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lathalea · 8 months

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The White Raven 7/9

The next chapter of Thorin and Carra's story is here!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death/dragon sickness Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being a great, great, great beta reader and extra special thanks to Legolasbadass (again!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚

The tint of Carra’s face closely matched the crispy white colour of the pillowcase beneath it, her silver-white hair scattered across it in disarray. Her eyes were closed, and Thorin held his breath for a heartbeat—before he noticed the slight movements of her chest.

She was breathing. Still.

Sitting on a makeshift wheeled chair, which Nari, the disgruntled healer, procured from somewhere, Thorin leaned closer towards Carra, biting his lip in an attempt to ignore the pain his protesting body evoked. Another spell of dizziness washed over him again, and his body pleaded for mercy, but he pushed those sensations away. Perhaps Balin and Nari were right, and he should have stayed in bed, but at that moment, Thorin’s own discomfort felt insignificant.

His fingertips brushed against the softness of Carra’s hollow cheek. Her skin was cool under his touch, but warmth still lingered within.

“Carra… Karkûnê…“ he murmured. There was no response. Her eyelids did not flutter to show the iridescent depth of her gaze; her lips did not open to utter his name. She was here, beside him, yet completely out of his reach.

“How long has she been this way?” he asked.

“Since she was brought in here on the day of the battle, Your Majesty,” the healer responded and cast a worried glance at Balin. “Most of her injuries are minor, but she has yet to regain consciousness. We do not know why it takes so long but then again, she is not a Dwarf.”

Thorin thanked him with a nod, and his eyes returned to Carra. Her face and arms were marked with multiple bruises and scarrings—mementos of her confrontation with Azog. He closed his eyes, attempting to get rid of the tightness in his throat. At least a fortnight had passed since the battle ended, and her body seemed to refuse to heal at its regular pace. Throughout the years, he learned how quickly she regenerated; one or two nights should have been enough to cure most of it, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, this did not happen. But…

She was still breathing.

He took her slender hand in his. So soft. So fragile.

“I want my bed moved here,” he turned to the older dwarf, not letting go of her hand.

“Thorin?” Balin raised his eyebrows.

Nari’s stifled cough of surprise reached him at the same time. Thorin chose to ignore it.

“She needs me, Balin,” he looked at Carra’s hand. So delicate in his palm, like a folded wing of a sleeping fledgeling.

The older Dwarf pulled at his beard and cast a meaningful glance at Nari. It was enough to make the healer bow and leave the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Balin speak again.

“I assume that you are aware of what message this is going to send, laddie.”

“What message…? I told you, Balin, she is my wife.” Thorin’s eyes wandered to Carra’s peaceful, unmoving face. With his left arm bound up, he had to gently free his right hand and reach into her hair. He let his fingers run through the silver-white strands until he uncovered the marriage braid he had pleated himself. “She watched over us on our way to reclaim Erebor. Now I shall watch over her.”

His mentor sat down on a nearby bench with a grunt, his gaze resting on Thorin’s hand, once again clasped with Carra’s. Thorin could almost feel its weight.

Balin sighed heavily, “There will be trouble with the lords when they hear of it.”

“I have never supported any of their plans of political alliances via marriage as you very well know,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Indeed. I still applaud you for how you handled the situation with Lord Yngví and managed to convince Fili to marry Lady Tarja. You killed two birds with one stone!” A shadow of a smile appeared on Balin's lips. “The Firebeards are our strongest allies, and if Mahal blesses the couple with a babe, it will rule over the whole Blue Mountains.”

“It was not a great feat. They were already in love with each other,” Thorin tilted his head.

“But you saw the opportunity and took it,” Balin’s smile grew slightly. “And now it seems I will be the one on the lookout for an opportunity to explain the current situation to the lords. And Dain…”

“She is my One, Balin.” The rasp of his own whisper sounded hollow in the silence of the stone chamber. He had said these words only once before and only to Carra. They were meant to be said not more than once in a lifetime, and it felt wrong to repeat them in this stuffy, dimly lit chamber and not under a star-studded sky with his Raveness in his arms.

His old friend remained silent for a long while. Silent and unmoving, like a stone statue. Thorin avoided looking into his face by turning his attention to Carra’s hand, which he still held. He felt the warmth of his own body seeping through her skin, but it remained cool despite his best efforts.

But she was still breathing. There was still hope, he reminded himself.

“How can it be? She is not a Child of Mahal.” Balin frowned. “She could not have been made from the same piece of stone as you.” “I do not know, Balin,” he shrugged and presented their joined hands to him. “But I do know this: she saved me. Twice. Once—at Rivendell. And the second time… Do you remember my feather, Balin? That is how I overcame the curse. In the darkest hour I took it in my hand. And so I recalled my One—and my true self.”

Thorin glanced at Carra’s face, but it remained unmoving; her eyes closed.

“My blood sings in my veins whenever she is around. Even now. It feels almost like when you sing to the stone and it sings back, showing you the hidden veins of ore in its depths.” His voice was but a whisper. “I shall not attempt to understand Mahal’s mysterious ways, but I am certain beyond doubt that she is my Other Half.”

His mentor pulled at his beard once again. “Let us only hope that this explanation will be enough for our people to accept her as their queen. Our kingdom is about to be rebuilt. We need unity, not dissent.”

“You told me once that I have done honourably by our people. That I had a choice… This is my choice. She is. If Carra cannot be accepted, so be it. We have never planned for our secret to see the light of the day and it can remain hidden,” Thorin admitted with conviction. After taking a brief look at her pale face, he addressed Balin once again. “And before you mention the issue of succession, we both know that I have already named Fili as my heir. The lords have no leverage here. I will do all in my power to unite the Seven Kingdoms again, but I will not be parted from Carra. That is my final word on the matter.”

Speaking of a future with Carra, regardless of the shape it would take, felt like a fresh waft of hope. She would wake up—and soon. And then they would keep meeting in hidden forest clearings, secluded valleys, and forgotten caverns, just like they had done for years.

Thorin never noticed when Balin stood up with a grunt. He barely felt his hand patting him on the shoulder.

“Very well, laddie. I will see what I can do about this matter. And now—allow me to leave you be. You have your wife to take care of.”

Thorin’s eyes met Balin’s in an instant. It was impossible to miss neither the softness of his gaze under those white bushy eyebrows nor the warmth in his smile.

