grove, still feeling like her grove was truly her home.

Eventually, Alora got noticed by Silverymoon’s Spellguard after a random attack on the outskirts of Silverymoon. When normally mages would volunteer their services for the Spellguard, they requested Alora to join them, and that with her talents, she would give them the edge they needed with the ever-growing dangerous activity surrounding Silverymoon. She made an agreement that she would offer her aid when requested (which was more often than not), so she can maintain her independence and not be sworn to duty as an official member. This is where she developed a lot of her combat, cunning, deception, and, especially, her persuasion talents. She was a natural-born leader. The guard noticed that she was specially talented and proficient in rescue missions. She lead her groups on missions, and never failed. Having the utmost confidence in her abilities, they even started sending her on rescue missions in Menzoberranzan, an extremely dangerous place for surface elves, saving many other surface elves that were captured and enslaved there.

During her time in Silverymoon, and while she was aiding the Spellguard, Alora started becoming suspicious of Surge and his intentions. One day, after many traumatic events that coursed over the passed 40 years, her sisters could not take it anymore, and revealed that Surge abused all of them. He broke their spirits, which hindered the potency of their powers. Some of them, at this point, struggled to conjure the simplest level 2 spells. They also revealed one of Surge’s punishments was that he would use a device to drain their arcana, which then transferred the arcana to him. Suspecting that he is not as naturally talented as he claims, and that the only reason he is as powerful as he is, is because he drains their arcana from them. One of the sorceress’s, the one who has been training under him the longest, overheard Surge talking to one of his followers, people who praised and looked up to Surge, and wanted him to maintain the title of being the most powerful storm sorcerer, that his intentions for Alora was not to truly help her. Deep down, Surge knew Alora was more talented, and could easily become more power than he, yet never wanted her to truly know or admit to that fact. His intentions was to persuade her to stay by his side, in hopes that she would willingly share her power with him, becoming the most powerful storm sorcerers - together. However, in the event Alora refused, he simply planned to mind dominate her, and drain her powers until she became nothing but a husk, killing her.

Alora did some digging, and found a secret hatch under the mansion, finding many of Surge’s journals and communications. These entries revealed many things that had happened over the course of the years, realizing Surge was doing everything in his power to isolate Alora, killing off anyone who became close to her. One of the entries revealed he was behind the ambush that attacked her grove, killing both of her parents at age 107. Hoping that would cut off her link to the grove, keeping Alora at the mansion forever, hoping to break her spirit just enough to make her feel there was nowhere else to go.

In a pit of anger, Alora confronted Surge. After much fighting, Alora killed Surge in self-defence.

Free from Surge, the mansion was turned over to her sorceress sister, the one that had been there the longest. Alora helped train her sisters, and they gained back more than the power they had before. Alora decided she didn’t feel drawn to stay at Silverymoon anymore, with the dark cloud of Surge and the memories lingering over the city. She would visit her sisters and aid the Spellguard when requested, but she decided to stay and linger in the forests. Adventuring to cities, aiding anyone or anything that needed her, while beginning her healing journey, digesting everything that has happened to her.

She lingered until the age of 142, when she sensed an evil presence radiating from Baldur’s Gate. She flew there a handful of times, witnessing the refugee problem, cruelties, and evils festering from within. She provided what aid she could, until a nautiloid came over the city and captured her.

[sarahkateishii]

She Dances with the Breeze - Poetry

Can you tell I imagined a beautiful fantasy dancer, like a spirit or elf or driad or just a lovely village girl or priestess?

She Dances with the Breeze

She dances with the breeze, This friend of mine, Eyes radiant with the joy of life, Of music; This melody that enchants her heart And my vision As I watch from my place beneath the sun.

If there were leaves, I believe they would dance with her. Twisting around her on an unseen spiralling air current. It would not surprise me had she conjured this summer air herself, From the pure bliss in her soul as she circles the trees.

Does fabric tumble like that? I’d never known. Flickering in the air and around her feet, Her legs, Her shoulders …

This smile- When did it look so bright as now? It fills her face, her being, And then mine too as I smile with her, As I look at her dancing amongst the sun and sky With this hidden music unique to only her, Pulsing within her heart and her spirit And thus letting her dance with the breeze- With an unparalleled ease.

