#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

[arda-ancalima]

fighting for my life against a bowl of rice krispie treats

[electroniccollectiondonut]

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

[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

[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.

[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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[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.

[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 :(

[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

[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.

[thyras]

→ in the beginning

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.8k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → light stalking (sauron follows reader for a little while but it's more out of protection), love at first sight, longing, soulmates, reader has a name given to her, but otherwise there is no defining qualities mentioned.

SUMMARY → since the breaking of the first silence mairon has carried a great yearning, one he knows not why he is burden with, but the very song of his fëa longs to sing with his harmony.

AUTHORS NOTE → hi yes, remember how i said i was taking a break? welp i got inspiration to rewrite my dark!reader series. I'm so sorry for luminary fans but that behemoth of a final part is taking me longer than expected. i know the original was well liked but after my most recent reread of the silmarillion and morgoth's ring (hubby got me a really nice complete set for christmas) i have felt the need to rewrite the series, i hope you all enjoy this rollercoaster i am about to pull y'all on.

PARTS → two // three // four

In the earliest songs of creation, he stirred into being—a spark of light, pure and untainted, untouched by shadow or sorrow. He knew nothing of darkness, nor did he suspect its existence, for his fëa was alight with a yearning he could not name. A silent ache dwelled within him, an unformed desire, as if a fragment of his purpose waited to be discovered in the vast expanse of eternity. He could not say what it was, but he knew, with quiet certainty, that when it appeared, he would know it with the fullness of his being.

In the golden age after his awakening, he labored with devotion at the side of his master, Aulë the Great Smith. Together, they forged marvels that sang of beauty and purpose, his hands guided by the wisdom of the Vala. The craft was a joy to him, and in it, he learned to shape the raw, untamed matter of the world into works of perfection. Yet, in the still hours of twilight, when Aulë set down his tools or answered Manwë’s call to counsel, the Maia would remain in quiet solitude.

It was in those hours, under the silver gleam of the Great Lamps, that his hands turned to a secret labor. From silver of the purest ore, he shaped a ring of singular grace, its polished surface gleaming like starlight captured in a circle. He worked with a reverence as if the very act were a hymn, though he could not say to whom it was offered. With meticulous care, he inscribed the band with words he did not fully understand—delicate scripture that seemed to flow from the depths of his fëa, unbidden yet perfect.

This ring was not a trinket of vanity nor a gift for his master. No, it was meant for another—a being he had not yet met but whom his fëa somehow awaited. For though his fëa was yet unknowing, it whispered to him a single truth: one day, he would find the one who was worthy of it. And on that day, he would understand the longing that had lived in his fëa since the first song was sung.

When the first Quendi awoke, their voices rose in songs so wondrous that even the mightiest of the Valar paused to listen, captivated by their beauty. Mairon felt it then—a pull, deep and relentless, that resonated with the yearning he had carried for uncounted ages. It drew him to the light of Arda, a beacon that pierced the veils of eternity. Though he served his new master with steadfast devotion, he could not quell the melody that had been woven into his fëa before the first notes of creation were sung.

The darkness he bore now clung to him, muting the trees’ radiance and silencing the birds’ songs as he wandered the wide plains. Yet, even amidst shadow, the ancient call remained, a quiet fire within that neither time nor allegiance could extinguish.

Centuries ebbed and flowed as Mairon moved through the world, a silent watcher. Beneath the guise of vigilance, he observed the Quendi as they journeyed across Arda, their path illuminated by Oromë’s guiding light. Some tarried to build cities, their hearts content in the lands they shaped, while others chose the long road to Aman. Among these children of Ilúvatar, the Teleri caught his gaze. He marveled at their love for all living things and their pursuit of harmony and order, their craftsmanship a reflection of his own heart’s longings.

Yet it was the Nandor who stirred something deeper in him. They, who lingered in the wild places, untouched by the pull of Aman, kindled an ache within his fëa that he could neither name nor silence. Their bond with the earth and their quiet wisdom spoke to a part of him that his master’s will could never claim. Still, Mairon turned northward, his steps heavy as he crossed the vast lands to answer the summons of his lord and receive his next command.

The yearning remained, an unbroken thread binding him to the Quendi, whispering that the song of his fëa was not yet finished.

As your kin journeyed over Ered Luin into the lands of Beleriand, you chose not to follow them to the white shores of the Blessed Realm. While many of your kin heeded Finwë’s call and sought the light of Aman, you lingered by the River Gelion, enchanted by the beauty of Yavanna’s handiwork. The forests and streams became your sanctuary, and there you dwelt with a small gathering of your kindred, content in the splendor of Arda.

Your radiance became a legend, drawing elves alike from far and wide, each seeking your favor and offering you their devotion. Yet no hand offered nor heart professed ever stirred the longing within you, for the yearning in your fëa could not be quenched. It was bound to another, though you knew not whom.

As years turned to centuries, and the shadow of Elwë’s disappearance weighed heavy upon your people, your own heart grew burdened. When Olwë rose as lord and led your kin to the Blessed Realm, you remained behind, unwilling to forsake the lands that had become your solace. You wandered through the deep woods of Beleriand, each step driven by the quiet ache within, your fëa ever searching for that which it lacked.

And then, at last, the yearning stilled. In the shadowed glades of Beleriand, your fëa found its missing piece, and the song of your heart was made whole.

You found solace among a small gathering of your kin who welcomed you warmly into their town. There, you embraced the sacred art of nurturing and caring for expectant mothers and their newborn babes—a calling that resonated deeply within you. To bring a child into the beauty of this world was, to your kin, the highest honor, and it became your joy to guide others through that miraculous journey.

Beyond this cherished role, you devoted yourself to the teaching of the youngest among your kin. You filled their eager minds with the stories of old, tales woven with the wisdom you had gathered during your years by the River Gelion. With gentle care, you shared your knowledge of the beasts that roamed the wilds, the flowers that bloomed in secret places, and the songs of the birds that graced the skies. You saw it as your duty to nurture their minds as you did their spirits, ensuring that the mastery of your kin’s crafts and the love of Yavanna’s creations would live on through them.

