#the matter of arda

[aeide-thea]

this tolkien meta points out some parallels i'd never particularly considered before, but the main thing it made me realize, which is tangential (and also negative) so i'm sticking it in its own post, is—why is tolkien so obsessed with niblings?

thorin has nephews. bilbo has a nephew. théoden has niblings. and with both thorin and théoden we know they're the children of a sister who gets no screentime. (denethor's sons via a long-dead wife get an honorable mention in this category also.) and part of me thinks: isn't this basically, conscious or not, a strategy that lets tolkien write about dynasties while effectively eliding the sex and marriages—and women!—that produce them?

which is easy to shrug off with the argument that those things aren't the stuff of Adventure, but rather of the society the adventurers leave behind them; but at the same time, it's all of a piece with the deeply sexist, deeply catholic ('sex must occur only within the confines of marriage, which becomes a euphemistic container for it') sensibilities that permeate tolkien's work more generally. like—look at homer. look at vergil. the domestic and familial can absolutely appear in epic. women can appear in epic.*

and of course you can say, well, tolkien's work is really more in dialogue with anglo-saxon and germanic traditions, and i'd have to admit i haven't read those stories since i was a preteen (watch me now get really into the nibelungenlied/völsunga saga/eddas…); but iirc even those featured fewer women who were always-already-dead!

⸻ * obviously éowyn does in fact get significant screentime in lotr! and even in a way where she's involved in Actual Affairs and not, like goldberry and galadriel, just a pretty symbol of the adventurers' temporary reentry into a settled sphere. but you notice that she both has to take on a male role in order to take part—she can't just fight, she has to become 'dernhelm' to do it—and that she's restored tidily to proper wedded femininity by the end of the story (hoo boy can we talk abt faramir literally wrapping her in his dead mother's mantle). anyway. loved éowyn growing up and also very vehemently think people (often women!) who claim her narrative isn't in fact sexist because it's about tolkien ~valuing healing~ are closing their eyes to how that narrative functions when it's applied to a woman specifically.

[elucubrare]

movie quotes are all well and good, but a proposed single "fuck" in LotR:

"Not if I found it on the fucking highway would I take it, I said."

[blueflipflops]

One thing i like about the Celebrian x Elrond x Gil Galad ship is that Elrond is once again saying "RIP to my ancestors but i'm different". Like , oh Finwe marrying two people caused strife and doom? Cannot be him, he says as he kisses both his spouses on the mouth. Skill issue, he says as he raise their kids together without resentment between them. Its literally so funny to think about him sailing back to Valinor and was like "Well I have two hands so I'm married both of them :)" and nobody knows what to do with that

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Imagine: you are Idril and you hate your cousin viscerally and this hate is later justified in every way possible. He is a monster and a traitor and as unlike your belovéd aunt as possible. And he dies, and he does not come to the Halls of Mandos and does not reembody. Perhaps you are horrible for thinking this: but you are glad. You are glad he is gone and unable to return. He was a nightmare who crawled into your stainless city and tore it down when it was least expected. He made your father love him, and then he betrayed him, and you will never forgive nor forget it. Now there is no way he can hurt you, your husband, your son, your people– and there is no one he can betray.

and then your aunt reembodies.

Your aunt reembodies and yes, she died for that monster, but she was blameless for she was forced to marry evil and birth evil and love evil. But now she's reborn without those cobwebs of enchantment and you are prepared for her grief and rage over having been controlled. She will not be the same. But she will be back, at long last.

Except. she comes back and none of these things happen.

She doesn't care that her son is evil and treacherous, more his father's son than hers. She doesn't care. She grieves for your city and in the next breath she wishes for her son's return. So you love your aunt and your aunt loves the creature of your nightmares– the betrayer that nearly killed your son and brought your home to ruin. So you love your aunt but she does not listen when you tell her to let her son go because she never saw–

and so your aunt leaves. and it feels like betrayal. like your cousin ruining your family further from beyond the grave.

she still visits, but no one in the family knows where she lives. She is strange– both the steely eyed aunt you remember and yet sometimes she looks like she has never seen you before. you try to break the enchantment that she must be under to keep looking for your Marred cousin, but there is nothing for you to find. all your trying does is send her into a rage the likes you have only seen once before: when she dragged your father away from following your mother in death for your sake.

you love your aunt, and most days, you are sure your aunt loves you.

but you cannot understand her, and in this you have lost her as surely as when she died.

[arda-ancalima]

fighting for my life against a bowl of rice krispie treats

[aeide-thea]

always interested in metatext and grateful to OP for having posted this, although as with JKR it's a little like, if it's not in the text itself then it is in fact reasonable of people to question its absence, john—

having said that i'm afraid i got stuck on the photographed-but-not-transcribed portion of this which reads

Criticism of the speed of the relationship or ‘love’ of Faramir and Eowyn. In my experience feelings and decisions ripen very quickly (as measured by mere ‘clock-time’, which is actually not justly applicable) in periods of great stress, and especially under the expectation of imminent death. And I do not think that persons of high estate and breeding need all the petty fencing and approaches in matters of ‘love’. This tale does not deal with a period of ‘Courtly Love’ and its pretences; but with a culture more primitive (sc. less corrupt) and nobler. (bolding mine)

like. a LOT happening there!!

Tolkien: "I think you misunderstand Faramir."

I think you misunderstand Faramir. He was daunted by his father: not only in the ordinary way of a family with a stern proud father of great force of character, but as a Númenórean before the chief of the one surviving Númenórean state. He was motherless and sisterless (Eowyn was also motherless), and had a 'bossy' brother. He had been accustomed to giving way and not giving his own opinions air, while retaining a power of command among men, such as a man may obtain who is evidently personally courageous and decisive, but also modest, fair-minded and scrupulously just, and very merciful.

I think he understood Eowyn very well. Also to be Prince of Ithilien, the greatest noble after Dol Amroth in the revived Númenórean state of Gondor, soon to be of imperial power and prestige, was not a 'market-garden job' as you term it. Until much had been done by the restored King, the P. of Ithilien would be the resident march-warden of Gondor, in its main eastward outpost - and also would have many duties in rehabilitating the lost the dreadful vale of Minas Ithil (Morgul).

I did not, naturally, go into territory, and clearing it of outlaws and orc-remnants, not to speak of details about the way in which Aragorn, as King of Gondor, would govern the realm. But it was made clear that there was much fighting, and in the earlier years of A.'s reign expeditions against enemies in the East. The chief commanders, under the King, would be Faramir and Imrahil; and one of these would normally remain a military commander at home in the King's absence.

A Númenórean King was monarch, with the power of unquestioned decision in debate; but he governed the realm with the frame of ancient law, of which he was administrator (and interpreter) but not the maker. In all debatable matters of importance domestic, or external, however, even Denethor had a Council, and a least listened to what the Lords of the Fiefs and the Captains of the Forces had to say. Aragorn re-established the Great Council of Gondor, and in that Faramir, who remained by inheritance the Steward (or representative of the King during his absence abroad, or sickness, or between his death and the accession of his heir) would [be] the chief counsellor.

from The Letters of JRR Tolkien, edited by Humphrey Carpenter, letter no. 244, a draft to a critical reader

[electroniccollectiondonut]

obsessed with a Telerin spouse of one of Feanor's sons being forced to choose a side at Alqualonde

[entishramblings]

Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.

Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader

Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba

🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading

Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.

Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.

Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)

Additional Content: moodboard linked here

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.

That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?

She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.

Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.

Cursed to guide them and bend them.

Cursed to behold them.

Cursed to be them.

Alone.

A Watcher of Wanderers.

She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.

But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.