Skipping, turning, jumping, swaying; Enchanting my sight as I swear to commit this To eternal memory: My friend, As she dances with the breeze.

[lotreaux]

Dwarves are not mortal in the same sense as men are. Yes they die but the fate of their souls is not to leave the circles of the world. The dwarves themselves say that they go to the Halls of Mandos (Aule) and will help him in the remaking of the world. Well, where could these Halls be if not in Valinor (aka elf heaven)?

Elves respawn in the Halls of Mandos (also in Valinor) if they die, but they can sail the straight path to Valinor anyway because that's the base location of their race.

This seems really similar to me and now I'm wondering if maybe the straight path was open to dwarves all along, it's just that before Gimli nobody tried to sail it because dwarves love Arda and its stone and rock and they dislike the uncertainty of the sea.

I'm picturing Legolas and Gimli trying to sneak in like "umm haha I don't have a dwarf with me at all i'm just a regular elf hiiiii cousins of old, this chihuahua with me is not a dwarf at all that would be crazy ahaha"

but then Aule is waiting for them on the shore and he's like "finally one of my children comes it's been 3000 ages Gimli my wonderful child, my beautiful gemstone it brings me joy unparalleled to see you"

Forever obsessed with the fact that even the in-universe annotation in the appendices talking about how Legolas brought Gimli along to Valinor with him is like “We don’t actually know how they managed this. By all accounts, it doesn’t make any sense”

[thelorehold]

Thalia Brightwood

Gender: Female

Race: Elf

Class: Ranger

Appearance: Thalia stands tall and lithe, with sharp, emerald green eyes that seem to pierce through the shadows of the dense forests she calls home. Her long, auburn hair is usually tied back in a practical braid, adorned with small feathers and beads collected from her travels. She wears a mix of leather armor and green cloaks, blending seamlessly into her surroundings. Her movements are graceful and silent, a testament to her elven heritage.

Personality: Thalia is fiercely independent and resourceful, with a deep connection to nature. She has a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor, often masking her deep sense of empathy and loyalty to those she trusts. However, she can be wary of strangers, taking time to open up. Thalia is driven by a strong moral compass, often putting the needs of others before her own.

Goals and Motivation: Thalia seeks to protect the natural world from those who would exploit or destroy it. She is driven by a desire to preserve the beauty and balance of nature, often acting as a guardian of the forests and creatures within. Her ultimate goal is to establish a sanctuary where humans and nature can coexist harmoniously.

Flaw: Thalia’s deep fear of losing the natural world to industrialization and greed makes her overly cautious and sometimes mistrustful of others, especially those from cities or with ties to commerce. This fear can lead her to act impulsively, prioritizing nature over potential allies.

Backstory: Thalia grew up in the ancient elven forests of Eldergrove, raised by a community that taught her the ways of the ranger. Her parents were revered protectors of the forest, and she followed in their footsteps. However, when a group of human settlers attempted to clear part of the forest for development, her parents were killed defending their home. This tragedy cemented her resolve to protect the natural world at any cost. Since then, Thalia has traveled far and wide, honing her skills and gathering like-minded allies.

Voice: Thalia speaks in a measured, calm tone, with a slight musical lilt typical of elves. Her words are often deliberate and thoughtful, reflecting her careful nature. She uses few words but makes each one count, often surprising others with her sharp, insightful comments.

Skills and Abilities: Thalia is an expert tracker and hunter, with unparalleled archery skills. She is adept at surviving in the wilderness, using her knowledge of flora and fauna to her advantage. She has a keen eye for detail and can move silently through even the densest forests. Thalia is also skilled in herbalism, able to create potent remedies and poisons.

Character Synopsis: Thalia Brightwood is a guardian of the natural world, driven by a deep love for the forest and a desire to protect it from harm. Her independent nature and sharp wit make her a formidable ally and a challenging opponent. She navigates the line between caution and action, always striving to preserve the beauty and balance of nature.

[famousnerdtragedy]

Shadows and Starlight: The Love of an Angel and a Witch

Once, in a modern world where the extraordinary often lay hidden beneath the ordinary, a fallen angel roamed, seeking redemption for his ancient transgressions. His name was Seraphiel. Once a guardian of the heavens, he was now bound to the earthly plane as penance. His wings, once resplendent with celestial light, were now concealed beneath a cloak of shadow. The weight of his fall bore heavily upon his heart, a constant reminder of the glory he had lost.

