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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 days

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Forsaken

This is for @tolkienpinupcalendar Monster Fucker May

Pairings: Werewolf Thû x Lúthien

Rating: E

Themes: Smut / NSFT | Dead Dove

Wordcount: 1.7K words

Summary: Lúthien learns of Beren’s fate and decides to make peace with her new lot in life.

Minors DNI | 18+

Thû finally honored his part of the bargain they struck. He presented Lúthien with what remained of Beren’s bones, his sword and shield, his armor. Lord Mairon had sent the fallen warrior’s remains in a great cedar chest bound in gold. A master’s indulgence, his herald had said, for Thû prevented Lúthien from aiding Beren and seizing a silmaril from Lord Melkor’s crown. It would also serve as a reminder, Lady Thuringwethil had gone on to add, of Lúthien’s new place as Thû’s thrall and bedmate.

The daughter of Melian refused to believe the word of either at first. She called the chest and the contents it held an act of trickery, a ploy to deceive her. Then Thuringwethil clapped her hands, and her own thrall stepped forth to open the lid.

“Tis no trick, little halfling,” Thuringwethil bristled, her voice thick with anger. She reached into the chest and lifted a silver ring that was tarnished with old blood. “Here. Observe the ring for yourself.”

The ring was no ordinary trinket. It was crafted in Valinor, and it once belonged to none other than Prince Findaráto himself. Lúthien fell to her knees even as Lord Mairon’s herald held it up to the lamplight. Two serpents were wrought in silver, their heads meeting beneath a crown of golden flowers in full bloom. One upheld these flowers, while the other devoured them. Their eyes were comprised of emeralds. They seemed to burn like green fire.

“This was his,” the Maia said. She dropped the ring into Lúthien’s outstretched palm. “I trust you will not call our words trickery now.”

Overcome with grief, Lúthien clutched the ring to her chest. This was his, she thought. This was the ring of my beloved, and Felagund before him.

“Beren was the last to perish,” Thû told her after Thuringwethil left in a swirl of rustling silks and leathery wings that dragged behind her like a cape. She retired to the chambers he had set aside for her own particular use, and she gave her word to attend a feast he had arranged in honor of her visit. “And he would not have been the last had Felagund not sacrificed himself to save his life. Take comfort in the knowledge that they are now gone and can suffer no more.”

Such words offered little peace to Lúthien, for they were the words of her captor. “What will become of me now?” She whispered and reached up to touch her eye, thinking she would find it wet with tears. To her amazement, she found it cold and dry. It was then that she realized that she had already begun to move away from Beren and the memories of all that they shared.

“Continue to serve me,” Thû said, and he smiled. He rather enjoyed the sight of the halfling princess on her knees before him, her spirit nearly broken. “And make peace with your new lot in life. There is nothing else that you could do. Your beloved is no more. The elven king who foolishly agreed to aid him in his quest is no more. That wretched hound who carried you is no more. You have no friends, no saviors. Your family will not welcome you should you return to them, you who sullied yourself by coupling with one such as me.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh? Then, where is your mother? Where is your father? Where are the elves who serve them? By now, word of your capture would have surely reached their ears, so why has no one come to find you and free you, princess?”

Lúthien lay where she fell on the stone floor, silent and unmoving. Part of her silence was due to her grief. The chief of it, however, lay in the knowledge that her kin, her own flesh and blood, may have truly forsaken her.

Her father had counseled her against leaving. He could not bear the notion of a most beloved child endangering herself for the sake of a mortal. Her mother counseled against it also, saying such a union was destined to end in doom. There would be no joy to be found, she said, and her sorrow would be hard to bear in the end. Yet Lúthien left anyway, braving strange lands and orcs and dark magic and elven princes under the influence of a dreadful Oath. And it was all for naught. Her defying her mother and father, her endangering her life, and the life of the great hound who dared to defy his own master for her sake, were for naught. Now she was here, doomed to serve her captor for as long as she lived, while the elves of Doriath would continue on regardless of what became of her.

Perhaps Thû is right. Perhaps I should make peace with my new lot in life, she thought, for my fate is bound to his now.

“How am I to serve you, my lord?” She finally asked, her decision made.

Thû bellowed out an order that she did not understand. Sentries standing to attention just outside his bedchamber left their posts and closed thick, iron doors behind them.

“You know what you must do,” he said.

Lúthien nodded and rose to her feet. She disrobed her master the way she had done the first time they coupled: his leather tunic she removed first, then his belt and his boots, and finally, his breeches. Her own raiment joined his on the floor. Then she turned to look at him. She no longer flushed from cheek to chest when she took in his exposed form, nor did she find it as repulsive as she did in the beginning; she discovered that she had come to find it somewhat appealing instead. Once he was free of his garments, Thû walked over to his bed and made himself comfortable on the edge, his legs spread. Then Lúthien joined him. She knelt before him and gazed up at him from under her thick lashes. Thû found it bewitching to see her like this, though he made no effort to put such a discovery into words. She, despite being a high-born princess, was his thrall, after all, and thralls, in his opinion, did not deserve such the honor of such fine praise.

“You know what you must do,” Thû repeated, and he closed his eyes.

The halfling princess was more willing to heed him. And she proved herself to be more willing to please him. She bent down and pressed kisses against the inside of his thigh, going higher and higher, and then, she swallowed his erection to the hilt, putting her hands and her mouth to good use. She tasted the seed already beading at the tip and then ran her tongue along the underside of his length before taking it into the wet heat of her mouth again. Thû moaned softly. He brushed his hand over her dark hair, then gathered it into a fistful to keep it out of the way.

“This is how you will serve me,” he murmured, his voice already thick and hoarse with lust. He tugged hard on her hair. The sound she made at the back of her throat was muffled, but he heard it all the same. It aroused him to no end. “By submitting to me this way. By continuing to warm my bed and bearing my offspring, should my seed ever quicken in your womb. Do you understand, princess?”

Lúthien understood well enough. “Yes, my lord,” she replied when she drew away. Then she stood and moved to sit astride him, closing her eyes as she did so. She had no desire to witness the change that took place, but she heard it nonetheless. Bones cracked and reformed. Muscles broadened and hardened. Tufts of coarse, wiry hair rose and brushed against her fingers and the insides of her thighs. Hands that were larger and more powerful than before came to rest over her hips. She whimpered when nails scoured her flesh.

“Go on,” Thû commanded as one who knew he would be obeyed.

“Yes, my lord,” Lúthien said, lowering herself onto him. Her master shivered.

It was quick and brutal after that. Thû lost himself in the warmth of his bedmate’s flesh, the sharp edge of his nails raking down her hips and leaving thin red lines in their wake. Such pain was nigh unbearable to Lúthien once, but now she discovered herself finding slivers of enjoyment in it. She brought her hips down on him, harder and harder and harder, the trill of her voice crying out her pleasure.

“Yes,” Thû growled approvingly. “A little more. Harder. Harder.”

It only took another moment before he spilled into her—a hoarse cry tearing free from him—and another before her own release came. Lúthien collapsed against him, gasping, while that rigid part of him swelled and kept him locked within her until he had emptied himself of his seed. Her master’s chest heaved against hers, and his breath was ragged and unsteady. She took a deep breath herself and slowly opened her eyes.

Thû was still in his beastlike form, all coarse hair and unyielding limbs full of hardened sinew. Her hand glided up his arm. She found great strength in that arm, enough to cause her harm should she ever give him a reason to use it against her.

Perhaps I could learn to enjoy him using his strength in other ways, she told herself.

“When should I come to you again?” She dared not to look at his face. She was not yet ready for such a sight.

“You may stay here,” Thû remarked, triumph surging thick through his veins. Lúthien willingly offered herself to him. It would not be long before she, too, agreed to swear herself to his master. What a victory it would be to see a daughter of Melian aligning herself with his master’s great vision for Arda! “And I will come to you. A thrall will come to wash and dress you for the feast. I will not have it known that those who serve me do not know how to appear at their very best.”

tags: @cilil

#tpcmonsterfuckermay #dead dove do not eat #Thû x Lúthien #Lúthien smut #Thû smut #the silmarillion #lay of leithian imagine

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 3 days

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Pairings: Maedhros x Fingon

Themes: Soft | NSFW/NSFT | Russingon

Warnings: Kissing

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Wordcount: 3K words

Summary: Nelyafinwë (Maedhros) and Findecáno (Fingon) pledge themselves to each other after they are allowed to leave the halls of Mandos.

