#Anduin trying to convince himself | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jerek · 1 year

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I have a personal theory about how part of why Wrathion is so "grown up" is bc of him being spliced with the titan thing and it also giving him way too much knowledge for a newborn to have. Like, I truly believe that dragon eggs aren't at all sentient before they hatch but Wrathion does think they are since he was, but it's all bc of all the knowledge in him and no one around to correct him about it. And since no other dragon took care of him properly as a child, all he has to go on is the adults around him and try to mimic them and guess the rest of how he works, and by extension all other dragons. This theory would also explain his "childish" outbursts, bc despite all his knowledge, he IS still a child that wasn't trained by a parental figure to properly convey his emotions in a healthy way. I honestly cant be annoyed by his behavior, i just feel extreme heartache for this poor soul. It's just such a fucked up existence and there's no one around to give him guidance. idk maybe its all in my head or maybe I'm not conveying my thoughts well but I can only see Wrathion as an insanely tragic character.

Love u for all these paragraphs ♥️♥️♥️

For real though! There's a stage in fetal development where like, you can roughly estimate when they start to feel pain as we know it. But then the baby comes out and it's still... a baby, you know? Basically a human-shaped caterpillar.

There's even a difference in dragons between whelplings and whelps: whelps like Lillistrasza can talk but still sound like grade schoolers, while whelplings (at least the battle pet whelplings) only squawk.

I've always thought of Wrathion's circumstances as not only a crisis bad enough to warrant CPS intervention (if CPS existed in his world, lmao) but also an indictment of Azeroth's (individualist) culture specifically.

It's sort of like how, on the internet, as soon as you graduate from sensory videos and Cocomelon you're expected to manage your own intake of content and keep your cool if you see something you didn't want to. There's tons of videos on YouTube making fun of 5 year olds' tantrums in games like Minecraft and Fortnite.

Wrathion happened to hear the red dragons plotting to kill him if he didn't obey. They might not have known he could hear them, but they knew he'd been reassembled by a titan artifact, belonging to the race that gave them greater intellect and completely changed their anatomy.

So he escaped: and then who does the red flight send but Mostrasz, with nothing but contempt for the mortal rogues who've been sheltering Wrathion all this time. Who eventually tries to kill Wrathion for being too difficult to control (or at least, Wrathion sees Mostrasz' violence as an attempt on his own life.) Just like Fahradion eventually does, too.

At least Fahrad has the excuse of being driven mad.

The question is: can anyone convince him to accept guidance, or even just care, before the end-point of his own individualist streak, where he looks back and realizes how deeply he was neglected? Is that something anyone but himself can solve at this point? Is anyone on Azeroth, raised with Azerothian values, capable of getting through to him without patronizing him?

We've seen a lot of people try, starting with Anduin but especially now in Dragonflight. I wouldn't be surprised if Ebyssian has the best shot out of all the canon characters... but that's what OCs are for too!! 🤪

#dragonflight spoilers #wrathionposting #wrathion fr kid who learned to read and write on their own and then was entirely uneducated bc 'hes so smart already!!'

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clownsecret · 2 years

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me, in every expansion: *encouraging anduin to run away from home* *trying to convince anduin to buy Fantasy Reefer from me* what bro no i’m not an irresponsible babysitter i’m just helping him discover himself

#nevvy speaks #warcraft shitposts #World of Warcraft #Anduin Wrynn #me running for my life from genn greymane turalyon and shaw #it was just a joke bro calm down

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mamahersh · 2 years

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Scar’s Wizardly Primer: Extras

A companion to "Scar’s Wizardly Primer on How to Sell Your Friends a Road Trip: Mt. Doom Edition", which is mostly just a dumping ground of notes and background that didn't make it into the final cut of the above one-shot.

Link to AO3

For @maebe-later and @mcytblraufest

The Setting:

The year is 2954 of the Third Age. It has been 13 years since the events of The Hobbit, and will be 64 years before the events of The War of the Ring (ie everything in the Lord of the Rings after Frodo and Sam set off for Rivendell). This is the year that Mt. Doom erupts (as mentioned in the oneshot) and the people of Ithilien have finished fleeing back across the River Anduin. The year previous in 2953, the White Council held their last meeting, and both the King of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor died and were replaced by their successors (Thengel and Ecthelion II respectively). Needless to say, the world stage is rife with upheaval, and amongst this insanity is the cast of Hermitcraft. More specifically: Scar wants to travel south while these two kingdoms are getting used to the new leadership, and trying to fortify their borders against the threat of Mordor; and check them out on his way to the Black Gates of Mordor itself. Absolutely galaxy brain take.

The Characters:

> Scar is a Man pretending to be a Wizard (the unknown 6th Wizard who appeared from nowhere and wears the equivalent of a red/blue tie-died “robe” he calls “purple”). No one believes him, but they find him harmless and his friends think he's hilarious . (Scar's real name just is “Scar”. He was an orphan child in Bree and was there when the Grey Wizard came through when the Hobbit quest was on. He was inspired to try and be a Wizard from these fleeting “encounters”, quickly leading to him getting the idea to put his con-artist skills he had picked up over the years to good use. While he was a teen, he would get into enough trouble to garner his many scars and thus his name. However, unlike most people when turned into a pincushion, Scar made the best of it and reached his dreams of LARPing as a Wizard. He never did learn enough Sindarin to make a name for himself, so he just goes by his name or by the moniker, “Scar the Purple”.)

> Grian is an Elf who disguises himself as a Man when traveling because he doesn't want to deal with the hassle of the stigma that traveling as an Elf would cause. Name idea (cut the other ideas and left the final decision here): Gwaeian “wind-country/going-wide/fleet-footed-across-large-empty-land” in Tolkien's old “gnomish/sindarin”) Grian’s backstory is that he’s old enough to remember most of the 2nd Age. While he doesn’t remember having parents, and he’s been a wanderer since at least the sinking of Beleriand, he also has a rather spotty memory for his earlier years. The facts are that he could have been born in the Green Wood before the start of the Second Age, or he could have been part of the first generation of elves that woke beside the waters of the Cuiviénen before the Dawning of the Sun but never left with the Valar to leave across the ocean. He’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery, but all he really wants is to watch things happen and enjoy the world he lives in.

> Mumbo is a tall Dwarf who keeps an impeccable mustache (no beard otherwise), but no one has actually guessed he's a Dwarf. Everyone thinks he's a Man, and Mumbo's not going to change their minds for several reasons. Not the least of which is it would just be more work to convince them than to not and let them fill in the blanks themselves. (Real/given name suggestions: mabembôn (have blanketed (present)), Malembôn (have channeled)... mostly looking for names that sound “adjacent” so that “Mumbo” sounds like his name but not quite since no one can pronounce it properly anyways. Reminder: the names are also norse mythology based, find something “Mumbo Jumbo” sounding from that? …I hate the closest one is “Bombur” orz. Bumbor? Bumbur? Bumbo? (I’m dying that’s too good, and it would make for a hilarious reason for scar’s mixup))

(Fun fact, as you can see, I agonized forever over Mumbo's "real" name in universe. Finally deciding on Bumbo son of Mumbo son of Jumbo killed me dead, though it does seem somewhat contrived in practice. Still, I think it worked out (mostly), and hope it wasn't too out of left field or shoe-horned in in the oneshot.)

(An additional note on Mumbo’s backstory and general timeline of events: Mumbo was born to a Lonely Mountain refugee family in the Blue Mountains 100-120 years ago. He grew up on stories about his homeland, but never thought he would ever actually get to see where his family was from. About 20 years before the events of The Hobbit, Mumbo left the Blue Mountains to explore the local area and ran into a wandering Grian. They hit it off (both thinking the other a Man), and wandered across Eriador till they eventually “settled” in Bree where they quickly bumped into Scar about 6-10 years before the events of The Hobbit. The three adventured together till the events of the Hobbit happened and then Mumbo heard the news that the new King Under the Mountain (Dain II) was calling all able bodied dwarves that desired to reclaim the Lonely Mountain to come and help re-settle the Mountain and restore it to its former glory. Well, Mumbo thought it was a dream come true, though was saddened at the idea he might have to leave his best friends behind. As stated in the oneshot, Grian made an excuse to come with and Scar happily came along for the ride. The restoration, while nowhere near complete, is now far enough along that the mountain is livable and beginning to thrive. Now, 13 years after The Hobbit, Mumbo can feel like he’s able to leave without feeling as if he is failing his countrymen.)

All three of them go by their minecraft pseudonyms and I can't decide if it's funnier if they all think they're all Men, or if they all already know the truth and are just playing along because it's both funny and hilarious to keep others in the dark. (In the final cut, I decided they already knew about each other, but it's implied that Scar and Mumbo thought Grian was a human up until Mumbo was called back to The Lonely Mountain and Grian admitted he was a Wood Elf.)

>Scar trying to pronounce their names is why they have their minecraft names

>Names of “side characters” featured or could be featured in fic: ie Hermits and Their Names: a Compendium

>Cleo: Freya -> Norse goddess of war and witchcraft along with a few other things like fertility.