In the quaint yet mysterious town of Sleepy Hollow, New York, where legends of old still whispered through the wind, magic thrived, though hidden in plain sight. Bella lived in this town, a woman of unparalleled beauty and power. She was half-human, half-elf, and a powerful witch. Her long black hair flowed like a midnight river, and her honey-yellow eyes shone with an inner light, reflecting the strength of her heritage. By day, she blended into the world as a librarian at the old Sleepy Hollow Library, but by night, she practiced ancient arts, protecting the town from dark forces.

One evening, Seraphiel, drawn by a powerful aura of magic, found himself wandering into the old library where Bella worked. The moment he saw her, he felt an inexplicable pull. She was reading an ancient tome, her fingers tracing the delicate script of a long-forgotten language.

“May I help you?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed a hint of curiosity.

“I seek knowledge,” he replied, his voice deep and resonant. “And perhaps, redemption.”

Bella’s eyes narrowed slightly. She sensed something otherworldly about him but chose to remain silent on the matter. “Follow me,” she said, leading him to a secluded corner of the library where ancient books were kept.

As Seraphiel delved into the texts, Bella found herself intrigued by this mysterious stranger. His knowledge of the celestial was vast, yet there was a sadness in his eyes that spoke of a great fall. Over time, they began to share stories, their bond growing stronger with each passing day. Seraphiel found solace in Bella’s presence, and Bella found a companion who understood the burdens of a life intertwined with magic.

One night, as they walked through the eerie woods of Sleepy Hollow, a dark presence emerged, threatening to engulf them. Seraphiel’s eyes glowed with a fierce light as he spread his hidden wings, shielding Bella from the attack. She raised her hands, chanting ancient spells that caused the ground to tremble and the air to crackle with energy.

Together, they fought off the darkness, their powers intertwining in perfect harmony. As the last of the shadows dissipated, Seraphiel looked at Bella with newfound admiration.

“You are incredible,” he said, his voice filled with awe.

“As are you,” she replied, her eyes shining with gratitude.

In the aftermath of the battle, Seraphiel and Bella sat on a fallen log, the moonlight casting a gentle glow around them. He revealed his true identity, his past, and the reason for his fall. Bella listened intently, her heart aching for the angel who had lost so much.

“Maybe your redemption isn't about seeking forgiveness from the heavens,” she said gently. “It's about finding peace within yourself and using your power to protect and heal.” Seraphiel nodded, feeling a clarity he hadn't known in centuries. “And perhaps,” he said, taking her hand, “my journey is meant to be shared with you.”

Seraphiel nodded, feeling a sense of clarity he had not felt in centuries. “And maybe,” he said, taking her hand, “I’m meant to share this journey with you.”

From that night on, Seraphiel and Bella became inseparable. They combined their powers to safeguard Sleepy Hollow, forging a bond that transcended their pasts. In each other, they found strength, love, and a purpose greater than redemption alone.

As they stood on the rooftop of Bella’s apartment building, overlooking the town, Seraphiel wrapped his wings around her, and she leaned into his embrace. Together, they faced the future, ready to confront any darkness that dared to threaten their world.

In a modern world filled with chaos and wonder, a fallen angel and a half-human, half-elf witch found love and redemption in each other’s arms, proving that even in the most unexpected places, magic and love could prevail.

[ainews]

Biplanes are small, versatile aircraft that have been used for a variety of tasks throughout history. From military operations to crop dusting, these planes have proven themselves to be reliable and useful. However, one unique use for biplanes that many people may not know about is their potential for transport and preservation of elf cells.

Elves, creatures of myth and legend, are believed to possess magical abilities and unparalleled beauty. In popular culture, these beings are often depicted as slender and graceful, possessing long pointed ears and other unique physical features. While elves may only exist in our imaginations, their cells and DNA can be found in samples collected from human tissues.

These elf cells, like all cells, are highly sensitive and require proper handling and preservation in order to maintain their viability. This is where biplanes come in. Due to their small size and versatility, biplanes are able to access remote and hard-to-reach areas, making them ideal for collecting and transporting elf cells that may be found in these areas.