A/n: This was inspired by this lovely piece by @cyraes

A/n: Anlaurë (OC) is the son Maglor had with Indilien (OC)

This is also available on AO3

“I still do not understand.” Nerdanel furrowed her brow in confusion. She affixed the last of the gold studs to her son’s left ear and accepted the filigreed brush her handmaiden held out for her. “Why did you choose to go without your right hand?”

Nelyafinwë sat still before the silvered looking glass, thinking of the time Lady Estë asked the same question of him. And the answer he gave his mother was no different from the answer he gave the Valië of rest and healing.

“Because it reminds me of Finno’s greatest act of bravery and the opportunity I was given to win back his love,” he said while his mother ran the brush through his hair, gently and lovingly, as always. It reminded him of his childhood, when his mother would comb out his hair and they would speak at length about anything and everything. “And because I chose to begin my life anew this way, in this form.”

“I see,” his mother said. She gave the brush back to her handmaiden to hold. “Now the two of you will pledge yourselves to each other, and before all of Tirion, no less. Are you anxious, my son?”

“I was,” Nelyafinwë confessed while his mother collected thick sheafs of his hair to plait into a single braid. Her hands were quick and skilled; she did not linger long on her task. A thin strip of gold ribbon was tied to the end of the braid. The rest of his hair was allowed to fall freely over his shoulders and down his back. “But I am not anymore. I am to be wed, mother, and to the one I have loved over all others, no less.”

The prince once thought such a day would never come to him after his father set fire to the ships at Losgar, leaving those who followed Nolofinwë and Arafinwë with little choice but to make the perilous trek across the Helcaraxë. Back then, he had to stand by and watch while the flames that consumed the fabled swanships of Alqualondë consumed the future he had woven for the Findecáno and himself. Now, that same future appeared before him again, as bright and glorious as the golden orb that heralded the dawning of a new day.

“That is good, my son,” Nerdanel said, satisfied with her efforts with her son’s hair. She went to the table at the foot of her son’s bed and set her gaze on the circlet resting on a velvet cushion. It was wrought out of burnished copper, as red as the auburn of her son’s hair. She brought it to him. “Here. Wear this. With it, you will be ready to meet your intended.”

Nelyafinwë set the proffered circlet amidst his hair and took a moment to study his reflection in the glass. His countenance no longer bore the scars of his captivity, and his crimson and dull gold robes were adorned with a wide leather belt and a girdle of golden stars around his waist. A thick fur cloak rested over his broad shoulders, its heavy clasps of gold glinting whenever they caught the sunlight that poured in through high windows. There was no sword at his side, no blade, or other weapon. During his soul’s period of reflection and cleansing, Nelyafinwë swore to never seek violence again.

No more taking up arms, he reminded himself. No more raising my sword against others. No more. No more.

He turned his attention to his reflection again, and approved of what he saw. Gold and crimson were the colors he oft chose for himself, and he wore them well. Then he thought of his intended, and what this day meant for them both.

A new chapter begins for him as well as for me, Nelyafinwë thought, and a new life begins for us both.

“Let us not tarry anymore,” he said, and stood. His mother offered her arm, and he let her lead him out of his chambers and down the high, vaulted corridors he once played in as a child. He glimpsed out of a nearby window and looked into the city beyond it.

Tirion had changed a great deal since he last walked over its crystal steps and its many marbled paths. His nephew Anlaurë ruled the city as its king. Many of the elves he knew in his previous life still dwelled in Endorë, or their souls still lingered within the Halls of Mandos while awaiting the moment of their return. The few who still remained in the Blessed Realm and remembered him—the ones who refused to join his father’s flight to the lands beyond their own and the Teleri who still dwelled in the city built upon the crown of Túna—smiled whenever they saw him, but rarely did they ever speak with him. Despite the passing of the ages, the horrors of Alqualondë still remained fresh in the minds of those who lived to see it with their own eyes, and full and everlasting forgiveness would take time. Until then, he would have to be patient.

“Has there been any word on Makalaurë’s whereabouts?” Nelyafinwë asked when they descended the steps leading to the inner courtyard. Already the flowers were in full bloom; the air was thick with their sweet scent.

“The Súruli have found him,” Nerdanel said. Her eyes were filled with worry. “They say he wanders along the lonely shores of Endorë, weaving a song of great sorrow and misfortune. They say he is already half a shade, and that he shies away from the company of others. They have asked for leave to speak to him and see if he desires to come home.”

“And will Lord Manwë give them leave to do so?”

“Lord Eönwë assured me that such will indeed be the case. Whether your brother will agree to come home after all this time—that is another matter altogether.”

“Makalaurë will come home,” Nelyafinwë insisted, his voice trembling as tears gathered in his eyes. The notion that a beloved brother still remained alone and friendless in Endorë proved to be a difficult thing for him to bear. “He must come home, and see his son, at least. He must see the great elven lord Anlaurë has grown up to be.”

“That is my hope also,” his mother returned. She looked at him, saw the tears glistening in his eyes, and squeezed his arm to comfort him. “Pray do not give yourself over to despair, my son. All be well in the end where Makalaurë is concerned; wait and see.”

“I hope such will indeed be the case, mother.”

A carriage was waiting for them by the time they reached the outer courtyard. An honor guard had already formed ahead of it, their gilded armor gleaming in the mid-afternoon light. Tyelkormo would lead the way, seated atop a coal-black charger that had been richly caparisoned in silver silk, the colour of the eight-pointed star that was oft favored by their father. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting when he saw his brother. Nelyafinwë did the same in return. Then he held the door open for his mother and helped her climb inside. Tyelkormo called out an order after he climbed in after her and closed the door behind him. Their carriage lurched into motion, carrying them beneath the arched palace gates and onto a wide, paved road beyond it.

There is the maze where we played hide and seek as children. Nelyafinwë peered out the little window to better take in the passing scenery while his mother reclined against the cushions. There is the fountain where we placed our paper boats and held wagers to see whose boat endured the longest, and there is the observatory where Findecáno and I first kissed each other.

He still remembered that moment, when their desire for each other finally won out against the fear and shame that held them back. It was after the great feast their shared uncle, Arafinwë, held in honor of his firstborn reaching the age of majority. They slipped away while the others were occupied praising Findaráto and his accomplishments, and then they made their way to the observatory, taking great care not to be seen by anyone along the way. It was there, beneath the domed glass ceiling that let in the light of the stars, that they opened their hearts to each other. Nelyafinwë had been bashful and hesitant; Findecáno even more so. Nevertheless, they confessed, and then they kissed, with Nelyafinwë having to take a firmer hand. Findecáno had grown bolder since that day, more insistent, and Nelyafinwë was more than willing to let him take the reins whenever he had a desire for it.

Now we will be bound to each other in the eyes of Eru and all who have gathered to witness the exchanging of our vows, he thought, just as I hoped.

He was not the only being entertaining such notions. Findecáno sat beside his mother while their own carriage threaded its way around the winding roads leading to Tirion’s great square.

“If only my father were here,” he said softly. “He would have wanted to witness this day.”

“He would have, yes.” Anairë took her son’s hand into hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “But his soul is not yet ready to leave the Halls. Do not worry, Finno. Your father will return to us soon enough, and then you can introduce him to your husband.”

Husband, Findecáno thought. After the vows have been said, Nelyafinwë will become my husband.

He did not think such a future was possible while he and all those who followed his father and uncle stood along the frigid shores of Araman and watched as the flames rising from ships being burned painted the horizon a dreadful shade of red. Findecáno’s heart became as cold as the ice of the Helcaraxë that day, and his anger grew and grew with each day that passed and with each life that was lost during the crossing and the battles that followed. Then they reached Hithlum, and he learned of Nelyafinwë’s fate and of his unwillingness to partake in the burning of the ships. Findecáno set aside his anger and grief for a while and departed on a daring quest to find and free the kinsman that he had once loved above all others. His bravery in the face of near-certain capture and death not only helped bring about a shaky peace between the great houses of the Noldor, it also led to the rekindling of the love Nelyafinwë and he once felt for each other.

Such a rekindling did not take place immediately. It took a great many years for Nelyafinwë and himself to free themselves from the skeins of mistrust and grief and anger that had wound around them like clinging vines, and once they did, Nelyafinwë did everything within his power to prove himself worthy of the love that was once freely given to him.