(A note about Cleo and her establishment The Bee's Mead: The establishment went through a couple of name changes, one of which was "The Boatem Hole" which seemed like an obvious reference to S8 and potentially Lake Town. However, I remembered that Cleo in S8 sold "energy drinks" called "Hive-dr8", which for a drinking establishment seemed like a fun idea to tie into as a more subtle reference. Obviously I couldn't call the bar "The Hive-Drate", but I figured "The Bee's Mead" would sound better and still count towards a reference. Also, Scar did sell Cleo some potatoes that he claimed were magical, but Cleo didn't believe him for a second and just appreciates how well he gets along with the other bar-goers.)

>Joe: (insert norse name either sounds like Joe or based around being a bard) Bragi -> Norse god of poetry and the “skalds” (bards). Josef -> scandinavian variant of Joseph. Josef Bragisson. Perfect.

(A note about Joe: in this he's supposed to be Cleo's friend/extra help/the local Bard. He's the local handyman that is incredibly eccentric but everyone loves him for it. Originally from the destroyed Lake Town, he's a Bee's Mead favorite because of his renditions of "The Worm's Demise"(which was going to be the original name of Cleo's establishment in the penultimate draft, but I found something better tbh))

>DocM77: Doctor Móðvitnir, Modthvitnir being the name of a dwarf from Norse mythology

(A note about DocM: I was going to put a S9 reference in in regards to the diamond pillar war near the start of the season. Unfortunately while it was one somewhat long run-on sentence (which I do quite frequently), it slowed the pace of the paragraph down too much and I needed to cut it. Here it is though, for your enjoyment because Docm needs more love:

"A rather memorable moment had been when they had pulled a prank on the local dwarven Doctor Móðvitnir (colloquially known as “Doc M”) which had started as a “friendly” mining competition and had ended as an all out prank war which had pulled in near half the mountain.")

>Xisuma: while I don't have a name or even an idea for one, I feel like he'd probably be an Elf in this.

#mcytmblr au fest #maebe-later #mcytmblr summer au fest #mcyt #grian #mumbo #scar #cleo #joe hills #hermitcraft #lotr au #hc au #I may or may not add to this #In all cases I'm v tired #I'll come back to this tomorrow morning

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renaultmograine · 4 years

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everyone talks about anduin like he can’t make decisions and that genn’s just manipulating him when anduin was the one that told shaw that he wants si:7 to know every detail about orgrimmar’s leaders down to what flavored scone sylvanas gets with her iced coffee in the morning because she killed his aunt’s ex-boyfriend’s sister. genn made the passive suggestion of getting a haircut and anduin refused to even consider that sight in battle is maybe important

#'genn's manipulating him' genn couldn't convince this child to get a haircut #genn literally told anduin 'hey this meeting is a dumb idea' and anduin said 'fuck you old man' and then watched sylvanas murder calia #genn and anduin are constantly at odds on EVERYTHING what the fuck are you guys even talking about anymore #anduin has been a snotty prince for years and now you think he's gonna start taking suggestions from greymane?#you think genn could convince him to do ANYTHING?#absolutely not #shaw doesnt even try to stop anduin in cata when he was hunting down dangerous cultists that tried to kill him and his dad BY HIMSELF #an si:7 agent just asked him to go say hi to his dad before fucking off and he responded with mind control #but yeah genn is totally manipulating him #some people on this site i fucken swear #yall even pay attention to how the characters act or are yall just projecting what you think the characters are like #warcraft #this... wasnt supposed to be a rant #genn #anduin

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w1ndrunn3rblog · 3 years

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The Raid - Reasons to Hopeful About Sylvanas

Given Blizzard’s history of deception, duplicity, gaslighting, baiting, and straight up lying when it comes to Sylvanas’s story and current direction, I have literally zero reason to beleive anything they say anymore. But when I put on my Logical Hat, there are a few reasons why I am slightly hopeful that she will not effectively ‘die’ in the Raid:

The most cynical and obvious reason of all, she is worth too much money to Blizzard. To kill off their single biggest character (largely through the pointless drama they have victimised her to) that gets them so much press an attention would be commercial suicide (especially barely halfway through the expansion)

We still do not know exactly when and exactly why she joined the Jailer (i.e. what was it he told or showed her that seemingly convinced her so wholly to join him?)

We still do not know the true purpose of Helya’s Soul Lantern. They said at BlizzCon 2019 that it served a larger purpose than to merely subjagate Eyir in Stormheim, and we have barely seen Helya yet (bar the cameo in the Maw intro)

We still do not know the answer to probably the biggest question of all: why was she sent directly to the Maw in the first place? The implications of this question are numerous which we are all aware of - why have worse people been given a chance of redemption but she was not? Why would the Arbiter break from the established system to condemn Sylvanas directly to there? Was it even the Arbiter who showed Sylanas her fate in the first place?

There is plenty left yet to explore with regards to her decision to ‘dominate’ Anduin and the doubts she is having about that choice. It would seem utterly pointless to set this up over multiple cinematics only to not see it through, or worse, to try and rush it through in the space of one raid encounter or one patch. Danuser himself said this will be explored further throughout the game but one Patch just seems too short a timespan to realistically do this in a beleivable way for the narrative

For me, these are just too many major questions that need resolving in the short period of a single Patch and a single raid, and even if Blizzard were to answer them later in the expansion it would be FAR to difficult (not to mention pointless) to do without the central character no longer in the game.

I know we have zero reason to beleive or trust Blizzard with anything related to Sylvanas any more, but purely from a logical perspective in terms of major unanswered questions and a ton of loose threads still blowing in the wind as yet unresolved, I just do not think these can all be answered within one patch cycle and the permanent end of Sylvanas. You do not have to beleive any of this, nor would I expect you to, but if you are still looking for any signs of hope of life for Sylvanas beyond 9.1 I hope this has helped a little.

#sylvanas #hope

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1296-very-good-year · 3 years

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Sylvanas and the Jailer

I feel like it’s a fair complaint that there is just.. a lot we haven’t seen about the relationship between our two Big Bads that explains all the relevant character and story beats happening with Sylvanas right now. HOWEVER, I’d like to lay out what we do know, and I think its enough to intuit what exactly the context of their relationship was/is.

Side note: Yes, Zovaal is still horribly underdeveloped and hopefully that changes soon. We still don’t know how he managed to convince the literal Paragon of Loyalty (Devos) to betray her covenant and there better be a damn good reason.

So at the very base of it, Sylvanas and Zovaal decided to work together to tear down the system they both hate and build a fairer one in its place. When they were about to reach that goal, Zovaal reveals he never intended to honor the “fairer system” part of the deal so Sylvanas turns on him. I find it fascinating that although Zovaal clearly betrayed her, a lot of people frame this moment as Sylvanas betraying him. He just declared he wanted everyone and everything forced to serve him, and somehow it’s Sylvanas doing the betraying. Interesting...

Anyway, the biggest complaint from the raid finale people seem to have is:

How could she be so stupid to believe the JAILER wanted to give everyone free will? (Actually what a lot of people were thinking was “Goddamnit! I wanted to kill that bitch!” but they weren’t all just going to say that outright so they latched on to something more reasonable to explain why they’re mad)

So let’s think about that complaint for a second!

First of all, we don’t know if she fully believed him. They had a deal and he broke it. We don’t know yet if she had a plan in case that happened. We have to wait to find out.

My speculation is Anduin managed to convince her to come up with contingencies - if she didn’t have any already - considering Zovaal literally gets into his head to possess him. Anduin could have learned his true intentions in time to warn her.

But why would she make a deal with this clearly evil guy in the first place?

Think about what we’ve been told already:

The Eternal Ones locked Zovaal away with domination magic, but was eventually able to free himself enough to turn that magic into a weapon against his jailers and had no concern for who got hurt along the way.

Sound familiar?

Arthas turned Sylvanas into an undead slave with domination magic, she was eventually freed and used her new banshee magic against the one who enslaved her and had no concern for who got hurt along the way.

I don’t see anyone talking about this very obvious parallel! Why wouldn’t Sylvanas see the Jailer as a mirror of herself to relate to? Someone she can project her own ambitions and hurt and anger onto? We don’t have the details about how they met yet, but I guarantee Zovaal used their similarity to convince her to help him. And based on her knowledge and fear that she was damned to the Maw when she died, it would be completely out of character if she didn’t side with the guy trying to bust it open.

And remember, Zovaal is only using domination magic because his siblings bound him with it first! That horrible power that Arthas used to enslave Sylvanas? That was first used against Zovaal. This is why I don’t get the complaint that Zovaal is the reason for every bad thing that’s happened to her so she should hate him.

Yes he made Frostmourne and the Helm that gave Arthas the ability to do what he did to her, but 1) the lich kings were Zovaal’s only means of getting his influence out of the Maw to crack it open and 2) the game dialogue has made it clear that Zovaal did not control the lich kings like he wanted to and they all had free will. They were corrupted, not controlled. Arthas himself decided to raise Sylvanas and torture and enslave her, no one told him to do that. If you want to get technical it was Ner’zhul telling Arthas to attack the Sunwell which led him to Sylvanas, but Zovaal didn’t control Ner’zhul either.