She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.

Still, she wandered more.

As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.

Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.

Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.

So, she followed them.

One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.

Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.

Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.

From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant

Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.

See that was the thing.

Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.

The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.

The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..

She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.

But he couldn’t….

No…

He couldn’t have heard her….could he?

Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?

…..

The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.

There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.

Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.

(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.

Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…

A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.

Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”

(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.

Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.

“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.

He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.

…..

The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.

Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.

However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.

She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.

Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.

His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.

Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.

“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”

The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.

Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."

Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.

Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”

Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”

The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."

Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”

Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."

“Cursed? But why?”

The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”

“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”

Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”

At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.

Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.

"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.

….

As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.

It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.

It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.

When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.

When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.

When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.

When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.

This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.

When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.

When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.

When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.

A watcher of wanderers indeed.

As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.

Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.

Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.

Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.

Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.

In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.

He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.

Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.

He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.

She hadn't left when he closed the windows.

She was still here.

Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.

The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….

In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.

…..

Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.

Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.

The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.

Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).

As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.

Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.

Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.

He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.

With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.

In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.

However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.

Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.

A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.

Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.

Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.

"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"

She remained unresponsive.

Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.

Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"

Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.

“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”

Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”

Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”

Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”

The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”

The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.

Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”

It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”

Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.

“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"

Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”

Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.

The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."

Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.

Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.

The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.

……

Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.

He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.

"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"

Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.

The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.

“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”

Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”

Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”

“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”

Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”

Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”

Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”

The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”

He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.

Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.

Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.

"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.

To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”

She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."

A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."

The elf smiled gently in response.

A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.

Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”

She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”

The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?

(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."

…..

The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.

However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.

“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”

She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."

Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”

Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.

(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”

The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”

“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.

He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”

“Say it,” he commanded.

“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”

Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.

…..

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[pedriscroquettes]

𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ✮ K. YILDIZ

summary. an old friend of yours is in need of cheering up and it’s your job to fix him.

warnings. none! except reader is ferdi kadıoğlu’s younger sister and kenan is v sad in this.

gabri speaks! i’ve been seeing so many videos of the hate kenan is getting and just felt like writing this. oops.

THE NOISE OF scattered footsteps on your way to your brother’s room was enough to grab your attention. as you turned the corner in hopes of finding out what was causing such commotion you came across half of the team huddled around one of the rooms. your face instantly filled with confusion wondering what they were doing there and who’s room were they gathering around. were they planning some sort of prank?

“guys what are-” you try to ask but you’re shushed before you have the opportunity to finish your sentence.

“shh!” your own brother scolds you as you stand there bewildered. you quickly smack ferdi on the arm before joining the guys. you had nothing better to do anyways.

“wait, your sister!” bariş yells. “she’s a girl.”

you immediately turned towards him with a face of disbelief wondering what the hell was going on. not to mention your brother’s teammate had decided to just state the obvious and you were beginning to get anxious.

“she’s a girl?” your brother repeated mocking him.

“i meant that she understands feelings better than we do maybe she can help. maybe she can get him to catch his flight. it’ll be even worse for him if he gets in trouble with his club too.” and now you’re wondering who the hell he’s talking about.

“okay, ferdi you better tell me what’s happening before i call mom and tell her about that vase of hers you broke trying to impress sera.” you scold him earning a glare from him.

“it’s kenan.” you freeze at the mention of his name. “he hasn’t left his room since we got back and arda noticed he was reading some of the comments on his post. we think he’s upset but he won’t talk to any of us. he has a flight back to italy in six hours but he hasn’t so much as gotten out of bed. maybe you can help? please?”

it takes a lot of pleading and begging from the players but soon enough you’re carefully opening the door to his room. you’re careful to not trip on anything or cause the slightest little noise in an effort to not bother him. although you conclude that as soon as he realizes you’re in his room he might be bothered. your relationship with him wasn’t the best and the last time the two of you had talked he’d made it clear the two of you would never be friends.

you spot him laid down on his bed with a hoodie covering him. he lays still but you’re quick to notice the rhythmic beating of his chest. he’s either asleep or completely zoned out. either way it’s not good. you notice all of his belonging scattered around the room and his suitcase completely empty meaning he was more than ready to miss his flight. you felt bad.

“kenan…”

you notice his body tense at the sound of your voice but he doesn’t move. he stays still hoping you think he’s asleep, but you know better, you know him better. you had been friends once and although that was left in the past you remembered things. he was clearly upset and not just about the loss there was something more. you manage to catch a glimpse of his phone. it was replaying the same video over and over again and you noticed the comments open. every single one criticizing him. he’d probably spent the last few hours reading all of them. you quickly shut off his phone placing it on the counter, away from him.

“kenan, you need to get up.” you beg him but again he stays still.

you take matters into your own hands and walk towards his side of the bed. you spot his hazel eyes staring away into oblivion. it’s obvious he hasn’t slept at all but before you can reach out to him he rolls over. in any other situation you probably would’ve laughed and playfully smacked him but you weren’t even his friend anymore.

“you can pretend i’m not here but i’m not leaving this room without you.” you scold him.

he budges at that sitting up straight next to you. it’s oddly comforting the way the two of you sit next to each other. you notice he hasn’t taken his hoodie off and recall some of the comments that scolded him for touching it. you wondered if that was the cause of him having his hair hidden. you knew kenan, you knew he was confident, and this? this wasn’t him. you know it’s risky but you place your hands on his trying to break a barrier to make him comfortable. there was a time you’d hold him close and hopefully you could again today to help him. surprisingly he lets you.

“why are you here?” he whispers remaining still.

“ferdi told me that- they’re all worried- we’re all worried about you.” you struggle to say.

“why? i’m fine.” he scoffs.

“no, you’re not-” you’re once again interrupted by his loud voice.

“how would you know? you don’t know me anymore.” he scolds you.

“maybe we’re not friends anymore kenan, maybe we don’t make fun of ferdi’s messages to sera anymore, but i still know you and i know you’re upset.” you rub your thumb on his palm. “i’m here because i still care.”

there’s a brief silence between the two of you almost like an understanding. he knew you cared but he was scared to be vulnerable in front of you. he didn’t want to be hurt in front of you just in case you left again but he can’t keep his feelings in any longer. he’s leaning into you until his head is resting on your thighs. he seeks your comfort once again like he used to before.

“they all hate me.” he whispers. you begin to rub his back at that trying to soothe him. “it’s all my fault.”

“no, kenan it’s not. they’re just upset about the loss and using you as an outlet because all their girlfriends find you hot.” he laughs a little at the comment but you can still spot a little resentment in his voice.

“they’re right though i should’ve played better, i should’ve created more chances, i should’ve scored.” he ranted. “it hurts more because they’re right.”

“okay. you should’ve played better okay that’s fine but laying here and rotting into your bed isn’t. you want to be better? fine, but moping around isn’t going to get you anywhere. you want to prove yourself? let them know that you’re better than that? you need to get on that plane in six hours and become juventus’ greatest young talent.” you try and motivate him.

“what if i can’t?” he chokes out.

“sit up.” you demand and shockingly he does. “look me straight in the eyes.”

you’re careful with your next moves not wanting to invade his personal space so suddenly but you don’t feel that you have a choice. you grab him by the cheeks making sure he’s looking directly at you, making sure he’s attentive to your words, and making sure that he knows you’re on his side.

“hey! do they know you? do they know the sacrifices you put in day in and day out to be where you are today? do they know the pressure you put yourself through to be better? no, but i do. so i know that you can prove yourself to them. kenan, you are a star and you can’t let some silly comments about your hair take that away. you made mistakes so what? we all make them. there’s always a next time. especially for you. you’re one of a kind.” you look into his eyes hoping he absorbed in all of your words. you let go of his face soon after hoping you weren’t too pushy.