“We have arrived,” Anairë said, disturbing his reverie. Findecáno nodded and gazed out through curtains of sheer blue silk.

The Great Square loomed ahead, its marble terraces and pavilions gilded by the light of the sun. Galathilion, the tree given as a gift to the elves of Tirion, rose high in the center of it all, its far-reaching branches thickly adorned with brilliant white leaves and golden lamps made especially for the occasion. Guests had already gathered beneath its welcomed shade, wandering around the marble benches they would later sit on during the feast. His kin had taken their places ahead of the others, as had the kin of his beloved. Nelyafinwë and his mother stood before a regal, otherworldly figure clad in sky-blue robes and golden armor and wings so large that they dragged behind him like a great feathery cape. A crown of golden wings floated a finger’s breadth over his radiant silver hair. Another elven lord stood tall and proud beside him, his dark hair appearing in sharp contrast to the ornate golden circlet he wore.

“Lord Manwë is already here.” Findecáno climbed out of the carriage first after it came to a halt, and a page came forth to open the door for them. He held out his hand and helped his mother climb out next, and he smiled indulgently when she fussed with his robes and his cloak, a thick velvet confection that had been dyed a deep shade of blue and bordered with silver satin ribbon. “As is Lord Anlaurë. That means the ceremony can begin.”

Ainu and elf turned in unison to look when minstrels lifted their harps and began to play. Anairë and Findecáno walked between them, arm in arm, exchanging smiles and pleased looks with many who had gathered. Nelyafinwë straightened his back when Findecáno came to him, garbed in dull silver and blue, with his long black hair neatly arranged in great plaits braided with gold. More gold glittered in his ears and on his lower lip. Manwë beamed at them all, for he understood better than anyone the significance of what was about to take place. Findecáno was once a king. Both he and Nelyafinwë were the sons and grandsons of other kings. Suspicion and bitter enmity lingered long and deep between their fathers. Now, with the pledging of vows and the exchanging of rings, that enmity would be put to rest, and two noble families that were once torn asunder by strife would now be joined together.

A pity neither of their fathers could be here to witness it, thought Manwë. Nolofinwë was not yet ready to accept his vessel of flesh and blood, the herald of Námo had said, and Fëanáro could not leave the Halls until the Battle of All Battles and the remaking of the world, where he would surrender the Silmarils and break them so that Yavanna could make use of their light to restore the two trees. Still, the marriage of their oldest sons was a portend of brighter days to follow, and that was something Manwë would always welcome with a glad and willing heart.

“Let us begin.” The Elder King’s rich voice echoed through the square after Anairë placed Findecáno’s right hand in Nelyafinwë’s left, and they all turned to face him. The minstrels ceased their playing, and a welcomed hush settled over them all.

“Honoured guests,” Manwë continued, “we have gathered here at this hour to witness the joining of these two elven lords and the joining of their great houses. Before I proceed, I must ask if either family objects to this union.”

“My family approves of this marriage,” Nerdanel told him.

“My family approves of this marriage as well,” Anairë said.

“As Lord Ruler of Tirion and High King of the Noldor, I give my blessing to this union,” Anlaurë said, giving his own approval to the marriage.

The Elder King smiled when they all bowed and turned to join the others. “Lord Nelyafinwë,” he said, addressing the firstborn son of Fëanáro. “Do you, of your own free will, wish to pledge yourself to Lord Findecáno?”

“I do, my lord, with a glad and willing heart,” Nelyafinwë replied. The hand over his trembled, and tapered but surprisingly strong mahogany fingers that were all so familiar to him were laced around his own.

“Lord Findecáno,” Manwë addressed the firstborn son of Nolofinwë next. “Do you, of your own free will, wish to pledge yourself to Lord Nolofinwë?”

“I do, my lord, with a glad and willing heart.” Findecáno echoed what his intended had said before him. He smiled to himself when the hand around his squeezed gently.

Manwë, pleased with their replies, continued with the ceremony. “May we have the rings?”

Tyelkormo brought forth the ring his brother would give to his intended husband. Turukáno brought forth the ring his brother would give to his. Both rings were wrought of gold and without adornment, and they would take the place of the silver rings their wearers bore before them. Manwë accepted these. He gave one for Findecáno to take and the other for Nelyafinwë to take. Then he invited them to face each other and give each other the rings.

Nelyafinwë spoke his portion of the vows first, as the oldest son of the oldest son of Finwë. “In the name of Manwë, Lord of Airs and King of us all, I take thee as my husband and my companion in all things. Your cup shall never run empty, and your burdens I will help bear. I swear this in the sights of Eru and all those who have gathered here.”

Findecáno waited until the ring was slipped onto his finger, and then he said, “In the name of Varda, Queen of the Stars and Queen of us all, I take thee as my husband and my companion in all things. Your cup shall never run empty, and your burdens I will help bear. I swear this in the sights of Eru and all those who have gathered here.”

Nelyafinwë smiled bashfully when Findecáno slipped the golden band over his finger. Then they waited, for it was Manwë’s turn to speak next.

“By virtue of the great authority vested in me,” the Elder King said, raising his many arms toward the heavens, “I pronounce you both wed in the sights of Eru and these witnesses. You may now seal your union with a kiss.”

Nelyafinwë and Findecáno kissed each other long and deep, paying no heed to the elves and Ainur who looked on and cheered.

“Is this all you hoped it would be?” Nelyafinwë asked when he finally drew away.

“It was all I could have hoped for and more, beloved,” Findecáno said. He smiled bashfully and glanced up at his spouse through thick lashes.

“Just so.” Nelyafinwë kissed him again, and linked Findecáno’s arm through his. They turned to face all those who had gathered to witness them pledging themselves to each other, and they walked toward their families.

Original image: Sandy Millar/Unsplash

#russingon #they get married your honor #maedhros #fingon #maedhros x fingon #the silm #the silmarilion #the silm fanfiction

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 4 days

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Arched Harp (shoulder harp)

Egyptian, New Kingdom ca. 1390–1295 B.C.

This type of portable, boat-shaped arched harp was common during the New Kingdom and is shown in the hands of processional female musicians performing alone or in ensembles with singers, wind instruments, sistrums, and rattles. The end of the arched frame is decorated with the head of a Nubian captive who appears to be bound by the strings of the harp.

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 4 days

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Unclaimed Art Remaining!

Calling all Tolkien fans!

We still have two lovely unclaimed art pieces in the TRSB Gallery (and honestly, we can’t believe these haven’t been snapped up yet). The first art features Belen and Mablung through time and the other is about Finrod and Maglor enjoying a nice afternoon together. If these speak to you and you did not get to sign up as an author, this is your chance!

Simply sign up as a pinch hitter and you will gain access to the gallery — which contains the art mentioned above and additional information supplied by the artists — and the link to the claims form. Hurry, though! It’s first-come, first-served, so sign up quickly to make sure you can snag your favourite!

If you can’t write this year for whatever reason, please consider spreading the word and helping us find a home for all the lovely art.

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 4 days

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Worthy Prize

This is for @tolkienpinupcalendar Monster Fucker May

Pairings: Azog x Captive! Tauriel

Rating: E

Themes: Smut / NSFT | Dead Dove

Wordcount: 2.1k

Summary: After returning to his keep, Azog is presented with the elf he captured during a raid.

Minors DNI | 18+

Azog made his way to the raised dais and took his place in the lord’s seat. His mother followed him. She took her customary place—standing by his right shoulder—and she waited for her son’s newest conquest to be presented to him.

“An elven bedslave,” Uthri, his mother, said. “One who was the leader of the Elvenking’s own guard, no less. You must be well pleased, my son.”

“I am indeed.” Azog glimpsed at his mother. Age and a lifetime of war had not diminished her in any way. She stood proud and tall as always, with a thick spear in her hand and her soot-black hair oiled and pulled up to form a neat top-knot. A scar cut across her face from the hairline on one end to the cheek on the other end, barely missing her right eye. A permanent reminder, he knew, of the last battle she fought. “I trust she did not trouble you and your attendants on the journey here.”

Uthri snorted. “She fought us like a vicious cat,” she said, and she smiled. “But she is docile now, thanks in no small measure to the herbs we make her consume with her meals. She will give you no trouble in the bedchamber; you have my word on this.”