With that said though, I can definitely see her redirecting her hatred for Arthas on to Zovaal now that she’s learned what his real intentions for getting free were. And he looks a lot like Lich King Arthas with his fancy new armor so that will be pretty easy to do.

#god i have so much more to say #i dunno how to put things under the cut so i'll just make little posts #why am i so fixated on this story #probably cuz its told so slowly ughghghgh #sylvanas windrunner #the jailer #zovaal #shadowlands spoilers #who else #anduin wrynn #arthas

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elliemarchetti · 3 years

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The Most Macabre of Scenes, The Most Terrible of Nightmares

As I hope the few souls reading this have already guessed, requests are open for anything on LOTR and The Hobbit. However, in this chapter the journey of the Fellowship continues, but various shadows loom over their safety and the hearts of its members.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Words: 2643

The attack was short and violent, but fortunately no one was injured. It was about midnight on their eighth day of travel when the Orcs stroke, a raid planned down to the last detail, one might say, as they had took advantage of the current, the crescent moon that lit up the sky and the abundance of strangely bright stars, reflecting like torches on the River’s surface. Their black-feathered arrows had fallen like lethal rain upon the Fellowship, but except for a few torn cloaks, there had been no damage. Hidden among the ferns of the western shore, as awake as they could be, everyone thought about what they saw in the sky after their enemies had unexpectedly retreated, trying to give a name to the great winged creature, blacker than the pits of the night, which had emerged from the south. Fierce voices rose up to greet it from across the water, and Elva could still feel the chills running through her and clutching at her heart, deadly cold like the memory of an old wound. She had killed it, with a single shot from the bow she had received as a gift in Lorien, but she was sure there were others, and she wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from that irreparably corrupted land. After that vision, Haldir had no longer spoken, but he was frowning and his mind was probably in Lothlorien, lost in calculating how long such a beast would take to reach the ends of the mallorn’s forest. Lying next to him, Elva wished she was able to say out loud that he could return, if he wished, that no one would’ve wanted him any harm for placing his homeland before a mission that didn’t even belonged to him, and that Galadriel herself would’ve probably been grateful for the warning, but selfishly, she couldn’t, so she hugged tighter her knees under the cloak, a reassurance and a way to fight the changing of the weather. When the day came, the mood of the world about them had become soft and sad. Slowly the dawn grew to a pale light, diffused and shadowless. There was mist on the River, and white fog swathed the shore, making the far bank impossible to see.

“I can’t abide fog,” said Sam, “but this seems to be a lucky one: now perhaps we can get away without those cursed goblins seeing us.”

“Perhaps so,” said Aragorn. “But it will be hard to find the path unless the fog lifts a little later on, and we must, if we are to pass Sarn Gebir and come to the Emyn Muil.”

“I don’t see why we should pass the Rapids or follow the River any further,” said Boromir. “If the Emyn Muil lie before us, then we can abandon these cockle-boats and strike westward and southward, until we come to the Entwash and cross into my own land.”

“We can, if we are making for Minas Tirith,” said Aragorn, “but that’s not yet agreed, and such a course may be more perilous than it sounds: the Entwash’s vale is flat and fenny, fog a deadly peril for those on foot and laden. I wouldn’t abandon our boats until we must, for the River is at least a path that cannot be missed.”

“But the Enemy holds the eastern bank,” objected Boromir, “and even if you pass the Gates of Argonath, coming unmolested to the Tindrock, what will you do then? Leap down the Falls and land in the marshes?”

The tones were heating up, and Elva thought it was time to intervene: “It’s not the way of the Men of Minas Tirith to desert their friends at need, and we’ll need your strength, if ever we are to reach the Tindrock.”

The mortal seemed satisfied with those words, and decided he would go as far as the tall isle, but no further.

“There I shall turn to my home,” he announced, “alone if my help hasn’t earned the reward of any companionship.”

Elva prayed that someone had decided to pursue that mission, but in order to keep an army as powerful as that of Boromir's father, if everyone chose to follow Aragorn, she would be the one to separate from the rest of the companions, this decided a long time ago, perhaps at the very moment Gandalf had chosen her for the Quest. That gloomy possibility, which was so far from her ideals, prompted her to wait for the mist to rise in silence, even as she and Haldir went exploring forward along the shore, while the others remained by the boats. She hoped to find some way by which they could carry everything to the smoother water beyond the Rapids, but even if the elven boats wouldn’t sink, that didn’t ensure they could come through Sarn Gebir alive, for none ever done so yet, and no road was made by the Men of Gondor in this region, for even in their great days their realm didn’t reach up Anduin beyond the Emyn Muil.

“There is a portage-way somewhere on the western shore, if I can find it,” revealed Haldir, so softly that for a moment Elva hardly noticed.

"I didn't tell the others," the elf went on, "because I was afraid they wouldn't believe me, after my miscalculations pushed us towards the Orcs attack; besides, I fought those creatures for a good part of my own adult life, and I could’ve imagined their simple but ingenious plan."

"No one was injured, that's the important thing," Elva replied, thinking that if anyone had risked being hit, it would’ve been him, as an arrow had ripped off both the cloak and the skin of the jacket from his shoulders.

"But if that had happened, the fault would’ve been mine alone, and whoever had accused me, even if only in grief, would’ve been right: you have already lost the Istar, and before I should’ve warned Aragorn it wasn’t wise to continue at night as he suggested, but I didn't, and now I don't want to deceive anyone until I’m sure that my memory doesn’t deceive me," he replied, resolute in the bitterness of someone who can't forgive himself.

"Why are you telling me, then?" Elva asked, unable to stop.

"Because I'm sure I can trust you, and I know you’ve faced the guilt, same or not, even if I still don’t know what you’re carrying it for,” he replied, with a naked and vulnerable honesty, which hit right to the point. She didn't like talking about her past, much less what she felt about it, yet he must’ve seen a difficult life in her eyes, a life that perhaps could’ve been more like his, if only she had been born in another realm. Like Lorien, Mirkwood was a wonderful but tricky place, where growing up as a half-breed wasn't easy at all, especially when you needed to do it by yourself. Getting to know Legolas, and later becoming his confidant and friend, had been a blessing, and she kept telling herself that her true life had begun the day a young prince was bewitched by the ability of a simple recruit with a bow and with words. She hadn't treated him well, weary as every orphan is, and perhaps that was precisely what had intrigued him, since at court no one spoke to him as an equal, much less had the courage to say what they really though, too busy trying to win the future king’s favours, since with the one in charge was so hard. Speaking of Thranduil, he had welcomed her as if she were his own daughter, instructing and having her instructed in the best possible way; but the king was a cold and distant father, rigid in his manner and limited in his displays of affection, not exactly what a girl without parents desires most. If loving Legolas as a brother had been simple, as natural as breathing and almost a matter of survival, the same couldn't be said of the oldest of the Greenleafs, but she had learned that too, and with it the art of concealing her heart, although with Haldir it was so difficult.

"And how can I know I should have the same trust in you?" she asked, her heart heavy. She needed to believe that he wouldn’t leave the Fellowship, even if she followed Boromir and everyone else went by water, and she needed to know if he would understand her decision, or if he would end up misinterpreting it.

"You can't, but to convince you otherwise, I'll tell you something that I'm sure should’ve remained a secret: Galadriel's Mirror showed me three visions, three possible futures, I find myself believing. I still don't want to talk about two, because it doesn't seem wise, but the most macabre of scenes, the most terrible of nightmares that I thought I could have, I feel like sharing: I don't know if the Fellowship had failed in its intent, or if it's the fate that awaits my homeland anyway, if events should take that turn, but darkness had fallen over the forest of golden trees when a flock of huge winged creatures, like the one you killed last night, swept over Calas Galadhon. The Lord and the Lady fought side by side with every common citizen, and a shower of arrows capable of obscuring the stars was sent from each talan towards the sky. I don't know how the battle could end, as my vision was limited to that, but I have seen you fight with us, and defend our young and old as if they were your own. I don't pretend to understand what those images meant, and why the Mirror decided to show them to me, but I believe it was the beginning of Lorien's Winter, the first day of a downhill road to inevitable ruin, yet you were there by our side, and I don't think you'd fight for the land of someone you don’t trust,” he concluded, just as enigmatic as his ruler. Did he meant he understood her malfidence towards the Galadhrim, or was it really just his way of assuming that she would always trust him, to the point of risking death for a place that did not belong to her? There was no way of knowing but asking, and it didn't seem appropriate, fearing that he too might ask her what the Mirror had shown her. Death, she might’ve replied, no matter it was the mallorn’s, his people’s or Haldir’s himself, but she didn't want to talk about it anymore, she just wanted to forget his pale skin in the moonlight, the dust, sweat and blood surrounding her like a sea that smelled of the Enemy's wickedness instead of salt, so she fell silent.

“It cannot yet have perished,” muttered Haldir under his breath, after a while. “Light boats used to journey out of Wilderland down to Osgiliath, and still did so until a few years ago, when the Orcs of Mordor began to multiply.”