His gaze never strayed far from you, his thoughts and fëa ensnared by emotions he could scarcely comprehend. Never before had he felt such a powerful pull toward another, and the depth of it both awed and unsettled him. One of Eru’s own creations had captivated him, and the long-unanswered melody within his fëa resonated with a new and unrelenting harmony. It was a song he had carried through all the ages of his immortality, now awakened by your presence.

From the shadows, he often watched as you wandered the glades, the smallest children trailing behind you like ducklings to their mother. You moved with a grace that seemed born of the stars themselves, your radiant beauty rivaling even that of Varda. Your hair, shimmering like woven light, danced and swayed in the gentle breezes of Arda. Your laughter rang like a melody, and the tales you wove for the children brought smiles and joy as boundless as the heavens above.

Though your face bore no trace of time, Mairon knew you had walked Arda for an age. He saw it in the way your spirit seemed to entwine with the land itself, your heart tethered to the soil beneath your feet. It was the same song, the same resonance that thrummed deep within the earth and called to him, a reflection of the unspoken bond between you.

Freed now from Melkor’s shadow, if only for a time, Mairon felt the pull of destiny. This was his chance, perhaps his only chance, to step forward and fulfill the yearning that had bound his fëa to yours since the first notes of creation. The time had come to give voice to the song that had sustained him through all his wandering.

He seized his moment when your little ducklings had scampered off, their joyous laughter fading into the distance as their mothers called them home for noontime meals. You lingered, as you often did, among the glades, speaking softly to Yavanna’s creations as if they were your oldest and dearest companions. You moved without fear in these woods, unlike some of your kin who shied from the shadows of the trees. You trusted the earth and its guardians to keep you safe. Yet even so, the tales of those who had vanished into the wilds, never to return, lingered in the corners of your mind, stirring unease in your heart.

Mairon’s watchful eyes followed your every motion as you settled amidst a patch of soft, pillowy moss. From your satchel, you pulled a small, well-worn book, its pages delicate with age. Gently, you tucked a strand of your shimmering hair behind a pointed ear, the sunlight catching its brilliance like woven silver. You appeared utterly at peace as you opened the book and began to read, your fingers tracing the lines of text with reverence.

He waited, silent and still, savoring the moment before finally stepping out from behind the tree where he had concealed himself. His movement was fluid and deliberate, each step a careful approach.

Your head jerked up at the sight of him, your book slipping from your fingers to the mossy ground as your breath caught in alarm. Mairon raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his expression warm and reassuring. He had no desire to frighten you, the being who had ensnared his fëa so entirely.

Your throat tightened as you gazed upon him, your bewilderment plain. He stood before you, radiant and otherworldly, his long fiery locks cascading over his shoulders like molten copper, his pale skin gleaming as if lit from within. His eyes, the greenest you had ever seen, glimmered with a depth that seemed to pierce through to your very soul. Every part of him seemed crafted for beauty, a vision to stir the heart.

Mairon hoped you found him pleasing, though he dared not speak it aloud. But the wonder and delight in your gaze was unmistakable, and in that instant, he knew he had not misstepped.

His presence sent a tremor of alarm through your mind, yet your heart stirred with the song that had been woven into your fëa since the moment of your creation. As your gaze met his, that ancient melody swelled, harmonizing with the light that radiated from him. He was unlike any you had ever seen, his very being seeming to illuminate the glade, driving back even the faintest trace of shadow.

The silence between you grew heavy, as if the very air waited for one of you to break it. At last, a smile touched his pillowy lips, gentle and warm, as if it had been meant for you alone.

“My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to startle you,” he said, his silvery voice like a melody that resonated deep within your chest. Though he kept his distance, his words pulled at something deep within you—a quiet yearning that longed for him to draw nearer, for you to step into the warmth of his radiant glow.

“A maiden such as you should not be wandering these glades alone,” he continued, his tone soft but tinged with something protective. A smile tugged at your lips, unbidden, and a soft sound, almost laughter, escaped you.

“I am hardly alone, stranger,” you replied, your voice steady but laced with quiet mirth. He took a deliberate step closer, his movements fluid yet restrained, and you fought the instinct to retreat. Despite the alluring glow that surrounded him, a subtle discord whispered beneath the melody in your fëa, a warning buried deep within the ancient song. He may have looked like kin, but there was something about him that set him apart, something just beyond your grasp.

“Then do tell, how is it that you are not alone?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity, though his emerald gaze betrayed a knowing depth. “As I see it, you seem—”

You lifted your hand, palm outward, silencing him with the simplest of gestures.

“I am among great companions,” you replied, your voice steady with conviction. “Ones that a being such as you could scarcely comprehend.” Yet, as you looked into his eyes, you caught a flicker of understanding there, as though he did indeed know. Knew of Yavanna’s creations—the trees that stood watchful and wise, the beasts that roamed these glades, and the unseen spirits that hummed in harmony with the world.

You rose to your feet, closing the distance between you to meet his gaze head-on. “I appreciate your concern, stranger, but I am well taken care of.”

As you bent to retrieve your fallen book, he moved faster than you anticipated, his long fingers brushing against yours as he reached it first. The moment of contact sent a jolt through you, like the touch of fire upon brittle wood. The spark raced across your skin, igniting the song within you with a sudden, brilliant intensity.

You looked up, drawn once more to his piercing emerald eyes. They shimmered in the light of Arda, so vivid and captivating they seemed like one of Aulë’s finest works, forged to perfection. You felt yourself being pulled into his presence, the warmth of his aura enveloping you, making it impossible to step away. In that moment, the melody of your fëa harmonized with his, singing a truth you were only beginning to understand.

Mairon held your fallen book to his chest, his fingers curling around it as though it were a relic of immeasurable worth. He made no move to return it, prolonging the moment between you, savoring the connection that lingered like the fading notes of a song. His gaze roved over you, taking in every detail of the ethereal Moriquendi before him, as some of your kin might label you. But to him, such a term was a diminishment, a shadow of your true nature. You were no simple Moriquendi. You were something far more luminous, as though Varda herself had crafted you and set you apart from all others.