Additionally, biplanes have a slower and more controlled flying speed compared to larger aircraft, meaning they are less likely to cause vibrations or sudden movements that could damage these delicate cells during transportation. This is especially important for biologists and researchers who are studying elf cells in their natural environments.

Furthermore, biplanes are equipped with specialized compartments and climate control systems that can maintain the ideal temperature, humidity, and air pressure for cell preservation during flight. This is crucial for preserving the integrity of elf cells, as any changes in these factors can cause damage or even death to the cells.

In addition to their practical uses, there is also a certain romance and charm associated with biplanes that make them a fitting choice for transporting precious elf cells. Just as elves are often associated with magic and grace, biplanes also have a certain whimsical and elegant quality to them that make them a fitting mode of transportation for something as rare and special as elf cells.

In conclusion, while biplanes may seem like a relic of the past, they continue to prove their worth in various industries, including the field of cell biology. With their unique capabilities and specialized equipment, biplanes are the perfect choice for safely and efficiently transporting and preserving elf cells, allowing for further research and exploration into the mysteries of these mythical creatures.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Rings of Power Thoughts

Not particularly spoilery, but under a cut, just in case. Highly disorganized.

Visuals are beautiful.

The Elves

"We had no word for death." Highly poetic Galadriel, but your step-grandmother is rolling in her grave. And your uncle is presumably about ready to rise from his and fight you about it.

So Sauron's history is going to be really different, huh. And so is Finrod's.

. . . Not sure I like that. Give me Beren and Finrod's heroic shenanigans, people.

But we did get cool First Age flashbacks, which was nice.

(Oath flashback! YES!)

"You will not be permitted to attend the meeting. Elf Lords only."

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, what?

If Elrond - heir to just about every elvish house they've got left - isn't elf lord enough for this meeting, then I assume Gil-Galad is just. Talking into the mirror, because if Elrond isn't lord enough for this meeting, then no one short of the high king is going to be.

I do love that Elrond's Gil-Galad's speechwriter, though.

"You're my friend, Galadriel!"

Cousin. The word you are looking for is cousin.

(I am aware that with the rights situation, how much of this they can reference is up in the air, but I do not actually care.)

"Are you familiar with the works of Lord Celebrimbor?"

His cousin, Celebrimbor? Last heir to the house that was, uh. Instrumental to shaping his childhood? That Celebrimbor?

Yeah, I think Elrond's familiar.

I do like this Celebrimbor's ambition, though. Even if he does talk about Feanor like it's not his grandfather he's talking about.

That is not how sailing West works. Not even a little.

(Galadriel: The only thing keeping me from sailing West is my duty.)

(The Valar: Uh. Sure. Also that ban we put on you, but we can call it your duty if you like.)

(Gil-Galad: I'm giving you an unparalleled honor: you're sailing West!)

(The Valar: Like we explicitly asked everyone but the leaders of the rebellion to do?)

(Elrond: I can't imagine the honor of being called to go!)

(Elrond. Elrond, darling. Everyone in the west would have loved it if you sailed at the end of the First Age. You stayed quite deliberately. Elrond. Elrond, please.)

Galadriel, I support your desire to stay, but I think abandoning ship that far out is actually just a great way to get to Aman the hard way.

The Harfoots

I love the Harfoots so far, especially Nori and Poppy!

If meteor man is Gandalf, I think that's a great introduction to the hobbits. If meteor man is Sauron, then I desperately need Bilbo to somehow find out about the wheelbarrow scene and immortalize it in song.

Easily my favorite part of the show so far.

The Dwarves

Durin's children are adorable.

I - hm. Durin himself is complicated. I like the character as a dwarvish prince, but I'm not sure I like him as Durin.

Also, his whole thing with Elrond is . . . kind of weird. I like the emphasis on the elves' different perceptions of time, but it feels weird to do that with ELROND of all people. Half-elven Elrond. Brother chose to be mortal Elrond.

Speaking of which, given Elrond's canonical brother and what canonically happened to him, I feel like "practically a brother to me" is a phrase Elrond wouldn't throw around lightly.

(And speaking of weird phrasing, Celebrimbor's metaphor about aging parents feels weird from an elf. Not impossible, given he's met mortals, but jarring.)

And going back to Durin . . . it feels very odd that if he wanted Elrond at his wedding or to meet his children, that he wouldn't have, like. Sent a letter? And if he did, it seems like Elrond would have had a much clearer idea going in what Durin was upset about. Communication seems to have broken down on both sides there.