“Even if we find the path, peril will grow with every mile we go forward, for it lies ahead on every southward road,” replied Elva

They found what they were looking for just before noon, with the head of the Rapids half a mile below them: a track leading to a good landing, a little more than a mile long, was still serviceable, not far beyond the stream clear and smooth again, though running swiftly. The hardest task was to get the boats and baggage to the old portage-way, lying well back from the water-side near which they were camped, and running under the lee of a rock-wall, a furlong or more from the shore. “I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here,” said Haldir, once back.

“That wouldn’t be easy, even if we were all Men,” said Boromir.

“Yet such as we are we will try it,” Aragorn replied peremptorily.

“We will!” confirmed Gimli, and although the task was difficult, it was nevertheless completed, the goods taken out of the boats and brought to the top of the bank, where there was a level space, and the boats themselves drawn out of the water and carried up, proving to be far less heavy than any had expected; at last, all was removed to be laid on the portage-way and with little further hindrance, save from sprawling briars and many fallen stones, they moved forward all together. Fog still hung in veils upon the crumbling rock-wall, and to their left mist shrouded the River: they could hear it rushing and foaming over the sharp shelves and stony teeth of Sarn Gebir, but they couldn't see it. There the portage-way, turning back to the water-side, ran gently down to the shallow edge of a little pool scooped in the river-side, not by hand, but by the water swirling down from Sarn Gebir against a low pier of rock that jutted out some way into the stream. Beyond it the shore rose sheer into a grey cliff, and there was no further passage for those on foot. Already the short afternoon was past, and a dim cloudy dusk was closing in. Sitting beside the water, they listened to the confused rush and roar of the Rapids hidden in the mist; they were tired and sleepy, and their hearts were as gloomy as the dying day at the thought of spending there another night, even if it seemed inevitable, given the general fatigue. Luckily, nothing worse than a brief drizzle of rain an hour before dawn happened, and as soon as it was fully light and the fog was thinning, they started. Keeping as close as they could to the western side, they saw the dim shapes of the low cliffs rising ever higher, shadowy walls with their feet in the hurrying river. In the mid-morning the clouds drew down lower, and it began to rain heavily, forcing them to drew the skin-covers over their boats to prevent them from being flooded and drifted on; little could be seen before or about them through the grey falling curtains but it didn’t last long, the sky above growing lighter and suddenly opening, dismissing fogs and mists too. Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few trees; as they sped along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever might meet ahead, Elva peered forward, seeing in the distance two great rocks approaching. Like pinnacles or pillars of stone they stood, tall, sheer and ominous, creating a narrow gap among which the boats could only pass one by one. They were the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings, vast grey figures silent but threatening, shaped and fashioned as two great kings of stone with blurred eyes and crannied brows frowning upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning, while in each right hand there was an axe and upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished Kingdom, instilling awe and fear in the Fellowship travelling in boats frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Numenor. Passing into the dark chasm of the Gates, sheer rose the dreadful cliffs on either side, while the black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. What a horrible place it was, but it must’ve been even worse for Aragorn, a king in exile who was finally returning to his land only to see it filled with the noise of wind, rushing water and echoing stone.

#haldir x fem oc #haldir of lothlorien #aragorn #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #boromir #gandalf the grey #galadriel #legolas greenleaf #thranduil greenleaf #gimli son of gloin #lotr #the fellowship of the ring

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druidonity2 · 7 months

Note

ive been thinking about how it’s mentioned that anduin has kept himself hidden for years now and that even shaw can’t find him and ive come up with a little headcanon. i think after having all control of himself ripped away by the jailor and having brief periods of lucidity/control has caused him to have episodes of disassociation or depersonalization. he feels like he’s floating outside of himself and he’s terrified that he’ll hurt someone during these episodes even though he can’t even make himself move when they happen. so he hides and hopes that eventually everyone will give up on trying to find him. he convinces himself it’s better this way, even if it hurts so much to leave everyone behind

UuUuHh so I forgot about my asks inbox for awhile and honestly based on the current mental state of this man I feel like this could very well be canon.

It didn't seem like he'd be coming home any time soon, if at all, and he clearly hasn't been working on himself in any way that is effective because it's been 5ish years spent alone.