“Balin, I…” he began, his voice faltering. Instead, he covered his mentor’s hand with his.

“I know, laddie, I know.” The old dwarf nodded. No other words were needed between them.

At that very moment, something brushed along the inside of Thorin’s palm, as if a butterfly opened its wings.

“Carra!” He brought her hand to his face, hoping to see the repeated motion of her little finger. Gently pressing his lips against the back of her hand, he breathed in the faint scent of snowdrops.

Her face was as expressionless and pale as before, but when Thorin was about to look away, Carra’s eyes darted about once or twice under her eyelids.

It took him one heartbeat to lean closer toward her; before he knew it, he gave her forehead a soft, lingering kiss. The pain and exhaustion he felt did not matter any longer. Everything besides Carra was of no consequence. His One was still there, and this knowledge imbued him with a new strength.

“Fight, Karkûnê. Do not give up,” Thorin whispered into her ear. “I am here, beside you. Do you hear me, amrâlimê?”

He pressed his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture they exchanged whenever they met. Her skin pleasantly cooled his burning hot forehead while Thorin whispered, “Come back to me, Wings of my heart.”

***

The butterfly circles above the rock basin. Its orange wings flutter gracefully a hairbreadth above the still surface of the water, yet its wings never touch it. Carra cannot seem to tear off her eyes from the afterimages of the spectacle she has witnessed a mere moment ago. More blurred shapes appear in the water, but they are distorted and barely recognizable, fading away quickly.

“Do you see now, Silver One?” The Weaver’s voice fills Carra’s ears. “There are countless possibilities for the thread to run through the loom.”

“But the taint is spreading in the pattern,” the white-haired man, the Water Bearer, says; his words sound hollow. “Everything withers in its wake.”

“There is still hope. Not everything is lost.” The Great Mother walks towards a nearby apple tree. Both its leaves and her gown shimmer in the sunlight. Something tells Carra to follow her creator, and so she does, her legs unsteady.

“Not everything? What about… ” The White Raven’s voice trembles. “Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

The Great Mother does not reply. Instead, she plucks a large, ripe apple from the tree and smells it with an approving hum.

“Curious creature.” The Water Bearer approaches them from ahead; Carra could have sworn he was behind them merely a moment ago. “Is it the silver dust in your wings speaking or your heart?”

Carra lowers her head—in shame or embarrassment? She does not know which one burns stronger.

She wants to seek redemption—to show that there is still a part of her that is worthy. In fact, she wishes to explain that her question was born solely out of her sense of duty, that her feelings are insignificant, but then her own faint whisper reaches her.

“I speak from my heart,” she says. Always my heart, she thinks.

The Water Bearer and the Green Lady exchange a boundless glance. An eternity seems to pass, as long as one blink of Carra’s eyes.

The Great Mother turns back to her and speaks; a shadow of a smile blooms on her lips, “Then you should already know the answer to this question, my child.”

“I do not understand, Great Mother.”

“Was it not you who alarmed us of the threat to his life?”

Carra recalls the very moment when the Pale Orc attacked Thorin and finds that she does not have the strength to speak. She simply nods as the sense of foreboding tightens its fingers around her throat.

“Your croak echoed so strongly across the tapestry that I almost lost several useful threads!” The Weaver’s voice seems to come from afar, but when Carra turns towards its source, she sees the Weaver standing only a few steps behind her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Carra says faintly. “It was not my intention to cause trouble.”

“Child, you did no such thing. You fulfilled your duty.” The Great Mother shakes her head gracefully, the apple still in her hand. “He is still among the living.”

Something hums in Carra’s ear, and the dread that has been gnawing at her mind finally leaves her; her legs fold beneath her, and she finds herself on the grass, supported by trembling arms. Her heart beats fast, as if after a long run.

Thorin lives. Thorin lives. Thorin lives.

“Thank you, Great Mother.” The world blurs before her, and she needs to wipe away the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You should be thanking yourself, dear child—it has come to pass through your sacrifice.” The Great Mother extends her hand, and Carra takes it tentatively, lifting herself from the ground on unsteady legs.

The Water Bearer steps towards them. His hands are empty. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.

“And so the line of Durin remains unbroken,” he says. “So does the pattern.” The Weaver’s elegant fingers move along a thick piece of thread. Its colour makes Carra think of the waters of the Long Lake at dawn. “I was almost certain that this thread would be lost to the tapestry forever.”

The three of them exchange a lengthy glance in silence, and Carra wishes she could understand its meaning.

“Forgive me, Great Mother.” Her throat constricts at her own boldness.” But who will watch over Thorin Oakenshield and his kin now that I am gone?”

“The mettle on this one!” The Water Bearer chuckles, but Carra can barely hear him. A strong gust of wind picks up suddenly, making the leaves rustle in the trees around them. As she looks up, the wind brings another sound with it. A low whisper that reverberates in her ears with longing.

“Carra… Please…”

“Thorin?” Her eyes search the beech grove ahead in hopes of seeing her son of Durin, but there are only tree trunks and shrubbery, and the rustling of leaves. Has she imagined hearing his voice?

“Is that…?” There is a hint of amusement in the Water Bearer’s voice. His white hair dances in the wind.

“That silver in her wings…” the Weaver adds, but before she can finish her sentence, another figure appears in the garden, as if out of nowhere. With a few measured strides, he approaches the Great Mother, who offers him the apple she picked before. He takes it, reverently kissing her on her hand. Even though the newcomer is taller than his companions, there seems to be something dwarven about him. Perhaps it is his robust figure or muscular arms, his long hair, brown as elm bark, or perhaps his thick, braided beard; Carra is not certain.

“Husband mine, it is good to see you here,” the Great Mother says.

“I would not have missed it for the world, my dearest.” The man’s voice is as deep as the deepest mines of Erebor.

The wind picks up again, and the rustling intensifies, but the Great Mother’s spouse remains unmoving; even his hair and garments remain still, as if carved out of stone.

“Karkûnê… Come back to me…”

Carra’s searching eyes frantically move from one tree to the next, from one patch of shrubbery to another, but he is not there.

“Thorin!” Helplessly she exclaims towards the sky. “Where are you?”

“You will not find him here, Winged One,” the Great Mother’s husband addresses her. “He is under his Mountain.”