Azog nodded in approval. “That is good,” he said, “for I have had my fill of violence for the present. And I do not wish to bloody this elf before I have had the opportunity to grow tired of her. Have her brought in.”

His mother thumped the butt of her spear against the floor and called out an order. A commotion was heard just outside the hall Azog used for audiences—a shuffling of many boots, the rasping voices of other orcs. Another command rang out. Someone was told to make haste instead of tarrying. Then the high, wooden doors were pulled wide open. An elf with fiery red hair and her hands bound in front of her was pulled along by several orc warriors clad in boiled leather armor. A few had shirts of mail as well due to their higher rank. They walked up to the dais without saying a word.

“There she is, my son.” Uthri uttered with pride. “The reward that you have earned with your victory.”

The High Orc chieftain regarded his newest conquest with barely disguised interest. Her hair was washed and brushed. It shone like new copper. Her robe was orc-made—linen woven from flax, with a thin leather belt around her waist. It was a slave's robe—unembroidered and a drab brown, for it was Tauriel's new fate: to serve another as their thrall. Her deep green eyes had glazed over, as if she were not fully in command of herself. The shadow of a bruise could be seen around her right eye, a sign that she had been struck not long after she had been placed in his mother’s hands. Azog’s gaze cut back to his mother.

“As I said before,” Uthri remarked, her tone crisp, “she fought us like a vicious cat. I had little recourse but to strike her. Otherwise, we would not have been able to continue with our work.”

“I am not offended in the slightest,” her son returned. A thrall brought him a cup of ale. He drained it all in one swallow and gave it back for the thrall to take. “And I assume the herbs are the cause of that clouded look in her eyes?”

“Indeed, my son.”

“Good.” Azog rose. A closer inspection, he decided, was necessary.

Tauriel stood where she was, unable to fully move her limbs of her own accord. It was as if her body was not truly her own. She blinked her eyes in a vain attempt to clear her head. One of her last clear memories was of fighting orcs along the southern border of Mirkwood. Other elves fought beside her. She grappled with one of the fell creatures until she got the upper hand and slit its throat with her blade. The few who remained fled back to the shadows from whence they came, and the elves halted their attack; they were certain they had won. Letting down their guard was an act of sheer folly in the end. Other orcs, who had kept themselves well hidden, ambushed them while their attention was turned elsewhere. Her fellow warriors fought long and hard before they fell to orc blades. She, on the other hand, was kept alive and taken captive by the one who overpowered her, the tall, pale orc who led the raid. It was the same tall, pale orc who stood before her now, the one who placed her in the hands of the one who struck her after he took his leave of them, and she tried to fight her way to freedom.

“Pretty, for an elf,” he murmured, circling her. “And with hair that has been touched by fire, all crimson and gold. You will serve me well, I think.”

“You…” Tauriel struggled to frame a reply. It was as if she did not even possess the will to form words. She closed her eyes and attempted to speak again. “You are mistaken… filth.”

Azog threw his head back and laughed, a chilling sound. “How I relish the names you elves call us!” He cried, amused by her insolence. “Defiance is futile, she-elf. You will serve me. This is the fate you have brought upon your head.”

“I… I will not… serve you,” Tauriel managed, “in any way.”

“You are mistaken, elf,” Azog countered, appreciating all that he saw. “So very mistaken.”

Uthri and her attendants had done their work well. They had scrubbed the blood and dirt off of Tauriel, making her pleasing to look upon. The bruise around her eye had nearly faded, and the cut along her left cheek had already begun to heal. The scar was now a pale pink instead of the angry red it was before. Azog leaned in and breathed in the scent of birch oil that clung to her skin.

“Have her taken to my bedchamber,” he said, satisfied. The orcs who escorted Tauriel made haste to obey. They dragged her down a narrow passageway leading to their lord’s chambers. Azog stayed behind for a while. There were other things he wished to discuss with his mother: orders that had to be sent to other orc hordes, various tasks that had to be seen to. By the time he made his way into his bedchamber, Tauriel was already abed with her hands bound above her to a bedpost. Azog disrobed himself. Boots, breeches, belt and armor all formed a small pile on the dark stone floor. Tauriel heard him. She struggled to free herself from the bindings around her wrists, and failed. It was as if her strength had deserted her.

Is it the food? she thought. Is there something they make me eat along with the rest of my meals? Something that leaves me like this—weak and unable to fight or defend myself? Tauriel lay amidst the pelts, powerless to stop the orc who loomed above her. Azog sat down by her side and brushed his hand over her hair, almost in affection. She shivered when that hand—large and callused from years of wielding a heavy mace—drifted to other parts of her.

“You fight fiercely, she-elf,” he observed. “Claiming one such as you for myself is a great honor indeed.”

“I… I will never… be yours,” Tauriel spat weakly.

Azog laughed again. His meaty fingers brushed over her breast and tightened on her nipple through the fabric of her robe. It sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

“You will never be mine,” he echoed, and he pinched hard. Tauriel gasped in shock and pain. “And yet you are here, bound to my bed, unable to free yourself, and unable to call for aid. Learn to make peace with your new lot in life. There is no escape for you now.”

The orc chieftain wasted no time after that, so eager was he to savor all the captive elf had to offer. He leaned down and kissed her, kissed her until she was silent, kissed her until she felt like she could no longer breathe. Tauriel whimpered when he pinched cruelly, inflicting even more pain, and when she felt the heat of his kiss, one that was all teeth and tongue. The sounds she made encouraged Azog to go further, and go further he did. He moved to rest over her, pinning her down and caging her to the featherbed with his own weight. Tauriel writhed beneath him. Her feet struggled for purchase against the pelts. It inflamed him even more.

“Do not try to fight, she-elf,” Azog growled in her ear. “You will not succeed.”

He forced her thighs apart with his and clasped her bound wrists with one hand, pressing them deeper into the furs and impeding further movement. His other hand moved lower and lower until it found the hem of her robe. Tauriel shivered again; this time it was when her robe was pulled up to her waist and cold air flowed over her exposed flesh. She closed her eyes, silently enduring the assaults of her captor’s mouth as much as she endured the assaults of his hands. The one at her wrists tightened around them. The one caressing her thigh and bruising it slid underneath her smallclothes and tore them apart. Then he pressed himself against her, and she braced herself for what was about to follow.

Azog was big. Painfully so. And he was far from gentle. When he breached her with a single thrust and sank home, he let out a low moan and delighted in the sharp cry he incited from her. Tauriel was given no time to rest or grow accustomed to his intrusion. Her captor sought her lips again, then her throat, marking it with his teeth while his arm circled around her thigh, lifting it up and forcing himself even deeper inside of her with each thrust of his hips.

When they first overcame the elves, Azog was certain he was going to kill her like they did the others. Tauriel led the Elvenking’s guard, and she had killed more orcs than he could care to count. Then he stayed his hand, thinking she could better serve him alive than dead. Now—lost within the warmth of her body and roaring his pleasure loud enough for anyone outside his chambers to hear—he was glad he decided to spare her life.

My mother was right, he told himself. This one is indeed a worthy prize.

Tauriel, on the other hand, was frightened. She found that her own body was turning against her. Pain yielded little by little to pleasure, and her cries and whimpers slowly turned into moans.

I cannot let this happen, she despaired. I cannot allow myself to yield to his embraces. He cannot have yet another triumph over me.

Tauriel’s vow to not yield proved to be a failure. She felt him despite her efforts not to do so, and she felt a great deal of him—his hot breath against her throat, his thick, large thighs pressing against hers, the brute strength that lay within his hands, and the strange but heady sense of bliss that would catch her unawares whenever Azog thrust into her. He took her without mercy, striking a place she had not felt before and making the world go dark behind her eyes when he did so. Her release came upon her without warning, an all-consuming feeling that made her twist against the pelts while she cried out long and deep. The sound of it was enough to unravel the orc above her. Azog groaned while he spilled his seed inside of her. He thrust until he softened and then he slid out of her, his needs sated for the moment.

“Rest and regain your strength, she-elf,” he hissed. He slipped out of bed and crossed over to a little table where he dipped his hands into a bowl full of water to wash the sweat off his face. Tauriel sighed. She welcomed the reprieve, however short it may be. “For I am far from finished with you this night.”