Your kin would never see it, he thought bitterly. They would never glimpse the depth of your spirit as he did. Where they saw simplicity, he saw the radiance of Eru’s design—pure, untouched, and untainted. You were the embodiment of the beauty his master so envied and sought to corrupt, the very perfection that Melkor had long desired to unmake. And though Mairon had once stood steadfastly in service of that will, here and now, he felt another destiny stirring within him.

You belonged to no Valar, no higher authority that could save you from the song that bound you both. Not Yavanna’s protective hand nor Oromë’s guidance could shield you, for you had been sung into the world in harmony with him. You, like Mairon, were forged with a brilliance that called to the shadow within his fëa, a duality that neither of you could deny.

His darkness ached to touch you, to weave itself into your being and make you truly his—a dark elven maiden of exquisite power and grace, unmatched in all of Arda. He could see it already: you walking in elegant glory, adorned by the subtle touch of his shadow, a reflection of the force that burned within him. And he, ever the craftsman, would follow you, a devoted silhouette in your light, bound to you as a shadow is to the earth. You would be his, as he was already yours, though you did not yet know it.

Or did you?

“I would like to be on my way,” your voice broke through the reverie that had ensnared him, pulling Mairon back to the present. You reached out for the book, your movements calm but insistent, yet he did not relinquish it. Instead, he held it firm, his gaze fixed on you as though he were trying to etch every detail of this moment into his memory.

Your frustration flickered to life, a soft huff escaping your lips as you glared up at him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, unbidden, as the light of Arda seemed to amplify your radiance—the shimmering cascade of your hair, the sparkle in your eyes. Mairon’s thoughts wandered to forbidden places, to what it might feel like to touch the warmth of your skin, to trace the lines of beauty that seemed almost otherworldly. Yet he held himself back, unwilling to frighten you further. He wanted you near, not driven away.

With a quiet sigh and no small measure of reluctance, he loosened his grip and extended the book to you. His voice was low and smooth as he said, “My apologies, my love.”

You froze for a moment, your hand hovering near the book, your expression shifting into one of slight astonishment. Your brow arched, betraying your surprise at his choice of words. 

Mairon met your gaze steadily, his lips curving into a subtle, almost mischievous smile. “May I at least walk you back?” he asked, his tone softer now, almost deferential. “Let us grant the spirits of this glade their rest, unburdened by your watchful protection.”

You hesitated, your eyes searching his face, weighing his intent. The moment stretched between you like the silence before the first notes of a song. Finally, with a slow nod, you gestured for him to follow.

Mairon stepped in beside you, his movements unhurried, his presence watchful and steady. Though your posture remained wary, his heart swelled with satisfaction. The rhythm of your steps aligned, and as you walked together, he remained ever aware of the fragile connection that tethered him to your side, each moment more precious than the last.

The stranger’s company was unexpectedly pleasant, his words weaving an effortless balance between tales of substance and light conversation. He spoke of far-off lands, recounting adventures in the East where your kin had long traveled, and the forbidding horrors of the Northern realms, where no elf dared tread for fear of the consuming shadow that lingered there. His voice carried a melody that comforted you, even when the stories themselves were grim.

As the edge of your town came into view, you placed your hand lightly on his upper arm, halting his steps. A wave of sadness crept into your heart at the thought of parting with this stranger. His presence, though new, had brought you a sense of ease and intrigue that you hadn’t felt in many ages. He turned at your touch, his emerald eyes drifting down to where your hand rested. That warm, inexplicable tingle coursed up your arm like the gentle flow of a spring river. You felt heat rush to your cheeks as you realized your impropriety, quickly withdrawing your hand and letting it fall to your side.

But then, to your surprise, he caught your retreating fingers in his. Slowly, he brought them to his lips, his touch impossibly warm and reverent. The brush of his soft, pillowy lips sent your heart into a frenzy, and your face flushed deeper as embarrassment and an unspoken thrill warred within you.

“Before we part ways, may I ask the fair maiden’s name?” His voice was smooth, almost hesitant, as though he feared breaking the fragile moment between you.

You told him your birth name, and his lips curved into a smile that seemed to hold boundless reverence for the way your voice caressed the syllables. But then, you hesitated, your gaze flickering downward as you added softly, “Though my kin here have given me the name Mornelótë.”

His eyes brightened, their green depths gleaming with curiosity and appreciation. “Dark flower,” he murmured, the words escaping his lips like liquid silver, carrying a weight of awe. “Such a foreboding name for such an ethereal beauty. May I ask how you came to earn it?” The mention of your beauty to him once again caused your cheeks to flame, as your heart burned with a new found desire to know how this being above you felt under your fingertips.

Though it was short lived as your heart clenched at his question, and for a moment, you turned your face away, the old ache stirring within you. “I am a Moriquendi,” you said, your voice tinged with sorrow, as if the very word carried a heavy burden. It did—for though you had long accepted your path, the label still carried its sting.

“My kin are the Nandor,” you continued, glancing back at him to find his gaze locked onto you, unwavering and intent. “We turned away from the call of the Blessed Realm, choosing instead to remain in the glades and rivers of the Gelion. When our Lord disappeared, another rose in his place—a great ally of the Noldor—and many of my kin chose to follow him westward. But I did not.”

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the delicate stitching of your gown as you gathered your thoughts. His silence encouraged you, his posture unshifting, as though every word you spoke was the most wonderous thing in all of Arda.

“I wandered the woods alone for a time, until I came upon the Vanyar. They were waiting for kin—kin lost to the shadow. I arrived on the very day they received news of their loss. They gave me the name Mornelótë, for they saw me as a dark omen. Some believed I was a spy for the shadow of the North.”

Your voice faltered briefly, the memory still sharp, before you lifted your gaze to meet his once more. “But time has passed, and they have come to see me as I am. I have earned their love and acceptance despite the weight of my name.”

The stranger watched you intently, his expression soft but alight with something you could not name. In his gaze, there was no judgment, no pity—only awe and something deeper, as though your story had sung directly to his fëa. It left you breathless, and you wondered, just for a moment, what it was that he saw when he looked at you so.

“It is only fair that I have shared my names. May I know yours?” you asked, your voice soft but steady as you held his gaze.