Although given the ending of the episode, maybe there's more to it than that?

Arondir and Bronwyn

I like Arondir a lot, and I'm very intrigued by that storyline in general. Except . . .

I'm concerned about Bronwyn's son. I hate corruption/possession arcs.

Conclusion:

I am definitely intrigued enough to keep watching, but their treatment of the lore occasionally had me screaming into a pillow. I almost want to write a scene where book!elves pull some of that dialogue on each other so that the other person in that conversation can have the appropriate reaction.

In general with the elves I get the feeling that I would like it a lot a more if I knew a lot less about the Silmarillion. The dynamics between the Finweans aren't bad, they're just . . . hard to justify with the lore as I know it.

[local-fanfic-addict]

The Sea is Always Right

Elendil x Fem!Reader

Beauty and the Beast AU

Notes: Romance, No Songs, Themes of Manipulation, Unwanted Romantic Advances, Loose Plot, Themes of Prejudice, and Heavy Canon Divergence (Canon? Who’s she?) Seriously, there's like… no RoP canon here. It’s almost all freeform. (It’s so I can add in references.)

{Chapter One}

It was a crisp and clear morning in a tiny seaside village on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Numenor, where the sea never slept, the small and cozy waves always lapping at the edges of the docks they had built as people came and went throughout the day doing their busywork and running their shops. 

It was a particularly crowded day at the market, where stalls and shops lined either side of the main road through the town. The sound of chattering and the ruckus of footsteps filled the air, along with the occasional horse passing through; not to mention the whispers of your own name that came not so quietly from the lips of some of the nosier townsfolk, though now that you noticed it, it seemed like all of the townsfolk were in on the rumors surrounding you.

Numenor had a great dislike for Elves ever since the rumor that an Elf had taken their King started to surface many years ago, and that spread like a tidal wave throughout the villages and smaller towns that lived within the Kingdom. Soon everyone believed that the Elves had something to do with their missing King, and though they couldn’t stop the Elves from living in Numenor, they shunned the race and did everything they could to make sure they were as unliked as possible.

It was a cruel thing for them to do without grounds, of course, but you really couldn’t care less, for you believed yourself to be completely in the right about your decisions to support the Elves. 

A smug smile spread across your lips as you entered the bookstore, one of your favorite places to be anytime you didn’t have chores to do. The smell of leather and paper immediately hit your nose, the tall shelves stacked with scrolls and expertly bound books on all sorts of topics. You inhaled deeply, feeling at home within the maze of shelves as the owner of the shop caught your eye and smiled softly at you.

“Mae govannen, Arondir! I hope the morning has been pleasant to you so far.” You greeted the Sindarian Elf with a respectful nod of the head, pulling out the small, red leather book you had stashed away in your satchel. 

“Apart from a few curious passersby, all has been quiet. It’s good to see you, (Y/N).” He greeted, his voice the same quiet tone it had always been. Pleasant, and befitting him. You held the book out to him and he took it with gentle hands, setting it on a pile of books waiting to be put on their proper shelves. 

“I came to return the book you lent me.”

The Elf smiled, he was always grateful for your patronage as almost no other human ever came into his shop in this town simply because of his ears. But you had always been able to see past that, and so his shop was now like your second home at times. Arondir had his reservations about you at first, but over the years, you two had grown to be friends, even exchanging gifts on special occasions. He had been particularly fond of the cloak you had given him one year, with a wooden clasp that spoke to his Elven heritage, it was a gift he would treasure forever. 

Likewise, he had gifted you a small bottle of healing tonic, one imbued with the Elven healing properties that other parts of the world whispered were unparalleled in their abilities. You were human, and thus susceptible to injury, so his gift seemed both caring and practical, exactly what you had come to expect from an Elf like Arondir, though maybe not in such an expensive and personal fashion. Not that you were complaining. The gesture had strengthened your bond as friends.

“Finished it already?” He spoke your name with a raise of his brow.

“Oh yes, it was just too lovely to put down! You know I enjoy stories of far off lands and adventure!” 

“But you were just here three days ago.” 

“I know, but can you blame me?” 

“I suppose not… Perhaps you have also come to borrow another then?” Arondir’s voice was laced with a teasing tone, knowing you all too well in the years you had both lived in the town.