#IM SO SORRY i keep forgetting to reply to people #ask #THIS was from october

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schrijverr · 3 years

Text

Lay Your Burdens Down

An introspection of Boromir’s mind during the quest. How he was fulfilling a role that was not written for him and how it became his downfall.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: Boromir's relation with the Ring

~~~~~~~~~

Boromir carried burdens he was not meant to carry.

He had traveled far, aching bones and dirty hands to ask for counsel that might not be enough to save Gondor. His beautiful Gondor for which he would give his life, if it meant that the White City should prevail.

It was a feeble hope, but it was the only hope he had. For all other hope had long forsaken Minas Tirith as it lay in the Mountain’s shadow under ever growing darkness.

His father could not hold out for long. Soon the people of Gondor’s doubt, their questions if he knew what he was doing, if he was doing enough to save their land, would lead to discontent that showed in actions, rather than whispered murmurs.

Still, Boromir tried to fight both that darkness growing in the East and amongst his people. He fought bravely out on the field, commanded his men with compassion and took to the streets to help where it was needed.

The Son of Gondor was there, the people knew.

And now the Son of Gondor was away. He had been traveling for a hundred and ten days when he finally arrived and he would have to make the return journey as well.

He felt every day, every minute, heavily in his soul. He knew that this was time he could not waste, because who would pick up his role while he was gone? Who would keep the darkness at bay and that little flicker of hope burning bright?

His soul knew that Faramir would try in his stead, but the people whispered that he was a Wizard’s pupil. That he did not care for his City and carried out rituals in the dark.

Naturally his own soldiers knew this not to be true and no one dared to say a word when Boromir was there to protect his little brother’s honor, but Boromir couldn't always be there and the longer he was gone, the more distrust would fester.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn't be riding to an Elven city when there was so much he had to do at home, so much to defend.

They had only just reclaimed Osgiliath and he was certain the Dark Lord wished to retake the Gondor city that controlled the Anduin. It was only a matter of time and he should be there to talk strategy so that it wouldn’t come to pass.

It was all too much for one person to bear. Fighting on too many fronts, in both a physical war as well as a war of trust. He was not build for this, he wasn’t the one who could fight both and win, yet he had to try.

He did not know anything else.

His life had always been this war, ever since he was a child and first held Faramir and his mother made his swear to protect his little brother, ever since he remembered that first oath he ever took while they had to hide as their father fought of a group of Orcswhile they had been out riding in the forest.

So, he kept on going. For while it might be too much, might completely hopeless, might be foolish to try and might not even be his destiny, he had to do it. Because who else would step up in his stead if he ever fell down?

Thus he found himself in Rivendell asking for counsel, surrounded by people who seemed much surer of themselves and more comfortable with the danger that lay far from their borders.

The counsel revealed much to him. Not only was the riddle that had plagued both his dreams as those of Faramir explained, but there was hope again. There was a weapon, a thing to turn the tide of this hopeless war and an heir. Someone to ease Boromir’s burden and help to rally the troops and take up arms against the might of Mordor.

Though he could not convince the counsel that Gondor needed the weapon, he was able to convince them to tie his own faith to that of the Ring and take a place on the Fellowship.

He knew there were people wiser than him, many people were and he had long learned that. He was a warrior, not a philosopher. So, he was content to follow both the words of the wise as well as his King. To do what they deemed to be the best course of action to save Middle Earth and with that Gondor.

However, as the journey processed a dark voice started to prod at the hope that had finally managed to bloom.

It spoke to him of the fall of Gondor while he was gone, urging him to return before it was too late, even though it already was. Telling him how he would come back to the White City being overrun and no strength he had in him could turn the tide. It offered him a solution to the problems that had plagued his mind since his youth and grew as he did.

Still, he tried to tell himself that the voice was his darkest fears and that, while they were founded in reality, were not true and merely an extreme. He looked to Aragorn and chided himself for not believing in the prophesied return, for doubting his King.

But it was hard to trust in his King when it seemed his King did not want to be what he was destined to be. When he clung to being a Ranger, keeping close to the Elf that he treated as if he were his kin. When he did not want to listen to Boromir when the soldier attempted to talk about Minas Tirith and the struggles of Gondor.

The burdens that he had carried around all his life made the journey with him towards Mordor, staying in his heart, lowering his shoulders, while no one ever looked his way to ease them, for it was the burdens of his home and no one seemed to care about them.

And so the voice crept back into his mind, its words sounding more tempting and reasonable every time.

A small part of his mind told him that it was the Ring, but a bigger part argued that it did not matter how the thought first came to be, for it was the only viable answer.

He would have to go back to Gondor, he couldn't linger here. He couldn't waste his time on this quest, which was not only folly, but would prove to be their doom, no matter the outcome. They did not know if destroying the Ring would destroy Sauron’s forces and Minas Tirith could still be overrun by his army. But, the voice whispered, they do no care for Minas Tirith, so why would consider that outcome?

It was eating at him and he saw the others look at him with suspicion. He knew they did not trust him and he resented them for their distrust, for they were safe in their countries and his people were the ones dying, yet still they did not see why he wanted the Ring to go to Gondor.

The more their gazes hardened when the passed him, the harder it came to fight with the reasoning of his mind that seemed like his own, until he wondered why he was arguing it.

Then Mithrandir fell. The Wizard was plunged into the deep where no one returned from and the small chance they had of success died with him. It disappearedover the ridge and while they pushed on, it was not the same.

Boromir watched with resentment as Aragorn stood up as leader, his mind wondering why he was willing to lead this Fellowship, while abandoning his people. The resentment grew when he lead to them Lothlórien, an Elven city once more.

Aragorn did not care for the men of Gondor, he was faithful to the Elves and did not want to take the crown. He did not want to fight for Gondor and Boromir was alone as always, but this time he was far removed from home and he could not fight from here.

He had abandoned his home, his people. The realization hit him as a voice spoke in his mind about the fall of Gondor, confirming it had not just been his own fears, but even the Elves knew of the impending doom, hanging over the White City.

She also told him to have hope, but hope had long since perished in Minas Tirith. He’dhad hope, a long while ago and he thought he could have hope when he met Aragorn, but he now saw that the hope was misplaced. The Elves didn’t understand what he had to do. They thought themselves so wise, but they were not. They were blind.

He knew what he had to do.

The solution seemed so easy. He had already said that the hands of a Halfling were not safe and he could prove it by reaching out his hand. The others would have to understand. It was the only choice he had.

It was only after he had attempted to find his salvation that he realized that it had been him, who had been folly to think he could wield it, that it was his own mind that made him think that this was the answer.

But it was too late now and he could not take back what he had done. He could not undo the confirmation of proving that their mistrust in him was just. He had failed them all and he had been too blind to see.

Still, he tried to prove himself worthy of the burden of the protecting the Ring that had been placed on his shoulders by the Counsel.

He tried to protect the little ones, tried to follow the ordersof his King and see it through to the end, no matter if it would mean that his own life would be forfeit. He had risked his life plenty of times before and he would not see two people as joyful as Merry ad Pippin succumb to the horrors of war that had been his reality from birth.

When he fell, he knew he had failed once more. Merry and Pippin were being carried away and he did not know what had become of the others, if Frodo was safe.

And when Aragorn comforted him, he scarcely believed his King when he told him he did enough, that he had kept his honor. He tried in his final moments to live up what his King thought of him, he confessed what he had done and made sure that Aragorn knew that he would have followed him if had been able.

Boromir carriedburdenshe was not meant to carry for his entire life and as he finally closed his eyes, that burden eased from his shoulders and wrapped around Aragorns shoulders like a heavymantle.

The King had to return and take up the burdens meant for him.

A/N:

I love everyone in the Fellowship and anything negative in here abt them is Boromir’s mind under the influence of the Ring

Also this was a mix between book and movie verse

#RR writing #LOTR #the lord of the rings #lord of the rings #boromir #lotr boromir #boromir of gondor #the ring

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scarlet-it-was · 3 years

Text

Aftershocks

Tags up top: #world of warcraft #sylvanduin #sylvanas x anduin #older woman younger man

Set immediately post-Kingsmourne cinematic. Hastily written because it has been gnawing on my brain like Tred’ova. No betas, we die like warriors. The explicit version of this can be found here on AO3, just skip to chapter 2.

She watches his face; she can see the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye as he fights exhaustively to surface, but it’s of no use. The Jailer extracts the key from the Kingsmourne and Sylvanas is tasked with “putting away” the vessel until it is ready to be used again. Her head nods once, curtly, and her face remains unchanged as she takes over Anduin’s mind with her own banshee magic. Electric blue fades and shifts to a neon violet before she walks him from the balcony. He’s steered along several of the twisting corridors, bypassing his own prison and is taken to another.

The lair of the Dark Lady, inasmuch as she has laid claim to in this unearthly realm, is modestly sized. Unsurprisingly, many of her personal effects are twisted and gruesome. Skulls from every race known to Azeroth and the outer realms hang on the wall in a morbid gallery. Of the items that aren’t nightmare inducing, none of them look particularly sentimental or personal, likely left on Azeroth for safe keeping. The aesthetic here is carefully and intentionally curated.

She locks the door and proceeds to remove the sword and then unclamp the heavy armor while he wobbles in place and she whispers the necessary magic to keep him under her spell. Beneath the heavily spiked pauldrons and chest plate, Anduin is still a large man, larger than she would have expected from the man she’d goaded as the ‘boy king’ for the last several years, but his presence feels far smaller. Deft hands remove the final pieces of his armor as she lets the echo of her voice trail off, allowing him to come back to himself when he is clad only in tight black pants designed to keep the leather from chafing, and a loose black shirt that served the same purpose.