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “Fair indeed,” he replied at last, his voice low and thoughtful. “I have borne many names, but the one I wish for you to know me by is…” He hesitated, a flicker of something crossing his expression—like shadows retreating before the light. When he spoke again, it was with a renewed clarity. “Mairon.”

You repeated it softly, testing the name on your lips. His eyes flicked to your mouth as you spoke, as though he were capturing the sound and holding it close. “The Admirable,” you continued, watching the way his expression shifted—first with pride, and then with something quieter, more solemn. “To earn such a name, you must surely be beloved by the spirits of this realm.”

“Hardly,” he murmured, and his voice carried a weight that made your brow furrow. There was something shadowed in his mood now, as if a great burden pressed upon him, one he had no wish to share.

“I am sorry if I have upset you,” you said quickly, but before the words could hang too long between you, he reached for your hand, his touch light but grounding. His thumb brushed over your fingers in reassurance.

“You have not,” he said gently, his voice firm yet kind. “There is nothing you could say that would upset me. For you speak as though you have walked among the glades and meadows of the Blessed Realm, as though you have gazed upon the light of the Trees and carried their warmth within your heart.”

He paused, his hand lifting slightly toward your face, but he hesitated, his movements slow, giving you the choice to accept or turn away. Yet something within you—something undeniable and ancient—compelled you to allow it. The harmony that sang between your two fëar was a melody you could not deny, your hearts now aligned in a rhythm as old as Arda itself.

As his hand finally touched your cheek, warmth spread across your skin, filling you with a sense of comfort and connection unlike any you had ever known. His touch was impossibly soft, like the finest silk woven by your kin’s hands. His scent, too, was distinct and intoxicating—a blend of burning forge, coal, and soot. It was raw and untamed, a match to the fiery aura that surrounded him, and yet there was a gentleness within him that made you yearn to draw closer.

This was what you had waited for, across endless ages—the moment Eru had sung into your fëa’s melody, the one that now bound you to him, the one that had finally come to fruition. It was beautiful, it was magical, and it was inevitable.

“You have a silvery tongue, my lord,” you said, your voice light with teasing as his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone. A smile graced his lips, soft and knowing, as though he reveled in the playful accusation. “One I am certain has gotten you into no small amount of trouble with others.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and intoxicating, lingering in the air between you. It was a melody that set your heart racing, and you wished to commit it to memory, fearing this might be the last time you would ever hear it.

Mairon’s fingers moved with a practiced grace as he tucked a stray strand of your shimmering hair behind your ear. The tips of his fingers grazed the sensitive point of your ear, and you shuddered at the unexpected sensation, a ripple of warmth cascading through you. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you fought against the sigh that threatened to escape your lips.

“Only with you shall my silvery tongue lead me into mischief, my dear Mornelótë,” he murmured, the words sliding from his lips with a charm that made your toes curl within your shoes. The sound of your name on his tongue was like a forbidden melody, and it brought with it a flood of thoughts that made your cheeks flush with heat.

You found yourself unwilling to end this moment, the question that hung between you both unspoken but palpable. Neither of you wished to voice it, to risk the rejection that might follow. Instead, you chose another path, one that might prolong his presence by your side.

“Our town has great need of a new smith,” you began, your voice hesitant yet steady, “after our last vanished some time ago.” You bit down on your bottom lip, your gaze locking with his, and the spark you had seen in his emerald eyes before flared anew. “Or,” you ventured, softer now, “if you wish, I could make you a meal before you continue on your journey?”

His thumb grazed your bottom lip, his touch lingering as he offered you another of those intoxicating smiles. It was a smile that sent your pulse fluttering, your very fëa seeming to hum in harmony with his presence.

“I have journeyed long,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, “and perhaps it is the will of the Valar that I settle among your people and take up my craft once more.” He leaned closer, his fiery aura brushing against you as his face neared yours. His hand lifted your chin gently, his touch warm and firm, his breath scented with spice and embers as it ghosted across your skin.

“If you will have me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his lips only inches from yours.

Your heart pounded furiously, your breath catching at the weight of his words. Of course, you would have him—how could you not? The thought of him remaining, of your fëar intertwining, filled you with a warmth so profound it nearly overwhelmed you. The possibility of one day binding yourselves to one another, of knowing the comfort of his eternal presence and the shared joy of a life together, was irresistible.

Mairon was your match, the harmony to your melody, the fire to your light. He was your beginning, your bonding element, and, perhaps, Eru’s true design for you.

[doodle-pops]

House of Finarfin | When You Prank Them By Walking Around Naked

Request: Good Morning! Can I ask for a group headcanon of House Finarfin whos partners walk up to them naked in their house/rooms? (I was inspired by the nakey challenge on tiktok a while back) Like maybe they just took a bath or wanted to distract them? Thank you!!!

A/N: I hope this was what you were referring to and wanted to have written based on your request, anon. I interpreted it like this, and, I had fun. Ugh, finding a good gif was so hard for this post 🥲

Warnings: slightly suggestive, nudity

Synopsis: When you walk around naked to distract them (based on the tik tok naked challenge)

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Finarfin

You watched him from the doorway, a playful grin tugging at your lips. He hadn’t noticed your approach—too absorbed in his work. Perfect. You’d just finished your bath, skin still warm and fragrant from the scented oils. A soft robe hung loosely around your shoulders, but you hadn’t bothered with anything more. The challenge was simple enough. Distraction.

Padding across the room on silent feet, and stopping just behind his chair, he was still oblivious. With a wicked little smirk, you let the robe slip from your shoulders, pooling on the floor in a whisper of fabric.

“Ara,” you murmured sultrily, “are you terribly busy?”

He startled, quill jerking across the parchment, leaving a long, inky streak. Immediately, his gaze snapped to you—then down. You watched as his lips parted, and for a moment, the Prince of the Noldor was utterly speechless.

“...Valar save me,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face as though to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. His gaze flickered back to you, and despite his best efforts, it lingered. “What in Arda are you doing?”

You shrugged, stepping closer. “You’ve been working all day. I thought you could use a break.”