“But I hear him as if he was here!” Carra does not dare to lift her eyes and look into his radiant face.

“The bond between you is as strong as mithril,” he explains.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she hears the Weaver’s voice.

“So it is mithril, not silver… What are you up to, Smith?” With her brow furrowed, the ethereal lady glances at her loom. “You are not hammering out a new pattern, are you?”

He gives out a short chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, Spinner. This pattern does not need any adjustments on my part.”

“Because you have already made them,” the Water Bearer interjects, once again standing by the rock basin, the silvery jug resting at its edge. When his all-knowing gaze meets hers, Carra wants to disappear.

“A pinch of mithril has never done any harm to anyone.” The Smith takes a step towards Carra. “Has it, Winged One?”

“My lord, I do not comprehend…” she speaks shakily. “I only wish to know if Thorin is going to be safe now.”

There is something benevolent in his expectant gaze. Is he smiling? He has heard her, surely, but he does not address her. Carra does not understand what is expected of her now. A glance passes between the Great Mother and the Weaver, but Carra remains oblivious to it, her attention caught by a new occurrence. The orange butterfly appears in front of her, its wings fluttering, and then it flies off to rest on the folds of the Great Mother’s robes, as if on a flowery meadow. Standing by her husband, she gives a shallow nod.

“So be it, Smith,” the Water Bearer says.

Carra blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she stands by the rock basin once more. This time, the water is black and impenetrable, like the sky on a winter night. An image starts forming, but it feels like a mere shadow of the visions she has experienced before.

*** Thorin sits on a gilded stone bench on a high terrace carved out of the slope of the Mountain. A beautifully ornamented walking cane rests against the wall behind him. A thick fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, adorned with golden embroidery. His breath turns into mist in the cold air, and several stray snowflakes find their way to his hair, adorned with braids and golden cuffs. His sunken cheeks and pale skin are in stark contrast with the opulence that surrounds him. A guard passes by and salutes him, only to disappear in the bowels of the Mountain.

Time passes as Thorin gazes into the horizon. Although his left arm remains motionless—his left hand clothed in a glove—his right hand reaches under his tunic. Soon, his ringed fingers emerge, holding a silver-white feather. Thorin presses his lips against its tip and closes his eyes for a moment. He whispers something, but his words escape on the wind.

When an elderly Dwarf clad in burgundy robes approaches him, the feather is still in his hand.

“The delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived, Thorin,” the Dwarf says. “It is time.”“Time, Balin? It feels like mine has already passed,” Thorin replies.

“And yet they say it is time that heals all wounds,” Balin gestures towards the feather.

Thorin rises from the bench with a pained hiss, helping himself with the walking cane. There is a heavy limp in his walk, and as they enter the Mountain, his solemn voice echoes in the corridor.

“But will it heal mine?” ***

“Your Dwarf rules over his kingdom. There is peace and safety for him and his people,” The Green Lady speaks. “Why the tears, my child?”

Carra brings her fingers to her cheek. It is wet.

“I failed him, Great Mother. He needs me. I should be by his side, not here!” With her vision blurred, she can barely see the four luminous silhouettes standing around her, the expressions on their faces unreadable.

“You are on the path to the Timeless Halls of your winged kin where the reward for your deeds awaits you. You have earned it, Carra.” The Great Mother’s voice is like a sturdy nest shielded from the elements, like a warm blanket on a stormy night.

“I cannot draw joy from such honours. Not when my mate—the one I love—suffers. I’d rather…” She stops, terrified by her own insolence. Nevertheless, Carra has had to speak out. The vision of the terrifying king on the throne of Erebor, cloaked in darkness and blood, has been haunting her since the moment she saw it in the water. But this image was not as horrifying as her sudden realisation. Thorin’s gaze in her most recent vision, bitter and devoid of hope, was disturbingly similar to the darkness in the dragon king’s eyes.

The Smith gives out a lengthy hum. It sounds like a rumble of a distant avalanche.

“What is it that you are saying, child?” The Great Mother stands before Carra now.

“I do not have the right to ask, Great Mother, but there is no greater reward for me than seeing Thorin contented and at peace,” Carra explains, and there is no doubt nor fear in her voice now because she speaks for Thorin, not for herself, for the one she has been watching over since she can remember. “His past has been filled with hardships. And now he needs joy, not grief, to heal. I will do anything you ask of me, I will serve you for as long as you wish… Please, Great Mother, do not let the darkness consume him. Does he not deserve a long and happy life now?”

“You would relinquish your place in the Timeless Halls for the sake of this Dwarf?” The Weaver inquires. There are several threads in her hand, but Carra does not see their colours.

“For Thorin’s happiness, I would, my lady. As my last gift to him.” Carra swallows. She has just sentenced herself to oblivion, and yet it does not terrify her in the slightest. Only Thorin’s future matters to her, just like it always has.

“Shall we grant her this reward, husband?” The Great Mother turns to the Smith, who looks at a little pebble in his palm, and then tosses it up, catching it in a blink of an eye later.

“Your devotion reminds me of my own children, Winged One,” he declares. “Know that the path you chose is a path of no return. If you take it, the Timeless Halls will not welcome you. You will become like this stone. Stones do not have wings nor do they dream. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she speaks quietly. “This is the path I want to take.”

“Very well,” the Great Mother grants her a smile as warm as a spring day. In her open palm, a flower blooms. Its countless petals are orange, and it smells like fire.

“You have fulfilled your duty as the White Raven, dear child. We shall bestow upon you the reward you have chosen,” she offers Carra the flower in her outstretched hand. “Accept it, if that is truly your choice.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” She touches the flower with her trembling fingers. It feels hard, like a piece of stone. “Thank you, Great Smith…”

As Carra closes her hand over the silky petals, a curtain of darkness falls over her, and it is as if the air disappeared from her lungs. She cannot move; she cannot speak. This must be the end, she thinks, and in the cold stillness of oblivion, a familiar sound reaches her ears.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

The loom resumed its work.

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#thorin oakenshield #richard armitage #thorin #the hobbit #fanfic #thorin x oc #middle earth #tolkien #dwarves #ravens #aule #yavanna #silmarillion #vaire #irmo lorien #balin

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thorinsghivashel · 9 months

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Do you know why Bilbo x Thorin is canon (but it's barely visible but it is)?