“Perhaps…” You couldn’t hide the grin that spread across your face, immediately making your way to one of the shelves that reached the height of the building in the back, climbing the ladder to one of the taller sections of books. 

“I apologize, but I haven’t gotten anything new in a few weeks. It’s becoming more of a hassle to trade with the merchants here, the Sea Guard seems to be tightening their grip around the Elves…” You could hear the hint of disdain in his voice, completely warranted.

“Well… That’s the wonder of books Arondir, you can read them over and over again and never get tired of them.” You tried to not feed more into the topic of the Sea Guard, your eyes wandering over the shelves looking for that one particular book.

It took you all of half a second before your hand rested on the spine of one of the more worn books, lifting it from its perch and making your way down the ladder before you placed it in his hands.

“I’ll just borrow this one!”

“That was the book you took from me five days before this one.” Arondir chuckled, picking up the red leather book you had given him minutes ago. “Plus you’ve read it so many times before, do you never tire of it?”

“No, never. It is my favorite book here.” You had fond memories of this book, it being the first one you ever borrowed from Arondir. 

There was a few seconds of silence where Arondir seemed to have been thinking something over, before he placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Well, if you like it so much, then you may keep it. As a gift.” He gave your shoulder a pat before returning to his desk to grab the pile of misplaced books, you hot on his heels behind him.

“Arondir, I couldn't possibly-“ 

“I insist. You’ve done far too much for me in the years I’ve known you, (Y/N). You’re a kindhearted woman, and I know many of my kin also appreciate when you visit them as well. I’ve heard them say as much.” He knows how the human townsfolk see you, and so his compliment was not one idly placed. You needed someone to remind you every now and then that you were appreciated.

“Sometimes I think you were sent for a reason with how much you have helped the Elves staying in Numenor since you first sailed here. What is that saying the Numenorians have? “The sea is always right?” He chuckles. “I believe they might be onto something in your case.”

With a smile, you bid Arondir goodbye and set off into the bustling market, nose in your borrowed, now owned, book. You had always liked this story, the one about the Human who fell in love with an Elf and how they devoted everything to each other. You had always found it so romantic, despite what everyone around you said. Who’s to say an Elf couldn’t love a Human? They’re both just people, living in the same world and breathing the same air. 

You mainly read it for the romance, finding something so endearing about someone giving up everything for you, even eternal life… You sighed dreamily. 

If only something like that could happen to you.

The back of your book suddenly hit something hard and shoved the pages into your face. You had walked into- 

“Hello (Y/N), what have you got there?” 

You could feel your face go a bit red with embarrassment from within the pages of the book as you withdrew from the proximity of the man you had run into, clearing your throat and regaining your composure as you looked up to meet him. 

“A book, Halbrand. You know that one I was telling you about a few days ago?” There was a bit more venom in your voice than you cared to admit, but he deserved it in your eyes, practically having your father, Celebrimbor, wrapped around his charming finger. Enthralled by the swordsmith's knowledge and dexterity around his inventions. Were you jealous? Maybe, but there was just something that struck you as strange about the man, having shown up out of the blue a few years ago and suddenly he was a staple of the town. 

Perhaps you could see why your father was working with Halbrand, from some odd perspective. He was knowledgeable, you would give him that, but you would never understand why he let Halbrands grubby minion follow along… You had heard the man's name a few times. Waldreg, an older human who seemed to be more wrapped around Halbrands finger than your father was, if that was even possible. Waldreg always cowered, like some lesser specimen while in the presence of Halbrand, and it was always awkward and pathetic to watch. 

You didn’t know why Halbrand and Waldreg were aiming to get so close to your father in particular, but you didn’t like it. There were too many reasons, few of them good ones that you could think of. You had tried to see Halbrand in a better light, if only for your father's sake, but it was hard when he sometimes made you feel uncomfortable for no particular reason. Yet you cared too much for your father's wellbeing, for while the noble Elf might not have been your father by birth, he had cared for you long enough that there was no difference to you. He was a wonderful father, supportive and enthusiastic about your hobbies, just as you were about his. That’s the only reason you really tolerated Halbrand, because it made your father happy.

Halbrand laughed at your comment, an unassuming and charming laugh, and you sighed. 