“A break?” Finarfin cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his usual composure. His ears flushed pink, a rare crack in his regal façade. “And you thought…this was the best way to get my attention?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He fumbled, lashes fluttering and mouth fidgeting, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I am trying to focus on important matters.”

“Am I not important?” you teased, perching on the edge of his desk, completely unbothered by his flustered state.

Finarfin’s eyes flickered to the door as if half-expecting someone to burst in at any moment. “We have servants. What if—”

“The door is locked.”

“Oh.” He exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing. Then his gaze softened, taking in your mischievous expression. “You’re being awfully scandalous.”

“And you love me for it.”

“I do not believe I have much of a choice,” he murmured, standing to wrap his arms around you. His hands rested lightly on your waist, his touch hesitant at first, as though unsure where propriety ended, and indulgence began. Then, with an accepting chuckle, he leaned down to kiss your temple. “Next time, perhaps warn me before you—”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Finrod

He was lounging in the sitting room, strumming absentmindedly on his harp, humming a tune you didn’t recognise and lost in his own world. His hair, still damp from his earlier swim, curled slightly at the ends, and he wore a loose tunic that had slipped off one shoulder. The sight of him—relaxed, content, utterly beautiful—sparked a mischievous idea. You slipped away to shed your clothes, returning with nothing but a confident smile.

He didn’t notice your approach until you were standing right in front of him, casting a shadow over his harp. It was then, when he glanced up, his fingers still on the strings.

“You’re blocking my light—” he said lightly, but his smile faltered when he took in your appearance. His eyes widened, and his fingers fumbled, producing a discordant twang.

“Did I interrupt?” you asked innocently, taking a step closer.

“Uh—” Finrod cleared his throat, dragging his gaze up to your face with visible effort. “Not…exactly?”

“Good.” You knelt on the cushion next to him, leaning in just enough to invade his space. His scent—salt and pine and something uniquely Finrod—was intoxicating.

Carefully, he set his harp aside, hands lingering on the instrument as though it might have grounded him. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to forgo clothing today?”

You shrugged, pretending to consider. “I thought you’d appreciate the view.”

“I do,” he admitted, strained. His gaze flickered down, then quickly back up, as though afraid he might get caught staring. “Very much.”

You grinned, delighting in his rare moment of awkwardness. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Finrod.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps a little.”

You took the opportunity to lean closer, brushing your lips against his cheek. “I think it’s sweet.”

He chuckled softly, finally relaxing into the moment. His arms looped around your waist, pulling you into his lap with a gentle ease. “You are far too good at distracting me.”

“That’s the idea.”

For a long moment, he simply held you, the world beyond the room fading into irrelevance. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, and his voice softened, a playful accent returning.

“You know,” he murmured, “there’s a song in this.”

“Oh?”

“‘The Tale of the Naked Muse.’”

You snorted, burying your face in his shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“No promises.”

Angrod

Angrod stood at the table in your shared room, thoroughly reviewing the latest maps sent from the borders of Dorthonion. His sharp eyes scanned each detail, brow furrowed as he considered potential weak points in the defences. The light from the window cast a golden glow on his hair, making him look like some warrior out of legend, which—let’s be honest—he was.

But he was also your husband, and if you had to sit through another day of him muttering strategies under his breath, you were going to lose your mind. So, after your bath, an idea struck you. Wrapping your robe around yourself, you peeked out of the bathroom, waiting for the perfect moment. When he turned his back to you, you silently discarded the robe and stepped into the room.

He didn’t notice at first. You bit back a laugh at how absorbed he was. Approaching quietly, you draped your arms over his shoulders from behind, pressing your bare chest against his back.

“Hmm?” He glanced at your hands, then froze as he realised you were entirely unclothed. “What are you—?”

“I was lonely,” you murmured, brushing your lips against his ear.

He stiffened for a heartbeat before turning to face you fully, his eyes widening as he took you in. His gaze flickered down, lingering on the curve of your body, then back up to your face, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

“Lonely?” His voice was soft and teasing. “Is that so?”

You nodded, biting your lip to keep from grinning. “Very.”

His hands found your waist, warm and firm. “And your solution was to...stroll in here without a stitch of clothing?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours before pulling back just enough to speak. “It did. But you are aware that anyone could walk in? My brothers, perhaps?”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Then you had better hurry and lock the door.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the room in a few strides, locking the door with a satisfying click before returning to you. There was a rare gleam of amusement in his eyes now—one you didn’t see often, but it always made your heart race when you did.

“You are trouble,” he said, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you effortlessly off the floor.

“And you love me for it,” you teased, laughing as he carried you toward the bed.

He laid you down gently, hovering over you with a soft expression that made your chest ache. “Aye,” he whispered. “I do.”

Aegnor

Sitting by the fireplace in the main room, Aegnor was busy polishing his sword with a cloth. His long golden hair caught the firelight, glowing like molten metal, and his sharp, elegant features were focused in deep concentration.

You stood by the doorway, garmented in your nightwear, watching him for a moment. There was something endearing about how serious he looked—as if polishing a sword was the most important task in the world.

An idea popped into your head. Grinning to yourself, letting your nightwear slip from your shoulders, you stepped into the hall, bare feet making soft sounds against the stone floor.

Aegnor noticed you immediately, his keen eyes flicking up from his task. His hands froze, the cloth stilling against the blade as he took you in—standing there, completely naked, with a playful smirk on your lips.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His blue eyes burned as they swept over you, lingering on every curve, every detail. You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, and the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Is there a reason you’re wandering about unclothed?” His voice was steady, but there was a teasing tone to it.

“I was hot,” you replied casually, stepping closer. “And bored.”

He set the sword and cloth aside, rising gracefully to his feet. “Ah, and you thought you might entertain yourself by...distracting me?”

“Is it working?”

Aegnor’s lips curved into a slow, hungry grin. “Oh, it is most certainly working.”

You closed the distance between you, placing a hand on his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath your palm, but you could see the way his pupils dilated, how his breathing deepened.

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy distracting you?” you murmured.

“You’ve made it quite clear.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his fingers trace down your neck and along your collarbone. His touch was light, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re bold,” he said, voice soft and approving. “But what if someone were to see you?”

“I locked the doors.”