Because Yavanna and Aüle is canon and real. The maker of the Dwarves and a Valar of trees, and nature and growing things.

What if it's just natural and destiny for Thorin a Dwarf to meet Bilbo a hobbit who likes flowers? 🤔

#the hobbit #lotr #thorin #thorin oakenshield #bagginshield #its CANON FOR THE VALAR #the valar #Aüle x Yavanna #aule #yavanna

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90shaladriel · 4 months

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First Fire in the Void - Chapter 6: Almaren pt 2

Summary:

Melkor returns to Almaren with a promise to behave now. The Valar consider his request while Melian continues to help Mairon with his glow up. Yavanna sees all with a watchful eye.

Words: 3.6k

CW: None

Rating: This chapter is mild, maybe T or M

Snippet:

That was the year that Melkor, officially, returned from the black emptiness of Eä. Yavanna met him in the foyer for the grand throne room. She studied the god’s dark and rugged features he chose to form himself. It was an unusual raiment for the Ainur, most who patterned themselves off the vision of the first come children of Ilúvatar who were made to be creatures of light and beauty it seemed to her. “Greetings my lord.” She spoke in the formal tongue adopted by Manwë’s court. “My lady” his answer came with a hint of mockery as he looked around the palace with a smirk. “Not my style, but I am impressed by what my brother can ask others to build, your husband has always been a dedicated servant for his masters.” She ignored his taunts. “Do we still have an agreement? We are all doing this for Mairon’s sake”

#sauron #morgoth #mairon #melkor #angbang #silm fanfic #the silmarillion #silmarillion #fanfic #pre-angbang #melkor x mairon #morgoth x sauron #aule #yavanna

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lledron · 9 months

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Sauron Mairon Halbrand y Alicent

I always make the joke that Sauron is Aule's daddy's boy and keep it canon. So I have an idea:

AU Where Sauron in human form ends up in Westeros and sees Yvanna. She is Yvanna, she is the wife of dad / Aule. She is mom. And mom is crying. And yes, I'm adding to the theory that Melkor's giant spider is from Lovecrath's universe, so crossovers are possible!

Sauron can't help. Here he is nobody and he has not recovered his powers. He is sickened by the mess, by the Targaryen traditions of marrying each other. Sauron notices that Mama is biting her nails. Mom should be happy and have trees. And mom should pay attention to it and be happy with those creepy trees with faces.

Alicent does not understand who gives her personalized jewelry with the theme of Mother and Maiden. She knows Sauron. "Hello my lady"

Sauron disguises himself as a cat to attend Alicent and Viserys' meetings. He is against Otto's plan, mom is fifteen years old. Fifteen fucking human years.

This can go two ways:

Sauron kills all the dragons because Alicent made a comment that while Syrax is beautiful she would never ride a dragon. Mom is afraid, now I have to protect her, be the man of the house because mom can't be married to another man who isn't dad.

Daemon boasts that he took Alicent's virginity and is killed by Sauron. Mom is from dad.

Sauron manages to find the equivalent of Aule in this world and cheats on the parents.

Alicent is very sure she is ready to have children after stopping Sauron from conquering Middle-earth.

Sauron takes the form of a child. More shenanigans to come, now he has everything he wants, for now.

Alicent and any poor man who is Aule in this universe, congratulations. Their son is a narcissistic sociopath who loves them with all his heart.

In another line, Alicent marries Viserys, but Mairon has not regained his power, so he cannot prevent his mother from being raped.

Sauron discovers that his siblings are nuisances, but they will give Mom more power. Mom is a goddess, a Valar, but also a 15-year-old girl.

So Sauron takes over Aegon, comforts Mum, tells Aegon he's a little shit worse than Curumo and Aegon's first word is shit.

Helena is born. And here she is different. Sauron hated Curumo for stealing Daddy's attention, but he respected Melian. He now has another sister, who is also a woman in a world of shit. But Heleana has magical potential, so he will teach her well. He will teach her to lie, to deceive, to put on makeup.

All of this happens while Sauron takes the form of a little boy so he can stay with the queen alone. Alicent hugs him and hugs from mom feel good. On one hand, Alicent recognizes that Mairon/Sauron has a connection. She loves him, she is his mother in all the universes. But her son is evil and she knows it. But he hasn't proven to be more evil than the other men.

Aemond is born and Sauron throws a tantrum. He doesn't want another brother and hates him as much as he hates Aegon for hogging Mom's attention. Then Daeron is born and Sauron screams because there is so much evil in the world! Criston Cole is horrible, but he makes mom happy. As long as he isn't platonic, Sauron will keep it. Suddenly, Sauron can shapeshift into a dragon. Since he hates Rhaenyra's bastards he plans to play a little prank at Laena's funeral. Nothing to go wrong. He just needs Aemond's help. Aemond claims a dragon and that dragon leads everyone to see Rhaenyra doing it with his uncle.

And shit breaks loose. Aemond is happy to have a dragon, the Velarions are angry, and Laenor calls for a duel against Daemon for his sister's honor.

Laenor wins and kills Daemon. Rhaenyra will go on trial for being an adulteress and Harwin will be her champion. Then Criston Cole kicks Harwin's ass. Heleana uses her magic to make Rhaenyra admit the truth about her bastards. Alicent rebukes Sauron because now there is a political mess and because his brother thought he had a dragon. "It was just a joke, mom, I didn't know it would go this far," she says with puppy dog eyes.

#the rings of power #sauron #mairon #halbrand #alicent hightower #alicent x criston #aule valar #yavanna kementari #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #heleana targaryen #melian the maia #curumo #anti daemon targaryen #anti daemon x rhaenyra #team green

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lamemaster · 1 year

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Love That Writes My Doom

Wordcount: 6.3 k

Genre: tragic romance

Pairing: Eonwe x OC

Summary: While most Valar had tangible elements there were some who held abstract domains. Nienna shed her tears that carried sympathy for all, Nessa danced with youth, and Irmo provided healing, so it was not surprising but why would there be a Maia for lust?

Note: sorry this is kinda long but I did not want to split into chapters because this was word building practice for me.

It had been a long time since the trees of Telperion and Laurelin had been withered by the hands of Melkor. Since then, Anar and Ithil had emerged to grace the skies of Elbereth. Even though the passage of time had been a vague concept to the Ainur, it had not gone unnoticed. Months, years, decades, ages grated on their sense of restlessness.