As the ocean blue of his eyes returns, he gasps in a panic, and the first thing he sees is her. Anger, white hot, burning righteous fury. If he’d had enough strength to call down the light, he would have smote her where she stood. Instead, he lunges at her, and it becomes apparent why she’s taken the time to relieve him of his weapons and armaments. It’s the exact reaction she expects, and while she is confident he’ll never catch up to her to land a punch, she’s not interested in taking chances after pride had won her a new scar at the hands of Saurfang. Sylvanas dodges his strikes, and sidesteps his advances for a few tense moments before his anger turns to something he can catch.

Her face remains passive as he smashes each of the skulls that hung on the wall, demanding answers after each is splintered in a thousand shards, practically reciting everything she’d done in his memory. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have answers to give him that will satisfy the depth of the ache he feels. Sylvanas begins the process of removing her own armor while he rants and destroys her room. “You know, I will just get more to replace them, and if they aren’t available readily, I can create them myself,” she warns, but doesn’t expect it to stop the destruction.

“STOP. UNDRESSING,” he booms at her, in equal parts anger and exasperation. He’s never seen her so...undergeared. It feels too private, and entirely too intimate for the emotions swirling through him. He wins only a narrowing of her eyes as she unfastens the heavy leather strap that holds the guards for her hips and thighs. He’s nearly hysterical; it’s hard the first time, and he doesn’t have the boon of being dead to numb his emotions. No, the Jailer needs him as a living mortal within the Shadowlands.

“Why?” he demands, as if he’s going to get a better answer than he has up until now.

Anduin rounds on her again and his face is flushed and streaked with tears. Careful, they’ll burn themselves onto your face, she can feel the chiding remark on her tongue, but for once she swallows it. She has no defense against his litany of her crimes. “Answer me, Sylvanas!”

His gaze is at once accusatory and pleading and it cuts her like the mourneblade all over again. Her memory hasn’t faded--she can feel his hurt and betrayal because she owns the same ones. Time hasn’t healed those wounds, it has only grown them into the anger and hatred she wears like armor around herself. It unpleasantly occurs to her that while he has been but a brief annoyance in her own long life, she has been a constant source of misery in his own. From the time he was young, so much has been taken. His peace, his father, his home, and now his free will; and she’s played a part in so many of those moments. Suddenly she’s finding it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact, and she lets her gaze drop.

She’s already got one foot braced and turns around in time to catch the charging Anduin solidly against her front. Sylvanas grunts when her back hits the wall, fangs bared, but she doesn’t strike back. This isn’t a man who wants more violence. She wraps her arms around him instead. “Shhh,” she hisses against his ear, holding him tightly against her while he flails to get free. He pushes at her, tries to pull away, but the attempts are half-hearted at best.

Eventually, he stops fighting and his arms go limp at his sides. Sylvanas feels him surrender, and her hold becomes less severe. She thinks back to the days her Little Moon would fling herself into Sylvanas’s arms and cry over whatever latest injustice had besieged her heart. Her memory marked them as petty endeavors compared to the broken boy she held now, but the muscle memory, at least, was helpful. His weight pressed against her made it easy to balance herself as she slid down the wall, pulling him down as well. He gave no fight, just crumbled to the ground with her, and his arms went around her waist. For a moment, she freezes and looks down at the mess of blonde hair. His head rests against her chest, which does not rise or fall, nor offer the comfort of a steady breath or heartbeat. She settles in once again, this time keeping an arm around his back while the other tugs loose the tie from his hair so she can thread her fingers through it. No words are offered--any she could say felt hollow, and certainly untrue.

Until the Maw, Sylvanas was the coldest place he’d ever known, but here, she feels like a respite--the smallest and most fragile of fires in a night that promised death from the howling wind. There isn’t much hope in it, but he clings to it nonetheless. He doesn’t expect to find himself on the floor of her room, wrapped up in the mysterious and infuriating elf, but the moment she offered him shelter instead of slaughter, he fell apart. Her fingers twine through his hair and it’s a small comfort. His eyes still burn, and so does his throat, but eventually he is able to pull himself together, in no small part due to the solid presence he rested against. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and she pauses her ministrations to allow him to do such. Her hand hovers for a moment before falling to the side when she realizes he won’t be putting his head back down.

He looks at her in earnest then. He’s never seen her out of her martial attire; she remains only in leather pants and a soft black under shirt. Sylvanas’s hair spills over her shoulders, flat from hiding beneath a hood. He’s always found her hauntingly beautiful, but nothing compared to her stripped of her war vestments and staring at him like...It wasn’t exactly compassion he saw in her eyes so much as understanding. Anduin had gained a new perspective as well--hers.

The fact that she chose to bring him here and comfort him rather than locking him back inside his circular prison speaks volumes, but that was never enough for him, because Sylvanas is never what she seems. “Why have you brought me here?” he asks, since it certainly isn’t to apologize. She hasn’t expressed remorse, or regret.

Sylvanas lets her head drop to the side so that she’s looking at him without her head leaving the support of the wall. “Because I can not give you peace, Young Wrynn, but I can at least make sure you sleep comfortably, and dreamlessly, if you so desire,” she drawls. Afterall, she has no use for her bed, she doesn’t require sleep and when she does sleep, it’s more out of habit or boredom. As she speaks, he feels her brace her feet and she lifts both of them, though this time with his help. She leads him to the bed and eases him down as though he is a broken thing.*

She sees him start to speak again, and she knows the question before it comes out. She stops it by pressing two cold fingers against his lips. “Shh, there is nothing to be done about it,” she tells him matter of factly. “Not yet. Be patient, little lion. The threads of fate are frayed and unravelling. Soon we will weave our own.” Sylvanas doesn’t remove her fingers from his lips, but rests her forehead against his with her eyes closed. “And no one will ever control us again,” she says, trying to convince him as much as she is trying to convince herself. Her fingertips and head lift at the same time and she leans forward to press a kiss on his brow, imbuing him with an irresistible urge to sleep. “Rest now,” she murmurs, settling him in the throng of pillows as he slowly blinks, trying and failing to stay awake. Her hand smooths over his forehead once more, pushing slightly faded gold locks out of his face in a tender gesture he won’t remember by the time he wakes. “It won’t get any easier from here.”

#sylvanduin #sylvanas x anduin #world of warcraft #fanfiction #my fic #aftershocks

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sheyshen · 4 years

Text

Patch stuff had me thinking and inspired me a little bit so... Some Shey dealing with Anduin being kingnapped among some other things and some background fairshaw because I wanted to write Mathias and Flynn since they’re her friends.

It was late. Really really late. Shey knew she shouldn’t be up right now, but she couldn’t sleep. Anduin was missing, the scourge were starting to rampage, there was a blasted hole in the sky. And she felt useless. She hadn’t been in Stormwind when the king had been taken, hadn’t been there to protect her son, the only family she had left.

It wasn’t her fault, or Genn, or Mathias though both the Worgen and spy blamed themselves as much as they blamed the true guilty party. But even though she knew deep down that there was nothing any of them could’ve done to prevent this, the guilt still gnawed at her. So instead she walked through the halls of the keep, heading to the one place she would go when her mind wouldn’t let her rest. Turning she recognized a familiar coat, the owner doing his best to look as unassuming as possible.

Which might’ve worked had it not been well past two in the morning. Still, the guards ignored him as he strode past them and poked his head into a side room before continuing on.

“Flynn.” Shey smiled at him as he started, turning to look at her a large grin masking how surprised he had been.

“Ah! Commander! Fancy seeing you here.” He strode up to her, the smile never leaving his face. “Now what are you doing wandering the halls of the keep?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She pointed out, laughing lightly, “Looking for Mathias?”

He scratched the back of his neck, “perhaps. Or I could be here to see you, or Taelia, or…” he seemed to be dragging out a long pause.

“The spymaster is in the war room down that way.” She gestured back the way she came. Flynn thanked her and hurried past her, “And Flynn. When you see him, try to get him to get some rest. Tell him it’s my orders if he refuses.”

“Will do.” He looked like he wanted to say more. She had nearly bid him farewell and continued on her way when he nodded toward the halls she had exited from, “You should go get some sleep too.”

“I have some things to attend to, besides the bed’s too big for me alone.” She waved him off, “Don’t worry so much about me, go find Shaw before he wanders off to find more work to do.”

Flynn looked like he was going to argue, insist that she should take her own advice but finally, he nodded, wished her good night, and hurried off toward the war room.

Alone once more she returned to her intended goal, taking another hallway to the gardens and then to the attached library. Her little safe haven amongst the hustle and bustle of the day to day. She browsed around, picked out a well-worn book, sat down, and began flipping through the pages. Inside was a letter, the edges worn and had been obviously handled numerous times.

It was addressed to her, and even before opening it she already knew what it said. She ran her fingers along the edge of the seal, the wax broken years ago, opened the letter carefully, and took out the single page folded inside. She didn’t unfold it, instead, she put both the letter and the envelope on the nearby table and leaned back in her chair, picking gently at the edge of the paper as she let out a heavy breath.

She doubted she could read the letter now, though she knew every word by heart, it hurt too much to think about it. But as always on nights like this, she debated on what to do. The letter detailed a gift hidden away in the gardens. One she knew of, she knew what it was, what it meant. But hadn’t been able to bring herself to get it yet. It was from Varian, meant to be an anniversary present when she returned home from some last-minute requests she had needed to attend to.

But the Legion invading delayed things, and she hadn’t found the letter until after he had…

She picked up the letter, carefully putting it back into the envelope. She debated on putting it back in the book, putting it away, perhaps she’d be braver next time, be able to deal with finding the last thing she’d ever receive from the one she loved most, that’s loss still tore at her heart even with Gul’dan’s death. She knew next time she’d still chicken out, she knew herself well enough that if she hadn’t been able to make herself go and open the gift over the past few years she wouldn’t be able to do it tomorrow either.

She pushed herself to her feet, deciding that maybe at least taking the gift from its hiding place would be a step forward. She pocketed the letter, mentally following the clue that had been written down, and went to the corner of the garden that was attached to the library. Underneath a bench that faced toward the ocean was a hidden compartment. Shaw normally kept a hidden weapon there in case he or the royal family had been caught off guard, but currently, it also held a small box. Taking it from its hiding place, Shey turned it in her hand. Simple, a blue ribbon kept it tied shut, and the box looked untouched even after all this time.