“you should be a motivational speaker.” the two of you laugh and that’s when you realize that he’s going to be okay. maybe not right now but he would be.

the two of you spend the next couple of minutes joking about and chatting. the two of you catch up with your lives mentioning future plans and past events. it feels like you have your best friend back with you. the conversation is flowing and secrets are shared once again between the two of you. and with that so are secret glances. as soon as you turned away he found time to admire your face and when he would turn his face another direction you’d do the same. you hardly noticed but his fingers would touch yours every once in a while practically begging to be enveloped by yours.

it’s not until you’re on the way out the door ready to announce to everyone that kenan would be out soon that she stops you. he’s finally taken his hoodie off and you can see him completely. it was comforting to see him like this, all joyful and less upset.

“be there for me.” he blurts out.

“what?” you stare at him dumbfounded.

“when i doubt myself again, when everyone is saying i only care about my looks, when i move leagues, be there for me. i want you there.” he pours all his emotions out for you.

“if you provide with the tickets yeah.” you joke no understanding the depths of his words.

“no, you don’t get it. i don’t want you there every other match. i want you there every match with my jersey. i don’t want you there as old friends or just best friends. i want you there as my person. i need you there as my person.” he confesses. “i let you go before i won’t do it again.”

“kenan…” you can’t finish your sentence because you’re leaning in. his hands are on your waist and yours are on his cheeks again. his hazel eyes bore into yours pleading to give in. your lips are full of fervor as they move against his. you can’t fully comprehend that you’re kissing kenan after all this time but it feels amazing. he tries to deepen the kiss but you stop him.

“kenan wait. i want this i really do but you’re still upset. i don’t want this to cloud your feelings.” you express.

“yeah, okay. you’re right. thank you.” his cheeks are crimson red as you separate from him. “i’ll text you before i head out so i can say goodbye.”

the guys wait anxiously as you slowly walk out of kenan’s room. you manage to hide your emotions as you head towards their large group. ferdi and bariş are dying of anxiety waiting for your words that will let them know what’s wrong with their friend.

“he’ll be out soon don’t worry. it’s probably best if you reassure him of his abilities in football, yeah?” you ask them and they all nod. how sweet.

“so, what’d you do to make him talk?” semih curiously asks you.

“i made out with him.” you say with a straight face. you receive a couple of gasps, some laughs, and a few screams.

“you what?” ferdi asks but you ignore him and begin walking away from him. the rest of the team watches in amusement as you walk away from your older brother. he is genuinely distraught as he chases after you and it’s quite hilarious. “did you actually make out with him? did his lips touch yours? answer me!”

from that the day forward you exchange weekends from istanbul and turin. one weekend with your person and the other with your protective brother. when you walked into kenan’s room the day you didn’t expect to walk out with a soulmate. unfortunately for you your brother is always there to remind you that the only reason you and kenan are together is because he forced you into that room. it’s a shame he’s right but you’re grateful for it because now you have your person and now you can be as annoying as he is with sera.

[tragedykery]

I might be going slightly insane :)

trying to develop a semi-phonetic vowel system for my dutch tengwar mode. this sucks ass <- is enjoying it but also it’s hard :(

[skyeventide]

does the Oath of Feanor work as a magical compulsion, or does it have magical properties, and are its consequences real?

yes, because the magic of Arda is also based on words of power, and it would be dissatisfying and limiting to assume that somehow that power doesn't work in this specific instance. no, because even if Feanor is the one speaking, not even his power could bend the fate of elves to that extent. yes, because the fate of any one people can be bent, delayed, or weirdly modified until an oath is fulfilled; in LOTR, the ghosts of the path of the dead prove it. no, because Manwe and Varda would not feel bound to enforce an oath of death with them as witnesses, and it goes against the rules of oathing. yes, because the enforcer is Eru, they just stand as witnesses and do not have the power to release the swearers as Eru would. no, because we don't even know if Eru accepted that oath. yes, because if the oath was invalid from the start, it would be beyond callous of Manwe and Varda not to inform the swearers and allow the consequences of the oath to happen. no, because a magical compulsion would remove or to an extent at least lessen responsibility of actions taken in its pursuit. yes, because the author of the story acknowledges a certain "will" of the oath by making it wake or sleep with active verbs. no, because even swearing without additional magic on top can feel like a compulsion to do things or to keep going that otherwise would not exist or not be felt by a given swearer. yes, because no matter what the everlasting darkness is or does, it can be real independently from any other prior compulsion to act; in other words, there may not be a magical property to the oath, but its called consequences for the swearers are very real. no, because there's several slightly different versions of the oath across the texts, and it's impossible to do a literal, word for word reading of its lines if it's possible to recite it slightly differently at a given time. yes, because the only valid version is the original pronounced by Feanor in Tirion, you can't wiggle out of that one. no, because who's to say that was recorded correctly, it's far too poetic for a sudden decision. yes, because who's to say that Feanor couldn't whip out all that via improvisation, I bet he could. yes, because other characters beyond the sons of Feanor treat the oath as something absolutely serious and real, and that includes Finrod in speaking to Andreth, when he says that Eru's name is not called upon even in jest, as well as Melian, when pointing out the strong forces awakened by involving that power. no, because neither of them can talk to Eru anyway. yes, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters morally struggle against something that is eventually unbreakable and unavoidable like in any good tragedy. no, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters do it to themselves and compromise with who they are out of family loyalty. yes, because the curse of Mandos actively turns it against the swearers into a betraying force, a consequence that wouldn't otherwise be a given, that is, nothing says that everything they start well would have finished badly and that the oath would have led them to defeat, and if it weren't magical before Mandos' addition, it is now. no, because Amrod's death in a draft would prove it breakable through his (admittedly only guessed) desire to turn back. yes, because he still died in the process, aka the everlasting darkness claimed him for being an oathbreaker. no, because how is it possible that it's simultaneously unbreakable and broken. yes, because the fate of arda and that of elves is inscribed within the eternal paradox of everything being predicted and everything being free will, and that will never be solved, neither regarding the fate of the elves nor the oath of Feanor. no, because the oath is a narrative device. yes, because the oath is a narrative device. three hundred more lines.

hope this helps. hope it doesn't. your pick.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

It always gets me that literally *everything* hinged on the Fellowship getting this *right.* All the battles with Morgoth, Sauron, the events of the last Three Ages and beyond.

This was the final chance.

Either they succeed. Or all those battles and all that pain was for nothing, and Middle Earth falls to darkness.

And if ME does. It’s not far fetched to assume Valinor would be next.

-

But like it was always about the value of the little people. A value which historically, most people, the Princes of the First Age most of all, didn’t really… realise.

They dragged everyone into their wars and feuds and at the end of everything, everyone suffered for it.

They were out for themselves, because *they* wanted to be kings and queens, *they* wanted revenge, *they* wanted to go back to the wilds of Endorë and doomed everyone alongside them, cajoling and convincing them until they were riled up and probably not thinking straight.

They had to be right. If the rest of their people suffered for their bad decisions… too bad. There was so much pride and arrogance across the Sindar and Noldor both that their power, the thing that made them so great became their downfall.

The people of the Third Age, men and elves and dwarves, might have been ‘diminished’ but that meant they took time to appreciate their people. It means Aragorn at the Black gate sees there are young men from Rohan who are *terrified*, and entirely genuinely without judgement, allows them to leave. It means he goes around place to place, city to city, getting to know everyone as people. Seeing their value, seeing their worth as equal to his own. And he treats them accordingly as just as important rather than making everything about him.