Even the surreal gardens of Lórien did little to quench the yearning for the halls they had once been mere thoughts of Illuvatar. Nevertheless, silver lakes and trees that lulled everyone present into a peaceful mood were a source of healing to many.

Long ago these gardens had hosted the roots of Telperion. Dimly lit halls of Irmo were surrounded by trees that were nurtured by the dew of Telperion during its wake. Enchanted by gifts of Aule’s mist and Yavanna’s poppies, Lórien brought joy to aggrieved hearts.

Ulmo, who was seldom found outside of his seas and oceans, too cherished the gardens that were devoid of noise that lingered throughout Arda. The Vala of water visited Irmo to find solace when the burdens of Arda grew heavy on his shoulders.

Nightingales sang a mellow tune, in a tone that rang of acceptance of the past and hope for the future. Such songs were loved by Quendi who came here after the Halls of Mandos.

However, all the peace and quiet was lost to Eönwë. He wandered the gardens aimlessly. These songs were a reminder of the past that he had to forget and let go of.

The Valar had gathered for the festival of spring. Maiar from all over the Valinor had come over to witness Yavanna’s blessings. Some came in their chosen hroa whereas others drifted formlessly. The Valar rested by the shimmering fountains as they reminisced about their days of creation.

Eönwë had been dismissed by his Vala. He had been trailing after Manwe and Varda when his Vala had turned to face him and urged him to relax while enjoying the sights Lórien offered. He had bowed his head and accepted it. He had already made a choice and the choice had been his Vala. He would stand by it no matter what it cost him.

But now as he roamed alone, he could help but be mournful. His anticipation had worn off long ago. It was clear that she would not be coming. The gardens of Lórien were brimming were Ainur yet, the one he desired the most was nowhere to be found. He had never experienced such solitude before.

Coming to existence was a blur even to Eönwë. He had felt the warmth of Illuvatar’s conscience in the first few moments of his coming to life. Then in the next instant he had for the first time met Manwe. The purpose of his being came to him in those few minutes. He was the herald of the Valar and the Chief of the Maiar. Great deeds of valor were written in his song, and he had embraced it from the very beginning.

For ages, he served his Vala, Manwe. Next to his master, he had witnessed joy, peace, contentment, and sorrow. He experienced love, anger, care, and most of all the fulfillment of his purpose. Manwe and Elbereth had been kind to him. In Arda, where the music shaped everything, he had found solace in the rulers of the entire world. Estrangement from Illuvatar was made easier by all the affection the King and Queen of Arda had showered on him.

But as he walked Irmo’s halls he could help but ponder about the only one who had evaded the feast. Isolated and aggrieved, would her heart be swayed by the same dark that had clutched Melkor’s essence? She had every right to resent the Blessed Realm that was a solace to many. A resentment well earned by the entire kingdom.

An abrupt fear grappled Eönwë’s mind. Had not everyone in Valinor expected that of her already? It would prove everyone correct. Most of all his Vala. A cruel song that did not waver from its path. Was her fall part of the song etched into Arda’s fate in the first place? She had evaded it once but how long would she hold the weight of everyone’s scrutiny? If so, then that fall would drag him with her. End of him and her…it would be fitting.

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Years ago, they had met for the first time. It was miraculous that despite existing thoughts of the same being they had been ignorant of each other. At least he had been. He had not seen her before that day. In fact, he had assumed her to be one of the newer Ainur.

It had been a gathering in Vana’s fields. The quendi had all come for Oromë’s hunts whereas the Valar had met to witness the merriment of their subjects. He had accompanied Manwe, Varda, and Ilmarë. It was pleasant to forget the wounds left behind by the marring of Arda.

Unlike most feasts and banquets of Valinor, the gatherings hosted by Vana and Oromë were quite… tempestuous to say the least. Away from Aule’s creations and marbled halls of Taniquetil, Vana hosted a celebration in valleys of flowers that bloomed with Yavanna’s powers.

Luminescent moss covered the ground to form the softest carpet. Trees rejuvenated and huddled together to make a thick canopy that shielded from cold winds but left Varda’s sky viewable during the night. During such celebrations, even the Valar indulged in food and drinks well-loved the Quendi.

Oromë’s horn could be heard throughout the woods as the game of hunt was initiated. While quendi and some Maiar competed in the hunt, the rest stayed back in Vana’s company.

Music flowed freely and it would be a task of utmost depravity to look away from Nessa’s dance that blessed the land. The strain of ages vanished when Vana and Nessa danced. Nessa’s powers gave life and revitalized anyone who bore witness to her dance. The dance, which soon was joined by her Maia, then some quendi ventured in, and soon even ever mellow Nienna had a slight smile on her face. Maybe at that moment, her tears were of joy.

All this Eönwë watched from a distance. He had been accompanied by Ilmarë who had just been dragged into dancing by one of the Maia of Yavanna. He was watching them all dance and for a moment it was easy to imagine that they had all played their part in the song, Arda’s music had been finished and they were back in The Timeless Hall of their father.

His eyes had lost focus and somehow, he found himself plopped on the ground with his back resting by a tree. All the voices and sounds had dulled into nothingness and the dark sky was all he could see. Dancing Maiar were blobs of color his eyes refused to focus on. It was not fatigue but the nothingness of the moment that made him so calm. Everything dulled and he wondered if he could feel Illuvatar, the way Manwe did. Maybe if he tried harder, he could catch a glimpse of the music that made up the One.

His unfocused eyes were stilling when they landed on a figure. A Maia. The music…sudden jolt back into Arda pulled him from his daze. He had first seen her just when he thought he had felt a whisp of the One.

Cascading long black hair that blending into the dark sky. Glimmering silver eyes that were different from the gray stormy eyes of the Noldor. They were brighter, sharper, and ancient. If he had focused more at the moment, he would have noticed the way the crowd parted around her, singling her out as if something untouchable and despicable marred her being.

However, at that moment he did not care for anything else. His world had narrowed to her. She, who smiled despite the sly looks thrown her way. Swaying like tall blades of grass dancing to the song of the wind, she moved with an aura of carelessness and freedom. Her arms swung around idly, uncaring of all who cringed from coming in contact with her.