Tauriel shuddered. Her body already ached in ways she could not describe. Nevertheless, the opportunity to rest was a welcomed one, even if the one who offered it had other plans in store for her after she opened her eyes. She whispered an answer that she was certain would appeal to him, and then she closed her eyes.

I will escape, she told herself, One day I will find a way out for myself, and then I will kill them all.

She did not hear the doors to Azog’s bedchamber open, nor did she not hear the command for more of the herbs she was made to consume before. She had already yielded to true sleep.

#tpcmonsterfuckermay #dead dove do not eat #tauriel x azog #tauriel smut #azog smut #the hobbit imagine

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 5 days

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More Arthur Dayne, please?

Hello! I am sorry anon, but requests are closed. I won't be taking requests or answering any until requests open toward the end of July.

#anon ask #asks

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 5 days

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#she left him after alqualondë and for other reasons

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 5 days

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I don't wanna @ anyone because I understand how fast things seem to move in today's landscape of streaming shows dropping entire seasons in one day, and networks pumping out new series constantly to try to attract more subscribers with no intent to actually maintain those shows over time but I just saw someone self-deprecatingly lament that they are still thinking about a show that ended almost a year ago, making fan art and playlists for it, and I want to be very clear:

you can still create fanworks when it comes to old media!! PLEASE do!! there are always going to be new fans who will appreciate it, and veteran fans who are dying for new content and new perspectives. also, less than a year is NOTHING. the original Star Trek series was on TV six decades ago and there are still people losing their minds over it, writing stories and reblogging gifsets daily, and that's only one example.

a fandom lasts as long as there are people who love a thing, even if it's only a handful of people. love what you love and write and draw and make gifs and playlists about it!

#<- i have #I've even watched the follow up children of dune mini series

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 5 days

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a fandom lasts as long as there are people who love a thing, even if it's only a handful of people. love what you love and write and draw and make gifs and playlists about it!

#<- the coatumes #how they depicted bene gesserit fighting styles #jessica drinking the water of life scene #sighs

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 6 days

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Part 6

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader

Themes: Soft

Warnings: Mention of Elwing casting herself into the sea prior to the beginning of the story | Mentions of other character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount : 3.1K words

Summary: Thranduil attends the feast held in honor of Angon taking Nitiel to wife.

Minors DNI

Masterlist

Thranduil’s POV

The feast Lord Thiliedir and Lady Annien held in honor of their son taking Nitiel to wife was a most splendid affair.

Guests came from all over Amon Lanc. They poured through wide open doors leading to a vast garden, dressed in their finest furs and silks. Gold and silver, rubies and emeralds, glittered around the throats and lips and ears and wrists of many. Newly forged circlets rested amidst dark, crimson, and silver-gold hair that had been combed into intricate braids. Some of the visitors bore the marks of beasts and leaves and flowers along their arms and along their cheeks. Heralds called out the names of each new visitor, and attendants walked amidst the invited elves, their hands heavy with gilded pitchers full of wine and trays full of delicate pastries. Thranduil stood by his father’s side, observing lords and ladies joining an ever-growing line of those wishing to offer their felicitations to the newly wedded pair.

“The marriage of Lord Angon and his lady has been well received.” Oropher nursed his chalice of wine, while minstrels kept to the grotto set aside for their use during the festivities. The music they played and the songs they sang drifted around the garden, barely heard over the chatter of elves and the clinking of glass. “I confess, I expected to hear and see quite the opposite when I was told the news.”

“Were you hoping to witness the tearing of hair and the gnashing of teeth?” Thranduil whispered. He sipped his wine and then smiled. “Lord Angon’s lady mother and lord father are too well bred for such theatrics. So are their kin. If they truly are unhappy with their son taking a servant to wife, then they have taken great care not to show it.”

“You are studying those who serve us,” said Oropher. “That is a good thing, my son. Continue it. It will serve you well should my crown pass on to you.”

Thranduil shivered. His lord father’s demise was not a matter he wished to consider. “It will not happen,” he replied, “for you will live on for more ages than you could care to count, and then we will both take a ship leaving for the Blessed Realm so that we can be reunited with my mother.”

“That is my hope also,” his father returned. “But so long as Belegûr’s servants remain abroad, we must prepare ourselves for the dark possibility of my perishing in this land. Do you understand me, my son?”

“Yes, father,” Thranduil told him, albeit reluctantly.

Oropher clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Enough of such talk. Come! Let us join the throng!”

The throng had grown in size by the time they joined them, and they had grown more carefree despite the late autumn chill. Golden lamps adorned the low-hanging branches of trees, their light limning all those who stood beneath them. Trestle tables had been arranged at the far end of the garden, with a raised dais facing them. Kitchen attendants were occupied slowly turning wooden spits and roasting wild boar and deer over a fire pit, basting the meat with honey and herbs until it crackled. The smell of freshly baked bread and pies wafted from the nearby kitchen. Even the tables themselves had large bowls placed in the center, all filled with wild berries, cheese, and olives brought in from Esgaroth. More wine was served, along with ale and mead. Thranduil joined his father while he spoke to the others, taking great care to listen to all that was being said and answering any question that was asked of him.

It was an aspect Thranduil had long prepared himself for: the tediousness of everyday duties. He had to attend council meetings even when he wished to do nothing more than lay in bed; he had to hear out supplicants that came to him, begging for a listening ear; and he had to speak to elven nobles he had no desire to speak to, all while having a warm smile or a look of deep concern on his face. All of this he did splendidly well, which pleased his father greatly.

“Now all you need is a bride who might one day make a fine queen,” Oropher said when they had a moment to themselves again. “Someone worthy of you, and of course, someone worthy of the crown that would rest amidst her hair.”

‘Tis the same song as always, Thranduil thought. He forced himself not to sigh. “I will wed when my own household is ready, father,” he said through gritted teeth, and he set his jaw in determination. “And I will decide for myself whom I should marry. Me, father, and no other. Any command for me to bind myself to a stranger in a marriage of political convenience will be answered with a swift and certain no.”

“I swear to Eru, my boy, you can be as stubborn as your beloved mother sometimes.” Oropher laughed. “And I understand the need to wait until your household is ready to receive a mistress. Pray tell me what is becoming of the halls our builders are making for you.”

They spoke at length while they made their way to the dais. Angon and Nitiel had already taken the seats of high honor, and the king and the crown prince took their places on either side of them. Then the mother and father of Angon, and the mother and father of Nitiel, took their seats accordingly.

Angon only waited a moment before rising, his cup in hand. “Let us drink!” He cried. “A toast, my friends! To Lady Nitiel! My wife and the companion of my life!”

The others rose and lifted their cups. “Lady Nitiel!” They shouted as one. Nitiel flushed, and she bowed her head as a gesture of thanks.

The first course was a dish of soup made of leeks and mushrooms, served in glazed green bowls. Lady Annien took the first spoonful to taste, and the others were served after she gave her approval.

Lady Nitiel looks so different now, Thranduil thought. The lady who once served in the kitchens was dressed in robes sewn especially for the feast, and with colors that matched those on her husband’s tunic. Green velvet slashed with cloth of gold adorned her person. New gold caught the light of nearby lamps as they lay around her throat and around her wrists. More gold gleamed where it lay in her auburn hair. It had been combed into elaborate plaits and then arranged in a style he did not recognize.

The gold and the robes must be gifts, no doubt, Thranduil thought, from her doting husband. The way her hair has been arranged, on the other hand…

“Forgive me,” he leaned in and said, “for asking this, but who arranged your hair?”

Nitiel leaned in as well and lowered her voice. She did not wish for the king to hear what she had to say. “Y/n, my lord,” she said. “She helped me dress, and then she arranged my hair for me. It is the style favored by those who dwelled in a city called Alqualondë, she said, but without the adornments of shells and pearls.”

Thranduil knew of Alqualondë, having heard the tales told by Lady Galadriel. “The style favored by the elves of Alqualondë?” he whispered, “and not the kind favored by her own people?”

“She thought the sight of it might anger the king.”

“Of course. It was wise of her to make such a choice. And it was thoughtful of her as well, to help you prepare for this feast.”

The next course was a dish of sage and potato tarts, and the course that came after that was a dish of roasted boar and venison with stewed carrots and potatoes that had been boiled to a mash and mixed with cream. Thranduil ate with great relish, and he ate in silence.