It’s what allows him to deceive Sauron into thinking he’s acting as his ancestors did, proud and self assured whilst the whole quest and everything he does is about helping Frodo. About making sure he succeeds.

As he tells Frodo. “Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.” And that’s where these great heroes of the past fell short. For them, especially the elves of the First Age, everything was about valour and glory and victory. Literally Fëanor: ‘our deeds will be a matter of song until the last days of Arda.’

We needed the king who knew what it was to be a ranger, scorned despite being the only thing keeping them alive. The king who was a healer rather than a warlord. The man who only wanted his people safe, would pass all great deeds and live hated and homeless if only they could live without darkness.

The hobbits who were so pure of heart, who found joy in the little things. Even Legolas who would’ve grown up seeing Mirkwood steadily fall further and further into darkness, Spiders and orcs steadily encroaching, forcing the elves further into their last stronghold. The Dwarves who’d lost homes and knew their fortresses could only hold so long if Sauron enslaved everyone else.

All of these guys who held family and love for their people above all else. Who wanted a world free of war, who didn’t care for great deeds or ballads speaking of them. Who respected those of lesser official standing and saw them as people with opinions as valid as their own.

They just wanted their homes. They wanted their family and friends alive.

They longed for peace. Not glory or land.

And that’s where those of the First and Second Age failed.

[verspia]

Hi I saw you’re Arda angst ff and I fucking loved it!! I wanted to request a Kenan Yildiz angst fanfic where the reader and Kenan had to get arrange married. But he hated her. He always brought other woman home and she really got sad because she never had the chance to experience real love. Not even from her parents.

He always kept her hidden from social media because he was embarrassed of her. She always went alone and done things alone. The reader is a quite person she an introvert she doesn’t really talk that much or express feelings so she always stays quiet. And she had a really bad childhood, got be@ten up and ignored. She never had a normal childhood. By the time Kenan never knew he starts to see her alone at restaurant or pic nics alone and started to feel guilty but never brought it up.

So one day the reader thought she’s alone at home and Kenan told her that he’ll be away.

So she wanted to sleep without a shirt. And that night Kenan appears there because the game got cancelled and when he approached her he saw her scars on her back that were caused by her parents. He starts to regret treating you like that and starts treating you better and spends time with you.

You can make a fluff or bad ending doesn’t really matter but I always prefer bad endings hehe I would really love for you to make this a story !!

💓💓💓

SAD GIRL • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader

warnings - trigger warning, violence and abuse, a lot of angst. I tried my best and i hope this meets your expectations 💞

In your eyes, the marriage had been perhaps the best thing to have ever happened to you. It provided you with the opportunity to escape the clutches of your dysfunctional family, and finally find some semblance of normalcy in your life.

Knowing that it had been Kenan had made you feel exhilarated, a feeling that you weren’t quite used to.

Kenan had been reputable for being a rather charismatic gentleman, and his polite, sweet demeanour had been all the talk on your wedding day. You hadn’t met him yet, but the idea of him had made you fall in love.

You couldn’t be blamed, because to you this concept of genuity was so foreign to you, that daydreaming about it had made you feel as if you were on cloud nine.

That was until you truly got to know Kenan behind closed doors. Except you never truly got to know him.

Unlike you, Kenan found this marriage an unappealing burden that had chained him down to a person he could not care less for.

He was incredibly indifferent to your presence, and continued on about as if your marriage had never happened. After the ceremony had occurred and you’d been driven off to a fancy villa, Kenan had behaved as if you didn’t exist.

He never acknowledged your presence until absolutely necessary, and it felt as if you were a ghost living inside this empty house, begging, yearning to be noticed, but never spared a single glance.

For you this marriage had ignited a flicker of hope, of learning to love, and for building a meaningful relationship, a turnabout from the life your parents had imposed on you. You hadn’t imagined anything would hurt more than the scathing words and harsh treatment that they had inflicted upon you, until you were faced with the brutal rejection from Kenan. Atleast, at your parents house, you were never ignored, but with Kenan, you didn’t feel like a person, you felt like a soul in purgatory, suffering endlessly and without anyone to turn to.

This marriage with Kenan broke you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. How could a rejection from the man you had been promised to have hurt so agonisingly when you didn’t even truly know him?

You couldn’t explain the stark difference in his behaviour from what you’d heard to what you’d experienced, and thus, the only person you had to blame was yourself.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and Kenan’s side of the bed is cold and empty, you lie awake and wonder what it is about you that makes you so unlovable. It’s a question that haunts you, clawing at the edges of your mind until it’s the only thing you can hear. You think back to your childhood, to the years spent trying and failing to earn your parents' love. You tried to be good, to be perfect, to be everything they wanted, but nothing was ever enough. Every cruel word, every slap, every moment of their disdain etched itself into your soul, carving out the belief that you were broken, unworthy, fundamentally flawed. You remember having gone through lengths, making sure you were academically on top, and when that wasn’t enough, pushing yourself towards sports to prove that you were capable, but despite these achievements, your parents refused to acknowledge any of it. You remember once, sitting at the edge of your room, if the tiny space could even be called that, your cheeks red from the stinging slaps and your arms littered with bruises, and not a single tear in your eyes. You felt hollow, the one question rotating over in your head, again and again and again.

“What is wrong with me?”

Your marriage with Kenan has only made this thought return full force, from when it just lingered to the back of your mind, to now always on the forefront of your thoughts, on the tip of your tongue, as if any moment you’d ask the question, say it out loud, but no matter.

Kenan never hears you anyway.

You sit in the spacious lounge of this house, Kenan is home, but you are alone. He’s with someone, another girl who doesn’t share the misfortune as you do, who’s laugh echoes around the house and to you, feels like nails on a chalkboard, pinching at your ears and leaving the heart you have in your chest aching worse as the clock ticks by.

Once again, you sit there and contemplate for perhaps the umpteenth time, the same question that oppresses you.

You see the same disappointment in Kenan’s eyes, the same coldness, the same quiet contempt that tells you what you’ve always feared, there’s something wrong with you. You’ve begun to believe it must be true because why else would Kenan treat you this way? Why else would he refuse to look at you, to touch you, to acknowledge that you’re anything more than an inconvenience he’s forced to endure? Why else would he parade other women in front of you, each of them more beautiful, more captivating, more everything than you’ll ever be?

The more Kenan pulls away, the deeper you sink into yourself, convinced that his indifference is a reflection of your worth. You’ve searched for answers in every mirror, scrutinizing your face, your body, every part of yourself that feels inadequate. You pick apart every flaw, every imperfection, as if solving the puzzle of your own ugliness might finally explain why you are so impossible to love. You try to change, to smile more, to be kinder, quieter, less of whatever it is that pushes people away. But no matter how much you give, no matter how much of yourself you twist and bend and break to fit into the shape of someone deserving, it’s never enough.

The rejection feels like a knife to the heart, twisting deeper each time Kenan walks past you as if you’re nothing. You wonder what it would feel like to be touched by him in kindness, to have him hold you like you mattered, just once. You’ve replayed it in your mind a thousand times, trying to imagine the warmth of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the sound of your name spoken with something other than disdain. But that warmth never comes. All you get is the chill of his absence, the searing pain of knowing that you are invisible, unwanted, unloved, and that’s all that you’ll ever be.

Despite all this endless questioning, you never get any closer to understanding why you’re in this predicament.

It hurts, like you’re drowning in a sea of sorrow, and every breath is a struggle against the relentless waves of the ruthless ocean. It’s the taste of salt on your lips—the bitter residue of tears that never seem to end—and the weight in your chest that sits like a stone, heavy and immovable, pressing down with a quiet, unyielding ache.