Surrounded by envious glares but undivided attention she twirled ignoring all who pierced her with hawk-like stares. One of those gazes was Eönwë’s. He could not help but stare. He had never seen her before. Dressed in black with a sea full of Ainur and Quendi dressed in pale blue and green robes, it was difficult not to notice.

The air surrounding them had shifted. If Eönwë had been more aware of his surroundings he would have noticed the sudden quiet of the Valar who had earlier been humming to Vana’s tune. Even the nightingales who followed Irmo had silenced their song.

This effect had not gone unnoticed by the source of it. She had known of it even before stepping into the celebration. Yet, she had dared. She had dared to come and test the residents of the blessed realm. She had scoffed at the obvious contempt and scorn thrown her way. It was all expected…

But then their eyes met. Eönwë, the herald of Maiar was staring at her. Unlike the rest, his gaze held none of the judgment that other’s eyes had carried. It was innocent and full of curiosity. His eyes were glazed with a dazed look and for a moment she wondered if he truly had been looking at her.

Mailë, she had whispered her name in his mind and that had broken Eönwë’s reverie. Then as if with a snap of fingers that music started again, and noise filled the quiet from minutes ago. Mailë…Eönwë said the name out loud in his mind and then as if hearing her name being said the Maia smiled towards his way.

Her smile was sharp just like her gaze. Everything revolving around seemed to carry biting edges. Some would call it cunning or scheming but it did not feel malicious. Eönwë had witnessed the viciousness of Morgoth and his spawns. They carried within them a sense of brutality that she did not have. There was no malintent there, he knew that.

He wanted to know…he wanted to find out more about her who seemed to live indifferent to the world around her. Despite the voice of caution, he wanted to dive right into the hidden fea behind eyes that mirrored Telperion.

“Don’t go near her,” his step flattered as he felt a tug on his arm. It was Andate, a Maia under his wing. Andate had been younger, it hadn’t been long since he had honed a hroa. Eönwë and Ilmarë had found themselves quite taken by the curiosity of the Maia who had once been a dove in the ponds of Taniquetil.

Before Eönwë could caution him to speak carefully. It was quite rude to speak- “she’s the Maia of lust,” Andate had whispered much quieter than his last words.

Lust… Eönwë had not known of it. He had heard of Melkor succumbing to it, Mairon falling for it, but he had not known of its existence.

While most Valar had tangible elements there were some who held abstract domains. Nienna shed her tears that carried sympathy for all, Nessa danced with youth, and Irmo provided healing, so it was not surprising but why would there be a Maia for lust?

Nothing good came out of it. Many had fallen blinded by it. So, what was the reason for its song’s existence?

“I’ve heard she serves no Valar,” Andate now communicated telepathically as they walked around the woods. Eönwë had lost sight of Mailë when he had been distracted by the fluttering dove by his side.

“Some say she served Melkor but even he failed to overpower her. Stay away from her Eönwë. It is said that she can influence anyone to fall under her spell,” it seemed unlikely that Mailë would care enough to lay spells on anyone, but Eönwë let Andate talk his mind.

He had nodded in assent and found a very pleased Andate. The prospect of saving his senior from the scheming Maia seemed to have puffed the dove’s feathers.

Eönwë had thought that to be the end of the topic yet, it had not been it. He had been caressing the tired nightingales and sparrows when he met her again. With one nightingale in his hands, one each on both his shoulders and one on his head he had stumbled upon Mailë who turned around just in time to witness the party of birds heading her way.

“Pfft-” she barely held in her laugh, “tucking in your dear fellows?” Some impression the herald of the Valar had made on her. Looking at the startled birds and Eönwë with equally wide-open eyes she struggled to maintain her suave smile. The sight in front of her eyes threatened to crack her unmoved façade.

From what she could see one of the birds on Eönwë’s head had tugged his hair quite painfully in its claw.

“Here…let me just,” she tried to pull away the still bird who held Eönwë’s hair without letting it go. All five of the birds, including Eönwë, stilled, unmoving as she extracted the one who ended to rip Eönwë’s scalp off. Ripping the stubborn bird off she had tried, to the best of her abilities, to fix Eönwë’s messed up braids.

Eönwë could not believe that he had walked in front of the Maia of lust in the silliest possible way. Now that he looked at Ólsónd, who now sat frozen in Mailë hands, he believed it served the bird right for trying to uproot all his hair and almost making him screech in front of another Ainur.

“Are you seeing them off to their nest?” Mailë asked again and Eönwë realized how awkwardly quiet he had been. Well for his part he was trying not to yank the stupid bird in her hands. For some weird reason, Ólsónd let out the shrillest chirps as the other Maia pet its feathers. He could feel the wandering eyes of the other birds who were very much staying on him.

“Ah! Yes,” seeing the approaching nests Eönwë rashly put the bird in his hands in its nest. “Here we are,” he turned to Ólsónd, “his nest is here.” He took a reluctant Ólsónd from Mailë and put him in his nest. One second more of him and Eönwë would have physically closed its beak.

“Rest well,” it was good that Mailë could not see Eönwë’s gleeful expression in return for Ólsónd’s offended squeak. Then with equal enthusiasm, he tucked the rest of his companions.

“What do you-”

“I’ll leave-”

Eönwë cut off his sentence as he saw Mailë do that as well. He did not want her to leave. Not yet. So, he tried again.

“You can-”

“Go ahead-”

They both paused. The quiet making things even more embarrassing between them. It was a scary possibility that they would end up speaking at the same time again. Before any one of them could take the step to speak up an indignant squeak from Ólsónd the sparrow interrupted them.

“Hah,” Mailë gently covered her mouth as her shoulders shook with slight tremors. Giving up on whatever semblance she held on to, she let go of her hand and felt waves of laughter rock her body. It had been long…so long since she had laughed.

The laugh he heard was different from the smug smile in the clearing. Her eyes no longer carried the challenging look that scared many. As if a veil had been lifted to reveal a totally different painting than what she had painted for others.

Eönwë was fascinated. Lust as it seemed was not all that unfeeling after all. Soon he found himself joining in with his own giggles growing wilder. And no later than 5 minutes he found himself laughing manically with a Maia he had never met before that night. Whenever one of them tried to reel in their laugh watching the other one sent them into another fit.

What was this gleeful sense of joy? Why did it feel so freeing to laugh with someone who had not existed in his world a few hours ago? He had always been a herald, a chief, reliable, dependable, clear-headed but never was he just Eönwë.