His brows lifted in mock surprise. “Did you? Thoughtful.”

“Always.”

Taking your hand and leading you toward the fire, he pulled you to sit on his lap. “Well, since you’ve gone through the trouble of ensuring our privacy, it would be rude of me not to appreciate the effort.”

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[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.

[hailturinturambar]

Elrond's trajectory in The Rings of Power

This analysis, unlike the others, does not seek to understand a dynamic between two characters. But rather to understand who Elrond Peredhel is and what made him the character we know over the course of two seasons.

To understand who Elrond is and why he acted as he did, we need to go back in time and analyze this character's life. The answers, in general, always lie in the past.

Elrond was born a half-elven son of Elwing, who is the daughter of Dior, who is the son of Lúthien. He was also the son of Eärendil, who is the son of Tuor, who is the son of Huor.

In some narratives, Elrond was born an only child, in others he had a twin brother, Elros. I will analyze through the narrative with Elros, since Elros was important for great future events in Middle-earth.

Elrond's legacy was born of pain and grief. His father, Eärendil, left with his parents (Tuor and Idril) as a child in search of a safe haven. Tuor and Idril fled with the survivors of the Fall of Gondolin.

It is at this time that Eärendil and Elwing's paths cross, as she is fleeing after the destruction of her father and kin at the hands of the Sons of Fëanor. And Elwing had a one of the Silmarils, won by his grandfather, Beren.

When Fëanor's sons destroyed Elrond's home, and his parents were separated from the twins, Elros and Elrond were left alone in the world. However, after growing tired of all the harm they had caused and the weight of their oath, Maedhros and Maglor took the twins in and cared for them.

When the Valar listened to Eärendil and went to war against Morgoth, the Elves were allowed to return to Valinor. Maglor and Maedhros, succumbing to the weight of their oath, met tragic ends, and Elrond and Elros were left alone once more.

But as a reward for the help of Men, and for the half-elven nature of the boys, they were given a choice. Elros, who went with the Men and was numbered among them, went to Númenor and became the first king. Elrond, chose his Elven half and remained in Middle-earth.

To me, this must have been one of Elrond's greatest sorrows. Because he lost his mother, he lost his father. Then he lost the two elves who had cared for him and his brother. And in the end, all he had left was Elros, and he lost him too. Knowing that he would remain in Arda, while his brother would perish.

Thus ends Elrond's days in the First Age. In the Second Age, which we are introduced to in The Rings of Power, we have Elrond much changed, older and even wiser.

Elrond then lives in Lindon, the kingdom of the High Elves, under the command of Gil-galad. Elrond is the king's herald and responsible for the speech in honor of the great heroes who spent centuries hunting Sauron, and one of these is Galadriel, his closest and oldest friend.

Elrond is descended from kings in both his lines, being related to Thingol on his mother's side and to Turgon on his father's side. But his descent does not seem to matter, which makes sense when Elrond lost all his relatives and was left alone, less than a royal heir, more than an outcast.

Elrond is stripped of titles, which is remarkable when he cannot be present at the council, because it is only for Elven Lords. But Galadriel is there and it does not bother him so much. But, I believe deep down, Galadriel's vision worried him.

Galadriel is his beloved friend and he has not seen her for many centuries, but she is very changed. I believe that Elrond feared deeply for her.

Because he knows the shadow that surrounds her, the shadow of an oath made in love, for someone who has been lost. And how much that oath can cost. How much oaths like that have cost Elrond and his family.

In his attempt to help Galadriel, to ease her burden, he pushes her away, and when Elrond can no longer glimpse Galadriel heading towards Valinor, did he feel he was once again left alone in Middle-earth? Probably. Did he feel that the last person he had left had been separated from him for countless years?

Elrond then turns his attention to Celebrimbor, whom the King of Lindon has asked him to help. Elrond readily accepts, this task is a great honor and he accepts it with pride. Elrond has always admired Celebrimbor and he will prove that he is grateful.

Elrond has always admired Celebrimbor's achievements, but to him it is an honor to be able to work with the greatest of the Elven smiths. And Celebrimbor gently reminds him of his father.

And I believe that in that moment, like Galadriel looking upon Finrod, Elrond took it upon himself to protect Celebrimbor and fulfill his father's promise.

Elrond and Celebrimbor cannot build a new forge alone, not in such a short time. And Elrond remembered his great friend, Prince Durin. However, Elrond as an Elf, did not notice the passing of time as Durin. And Durin is heartbroken by Elrond's absence. As Durin says, he lived a whole life in the time Elrond was away.

I believe this is the first moment Elrond realizes how his elven side blinds him to the brevity of life. Elrond spent his entire life surrounded by Elves, eternal beings who would never die except by enemy spear or grief.

Elrond wants to make up for his mistake and assures Durin that it will be different this time. And he means it. Is this the moment when Elrond realizes he is not alone? Galadriel is gone, but he still has friends. He still has Durin. And he also has Disa and Celebrimbor now.

When Sauron spoke about Mirdania remind him of Galadriel, I remembered Celebrimbor noticing the resemblance between Elrond and his father. It's a powerful scene, very beautiful, in my opinion. But a very painful scene too. Because Elrond carries the grief of the loss of his parents, and it's obvious in his personality.

Does Elrond wear clothes that resemble bird wings, like his mother's wings? Elrond, it is important to remember, has a daughter, Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar. The traces of his longing are there, present in everything that represents Elrond. Even in loss, he carries them with him.

So, I believe it was not easy for Elrond to accept Celebrimbor's request. To distrust Durin, to spy on Durin? It is a difficult task. Durin is his last friend and Elrond did not know that by helping Gil-galad, he could be compromising their friendship. Although he is Gil-galad's herald and his subject, Elrond promises to keep Durin's secrets.

But Durin III does not care about Elrond's promises, and Elrond fears that father and son will never understand each other. Elrond does not want Durin to feel what he felt when he lost his father.

Elrond's words about his father are painfully beautiful. And it is the moment of greatest clarification of the character's attitudes to the audience. Because Elrond was shaped by the loss of his parents, his adoptive parents, his brother, Galadriel, so many important people.