You have long since given up on hope, that maybe one day it will get better, the pain will decrease, but it never does.

Today, you don’t stay inside, the chattering of the girl twists a little deeper into your poor heart than usual, and you decide to step out.

You somehow make it to a cafe and settle down, in a spot. You’re so attuned to the feeling of loneliness that it doesn’t bother you as people glance at you, some with curiosity and most with pity, preoccupied with your heartache.

You realise just how pathetic, pitiful you must appear. Your face permanently stained with tear marks and eyes so red, your figure frail from negligence on everyone you’ve known, including yourself.

You don’t realise however, that it is enough to warrant headlines.

The next morning you’re going viral on the internet,

“Kenan Yildiz’s wife spotted, lonely and sombre. What could be the cause?”

You can’t help yourself as you look through the comments.

“lol how do we even know if she’s his wife, we’ve never seen a single photo of them together”

“oh please, she’s probably a lying attention seeking white trying to get Kenan’s attention, bet she’s never met the guy. Yawn.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Kenan is not married what in the fake news”

You’re not surprised by it, but still it stings. You knew Kenan never made it known that he had been married, the night of your wedding day had become news to the world, but it had been buried away by Kenan’s refusal to acknowledge it.

It wasn’t as if you ever accompanied Kenan anywhere either, you went out alone, he never invited you to his games or any award ceremonies, he ignored you just as much on the outside as he did at home.

The only people who actually acknowledge this news are your parents, they come knocking on your door while Kenan is out, not at all pleased by your act that had so perfectly tarnished their reputation, and then the very night they make it very abundantly clear to you just how much displeasure you bring to them.

The pain is sharp and jagged, like shards of glass lodged deep inside, cutting with every thought, and every word your mother hisses at you, and every hit your father directs at you tears you down further.

When they leave, you’re all by yourself on the floor, like broken china that no one cares about or ever will bother picking up.

That night you cry yourself to sleep, so incredibly tired, and you think to yourself about how much of an abomination you are, if only you didn’t ever exist at all.

You’re mentally exhausted to the point that you fall asleep right there on the floor in your mess. And for the first time, Kenan takes notice of you.

He has always been aware of your presence, but had blatantly rejected it, even though guilt had begun to seep into this facade of pretending that he was indifferent to you.

He had noticed how you were always alone, no friends to tag along with when you went out to a restaurant, and barely anyone to talk to. He noticed how you tried your very hardest to make yourself as small as you could in the home that was supposed to be both his and yours. You never spared any expense on yourself from his money, to the point that all the groceries in the house went untouched by you, never eating the food that was there, as if you felt unworthy of sharing the same stuff he did.

His conscience had fought with him a lot, but then his pertinacity had won out.

Kenan comes home late that night, the weight of his usual indifference wrapped around him like a heavy coat. The house is quiet, too quiet, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar, because that is how you are, yet as he steps inside, he feels a strange sense of unease. The lights are dim, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls, and for a moment, he almost calls out for you, but stops himself—old habits of pride and detachment still holding him back. As he walks through the hallway, his footsteps echo softly on the wooden floor, and that’s when he sees you, crumpled in the corner, lying there as if the world itself had thrown you away.

He freezes, staring at the scene that steals the breath from his lungs. You’re curled up on the cold, hard floor, your fragile frame barely shielded by the thin shadow that frames you. The soft glow of the lamplight reveals a tapestry of dark, angry bruises spreading across your arms and face, fresh and vicious, like cruel brushstrokes on pale canvas. Your cheeks are stained with dried tears, and your breaths come in shallow, ragged bursts, as if each inhale is a battle against the pain you carry. The sight of you, so small, so vulnerable, hits him like a punch to the gut, and for the first time in a long time, something shifts in him.

Guilt seeps in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his heart like a vice. He kneels beside you, his hands trembling as he reaches out, hesitant and unsure. He touches your shoulder, lightly at first, afraid of causing you more pain, and when you stir, blinking up at him through swollen eyes, he feels the weight of his neglect crash down on him. He’s been blind to your suffering, wrapped up in his own resentments, his own desires, never once considering the cost of his actions—or inactions—on the person he promised to protect, however unwillingly.

Your own eyes widen a little, surprised at seeing him so close to you, for the first time since your wedding, and you aim to move away, but an egregious amount of pain has you stopping, and you try to keep the groan from escaping out your mouth.

"Who did this to you?" His voice is low, and there’s a vulnerability there, breaking, a far cry from the coldness you’ve grown accustomed to. You don’t answer, still in shock from seeing him so close. That is when you notice the freckles of golden in his green eyes, or perhaps you have a concussion that’s making you see things.

Kenan’s eyes run over your body, the bruises tell a story he can’t ignore, and for the first time, he sees you—not as the burden he’s resented, but as someone who’s been hurt far too many times, someone he’s failed in the worst possible way.

Kenan helps you up, his touch gentler than it has ever been. He wraps his arms around you, careful not to press against your bruises, and for the first time, you feel his warmth—real, unguarded, like he’s trying to shield you from the world that’s been so unkind. He guides you to the bedroom, the one he’s kept so meticulously separate from you, and tucks you into the bed as if you’re something precious. He sits beside you that night, eyes never leaving your face, and vows silently to himself that he will be different, that he will be better. For you, it all feels as if you’re on an alien planet, an alternative reality where everything feels so foreign, unaccustomed to having anyone, not just Kenan, actually look at you beyond the same gaze of disdain that you’ve known your whole life.

In the days that follow, Kenan is not the man you remember. He wakes early to make you breakfast, though he’s clumsy in the kitchen, burning toast and fumbling with the coffee machine. You watch him from the table, wrapped in a blanket, still wary, but there’s something different in his eyes—softer, almost pleading. He sits with you as you eat, quiet but present, as if his mere company might patch over the wounds he’s spent so long ignoring.

He starts to notice the little things—the way you flinch when someone speaks too loudly, the way you keep your head down as if expecting another blow. He learns how sometimes you don’t answer, assuming that he isn’t speaking to you, and it fills him with regret. He learns to be gentle, careful with his words, speaking to you with a softness that feels foreign on his tongue. He doesn’t bring anyone home anymore; the house is yours, a sanctuary he’s determined to protect. Slowly, he starts to open up, telling you about his own struggles, his own fears, the reasons he’s built walls so high around his heart. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a start, and you find yourself listening, inching closer with each shared truth.

Kenan begins to take you out on walks in the park, away from the stifling walls of the house that holds too many memories. He holds your hand, tentatively at first, but when you don’t pull away, he squeezes a little tighter, as if to say he’s here now, and he’s not going anywhere. He surprises you with small gestures—your favorite flowers on the table, a book you mentioned once, a soft touch on your shoulder when you seem lost in thought. It’s awkward and unsure, but it’s real, and each day, the distance between you shrinks just a little more.

One evening, as the sun sets and paints the room in hues of gold, Kenan sits beside you on the couch, holding your hand. He’s nervous, you can tell, but his eyes are earnest. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s kept buried. “For all of it. For not seeing you, for not being what you needed. I know I’ve hurt you, and I can’t take that back, but I want to try. I want to be better—for you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, the words catching in your throat. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see someone trying, someone who’s finally willing to let you in. You nod, squeezing his hand back, and though the road ahead is uncertain, for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to walk together.

fin

[minaturefics]

The Same at Heart

Request from @tolkien-fantasy: Eomer or Aragorn falling for an extremely intelligent reader who is witty and charming, but can be insecure and is reclusive when she gets tired (plus does translation of languages like elvish).