Being with Mailë, who was just Mailë and nothing less or nothing more, he felt he could be just Eönwë for those few moments. Weight of Arda, the loud of music around them, duties, and expectations dulled into background noise.

That night no one noticed Eönwë’s absence from the clearing. None would have cared for Mailë anyway. The world went on without them and for once they were grateful. It was liberating to not be a part of it for some stolen instances.

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“What is lust?” Eönwë tilted his head mirroring his interest. “Tell me what is it? Evil or good? Or a grey area in the middle of both?”

“Hmm,” no one had asked her that before. Holding a conversation with someone was new. Someone who did not aim to belittle her or use precious words to express their disgust. It should have scared her to talk to someone like the Maia next to her, but it didn’t. What scared her more was the impending silence that waited after he left.

“When I first gained conscience, I had felt others like me around. Maiar who had sung darker songs. Though they were all gone with Melkor. I have not heard of them since then.” Maybe she was resented by others because she resisted the fall she was supposed to experience. It made sense the blessed lands were not supposed to house the likes of her, she wondered. “As you know Arda in its primal form is destined to be marred. For its song to come to fruition the Children of Illuvatar must go through their trials. We formed those trials. Others who fell have come to play their part… and I too have done whatever fate had in store for me.”

“So, to answer your questions. I do not know if my song is good or evil. What I know is that it is needed for this world to function. Lust is not just sexual attraction between hroa. It is an all-consuming want that has often been the originator of most wild things. The Valar lusted for a world of their creation, and it was that lust that aided their efforts to make a world designed by Illuvatar, though Melkor failed to wield it and got devoured by its fervor.” A slight frown on Eönwë’s forehead made it clear that he had not found the talk of Valar pleasing in the conversation.

Uncaring Mailë continued, “Silmarils, the Lamps, the Trees, dwarves, even the languages spoken by us are the result of this unquenchable thirst that lives in our very fea. We were made to look for more, to desire, and to learn. But it is how we chose to get our wants, how we learn to not be slaves to our instincts and not succumb to the ease of this passion.”

A distant voice in her heart scoffed at her high and mighty words. ‘Trying to manipulate your morality to conquer him?’ It mocked her relentlessly. Had she truly made up all her feelings and words for the sake of Eönwë’s company or was this her truth?

She had been giddy. An unnatural feeling to her. The prospect of meeting Eönwë did that to her. A chance to sit and talk for hours. Those hours where silence was filled with joyful chatter. Was it friendship? Love? Or just the convenience of a void filled? She did not know. She had not received any of them prior to this.

Despair from all those years of resisting her fall had vanished when Eönwë walked in. It scared her how endearing he had become to her. So, she tried her best to make him stay. The idea of him leaving…she would lose herself. That would be her fall.

It was unfair to burden Eönwë with such things, but she would shield him from her darkness. Never…he would never be the one to pay the prince of their friendship. If her doom was by his hands, then so be it. It would be better than any of her long-lost kin.

One day when the songs and music would cease, that day she would be free of the labels the world had put on her. Maybe then she would be worthy of such company…

Until then she would bear this everything. She would put on an unabashed face of an abomination and attend every feast, festival, or celebration. She would end her exile for him for as long as he would allow her to come. Chat with him and treasure it. Until then she would let herself be fooled.

And when it becomes too much for him. That day she would return to her penance.

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He had waited for a week before sending the briefest note.

He wanted to show his disinterest. Make a point of his callousness. Not that he needed to. He had done enough to hurt her. Yet, he had waited to show how little it mattered to him. To disguise the note as an afterthought.

A single line written with haste. He had made sure to make it seem an effortless afterthought.

I don’t need you.

He didn’t write the paragraphs of hurtful things he had thought of throughout the week. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. What would hurt more than what he had done? He rolled the small parchment and attached it to Ólsónd’s leg. He found find her and then they would no longer be bound by anything.

He imagined how his message would find her. Her tucked away cottage or some lake deep in unvisited woods. Would she be eager for his word or had rage settled in her heart already? He had promised to meet her… by the gardens of Lórien.

He had left her waiting and then with a heart made of stone spent the rest of the week without doing anything else. She must have waited for him. Stood up by the one she had given her faith to.

Would she write him back an equally spiteful message? He hoped for her rage-filled words…those maybe could dull the pain that seared through him. He would summon Ólsónd for a last glimpse of her. If Illuvatar willed perhaps he would catch a fleeting glance of her. Something to remember the wrong he had committed against her. He would carry that as a brand for the rest of eternity that stretched beyond them.

It was only fair that he carried this burden when he had made the choice of his own convention. He had chosen his Vala and his purpose. Mailë did not matter. He tried to rationalize by repeating in his mind. He would never betray Manwe. Not after his lord had already suffered such fate at the hands of his brother.

He had found a home in Lord Manwe’s halls. He had found mercy, forgiveness, and acceptance. He and many others had found this for all, leave for one.

His Vala spared no love for the one he had loved. Lord Manwe resented lust; one thing that had doomed his brother, Melkor. It was the reason behind Arda’s marring. There were others before, but they had followed Melkor as their master. Greed, wrath, gluttony had fallen with the darkened Vala.

All leave for her. His Lord grappled with the unjust fate that dragged his brother to the pits of the void but spared the one who he thought to be the core of chaos.

So, he chose to stand by his Vala. He decided to resent her. He would force his fea, his hroa, and his heart to not crave for her. Erase her side of pleas that she had offered as an explanation, he too would despise her. He had to.

Maybe in the distant future, during the quiet hours of the night when the quendi would be busy admiring Varda’s skies and men asleep, in those hours when the world quieted down…then he might dare remember. Whisper her name to himself and reminisce the eyes with Telperion’s shine.

Until then, he would let himself burn. Let the guilt and regret hollow his heart so he would find some peace.

For weeks he tried to summon Ólsónd, the one he had sent as his messenger. He sought to contact the sparrow, but he failed every time. It was gone. It was fair… he did not deserve any mercy after what he had done. Why should he be given a last glance? He did not need it. He needed to stand true to his words. He repeated in his mind.

Then a month later he found the sparrow seated by his window. The message from its leg was gone. The finality of his actions settled in his mind like a heavy rock on the undisturbed seabed. Ripples of anxiety flooded him as he approached the silent bird.