She inspected it, before pocketing the box and leaving the gardens. She strode out of the keep, taking the pathways along the canals, nodding towards the guards that kept watch and the death knights and paladins that had set up posts to keep an eye out for undead. They let her be, greeting her with a simple ‘commander’ or ‘ma’am’ or ‘majesty’. She still wasn’t fond of the last of those, while she knew the title was merely a formality it still never sat well to be regarded as anything other than what she was, a mage just trying to help.

Crossing the bridge to the gardens she strode up to Varian’s grave. It was quiet now, her friends and comrades that had swarmed where Anduin had been last having turned either to different leads in hopes of finding their missing king or had decided to get some well-needed sleep. She ran her hand on the stone, wanting to say something but knowing that there was nothing she could say. She was sorry she couldn’t protect Anduin? That she didn’t know what to do? That she couldn’t forget, couldn’t move on? Instead, she sat down on the steps, pulling out the box, and ran her hand along it.

She didn’t hear him approach but wasn’t surprised when she heard Shaw speak up. “Mind if I join you?”

She gave him a sad smile, “Please.”

He seated himself next to her and let out a heavy breath.

“I take it Flynn couldn’t convince you to go to bed.”

He chuckled, a rare sound coming from her friend. “He tried, but he ended up falling asleep first.” He dug around in his bag, pulled free a flask, and took a swig before offering it to her.

“Thanks.” She took it, sipping at it in thought. “I…”

“Don’t. This isn’t your fault.” He took the flask when she handed it back to him. “We’ll find him.”

“He’s my son, Mathias. If I can’t protect him…” She cringed, hating even the thought of what might happen.

“And my friend.” He stared her down, “We’ll find him.” He repeated as he drank from the flask, turning away to look over the gardens again, quietly adding “we will.” at the end. It sounded more like an attempt to convince himself rather than her.

Taking the flask she sipped at it once more. She picked at the box that still sat on her lap, rubbing the ribbon between her fingers.

“You finally opened it?”

She glanced at Shaw before shaking her head. “Not yet. I can’t bring myself to. But it’s a step.”

"Did you know Fairwind named his parrot after me?"

Shey rose her eyebrow at the change in subject. She huffed a laugh, "did he now."

"He thought it was funny." He smiled faintly, the look on his face affectionate. "Not as much when it warmed up to me faster than to him."

"Did he bring little Mathias with him when he came to Stormwind?"

"No, actually. Seems the bird gets seasick. Stays in Boralus with Cyrus whenever Flynn comes to visit."

Shey grinned. "So no parrot sitting on Anduin's shoulder during meetings I take it."

Mathias nearly choked on the contents of the flask, likely some of Flynn's rum if Shey was able to guess by the taste, "no. Absolutely not. Thank the light for that. It already can mimic his voice nearly perfectly. I don't need it following me around the keep too."

She chuckled at his sudden loss of composure, a rare moment that likely wouldn't be repeated easily. "I'll be sure to watch out for him next time I'm out there." She grinned.

"I'm sure you two will get along." He seemed to hesitate before handing the flask to her, but in the end, he pushed it into her hand. "Rest is yours."

"Thanks." She took a gulp, finishing off the drink and handing the now empty flask back to its temporary owner. He put it away as she leaned back and watched the stars, the pair lapsing into a comfortable silence. After a few moments, she spoke up again, "hey Mathias? Thank you. For coming to sit with me tonight." She yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"You needed the break."

"As did you." Barely a few seconds passed and she felt as if she could barely stay awake. "Did you… did you put something in-" she practically collapsed mid-sentence as whatever he had slipped into the drink took hold and she fell asleep.

The next thing she knew was waking up in her bed. She bolted upright as she awoke. Glancing around the room she found her friend asleep on a thin bedding on the floor, Flynn hugging onto him tightly as the sailor grumbled in his sleep.

Getting out of bed she strode across the room sitting down and narrowing her eyes at the spy as he looked up at her.

"I can't believe you."

"You needed your sleep." He spoke quietly, trying not to wake the man who had a death grip on his shirt.

"I was fine." She also stayed quiet, the pair arguing back and forth in whispers. "I would’ve slept eventually."

"Or passed out at your desk like last time." Flynn shifting made him glance back but the man only rolled over onto his other side and continued his grumbling. Free from his lover's grip Mathias sat up. "You need your strength, If anyone is going to find Anduin it'll be you."

A mix of emotion flashed across her face before she sighed, "I suppose you're right." She admitted. She glanced around the room, "why did you sleep here anyway? I don't mind, but your room is nearby, you didn't need to stay here."

"Flynn's suggestion. He said you seemed lonely, and I'm inclined to agree." He watched her carefully. "Whatever is to happen next I have a feeling it will be over my head, so allow me to make sure you have a home to return."

She debated on what to say, before settling on "thank you."

"Heey." Flynn’s groggy voice joined in as he sat up. His eyes were still closed and his face was scrunched up like he was quietly cursing how bright the room was, but he smiled at them. "What are you two chatting about?"

"You of course." Shey grinned at him.

He laughed, went to say something then stopped and buried his face in his hands, grumbling something as he tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

Mathias pushed himself to his feet, Shey followed suit and then turned to gather her gear to prepare for the day.

"I'll gather reports for you before you leave for Northrend." He stretched as he spoke.

She nodded, "we can go over them while we eat. I have some things to leave for Genn before I go so I'll meet you in the dining hall."

"I'll be sure to keep things brief." He gave her a formal nod and left the room to get things in order.

Flynn flopped back down still grumbling that it was too early, before kicking off the blankets and getting to his feet, stretching, and then dug around his bag. Not finding what he was looking for he scrunched his eyebrows in confusion for a moment before remembering and then looking towards his friend. "Did chatting with Matie help?"

"It did." She huffed a laugh, "though I'm not sure how I feel about him spiking the drink to get me to get some sleep." She stepped around a corner, dug out some clothes, and pulled them on while she spoke. "But yes, it helped."

He wandered the room, inspecting the furniture and decorations that took up much of the space. "You weren't kidding about how big the bed was. This whole room seems a bit big for one. But…" he shrugged.

"I used to share it with another." He glanced at her when she cut him off. "Anduin was supposed to make this room his and I to return to my previous quarters. But he refused. Said he wasn't ready." She didn't elaborate more.

He watched her as the pieces clicked into place. An unopened box sat on the edge of a chest of drawers. He picked it up, inspected it, and then turned and handed it to her. She looked at it, the gift she still debated on what to do with, the end that she didn't want to face. Anduin wasn't the only one who wasn't ready to face that Varian was forever gone.

Flynn put his hand on her shoulder, "then if you need someone to stay with you let me know. I'm not always in the city, so if I'm not I'm sure Matie’ll offer the same even though he likely wouldn't say it." He cocked his head, a goofy grin on his face, "I mean, we're friends right?"

"We are." She smiled at him.

He released her shoulder. "Right. Now, I need to get me a drink, and I'm sure you need to get to your own things and. Just, be careful alright?” He pulled her into a hug, “Come back safe."

"I'll do my best." She returned the hug.

"Good." He looked like he wanted to say more but instead stepped away, waving goodbye as he turned and left the room.

She wondered if he had debated on offering to travel with her. But an ice block full of undead likely didn’t sit in with what he was willing to face down for much of anyone but Shaw. Still, she was grateful for his support, even with how wild things have been.

She looked at the gift in her hands and settled on what she would do. She tucked it away in the side table next to the bed, closing and locking the drawer. When Anduin was home safe then she would face this, but for now, she had taken a step forward and had a world to save.

#my writing #oc: shey wrynn #mathias shaw #flynn fairwind #wow #world of warcraft

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paradoxcase · 4 years

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So, according to the LOTR companion I’m reading, Sauron tortured Gollum, etc., and found out from him that the ring was in the Shire. But Sauron didn’t actually have any goddamn clue where the Shire was. Gollum, who was holding out some hope that he’d be able to get his precious back for himself, apparently convinced Sauron that the Shire was near the Gladden Fields, which would make sense, in a way, since the Gladden Fields is where Isildur lost the ring in the first place, and also where Gollum originally found it. So anyway, Sauron releases Gollum in the hopes that Gollum will maybe lead Mordor’s spies to the ring-bearer, and sends out the Nazgul in search of the Shire. Gollum is promptly captured by Aragorn and imprisoned by Thranduil and thus does not help Sauron find the actual location of the ring. The Nazgul are meanwhile looking for someplace called The Shire near the location of the Gladden Fields (which are IIRC some southern shores of the Anduin) and they aren’t finding anything. On the other hand, they’re drawing a lot of attention and causing a lot of distress and alarm to people in Gondor and Rohan because they are, after all, Nazgul. So eventually the Nazgul go to Saruman and ask him to tell them where the Shire is.

Now, Saruman does in fact know where the Shire is, and has been there himself and done some surveying on his own, because he’s noticed that Gandalf goes there a lot and is suspicious that Gandalf has some powerful secret up there, and is also kind of jealous of Gandalf’s ability to get on with the regular peoples of Middle-Earth and the Shire seems to be the place where he does that the most, because that’s the kind of person Saruman has become at this point in time. However, when all nine Nazgul show up at Isengard just after he’s imprisoned Gandalf and had Gandalf tell him that he’s made the wrong choice to try to go after the ring himself and pretend to help Sauron in order to get it, he has this revelation about what kind of person he’s actually working with and has this change of heart, like, you know, I think Gandalf was right, I shouldn’t be working with Sauron, this was a bad decision. What if I went up to the top of Orthanc where Gandalf is currently imprisoned, and apologized to him, and then came down with him and we drove off these Nazgul and didn’t actually help them? So he tells the Nazgul, you’re in luck! I’ve captured Gandalf and he definitely knows where the Shire is, so I’ll just go torture that information out of him and if I don’t get it I’ll just give him to you and let you do it. Be right back!

Then he goes up to the top of Orthanc to apologize to Gandalf and finds that Gandalf has escaped. So, since doesn’t really have any other choice, he goes back down to the Nazgul and tells them where the Shire is and pretends he got this information from torturing Gandalf. And it’s kind of interesting that this information comes from Saruman, because for some reason Saruman didn’t know that Buckland existed, and this caused significant delays for the Nazgul because Frodo officially moved to Buckland and then they discovered that they had to like, cross a big river or go through some actually well-guarded gates to get to Buckland and this gave Frodo and company enough time to quietly leave.