A/N: Hello friend! Thanks for the request :) I picked Eomer for this because 1. there isn't enough Eomer love out there and 2. I feel like him + reader's reclusiveness would make an interesting angst point lol I hope you enjoy it!!!

Eomer x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

3.2k

---

Meduseld was alive with music and laughter. Torches blazed in their sconces, the great fireplace lit, and everything glowed golden. Chatter filled the room, punctuated by the stomps and claps of the dancers, along with the clink of cups and the calls for more ale. There was an arm-wrestling competition occurring at one end of the room, and some sort of card game at the other.

Eowyn grinned beside you, her face flushed, and gestured to the room. “Are you glad that you came with me, my friend? You do not get celebrations like this in Minas Tirith.”

You laughed. “No, you most certainly do not.”

You had been introduced to Eowyn in Minas Tirith, assigned to help her translate some of the texts in the Houses of Healing from Elvish to Weston, and over the weeks the two of you had grown close. Eowyn was thankful to have another woman to confide in, and you were delighted and refreshed by her different ways.

She craned her head and scanned the crowd. “Where in Arda is Eomer? It is not like him to take so long to wash and dress.”

Your heart lurched at his name. He had not been at the hall when you and Eowyn arrived from Minas Tirith — he was at the Glittering Caves attending some matter with Gimli — and you were still yet to see him. 

You smoothed down your gown and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, wishing that the hall was not so warm. Were you dressed well enough? Eowyn had assured you that it was an informal affair, but your cotton and velvet dress would not have passed for an evening dress back in Gondor. Perhaps you should have worn one of your silk one’s instead. Maybe you could rush back to your room and change before Eomer arrived.

“Ah, here he comes now,” she said and your eyes followed her gaze to where Eomer had entered the room.

He was greeted by a chorus of cheers and raised tankards. He grinned at his people, friends and subordinates alike, clapping them on their shoulders and shouting replies across the long tables. You swallowed, taking him in. He looked gallant and radiant, his hair golden and his fine doublet accentuating his broad shoulders. He truly was just as handsome in his more casual wear as he was in his armour.

Eomer’s eyes met yours from across the room and your breath hitched, memories from before rushing back to you. Him, throwing his head back, laughing at your joke, the warm sound filling the room. Him, asking about your translations, brows furrowed and eyes alight with awe. Him, glancing back at you, gaze intense and heavy, as his convoy rode out of the city. 

“I wonder…” Eowyn muttered, watching her brother cross the room, a strange smile on her face. You raised your eyebrows in a silent question but she shook her head and laughed. “It is nothing.”

“Sister,” Eomer greeted, pulling her into a hug and squeezing her until she let out a little squeak. “It is good to see you. I am happy that you managed to visit.” He released her and looked at you, a wide smile on his face. “And you as well, my lady. I am glad to see you here tonight. I did not think you were one for parties.”

“I enjoy them on occasion.” Your smile grew sly and teasing. “Provided that the company is agreeable.”

He chuckled. “And have you found us agreeable so far?”

“Much more agreeable now,” you said with a smirk.

A slight flush rose on his cheeks and he coughed and glanced away. Eowyn snickered beside you. “How is your work coming along?” he asked, eyes coming back to you.

“Well enough. The work is easy, but tedious. The texts are long and winding, and very specific, and one has to be careful of mistranslations, especially in such things like medicine and healing.”

“No, I suppose one would not wish to mistake a poison for a cure.”

“Would it surprise you, brother, that many cures come from poison?” Eowyn asked.

You nodded. “It is the dose that decides whether one lives or dies. Too much of something is never good.”

He looked around the room. “I do not think one can have too much merriment.”

“Ah, but one can have too much ale.”

He laughed, low and full. “I cannot argue with that, my lady.”

“You would do well not to argue at all,” Eowyn grinned. “Even Faramir sometimes shrinks back from her debates.”

“He does not!”

“I have actually seen him hide behind Boromir,” she laughed.

“I wonder,” he said, a little softer, “if you find us crude and unlearned here without the same sort of lore and literature.”

You shook your head. “Unlearned does not mean unwise. And language is language, whether written or spoken. The words and lessons of your people do not mean any less simply because they are not recorded in books and scrolls.” 

He nodded slowly, but still looked unconvinced. Eowyn, as though sensing his unease, smiled and said, “Do you know she is learning Rohirric as well?”

His eyes lit up, eyebrows rising. “Truly?”

“Eowyn has been teaching me, though we have only just begun.” He nodded, gesturing for you to speak, and you laughed. “I would not dare embarrass myself in front of the king with my untrained speech.”

He opened his mouth to reply but someone called for him from across the room. He glanced behind, gave you an apologetic smile and a bow, and left. Eowyn then looped her arm through yours and suggested taking a turn about the room. The rest of the evening was filled with introductions and chatter, the Rohirrim curious about your work and you interested in their traditions and legends.

But soon the noise became overwhelming, voices and laughter and clattering all fighting for your attention, and the room began to feel stuffy, the air growing thick and the bodies just all a bit too close. You glanced around the room, searching for Eomer, and found him laughing with a group of his men. 

Your stomach clenched and you sighed. It would have been nice to speak to him again before the night was over. 

With a few words to Eowyn, you slipped out of the hall and down the corridor that led to your room. You let out a long breath, weariness suddenly overcoming you, and shut the heavy door behind you. Your room was still and quiet, warm from the smouldering coals in the fireplace, and you sank into the cushioned bench, melting into the blessed calm. 

-

Eomer ran his brush along Firefoot’s body in short, sharp motions. He was due for a grooming, and while Eomer normally let the stableboys handle it, he felt he needed a distraction. The scent of wood and hay, musky and earthy, soothed him while he worked. He did not understand you. He did not understand you at all. 

Did he say something to offend you? Or perhaps you had taken offence to the fact that he did not come back to speak to you at the party? He grumbled to himself. He had wanted to, but there were so many people vying for his attention. When he extricated himself from them, he searched for you in the sea of bodies, but your familiar face had vanished. And then for the next few days, you had shut yourself up in your room or had gone on walks alone along the Barrowfield. 

He sighed and laid his brush down. He started to work on the mane, unravelling the braid and untangling the soft strands. Firefoot snorted in approval and Eomer rested his forehead on the horse's neck and inhaled. He smelled like sun and grass, leather and sweat. Oh, Firefoot. Always so sure and steady. Eomer wished he could share in that security.

Or maybe you were avoiding him because you found him uncultured and uninteresting. You were so frighteningly quick and clever, always ready with some sharp observation or wry comment. And how beautiful you looked, poring over books, ink smudged on your cheek, eyes alive in the candlelight. The Rohirrim may be noble and valourous, but perhaps to a renowned Gondorian scholar, even the king of such people still seemed rough and brutish. 

“Eomer?” Eowyn called and he lifted his head. “What is it that troubles you?”

“It is nothing.”

She joined him by Firefoot and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “Do not lie to me, brother, I can see it in your eyes.”

He let out a short breath and looked into his sister’s eyes. When did her gaze stop being so piercing and mournful? When did they become so gentle? They looked so much like their mother’s. “It is your friend, the scholar.”

“What is it?” Her lips curled up in a playful smile. “Has my dear brother grown fond of her perhaps? I suspected as much when I saw you last night — I do not think I have seen you so well groomed in years! And you were even wearing scent — no, do not deny it, I smelled it when I hugged you.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks and he shook his head. “It does not matter, she would not return my feelings.”

“Eomer! How can you say that?”

“You cannot tell me that you are not aware of what the Gondorians think of us.” He began to pace the stable, gesturing with his hands. “Bema, I know you know —  we spoke of such things when you married Faramir.”