And he lives with this motto in his heart, to be good, to be pure, to be worthy of the love and respect of those who have passed away and who perhaps watch him from a distance.

Elrond presents Gil-galad's proposal to Durin and the prince accompanies him to Lindon. But it is not easy for Elrond, being forced to be the spokesman between the two sides, feeling that he is betraying his friend, as well as his kind.

It is a great weight placed on Elrond's shoulders by Gil-galad and Celebrimbor. Must Elrond betray who he is to save his people? Elrond understands the weight of the oath, as his protectors have felt for countless centuries. Because it is not always possible to keep an oath.

Fearing the destruction of the Elves not only of Lindon, but of all Middle-earth, Elrond must swallow everything he believes, everything he has promised and agrees to ask for Durin's help. I believe that Durin knew that Elrond never had bad intentions, and understands the dilemma of his Elf friend.

Elrond sets off for Khazad-dûm with Durin. Durin, like Elrond, needs to honor his oath. An oath that is not always easy, that is not always possible. One of the things I like most about Tolkien/TROP is how sacrifice is always a point, it is always something we do for those we love.

One of the obstacles in Elrond's journey is King Durin III. Durin III is cold and harsh at times, but he is a wise king and is trying to protect his people, fearing that the Elves will take advantage of his people and their resources.

As I see it, when Elrond gets down on his knees and announces his mixed race, Elf and Man, he has never been more like his father. Like his father who in Valinor spoke for the Two Kinds, Elrond does so now. For if the Elves depart from Middle-earth, all will be at risk.

Durin IV helps Elrond as much as he can, but his father and king does not allow Elrond to return and banishes him from all the Dwarves Mountains. When Elrond cries, holding the Mithril, we see how love and friendship are present in his heart.

Did Elrond remember of Maedhros and Maglor? That in the end, they fought for him and Elros, as far as they could bear? It's sad. Elrond's journey is marked by so much suffering and abandonment.

He has no choice but to return to Eregion and warn Celebrimbor. There is nothing the Elves can do and it is time to go home, back to the Realm of Light, where pain and suffering do not exist.

Everything changes for Elrond with the arrival of Galadriel. It is like an explosion of emotions. He has just been forbidden to be with Durin, but his friend has returned to him. He is no longer alone. And Elrond feels a lot of guilt for sending Galadriel away, even though he believed that this could have protected his friend.

Galadriel and Elrond try to find solutions with Celebrimbor, but Galadriel is not alone, she has come accompanied by Halbrand. Elrond had no prejudice against Men, he himself was part Man. Something, however, about Halbrand, never felt right to him.

At this point, Elrond's journey comes to a major halt. In his quest to save the Elves of Middle-earth, they have attracted Evil that should never have returned.

It was undoubtedly difficult for Elrond to realize that despite Halbrand's suspicious influence and intentions in the Rings, Galadriel persisted. This breaks something very fragile in Elrond, shakes his already fragile trust in others.

We're getting into dangerous territory now! I know many were angry with Elrond in season two and how he treated Galadriel. Elrond, however, wasn't being punitive, jury and executioner, his actions are completely understandable.

Elrond sets out for Lindon with the Rings in a desperate attempt to get Gil-galad to listen to him, to understand his fears. And he does, for a time. Galadriel and Gil-galad may despise Sauron, but they are both desperate for a solution, for a cure so they won't have to abandon Middle-earth.

Gil-galad desires the Rings and Elrond is once again alone. Like Galadriel in the first season while hunting Sauron. It's not easy being the last soldier standing. The only one fighting a losing battle.

It pains Elrond that Gil-galad would risk, in his desperation, accepting something that may have been influenced by Sauron. And it pains him even more that of all the Elves, Galadriel, who has suffered so much and fought so hard, should fall for Sauron's trick.

Círdan is his last hope. Another fleeting hope. Círdan, at least, understands Elrond's fear and the risk of the Rings. To Elrond, the Rings of Power are no different than the Silmarils. Objects of beauty and power that have cost many lives.

Elrond did not hesitate out of spite for Galadriel. But as someone who has suffered so much under the influence of the Silmarils, he understands the staggering risk they are all taking. Like his mother, Elwing, Elrond’s leap is one of desperation, of sacrifice.

Now the Rings are in Lindon and Elrond tries one last time to protect Galadriel. Yes, the Rings worked and their beauty enchants everyone, even Elrond.

This, however, does not make the Rings any less dangerous. The disappointment on Elrond's face is noticeable when he realizes that Galadriel succumbed so easily to the desire to wear the ring.

It is undoubtedly difficult for Elrond to remain in Lindon. The Elves are happy, the Rings have worked, and they are safe. This is not enough to assuage Elrond's fears. And given all he has been through, it is to be expected that he would feel this way.

Elrond remains firm in his beliefs, even though he is suffering from his separation from Galadriel. But Elrond was so young when he lost his parents because of the Silmarils, why would the Rings be any different?

I believe he did not want what happened to all those who touched the Silmarils to happen to his friends. But Elrond cannot forgive Galadriel, he cannot accept what she is asking. For him, if she accepted the Ring, she is accepting Sauron's influence.

Only Cirdan can convince Elrond and he does. He believes in Elrond and understands his fear, but asks him to understand that the Rings can and should be used for good, and that is why Sauron cannot touch them. Is it Cirdan's words that influence Elrond to leave with the retinue? I believe so.

The best way to define the relationship between Elrond and Galadriel in the next episodes is, as they say in my country, "A tail-puller." (it sounds better in my language) Which talks about two difficult people who are constantly at war, but never move away from each other.

In episode four, they are like two contrasting forces. Elrond has agreed to leave with the retinue only because he wants to protect Celebrimbor and end Sauron's rule. His motives and Galadriel's may be the same, but their motivations are not.

Elrond is firm with Galadriel, not giving in to her tempestuous and proud ways. She has agreed to be there, so she needs to take Elrond's advice. Since Elrond will not follow the Ring's advice.

And is he completely wrong? We, the viewers, understand that the ring is not compromised. That vision does not exist for the characters. And trusting in a Magic Ring is not trustworthy. Let's look at what happened to the Dwarves, to the Men. The fear of Elrond is equal to the fear of Durin.