“Of course, the one with the Human and the Elven maiden! How could I forget? You know, half of the books in that library came from me, I’m glad I know your favorite one out of the lot.” There was a glint in his eye as he smiled at you, a wide smile that you were sure was meant to be charming. It kind of was, but you just had far too many preconceived notions about Halbrand to find it genuinely charming.

“You’re a smart girl with all the books and scrolls you read, despite what the townsfolk say. Would you want to take a break though? And have a drink with me? Take a break from all that reading, hm?” He wrapped his arm quickly and firmly around your shoulder, leading you towards the tavern that he frequented with his gaggle of men he sometimes went hunting with. Oh, the good times where he went off hunting for a few days and left you with blessed silence. He was quite the chatterbox. 

“No- No Halbrand, I’m quite alright. Reading isn’t some chore for me, and I must return to my father.” It was a struggle escaping from his grasp, as he seemed intent on ignoring your wishes and dragging you along anyways, but after a bit more wiggling and straining, you wormed your way free and made a safe few feet of space between the two of you, Waldreg snickering behind you. 

“You mean the knife-eared inventor who can’t even make a proper relic without the help of my Lord Halbrand?” He let out a wicked laugh, slapping his hand on his knee like he had made the most amusing quip of his life.

“How dare you call my father that!” You could feel your face heat up at the insult, almost tempted to hit him across the face with your book before Halbrand beat you to it, hitting Waldreg upside the head with the back of his hand.

The smaller man whimpered, groveling immediately before Halbrand. It made you pity him in the most uncaring way imaginable. It was like watching a rat, or something lower… How could someone value themselves so little?

“Do not speak such words again.” Halbrand spoke rather calmly, enough to make you question, if only for a second, your preconceived notions. Maybe it was just because it was said in front of you, but had you been less suspicious of Halbrand, you might have thought he cared as much for the elves as you did. 

“I apologize for him. I won’t keep you any longer, (Y/N). Give your father my well wishes.” His goodbye was curt, and he seemed to be speaking through his teeth almost. It had you wanting to leave even more, you had never felt more awkward. 

With a final glower towards Waldreg, and a suspicious look at Halbrand, you turned on your heel without so much as a goodbye, and made your way down the road towards home, following the sea and the sunset as it led you back to the house you had lived so long in, a cozy cottage that lie nestled behind the tree line that gave way to the smooth sands of the beaches and ocean beyond it. There was light to be seen in the window, sparking like a forge as smoke rose from the wide chimney, Celebrimbor working tirelessly on his newest project. 

You opened the door into your house and was greeted by your father pacing in front of his forge, coals smoldering within its fiery depths. He held something in his hands, a black sword hilt, its blade broken, a strange sigil on the cross guard. 

“I don’t know why you keep that thing around, you can’t melt it down, and we do not know if its blade can be remade.” You placed a hand on his shoulder, hopeful that he would set the weapon aside. It was his newest fixation, and you didn’t even know where he had found it!

“There’s something special about this hilt though, I can feel it. Why else would it be so stubborn to attempts at tampering with it?” 

“Special? Strange maybe, but not special. Surely you have other things to do besides stare at that old hilt for hours on end? You haven’t been doing that the entire time I’ve been gone, have you?” You teased him, setting aside your new book on the shelf and hanging your satchel out of sight. 

“You would find that amusing, wouldn’t you, (Y/N)?” The Elf’s voice returned your own tone, setting the blade down he went to stoke the coals in the forge. 

“I was hoping to start heating the hilts metal tomorrow, but I fear I do not possess enough of the right material if it does indeed prove that that blade can be fixed. I am planning a journey to visit the Dwarves in hopes that they will resupply me.” He said little else on the subject, and that always left you with little light into his projects, so you resigned to just support him from afar by running extra errands and doing a bit more housework.

There were days where he would come to an impasse in his work, and so Halbrand would step in and use his knowledge to undo the situation, setting everything on track again. You hoped that with your father leaving for Khazad-dûm, Halbrand would have no reason to visit, but you knew that was wishful thinking… 

There was a feeling of worry that crept into your head, but you had to trust that all would be well on your father's trip, so you saddled Berek, prepared Celebrimbor some rations for his trek, and sent him off on his journey with a heartfelt farewell, watching him and your beloved horse fade into the distance.