“And Faramir and I are happier beyond belief, no matter what some people of the court may think  — I do not see how this is any different. My friend does not hold such foolish opinions.” The eyes sharpened and the steel he had come to know so well returned. “And do not forget, you are a king.”

“I am also a man,” he snapped. And then, in a rush, “I seek love as much as anyone else. I want to be wanted as I am, not for my title or my land.”

Her jaw tensed, and for a moment he was convinced she was about to unleash a lecture, but she sighed and shook her head. “Come, tell me what is on your mind.”

“I do not think she returns even a fraction of what I feel. We did not get to speak much that evening and I thought we could talk more in the coming days, but I have seen so little of her.” He ran his hand through his hair. “She is polite enough at meals, but afterwards she simply vanishes.”

She smiled indulgently. “She is just tired.”

“Tired? The journey from Minas Tirith was not strenuous was it? Unless you failed to tell me about some mishap or event.” He narrowed his eyes at her. 

She laughed. “It is not the journey that tires her but people and noise and merriment.”

“I do not understand.”

“Not everyone is inclined to as much merriment and conversation as you are, brother.”

“But she was not like this when I was in Minas Tirith.”

“You had visited in a lull of parties and balls,” she said with exasperation. “I have known her longer than you have. This is simply how she is.”

“It is… it is not because of me?”

“Bema, brother. How could it be because of you?”

He looked down at his hands, callused and creased with dirt. “Perhaps she thinks me boring.”

Eowyn threw her arms up. “You are infuriating. Eomer, did she not spend most of her evenings conversing with you when you were in the city?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “She asked me to tell her stories of our forefathers. And I had asked her about the nature of Elvish speech.”

“And did she not agree to come with me to Edoras when she had no obvious reason to?”

He paused and looked at her. “Are you implying she had come to… to see me?”

“If you do not believe me, ask her yourself!”

His heart swooped in his chest, spirit lifting. He knew his sister; she would not send him forth if she did not have confidence. Was it truly possible that you felt the same way? There was no way to know for sure if he did not ask you himself. He glanced out of the stables at the steps rising to Meduseld. 

“I will go,” he said. “After I have had a ride.”

He stroked Firefoot’s cheek. Yes, a ride would rouse his heart and wake his courage. And then he would go find you. 

-

You stood up and stretched, rolling your shoulders and circling your wrists. The evening sun was slanting into your room, casting long orange rectangles across your desk and the floor. With a satisfied sigh, you closed the two books on your table and closed your ink pot. You looked out at the thatched roofs, eyes drifting down the hill to the green Barrowfield and onto the plains beyond. In your chest you felt the stirrings of loneliness, the pull to find someone and speak and laugh with them.

Perhaps you should search Eomer out. After all, it was him that compelled you to follow Eowyn to Edoras. You smiled to yourself. Eomer with his fiery hazel eyes, his expressive brows, his hearty laugh. He was radiant when he spoke of Rohan’s heroes, voice rising and falling with the retelling, hands moving, pantomiming the scenes. A man so well liked, so well loved, by his people. Your smile faltered. Did he find you bookish and boring? 

A knock sounded on your door and you walked over. It was probably Eowyn come to prod and poke you when she thought you had spent too many days in isolation. “I was just going to find you, Eo —” You flung the door open. “—mer?”

He stood in front of you, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. The scent of hay and musk wafted in and you wondered if he had just come in from a ride. He always looked handsome in his formal clothes but he looked best like this, slightly dishevelled, hair wild and clothes rumpled. 

“I did not expect to see you at my door,” you blurted.

“I wished to speak to you.” His eyes darted over your shoulder into your room. “That is, if you are not tired.”

“Of course,” you said, smiling, and stepped out into the corridor. “Would you like to walk with me? I think some fresh air will do me some good. To the garden at the back?”

He nodded and you made your way out. The small patch of green, shaded with a few trees and bordered by shrubs, overlooked the city. You walked the dirt path to the edge and gazed out. The city was winding down for the day. Horses were being led to the stables, shops were packing their wares, and the delectable scent of roast meat and onions drifted out of the houses. 

“Even Minas Tirith is like this in the evenings,” you mused. “People are the same wherever you go.”

“Do you truly believe that?” He sounded strange and strained behind you. “There are a great many people who would disagree with you.”

“They are fools,” you said, laughing. “At our hearts, we are the same. Do we all not yearn for a moment of peace in the sun? The comfort of a safe home? The arms of one who loves us?”

He came up beside you and looked over his land. He was solid and reassuring and you felt the urge to rest your head on his shoulder. How lovely it would be to have more evenings like this, looking over a prospering people, a friend, a lover, next to you. You fidgeted with your hands. Eowyn had said that she suspected her brother might harbour tender feelings for you. But if he did, why did he not act? He was an impassioned man, was he not? Perhaps she had been mistaken. 

Perhaps he thought you too soft, too plain. Unworthy for a valourous king.

The dinner bell rang out from inside the house. You looked behind your shoulder and turned on your heel. “Ah, we should go in.”

“My lady, wait,” he said, reaching out to grasp your wrist.

“Eomer?” you glanced down and he moved to withdraw his hand but you wrapped your fingers around his before he could escape your reach. 

He stared at your joined hands before his head snapped up, eyes wide. “Why did you come here? To Edoras? My sister said it was to see me but I can scarcely imagine —”

“Yes.” Your heart sped up. Why was he asking? He would only be asking if he —

He broke out into a wide smile and drew you closer. “So it is really true! Tell me, my lady, do you care for me?” His eyes darted away, then back to you. “I am not learned in poetry and prose, and perhaps if I was I could express myself in language more fit for someone like you. But even then, there are no words that can compare to the plain truth. You have my heart, my lady, and there will be no other for me.”

Your heart stopped. Then started again. Laughter rose in your chest and you giggled. You reached for his cheek. His beard was soft, his skin warm. “There is no other for me as well.”

“You would suffer an unlearned man?”

“You are not unlearned. Your knowledge and wisdom simply lies elsewhere. Valar, I wish you would stop thinking that of yourself.” He chuckled and you smiled. “And you? You would suffer a scholar? Whose mind is forever turning and thinking?”

“I would hardly call it suffering.” His smile turned sly. “Though, if you feel you suffer from your mind, I could perhaps aid with that.”

“What do you —”

He cupped your cheek and brought his lips to yours. They were soft and full, insistent but gentle. He tugged you closer and rested his hand on your waist. He smelled like grass and hay and the lingering scent of bergamot. You drew back and his lips chased after you, capturing them in another kiss. You sighed, relaxing in his arms, and curled your fingers into his hair.

“We should go in,” you whispered, pulling back. “Or Eowyn will come find us.”

“I do not mind.” He laughed. “It shall be repayment for all the times I stumbled upon her and Faramir.”

“Well, I mind. I do not need her teasing me all the way back to Minas Tirith.” He grimaced and you stroked his cheek with your thumb. “I will not be gone forever, my love. There is still work to be done with the translations, and my things are all still there. Do not fret, we can write letters while we are apart.”

“I suppose then, I should get used to picking up my pen.” His fingers flexed on your waist. “But do not think I shall be squandering your presence here. I intend to get my fill of you before you leave.”

“You are always welcome to me, my love,” you said, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now until forever.”

[featguler]

why do you do this to yourself ? ────── arda is not your boyfriend, but he sure gets jealous like he is.

♡ ────── pairing : arda güler x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. reader is a university student living in madrid. situtionship!arda güler lol. might have to mention that reader is a business major but it doesn't really matter. this one's a bit suggestive towards the end, folks. ♡ ────── wordcount : 757 ♡ ────── notes : i don't know why i keep on writing jealous fics... but debut arda fic! i love him sm ♡ this is lightly based on dial drunk by noah kahan and the bolter by taylor swift, just the vibes, not the actual drunk dialing. enjoy loves ♡ masterlist.