Anyway, this made me wonder what would have happened if Gandalf hadn’t been rescued and had accepted Saruman’s apology and they had driven off the Nazgul and not revealed where the Shire was? I think they could have managed it together, because Gandalf beat off all nine Nazgul by himself on Weathertop a little while later - not enough that he could actually defend Weathertop from them, but enough that he could escape. So I think with two Istari they probably could have driven off the nine, at least temporarily. And what then? Probably Saruman isn’t the most trustworthy of allies, because the ring obviously has a hold on him, and he’s much more powerful than Boromir. But it would probably be significantly different to have him partly on the good side rather than partly on Sauron’s side, and I think it might have been pretty interesting that way, too. Of course, this probably means that the Nazgul don’t get to the Shire in time to chase Frodo on his route to Rivendell. Well, maybe, they are after all riding horses and the hobbits are on foot after Bree, and in OG LOTR the Nazgul made a lot of mistakes when chasing the hobbits that slowed them down. And if they had learned about the Shire from someone other than Saruman, they might have learned about Buckland, too.

#lord of the rings #lotr #saruman

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strawberrymeriadoc · 4 years

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Just a little drabble. Merry’s feeling sick and explores his feelings for Pippin a bit.

Merry’s hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if it comforted him or annoyed him that Peony was just asleep on the kitchen counter like he wasn’t having (what felt like) the biggest crisis of his life. Merry took some medicine to calm down. He reasoned that the throat tightness and pain might have as much to do with anxiety as anything else.

If Merry could do this night over again he probably would have gone to the house of healing over two hours ago when it first started. But he didn’t want to go. He was terrified of doctors and waiting rooms and being called by his deadname and having to try to back pass. Hopefully it just gets better with time, he thought for the tenth time that night. Merry hadn’t bothered Pippin with this nightmare of a situation. He has his own shit to deal with and he would think I was strange to bring this up so suddenly, Merry reasoned. Merry vowed to call his doctor first thing the next day.

Merry tried to calm down but he didn’t know how to be calm. He hadn’t been allowed to growing up. One time in college when he was home for break, he went to take a nap and as soon as he lay down he got in trouble with his mother, for even considering such a thing. Sometimes Merry would read while he ate, but as soon as he was done eating he was told he wasn’t allowed to read anymore. And many times he wasn’t allowed to eat to begin with. Merry’s mother took it as a personal insult if Merry wanted more than his allotted 2 meals a day. And she would yell at him and shame him if he ate anywhere near her because she hated the sound.

Even Jamie had a similar issue. He didn’t begrudge her sensory issues around his eating some foods, but she didn’t have to be so mean about it. He would sometimes be forced to eat in the hallway outside his apartment. As a result, Merry was probably the quietest eater in all of the Westlands though he felt like the loudest.

Merry shook himself out of his thoughts. He really wanted to say goodnight to his friend. But he realized with his pain he couldn’t talk. But still he came out of his room and knocked on Pippin’s door. “Come in,” Pippin called. Merry smiled and waved and showed him the message he had written on his phone:

“I can’t talk because im having a terrible flare up in my throat. Im having a really rough night, could i just sit with you?”

“Sure,” Pippin responded aloud. Merry had planned to sit on the floor, but Pippin motioned for Merry to sit next to him on the bed. Merry felt a small flash of warmth and love. He sat down next to his friend and hesitantly leaned against Pippin’s shoulder. Pippin leaned into him in response.

Merry felt a desire to rest his head on Pippin’s shoulder but he restrained himself. He didn’t think Pippin would approve and Merry couldn’t really talk in order to ask. But maybe I could write another message? No, I’m being weird again, he chastened himself. However, before he could stop himself he wrote: “Could i rest my head on your shoulder?”, sat for a minute worrying about it, and then showed it to his friend. “Uh, yeah” Pippin said.

Merry just felt at home with Pippin. He didn’t want to have sex with him, he wasn’t really sure that romance existed in any way that mattered to him. But he wanted to cuddle Pippin and be close to him and hold his hand. He wanted Pippin to know he cared about him very much. He didn’t know if that still counted as platonic or if it was its own separate thing. Merry had heard of sensual attraction as well as alterous attraction. And something called queerplatonic. Perhaps he was feeling some combination of these things.

Merry leaned his head on Pippin’s left shoulder. He felt a little awkward at first and worried he was making Pippin uncomfortable. But then Pippin leaned his head on Merry’s and the two sat there in silence not doing anything for a while. Then Peony jumped up on Pippin and they both laughed quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Merry woke up to the sun shining through his window. The yellow light burst through in beams that turned the sheets and the wall behind the bed bright white. Merry could hear a few birds chirping.It was around eleven o’clock. Pippin was still asleep on the couch in the living room. His chest rose and fell with his breathing as he dreamed peacefully. Peony was lying in the sun in Pippin’s bedroom. At least someone was making good use of the room.

Outside, Minas Tirith was brimming with life. Merry’s favorite flower shop had been open a few hours and was filled with customers. Its purple and green awning swayed in the breeze. Men of Gondor and Rohan and the occasional dwarf were also streaming in to Pippin’s favorite cafe to try all the different teas and have the bacon and waffles which were especially sought after around brunch time. The occasional student or professor could be seen crossing the campus grounds mainly grad students going to their lab or to the library to work.

Merry sat up in the bed, but he realized he felt rather faint. His throat still hurt tremendously. Let me just try drinking some water, he thought, reaching for the glass by his bed. Merry was starving and he remembered that he hadn’t been able to eat dinner last night because of the pain. Merry was truly sick of all this. He grabbed one of his books that Professor Borormir had assigned and decided to move to the couch in the living room.

He still wasn’t quite awake but he was certainly not going to chance how his throat might react to coffee. He started reading the book as he was walking--he couldn’t wait to dig in from where he had left off. He went down the hallway, across the living room, turned around, and plopped right on to the couch. Now, Merry was expecting the couch to be somewhat firm, but the couch was actually lumpy and hard in some places and squishy and soft in others. Merry let out a yelp and just as he leapt up, the couch shouted “hurrmmppphhh! geeerraaaa!” Merry was even more mortified than he was startled.

“Sorry! Sorry, Pippin!”

“Eru, what was that for?”

“I didn’t see you!”

“Didn’t see me? I’m right here!”

“I know I just...I was reading while I was walking and I’m half asleep”

“Huh, well I’m not asleep anymore, that woke me right up.” Pippin crossed his arms and scowled.

Merry’s face and ears had turned bright red. Pippin had never seen him blush. He wasn’t so much mad as he was surprised but he realized how he had come across.

“Oh Merry…” then he laughed, “It’s alright, you just startled me is all” Merry relaxed. Pippin thought for a moment and realized he was hungry for breakfast.

“Alright, I’m making omelets, want one?” Pippin asked, whisking off into the kitchen. “Thank you. I wish! But I can’t eat,” Merry said sadly. Pippin stopped what he was doing and turned around. “What do you mean you can’t eat?” he demanded. Pippin was used to his friend struggling with food but this had gone too far for his liking. Then Merry explained more about his throat pain that had flared up the night before and how he had attempted to eat a small dinner and that had tremendously backfired. “I just need to wait it out until I can go to the doctor tomorrow afternoon,” he finished.

“I could help you with that if you like!” Pippin offered. Merry didn’t know how to respond. People didn’t really tend to offer to help him. He felt thankful but a bit ashamed, after all, he didn’t want to trouble Pippin. But right now he needed to say something that adequately showed he appreciated the thought even if he didn’t know how to take him up on it.

“Thanks!” he started, “I...uh...just knowing that you’re there for me really helps”.

“Why don’t I make you some soup, you should be able to manage that at least” Merry wasn’t so confident, but he was too famished to care.

“That would be lovely,” Merry replied.

Pippin had noticed that “lovely” was the highest form of praise Merry would give anything. He would use “good”, “great” or even “amazing” and “fantastic”. But none of them meant so much as “lovely”.

After he ate the soup, Merry distracted himself from the pain by running a load of laundry and starting the dishwasher. It also seemed to help his throat to stand up. Then the hobbit went out and stood on the balcony for a while.

The street below was fairly busy. Most people were walking, but a few rode bikes and even fewer rode horses. Then Merry saw coming over the rise a small company of Men on horseback. All the horses were black and the man at the forefront carried a rounded shield. Merry guessed they were Men returning from their shift on patrol on the outskirts of Gondor along the Anduin.

Merry thought about his horse Sorin. Well, not his horse. He supposed they were all Theoden’s. But the one that he rode every week. The hobbit hoped that he would be able to go riding in a few days and that things would clear up.

But, Merry began to feel very hopeless indeed and thought about how much easier things would be if he just ended it all. A much smaller voice in his mind pushed back: It’s just a passing thing. You’ll feel better soon. You don’t want to make a decision that you can’t unmake! Besides, there is good in this world. There is. It’s worth fighting to stay alive for.

But Merry thought about what was really in his life and he didn’t see anything good, certainly nothing that convinced him. He felt truly hopeless. But once back inside, he felt a change. Something about the laundry machine and the dishwasher running quietly in the kitchen calmed him. There’s something good, he mused.

Pippin was still a little flustered from being sat on and then hearing about his friend’s sickness. He had made an omelet with cheese and red peppers in it and enjoyed a cup of green tea and now he was deciding what to wear for the day. He rummaged around in his closet and eventually settled on a white button down shirt with red pants.

This needs a belt, Pippin thought, grabbing a light brown one with an ornate silver buckle. Pippin didn’t have anything to do until his lab started after around dinnertime. I’ve got to get out of here, he thought, maybe there’s a museum or a bookshop I can go to? I wish Frodo and Sam were here, we could all go together. Pippin didn’t want to go alone, but he guessed that Merry would be too sick to go with him. That’s right, he thought, kicking himself, I said that I’d help him.

Pippin was still deciding what to do exactly when he went back into the living room. “You wouldn’t want to go somewhere, would you?” Pippin asked hopefully. Merry, who had been dissociating while standing at the kitchen counter, started. “Aah--what?” he centered himself, “I don’t know. Like where were you thinking?” “Oh I don’t know. Maybe the new bookshop next to campus? It looked pretty cool when I walked by”

Merry frowned. “I’m not sure I can afford any books right now.”

“Hmm, well it’s a second-hand bookshop, so it should be better anyway”

Merry perked up. “Oh I love used bookstores. They always have the weirdest stuff. I like to look at the really obscure books that you kind of can’t believe would ever need to be written or read.”

“Excellent! Well let’s go shall we?”

After Merry quickly got dressed, he said goodbye to Peony and joined his friend by the door. Stepping out into the crisp Autumn air, the two linked arms and walked up the winding side street lined with orange-leaved Plane trees.

#merry brandybuck #pippin took #modernish au #merry x pippin #they have the horses for the aesthetic and they dont like cars for environmental reasons #a hobbit in minas tirith

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