Evil was in the forest, Elrond was warned. Who has never made a mistake by not listening to advice? Listening to the Ring's advice, for Elrond, would be like listening to the Silmaril's advice. It is a dangerous path that he does not wish to follow.

A choice that caused the loss of an Elf. However, in the fight against Sauron and the forces of Adar, it is as Galadriel said, many difficult losses would occur. It is clear that Elrond wants to listen to Galadriel, that he wants to trust her words.

He feels that she is being influenced by the Ring, and this impairs her judgment, or vice versa. No one can be completely correct in this story. Let us remember that Elrond is deeply hurt.

Did Galadriel sacrifice herself for the ring? For her friends? Both answers are possible, together or separately. They vary depending on how much you like the characters. What matters to me, however, here, is what Elrond felt. And he is so hurt that he prefers to believe that Galadriel sacrificed herself only for the ring and nothing more.

Even the lives of the Elves are about growing, maturing, and learning. Elrond is learning slowly. As Círdan said, they do not yet understand the Rings. It is to be expected that not everyone will agree at once.

But Galadriel's sacrifice, no matter how Elrond interpreted it, changed something in him. Elrond runs to Lindon and warns Gil-galad. Yes, Galadriel was right, and they need to send all their soldiers to Eregion. I think a lot about Elrond's words, when he talks about how the loss of Eregion would affect everyone.

Did he think of Doriath, of Gondolin? That is in his legacy. He cannot bear the loss of yet another great Elven kingdom to one of the Dark Lords.

It is time for Elrond to set out for the Dwarven Kingdom and seek help. Elrond, ever the herald of the Two Kinds, speaking for the Two Kinds.

Elrond once again sets out for Khazad-dûm. He knows that the Elves will be defeated without the help of the Dwarves. Elrond, like his father, has always known that one people alone cannot defeat such a powerful enemy. Only united are they strong enough.

Leaving with Durin's promise, Elrond returns to Lindon to fight on behalf of all Elves. He is determined, he will protect his people. Galadriel is his weak point. His friend is in the hands of Adar and he blames himself for this.

Elrond and Galadriel tend to say goodbye in moments of great intrigue. Seeing Galadriel in the hands of the enemy undoubtedly hurt him, he himself was once in the hands of the enemy, he was on the side of the hostages, he was a hostage.

Adar is as big a threat as Sauron. Sauron may be forging Rings to enslave Middle-earth, but it is Adar who is in Eregion with his Uruks destroying the Elven kingdom.

And Elrond needs to be strong once again. Elrond faces Adar, even though Adar disregards Elrond's ability as a warrior. Yes, Elrond lived behind countless books, but he always knew war, always understood it and faced it.

I'm going to get into another dangerous area and some of you will hate me (well, but analysis is how I interpret the show, so…) I consider Elrond and Galadriel's kiss very important and necessary.

I ship Galadriel and Celeborn, yes, I said that. But Celeborn is not here at the moment, I am talking about Elrond.

The kiss is a subtle and effective strategy that allows Galadriel to escape. However, I also see the kiss as a way for Elrond to show his love and affection for Galadriel, how he is regretting, how he blames himself for her being there, how he wishes things had been different and they could be at peace.

And perhaps it was also a farewell kiss. It is, after all, a war. Is it hard for Elrond to turn his back on Galadriel, to leave her alone in Adar's tent, to run away alone? I bet it is.

Elrond is back on the battlefield. It is a hard, ugly, cruel fight. Many lives are lost, Elrond is forced to watch his friends and companions perish in a cruel way at the hands of the Orcs. At the hands of his enemies. It is painful, it is always painful.

The final stab is Durin's delay. Did Elrond feel abandoned? In all the chaos, he cannot assimilate everything that was happening around him.

All he knows is that Durin is not there and they must fight. And here is Adar, taking Nenya from Elrond. The world is made of hope, but not for Elrond.

Loss is an interesting thing to interpret. Elrond lost many things, many people, during much of his life. It is no different now, with Eregion destroyed, with Celebrimbor dead. But the cruelest loss is memory.

What remains. It is devastating to Elrond that all the documents, the scrolls, all the memories of all those who lived in Eregion, who wrote down its teachings, were lost.

Why not just lose, but also lose memory? It is too much for anyone. All the knowledge of a people lost, forever. Which is a long time for an Elf.

Durin's arrival is a small comfort, until Elrond discovers that it is not Durin. The last of the Elves are being rescued, but to where? Eregion has fallen, there is nothing left for them, not there. Not in many places in Middle-earth.

Elrond is at a crossroads. Galadriel is dying, the darkness is too strong. Is it up to him to trust the Ring, to go against all his principles? In my opinion, this is the key point about Elrond's evolution in the second season.

Elrond was greater than his fear, greater than his fears, because it was better to risk using a Ring controlled by Sauron (whom he feared, obviously) than to lose Galadriel. After so many losses, it is easy to choose his friend over his fear.

The scene in which Elrond contemplates Eregion, once an imposing, majestic kingdom, completely in ruins is very sad. An entire kingdom destroyed by the desires of Sauron and Adar, so many lives, so much knowledge, lost for power.

As when the people of Gondolin fell, and the people of Doriath fell, Elrond had to start over. As when his parents fell, and ruin came to his people, he must start over. Ever forward, in search of better days. When everything is broken, we can only start over and move forward.

It is nice to see Elrond's last scene, where he holds Nenya without fear, without distrust (something that will be beautiful to see in the future, since he will also be a protector of the rings) and trusting Galadriel once again.

They are both at peace now. The surviving people of Eregion are at peace, as much peace as can be. The light is shining and a new day has dawned, for all of them, especially for Elrond, who in the Third Age will be one of the few to represent a light in the darkness of Middle-earth.

I really like the way Elrond is built in the show. It's great to watch and follow the growth of this incredible character, who is by far one of my favorites. I can't wait to see what his journey will be like in the upcoming seasons.

Don't forget that you all voted and the next analyses will also be about trajectories. (First Míriel, then Sauron.)

Tomorrow is my birthday, so I'm posting the analysis today! :)