Y/n would have had to have learned the art of such arrangements from her mother, as she was born long after the first kinslaying. And it would have served her well during the years she spent wandering from one place to the next, perhaps even keeping her safe, as the few who served the sons of Fëanor and remained in the new land they had come to call home found little welcome wherever they went.

There is the grandson, he remembered. Why did y/n not go to Lord Celebrimbor?

It was a question he had asked when he first procured her freedom, and it was a question he thought of asking her himself, as those who held her could not give him an answer. Until the opportunity to do so presented itself, he would have to bide his time.

A minstrel plucked at the strings of a high harp while another sang, her voice as sweet and clear as a bell. It was nowhere as lovely as Tinúviel’s otherworldly voice, Thranduil thought, nor was it as bewitching as her lady mother’s. Still, it was enchanting to hear, and a tear came to his eye when he remembered Menegroth in all of its glory. He harkened back to the days of his youth, when nightingales would make their nests in little nooks and crannies that dotted the great city of many caves, where flowers of rare beauty would bloom to life during the spring, where Daeron played the harp and Tinúviel sang, and they were sheltered from the darkness that tainted the lands beyond their own. Then the sons of Fëanor came to reclaim what was taken from their father, they had said, and to seek justice for the slaying of their grandfather.

The sons of Fëanor came, Thranduil thought as he drained the last of his wine. The sons of Fëanor fought. And the sons of Fëanor perished. Thranduil set down his chalice when a dish of gammon pie was set before him. And the line of Melian and Thingol nearly ended because of them and that blasted Oath of theirs.

Grief and bitterness gathered around his heart like a swarm of angry bees. Thranduil still remembered King Dior and his queen, Lady Nimloth. He remembered their sons, twins who were all of three when their father came into his inheritance, and he remembered the dreadful winter that brought about an end to Dior’s reign, the tragic fate that befell his sons, his queen, and the great city of caves they all called home.

And then there was the daughter, the princess who was forced to abandon her own children as she was once forced to abandon her home, and cast herself into the sea after those who sought the Silmaril came for her. That too angered Thranduil—that swords were raised against those who fled the violence that fell upon their once-fair city. He remembered the dark words that were brought to them on a night with the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds. Perhaps that was a sign, a portend of the dreadful message they were to receive. His father gave the order for their warriors to march, but by the time they reached the Havens, it was already too late.

At least Elwing's sons lived, he thought, and I pray word of their living lives of great renown reached her ears in the Blessed Realm.

He took the pie with both hands and bit into it. The meat melted in his mouth, as did the pastry that held it. And it tasted almost like ash against his tongue. Thoughts of the lives lost because of an Oath that could never be fulfilled tainted whatever joy the prince would have found in the food he ate. He waived away all further offers of refreshments, claiming that he was already full.

I need to step away for a moment, he told himself, and free myself from such dark and dismal thinking.

He rose and excused himself. “Pray allow me to take my leave of you all for a moment or two,” he said. “I will return soon enough.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Nitiel said. Thranduil bowed deeply and took his leave of them.

The air outside the manse was no less fragrant. This time, the smells that greeted him were of night-blooming flowers and not the scents of delectable dishes being brought to the table. He walked toward a nearby marble pond, listening to the little waterfall bubbling at the far end of it. There was no other elf to be seen. Most were at the feast. Others were keeping a watchful eye along the city’s high walls or tending to their duties in the palace itself, and there were those who had already retired for the night. Still, the absence of other elves was a welcomed thing, as was the cool wind that swept around his face and hair. Thranduil felt the anger and grief within him ebb away. He stopped and sat on the edge of the pond.

Tis good to have a moment to clear my head, he thought. Tiny fish darted beneath the leaves of water lilies and around his fingers as he trailed his hand through crystal-clear water, their scales glittering with silver and gold whenever they caught the light of nearby lamps. He heard the sound of leather against stone. Another elf was walking toward him; the sound he heard was the sound of their slippers falling over polished cobble. Thranduil sighed as his peace was disturbed. Then he heard a gasp. The elf who came upon him did not expect to find him there.

“Forgive me, my lord,” they said. “I… I was told this part of the city was empty at night.”

“The one who told you this did not err on that score.” The prince turned to face the one who approached the pond. “This part of the city is quiet at night. And there is no need to ask for forgiveness, y/n. You have the freedom to walk about Amon Lanc; there is no one to hinder you from doing so. Pray why are you here, at such an hour?”

“We were not needed in the kitchens.” Y/n dipped into a deep curtsy before rising again. “And the cook told me that I would not be needed on the morrow. I… I thought of seeing something of the city while the others were not about, my lord.”

“Yes,” Thranduil smiled. “Amon Lanc feels like a city found only in fairytales when one walks about it at night. I will not say more, lest I spoil the beauty of the city for you.” He paused and decided now would be an opportune time to speak to y/n about Celebrimbor and why she did not approach him for shelter. “But I do have a question to ask of you.”

“Go on, my lord,” said y/n.

“That day when I procured your freedom, I was told you spent your days wandering. You put down no roots, not even with Lord Curufin’s son, Lord Celebrimbor. Why is that, y/n?”

“Being the daughter of an attainted kinslayer made it hard for me to put down roots, my lord. And Lord Celebrimbor made it plain that anyone who served his father and his uncle would find no welcome in his home.”

“Is it because of what happened to Lord Finrod?”

“Yes, my lord. Lord Celebrimbor never forgave his father, nor his uncle, for that matter, for what became of Lord Finrod in the end.”

“And so you kept away from his realm,” Thranduil said. He patted the space beside him.

“Yes, my lord.” Y/n smoothed her skirts and sat a respectful distance away from him. Etiquette demanded it, for she was but a kitchen maid and he was the crown prince. “I did not have the stomach to bear the sight of another door closing on me, so I kept away.”

The crown prince tried to envision what such a life would have been like: walking from place to place without a proper home to claim for oneself, selling what little possessions one had to keep oneself alive, having no friends, no family, and no one to turn to for aid. He shivered.

Such a wretched life, he thought, and yet the lady is still here, enduring each hardship as best as she can.

Enduring such hardships without complaint was to be expected of the Noldor; it was something minstrels waxed poetic about in story and song. Thranduil studied y/n discreetly. Her hair had grown a fraction longer, and already she looked less gaunt than she did before. The robes she wore were blue and gray, simple but well-made. A tarnished pin was all she had for an adornment. Its painted flowers had faded, and they were the likes of which Thranduil had not seen before.

“The flowers on your pin,” he began, “are those found only in the Blessed Realm, yes?”

“Yes.” Y/n reached up and touched it. Her fingers trembled when they brushed against the filigreed silver. “My father had this made for me when I came of age. My mother painted the flowers you see in the center. This is all I have left of them.”

To have only one token left of one’s flesh and blood, and that too in a poor state, pricked at Thranduil. But it could still be saved, he thought. It could still be restored to its former glory.

Ah, but would the goldsmiths agree to such an undertaking when the request to do so came from one such as her? Thranduil knew they would turn her away the moment they saw her standing at the door of their forge. A respected courtier who carried the order of the crown prince, on the other hand…

“It must have great value to you.” Thranduil rose. He could not linger for much longer. The others would expect him to return to the feast without further delay. Nevertheless, he did not intend to leave until he spoke to y/n about what he had in mind. “And it can be returned to what it looked like when you first received it. Give it to Feren when you see him next. I will speak to him, and have him go to our goldsmiths. If there is anyone in Amon Lanc who could restore that pin to what it once was, it is them.”

“I…” Y/n paused and hesitated. She lowered her gaze, took a deep, steadying breath, and then she dared to look him in the eye. A decision had been made. “Thank you, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded. “And now you must excuse me. I must return to the feast before my father sends someone to search for me.”

“Of course, my lord.” Y/n rose also, and curtsied to him again. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, y/n,” Thranduil said. He looked back at her over his shoulder for a moment as he walked away. The sight of her beneath a spill of lamplight, her eyes sparkling as she turned to admire the fish in the pond, tugged at him in a way he could not describe.

tags: @deadlymistletoe @coopsgirl @lemonivall @tigereyesf @thranduilseyebrows @cupids-got-me @asianbutnotjapanese @kurochan3

#a better future #chapter six #thranduil x reader #thranduil x y/n #Tolkien OCs #x reader #reader insert

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 6 days

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Chapter 1: Strange Request

Characters: Olwë, Eärerossë (OC), Netyamo (OC), Eärwen, Angaquárë (OC)

Themes: Epistolary | Soft

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 3.5k words

Summary: The herald of Makar calls on the King of Alqualondë with a message from his master.