Arda’s friends think he’s stupid.

Hell.

He’ll give you one better: Arda thinks he’s stupid.

His friends think it’s stupid that he would move four-thousand kilos away just to fall in love with a person who doesn’t seem all that interested in getting into a relationship, with him or not.

But Arda? He thinks he’s stupid for staying anyway.

The distance between Ankara and Madrid intimidates his friends—scares them, even—but Arda has gone through it. Falling in love with someone is usually next on the list after settling into a new town; he’s used to this.

But staying?

No, no. Arda is quite the bolter. He leaves a room as quickly as he gets into it. He falls out of love as soon as he tastes a glimpse of their lips.

It’s not that he’s afraid of hurting. It’s just how he works—he moves here and there physically, and his heart cannot help but move along.

Which is why you are such an odd case.

Arda is not too sure that you are even in love with him. And he would ask you if you would want to be his, but he fears rejection more than he welcomes the possibility of change, so he is stuck in this strange, mindless limbo, swimming between self-deprecation and self-doubt. And he is not too sure either that you are stuck there with him.

“Mhm,” Arda closes his eyes, his strong grip around your waist as the sun dims just outside your apartment window. Madrid is beautiful all day, but to him, nothing beats the sunset Ankara would parade back in Türkiye.

Arda shifts, and instead of resting the side of his head on your chest, he turns his neck to place his chin on you. His eyes—sometimes brown, at times grey—flicker from one corner of your face to the other. He takes in the curves of your eyebrow, the way you breathe, and quietly scoffs.

“What?”

Without peeling your eyes from your phone, you raise an arm to run your fingers through the strands of his hair, now cut short to combat the summer heat.

“Who are you texting?”

“Some guy,” your reply irks him, “from my marketing class.”

Arda pushes air in his mouth to puff his cheeks, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds fun,” he grumbles.

“He is.”

Arda pushes himself off you, using one hand to support his body while the other softly grabs your chin, tugging you to look at him. He leans down, closes his eyes, and presses his lips against yours.

You drop your phone on the bed, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

He likes this. He likes the way you kiss him back, the way your nails dig into his skin. He likes this, and he likes you.

Arda opens his eyes after a moment, drawing away from your lips to watch you breathe as he rests his forehead on yours.

“You gotta stop texting this guy,” he finally breathes, looking in your eyes for some kind of reciprocation.

You laugh. “Why?”

Arda shrugs. “‘Cause I said so.”

“Well,” you push a strand of his hair away from his brows only for it to return to its place, “we’re not exactly together, are we? I don’t have to listen to you.”

Arda pouts at that—his bottom lip juts out; his nose scrunches.

“Don’t look at me like that?” You laugh again, softly pushing face away from you, despite his insistence in staying still.

You smile up at him before turning to blindly reach for your phone, buzzing with Snapchat notifications from some fucking guy in marketing class. Arda slants his eyes, leaning down to press his nose against your neck, silently kissing your skin.

“You should send him a picture of us.”

“Of us?” You repeat, fingers already busy typing away. “Like this?”

“Sure,” he mumbles against you, “or you can be on top, if you want.”

“Of course,” he hates the sarcasm dripping from your words. “Should I go ahead and tag Arda Güler on Instagram too while I’m at it?”

“Why not?” He continues nibbling on your skin. “Next time I start, I’ll send a free ticket over.”

“Stop that,” you pull away from his lips, and Arda lets out a whine. “You’ll leave a mark.”

He pouts, and ends up placing the side of his head on your shoulder as you continue toying around with your phone, the low sun enhancing the features of your face.

Fuck.

Name a bigger idiot watching the Madrid sunset right now.

[alizayildiz]

Kenan Yildiz Preferences {Dad, Dad to be, Husband}

✮ dad to be Kenan, who carries everything while you're pregnant, not that he didn't when you were not. But not he's just super extra careful.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who seventy hopes that the two of you are having a son so that he can teach him how to play football and how to treat woman right.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who buys the most expensive baby equipment, everything that you child could possibly need.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who thinks of names almost every dad.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who started putting away dangerous things around the Mansion, like knifes, before the baby even arrived.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who immediately called his best friends Arda and Can to tell them the news that the two of you are having a baby together.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who trains even harder than he already does. In mission to achieve way more success and money than he already has. So the three of you can continue living this glorious lifestyle.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who demands that guy stop going to work after you've had the baby and while you're pregnant these nine months. Due to the fact that he knows too much stress is not good for pregnant women.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who got more protective of you the second you told him that you're pregnant.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who bought books for couples that are expecting their first child to be better informed when the baby arrives.

✮husband Kenan, who threw the biggest wedding party. Letting you spend as much money as you want to. Main thing for him is that he gets to call you his wife.

✮ husband Kenan, who booked three whole months of Honeymoon. All over different places in the world. Booked in the best hotels, with tourist activities yk do while you're there.

✮ husband Kenan, who never takes off his wedding ring, even during matches he wears it. Sometimes getting confronted about it with the referee that guides the game.

✮ husband Kenan, who loves being married to you more then anything else is his life.

✮ husband Kenan, who just looks forward to come home to you after training, his wife, and cuddle with you taking in your scent.

✮ husband Kenan, who always reaches out for you hand, holding it and playing with the big rock on your finger, your wedding ring, whenever he's nervous.

✮ husband Kenan, who supports every single decision of you, being the most gentle men you've ever met.

✮ husband Kenan, who looses his temper way to fast when someone is being disrespectful towards his wife in the slightest way possible.

✮ husband Kenan, who buys you fresh flowers every single week, for years now, never letting it slip. And he also plans dates night every two weeks. He wants to keep the marriage of you two active. Not like other couples who give up on each other easily after being married for just a year.

✮husband Kenan, who financially supports and covers everything by himself. He's a huge gentleman and thinks no woman ever should have to pay for anything.

✮ dad Kenan, who was the first person to home y'all's baby. Shearing tears as he got a look at the beautiful face of the baby.

"Thank you for blessing me with such a beautiful baby" was the first thing he said after you gave birth.

✮ das Kenan, who let's you sleep from night to morning. Taking care of the baby himself, he knows how tired you are so he wants to make sure you rest. It doesn't matter if he's tired too, you and the baby are his priority.

"Shhhh, you're going to wake up your beautiful mommy, everything's alright, daddy's here"

✮ dad Kenan, who takes your kid as often so training or to matches as he can. He wants to have his family with him before, during and after the game.

✮ dad Kenan, who buys every toy in store that your child touches or even looks long at.

"What am I gonna do with my money if I don't spend it on our kid ?"

✮ dad Kenan, who calls you and the baby over FaceTime every single morning and night when he has to be away for important matches.

✮ dad Kenan, who thought your son how to play football at an early age. Also how to treat a woman right.

"Look mommy they're for you" your son said happily, holding a bouquet of flowers ins his petite hands.

✮ dad Kenan, who gets on father mode as soon as he sees a boy having interest in you daughter. Teaching her all about their lies and how to manipulate them.

"So if he tells you that he's not looking for anything serious, he mean that he's not looking for anything serious WITH YOU, he's still going to mess around with other woman. So she best thing you're going to do is cut off ties with him".

✮ dad Kenan, who learned to be patient on a whole different level since being a father.

✮ dad Kenan, who turns into a literal lawyer when someone is having a problem with your child, or when they're accusing them of something. In the end you child stays untouchable due to Kenan.