This is also available on AO3

A/n 1: OC name meaning

Netyamo, Chief Steward of King Olwë- Netya (Pretty, dainty) | mo (agental suffix).

Ilmon, a courtier of King Olwë’s court – Ilma (starlight)| On (Masculine suffix)

Angaquárë, a messenger and herald of Makar: Anga (Iron) | Quárë (fist)

A/n 2: Original image from Pixabay

Letter from Makar Ramando to Olwë Ciríaran, King of the Teleri

14th day of Y.T. 1270.—

Your grace,—

I would be most honored if your daughter, the princess Eärwen, would agree to serve my own sister, the Lady Meássë, as her new handmaiden. An attendant will be appointed to see to her needs, and she will receive a generous allowance to ensure the maintenance of her dignity as a princess. Our halls, while dark and grim, will not lack for comfort and amusements. This is our wish, and Lord Manwë’s command. Pray send your answer on the swiftest of wings.

Makar Ramando

High Lord of Iron Hall

Olwë read the letter once, and then twice, before turning to face Makar’s messenger, a Maia with hair as dark as the sunless sea and deep bronze skin that brought out the otherworldly colour of his eyes. They were blazing gold with swirls of crimson and black, colours of the molten earth the King only heard of in tales of a time long before the awakening of the elves. The messenger was garbed in the manner of those who served his lord, all furs and supple leather with sheathed blades and a throwing axe at his belt. Well-oiled, richly engraved iron gauntlets shielded his meaty hands. They clenched when the king took his time to frame a reply.

Such a strange request, the king thought. His brow furrowed in confusion while he considered how he should approach such an important matter. Strange and most unexpected from those such as the twins.

“Your master and his lady sister are well known for their lack of love toward the elves.” Olwë set the missive down on his table and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Why would the Elder King command such a thing, when another Maia would serve them just as well, if not better?”

“The master does not explain such things to me.” The herald spoke, his tone curt. He stared at the king, unblinking. It unnerved him. “Nor does the lady. Will the princess consent to serving in their halls, or no?”

Such impertinent words would have been answered with a swift refusal had they parted the lips of an elf. Angaquárë, the messenger and herald of Lord Makar, was no mere elf, and Olwë could find no cause to refuse his master’s offer. He certainly could not find just cause to refuse the Elder King’s command. Still, he was plagued with doubt. The Lord of Iron Hall was not talked of with fondness by anyone who dealt with him, and neither was his fierce sister. The grim halls they ruled over were not wholly suited for one with more delicate tastes, and his daughter, despite her delight in hunting and riding with her sometimes unruly brothers, was not prepared for life in such a place.

Perhaps it would be good for her, he thought, to serve those like them. It may prove to be useful in the future. But I will need to make my own terms clear.

“I will agree,” he began, “but only if I receive assurances that my daughter will be treated well. Princess Eärwen has never had a hand raised to her, nor has she heard a harsh word said to her in anger. I desire to keep it that way.”

The Maia’s lips curled in distaste. “Iron Hall is no Ilmarin,” he returned. “We are free to speak however we wish, to whomever we wish. But I will pass on your concerns to Lord Makar; you may have my assurance on this.”

He gives assurance to pass on my concerns, Olwë thought, but none to honour them.

He regarded the letter before him. His daughter would have to be told, of course, as would her lady mother. Many plans would have to be made. A royal escort would have to be arranged, and gifts besides. There would have to be a feast as well, before Eärwen departed for a strange and new home.

"I must speak with my daughter," he said, rising. Telperion reached his greatest bloom just then. Brilliant silver light poured in through wide, arched windows open to the west. Singing flowed from windows open to the east. The Oarni had come right into the Haven; it was they who were singing. Their visit was a rare thing in itself, for they found the noise of the harbor and the city proper to be too loud, and its lamps too bright. Mariners aboard the swanships joined them in their song. Olwë yearned to listen to them for a little while before he approached the others on the matter of Eärwen serving Meássë. "And the queen. Many preparations will have to be made. I trust this delay will not hinder you in any way."

He is king, thought Angaquárë. And yet he seeks the counsel of others instead of simply commanding his daughter to obey.

His lord had once told him of this. Elves deferred too much to their kin, seeking their counsel on many, if not all, matters. It was a vexing thing, his lord had gone on to add, but there was naught he could do. Angaquárë set his jaw and fought back the urge to sigh. He decided that it would be best to allow Olwë to defer to his queen. Then he could accomplish the task he was commanded to do.

"Very well," he acquiesced with a tilt of the head. Then he turned his thoughts to other matters, such as a warm bath, a hot meal, and a place to lay his head. "I trust I will be allowed to find a chamber for myself while I am here?"

"That will not be necessary, my lord." Olwë lifted a little silver bell that lay next to his great seal of office. His steward opened the door not long after he rang it. "My Chief Steward, Lord Netyamo, will see to your needs."

Netyamo bowed to Angaquárë and then turned to bow to his king. "You called for me, your grace."

"Take Lord Angaquárë to our finest chambers," the king commanded, though not unkindly, "and have all that he needs prepared for him without haste."

"At once, your grace." The steward bowed again and invited the Maia to come with him. “If you would care to follow me, my lord?” Olwë waited until they had departed before going in search of his queen. The singing, he decided, would have to wait.

He reflected on Lord Makar's offer while he walked beneath vaulted ceilings full of creamy white pearls and through corridors lit by blue lamps crusted with vibrant crystals. An elven lady, irrespective of the station they were born to, was never asked to be a handmaiden to any of the Valier. Eärwen would truly be the first elf to serve any of the Exalted Ones in such close proximity, but the knowledge that she would be tending to the needs of one such as Meássë made him anxious in ways he could not describe.

Of all the Exalted Ones, he thought, why them? Why did Lord Manwë command my daughter to serve them?

The Elder King would have had his reasons, as unfathomable as they would have been to Olwë. And Olwë knew he had little choice but to obey.

I will still seek out Eärerossë’s counsel on the matter, he told himself. She is Eärwen’s mother, after all. She must have a voice in this great matter.

Eärerossë was in the gardens, her handmaiden told him. Olwë found her seated on a white marble bench with palm trees, juniper, torch lilies, and golden yarrow surrounding her. The queen of Alqualondë listened to her mother's kin singing while looking over the gilded terrace and into the harbor. A gentle gust of wind lifted stray wisps of her blossom-white hair and the silk of her vivid blue robes. Starlight caught the delicate silver and gold scales running along her exposed shoulder, making them sparkle. He halted for a moment to admire her.

Of all the lords she could have taken for a husband, he pondered in wonder, she chose me, an elf who is far beneath the likes of one such as her.

"Would you care for a ride to the Havens, my lady?" He called softly. “Your mother would like to see you, I think.”

“My mother expects to see me the next time Telperion reaches his greatest bloom.” The queen turned to face him and smiled with genuine pleasure. "Until then, I must wait. Come," she added, patting the space beside her, "and talk to me about your visitor."

Olwë girded himself even as he made himself comfortable beside his wife. "Lord Angaquárë came bearing a letter from his own lord. It appears—" he paused, hesitated. "It appears Lord Makar intends to take Eärwen, our Eärwen, as a handmaiden for his sister. It is his wish, and Lord Manwë’s command. What is your view on this?”

"I like it not," his queen said. She made a face. "Lord Makar and Lady Meássë are the last beings any of our children should serve in shape or form. They are violent and they care for only themselves. If that messenger had not approached you in full view of our courtiers, and if he had not come bearing the command of the Elder King himself, I would have said nay."

“So you will agree to this?”

“I will, but only so long as we can call on Eärwen whenever we can.”

"They may not agree to it, my love."

“This is what I am willing to agree to. Either they allow us to call on our child whenever time permits, or our child stays here. That is all I will say on this matter."

Olwë smiled when he saw her jut her jaw in determination. Eärerossë would not yield once she had set her heart on a certain matter. Their daughter would be allowed to have visitors while she dwelled in Iron Hall, or she would not go at all.

The Oarni ceased their singing. The Mariners ended their song as well. They then heard nothing but the sounds of the wind sweeping through the trees, the waves washing over the shore, and the cries of seagulls as they hovered over the water, searching for their next meal. It made them both feel at peace. They did not speak, not for a long while. Instead, they sat together in companionable silence and admired all that lay before them: the lush trees and flowers, the haven and its twinkling lamps, and the silver light that flowed through the sky like winding streams, illuminating the world beneath them. Then Olwë remembered the letter and grew perplexed.

“Why would Lord Manwë even command such a thing?” He thought that perhaps his queen might have a greater understanding of such a decision. “There are many Maiar seeking a Vala to serve, so why ask for our daughter?”

Eärerossë was as baffled as he. “I wish I had an answer to give you, my love, but I do not. The Elder King has made his decision, and we must abide by it. But I trust you understand that we will have to go to him should any harm befall Eärwen.”

"I understand," Olwë said. He stood and pulled his queen up with him. The time had come to speak to their daughter. "I will give our answer to Lord Angaquárë when Laurelin reaches her greatest bloom. For now, let us speak with our child. It would be best if she heard of her change in station from both of us.”

The princess was as amazed as her mother and father when she was told of Lord Makar’s letter and the contents it held. She had a great many questions about Iron Hall, and about the Ainur who lived there. She was frightened, for she had only traveled as far as Tirion and Valimar and Ilmarin, and never to the far north. And she was curious also, for those who dwelled within Iron Hall were only ever seen during contests of strength and skill or at great feasts, and that too if the Elder King commanded it.

“They say the twins hunt in the forests of the Great Lands more often than not, and only Lord Tulkas cares to call on them.” Eärwen did her best to remember her childhood lessons. “They also say the Lord and Lady of Iron Hall attuned their song to the discord created by Lord Melkor and that they spoke against us elves living in Valinor, saying that Valinor is for the Valar only. Why did Lord Manwë command me to serve them, father? Why did they agree to it?”

“Tis the same question your mother and I have been asking ourselves,” Olwë confessed. “And I fear neither of us has an answer to give you. Will you agree to this, daughter mine?”

Eärwen left her place on the edge of her featherbed, crossed over to a wide window open to the gardens and the sea beyond it, and leaned against the windowsill. The fragrance of new blooms clung to the air, as did the sharp bite of salt. She sighed, for she would not find fragrant flowers, salty air, or the sea itself around Iron Hall. Nothing but snowcapped stony outcrops, wind-beaten oak, and towering sentinels as old as Valinor itself adorned the lands around the great fortress, and the flowers that sprang to life there were the hardy kind that were not known for their scent.

A daunting prospect to be sure, she told herself, but I will agree. As much as it would pain me to live apart from my family and the city of my birth, I will agree. I may never receive such a high honour again.

“I will agree, father mine,” said Eärwen, and she turned to face her parents. “I will consent to serving Lady Meássë as her handmaiden.You may write to Lord Makar and say that I said yes.”

“Very well, my daughter.” Olwë rose. Eärerossë remained seated on the edge of her daughter’s bed. There were other matters that had to be spoken of, matters that made the king flush from cheek to chest. “And now I will leave you in your mother’s fair but capable hands. There are many things she wishes to speak of.”

Eärwen smiled. Her blue eyes twinkled in amusement. “I know of the matters that you speak of, father mine. And I will gladly listen to my mother’s counsel on such topics.”

“Just so.” The king made haste to bow and take his leave of them. The bedding rituals his children indulged in was not a topic he wished to talk about.

I will speak with my steward, he thought as he walked down the lamplit passages leading to his private receiving chamber, and see what has become of our guest.

“Angaquárë ate all that was placed before him, your grace, and he drank a great deal,” his steward said after he had been summoned. “After that, he called for a bath and then retired to his bed, but only after he had invited a willing courtier, Lord Ilmon, who had caught his eye when he first approached you, to join him.”

Olwë felt a flash of sudden anger. We are worthy enough to share their beds, he seethed silently while Netyamo opened the doors to his chamber for him, but not worthy enough to share the land they call home.

And there was little that he could do. As long as Angaquárë’s bedmate came to him very willingly and so long as they were treated well, he had to guard his tongue and say nothing. He took his seat by the table and rang for fresh parchment, quills, sealing wax, and ink. Already, the lights of Two Trees had begun to mingle, with Telperion’s silver and Laurelin’s gold twinning around each other like thick ribbons, creating an otherworldly atmosphere within his chamber and the world outside his windows. A nearby bell chimed six times. Olwë picked up a quill and sharpened it with a little blade. He dipped it in a bottle of coal-black ink and chose a square of hot-pressed parchment from the little pile Netyamo had set before him. Angaquárë would come looking for him once he was fully rested, and he would come expecting a favourable answer.

His master will have a favourable answer, Olwë thought, but I will make my concerns known also.

He began to write, his quill scratching at the parchment with each word he wrote in elegant cursive lettering.

19th day of Y.T. 1270.—

Makar Ramando

High Lord of Iron Hall

Most gracious lord,—

Your letter was a welcomed surprise, my lord, and my queen and I are deeply honoured to have received it. We take great delight in telling you that our daughter, the princess Eärwen, is equally honoured to have heard your request, and she heartily consents to serving the Lady Meássë as her handmaiden. She will depart thirty days from now, and I trust her journey will be a peaceful one.

I pray that I will not offend you, my lord, by saying that my queen and I will hope to call on the princess whenever time allows. I give you my assurance that such visits will be few and that they will be announced far ahead of time. I also assure you that our presence will not hinder you or yours in any way. Eärwen is most dear to all of us, and the notion of her living so far away from her family, without our protection, fills us with a sense of dread. Such fears are a father’s fears. A mother’s fears. They are trifling matters to one such as you, no doubt, but I am certain that you, one of the most Exalted Ones, would have no qualms in assuaging them.

Your most humble servant,

Olwë Ciríaran,

King of the Teleri

Olwë parsed through each and every line. Once he was satisfied with his answer, he blotted the paper, folded it, and held a stick of sealing wax—a rich sea-blue, and made only for him—over a candle flame.

Thirty days, he thought as he watched the wax soften slowly. Eärwen will remain with us for thirty days before she departs for her new life. I pray her sojourn in Iron Hall will be a peaceful one.

And the feast in honor of her departure would be as splendid a feast as it could be. He decided it would be aboard his own ship and that no expense would be spared. The cooks would be commanded to prepare all of Eärwen’s favourite foods, and his ship would be taken out to sea. Perhaps they would stay in Tol Eressëa for a little while. Her brothers—he was certain—were bound to take their sister on one final hunt before she left them.

There will be many tears upon her leaving, he reflected while he held the stick of softened wax over the folded letter. Thick drops of blue wax fell on the parchment with soft plops, eventually creating a little puddle in their wake. Her mother’s and mine most of all.

He did not have to call for his steward. Netyamo came to him not long after he finished his letter. They had to discuss the matter of the Shipwright’s Guild requesting the king’s presence during their next assembly.

“Have Lord Angaquárë meet with me once Laurelin reaches her greatest bloom.” Olwë pressed his great seal of office onto the still warm blob of wax and sealed his letter. Then he poured himself a cup of golden wine. “Eärwen has agreed to serve Lady Meásse.”

Angaquárë was brought to him at the appointed hour, when the world looked like it had been bathed in a waterfall of gold. The Maia looked well rested, his eyes bright and uncommonly soft. Even his manner of speech was warmer. Olwë suspected that a good meal and a good bedding had done much to improve his dour mood.

I trust Lord Ilmon had as much pleasure as the one who took him to his bed, he thought. I will have Netyamo make discreet inquiries in any event, and make certain Lord Angaquarë did not forget himself and go too far.

“My letter, my lord, and my answer to your master’s request.” Olwë went on to explain the contents of his message. Angaquarë listened to all he had to say. His lips pressed into a thin line when he heard the king’s concerns about his daughter’s welfare and their intentions to visit whenever time allowed, but he did not press the issue. “I trust a delay of thirty days will not hinder Lady Meássë in any way.”

“It will not,” Angaquárë told him. “And I will not tarry any longer. My master and mistress will need to make their own preparations for the princess’ arrival.”

“Of course, of course.” Olwë rose. Angaquárë rose with him. He accepted the king’s letter. “Farewell, my lord, and may Eru smile on your journey home.”

#iron hall #chapter one #Olwë #Eärwen #tolkien oc #the silmarillion #the silm #canon divergence

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