“Show me…please…” he whispered. The sparrow stared back at him. An empty stare that held judgment. “Please,” he asked again.

Before he could beg the quiet bird, he was struck by a scene. Silver trees, gleaming lakes, and an army of red poppies that stood out from the dull and peaceful scenery. Not the isolated cottage or dense woods he had imagined to find her by. No…she had been there by the gardens. ‘Waiting for you,’ a voice whispered. A voice he tried to shun these days.

For the first time ever since his existence, he felt his legs stumble. He had never found his hroa to be this heavy before. Why had she not left? It must have been weeks when Ólsónd found her after looking for so long. What had she waited for…his words? Those words that offered no comfort for her patience.

He saw her crouched next to a tree. Her hair still dark, her robes deep violet. He saw her head snap towards the flutter of Ólsónd’s wings. The bird landed on her hand as it had when they had first met. A slight jitter of her hand betrayed the otherwise calm-faced Maia.

The twitch of her brown and almost unnoticeable tremble of her eyelash were the signs that most would not notice. But he did even as he looked through another being’s memory. He wanted to snatch away the piece of parchment from her. Take it away and never let those words go to her.

He wanted to stop. He did not want to see how he had broken the hope in her eyes. But he continued. This was small, so small compared to her pain. He deserved it.

Taking the letter Mailë, smiled. A vulnerable smile with the barest lift of her lips. Nothing like the liberal laugh he had come to love. She clutched the message in her palm and caressed the bird.

“Go,” was all he heard as his room at Taniquetil came back to view. Ólsónd’s memory ended.

Silver eyes, black hair, suave smile, warm hands, he tried to recall but all he could muster to remember was that faint smile. A knowing acceptance.

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I don’t need you

‘You should have seen it coming. It’s the truth after all. What could you offer? Nothing.’

It was the truth, but the honesty of his brief message did little to ease the pain. Some part of her tried to come up with ways, some way that she could prove her use. Her purpose…anything for him to keep her by his side. She wanted to acquire him or for him to possess her. It was her nature to want yet, she had nothing.

The silence that had been circling around her during the weeks at Lórien now gripped her mind. She had been walking for so long, but she couldn’t find him. 'Eönwë,' she wanted to call out but couldn't. He would hate her. Despise her weakness more than he already did. If she figured out any advantage, any use of having her maybe then he would come.

I don’t need you

She read it repeatedly. Stared at the words expecting them to change and say something else. An explanation for his delay or a promise of another meeting. Anything but this.

Was this what the One wanted all along? Were her sins too heavy for her to suffer? Was this the path to darkness the rest of her kin had faced? This immeasurable pain that dulled everything. Would her fall satisfy the cruel writer of the song? Did Illuvatar truly want this?

Why must she suffer scorn from others when none other had to? Even Melkor was given multiple chances. She…she wasn’t even considered.

‘Come to me.’ She felt a pull. A tug from her hroa.

‘I’ll take it away.’ The voice whispered in her mind. ‘Come.’ It said again.

Her eyes darkened. She could see her kin from the past. Greed, gluttony, and wrath before they had become Thuringwethil, Ungoliant, or Gothmog- the lord of Balrogs and many others. She had known them before the world had turned against them. Before they had trusted their father to love them as he had for the rest of his creations. It was a betrayal of their faith.

Were they all not sacred thoughts of Illuvatar? Then why did her kin have to bear the judgment of their own people?

‘Leave them,’ the insistent voice made its presence known again. ‘Join me and show them your true power. Let them see the might of the ones they have mocked.’

Yes, she could prove her worth. Then the entire world would know of her abilities and powers. Then…Eönwë would realize her merit. He would come back to her and if he didn’t then she would have him anyway. A snap of her finger would be enough to bend his will to her wish. For all the majesty of Valinor and its residents, they had yet to see her true form.

‘Yes. Show them who you are. Do it. Embrace your strength.’

Her thoughts spiraled as the voice cackled. She had heard this voice. Long ago before the fall of her kind she had heard it. The same mocking tone that had ensnared the rest of them. Promises and hateful words it was the same. She felt her steps speed up as the voice rang out in her mind.

She saw a grand hall. Dimly lit with floating shadows. She saw Maiar, Quendi, and Men all lost to her powers. Depraved and uncaring of modesty, clinging to each other. Pleasuring and being pleasured. Their eyes rolled back with ecstasy. Broken moans and whimpers rang out loud. She saw herself as well, untouched by the chaos around her and dressed immaculately in her black gown. A prideful smile on her face.

‘More! More! More!’ The screams filled the hall. She laughed. More they would get.

‘They would worship you like this,’ the voice now had a form, but she could not decipher it. It was as if the form was covered by mist. ‘How great would be a world where nothing existed leave for pleasure? Your pleasure.’ Yes, she agreed with the voice. She wanted to be worshipped and praised. Revered like the rest of her kin or perhaps even more than them.

She saw herself snap her fingers in the dream and the crowd grew louder. Many cried with completion while others grunted. A withering lady cried at her dream self’s feet. Just as she bent down to stroke her tear-stained face, she saw him.

His righteous shine unharmed from her powers. Eönwë, the herald of Valar stood unmoving and sane. Golden eyes, gleaming armor, hair that she remembered playing with. The voice shrieked in her ears, and she flinched, but it mattered little. He had come at last. Eönwë, she wanted to call out, but her words died in the loud hall.

‘Eönwë,’ she called again but he went away. The hall vanished into the darkness, and the voice left. She tried to look for the misty figure, but it was nowhere to be found. She felt wetness on her face and the awareness of her hroa came back to her.

“-dy…wa…p,” an unknown force shook her body. “Lady Mailë,” A childish voice echoed. So different from the one from her dream. She forced open her eyes and saw a shadow looming over her.

A child or more specifically a young Maia hugged her as he cried in a mournful tune. He was familiar with his golden eyes and clingy nature. Before she could ask him his name, someone spoke.

A much larger figure. She craned her neck to face them.

“I congratulate you on resisting your fall for a second time Maia Mailë,” a gentle yet quiet tone. Long silvery cloak and white hair that reached the speaker’s knees. A grieving face but not devoid of hope. It was the face she had seen in her dream. It was the one she had seen crying by her feet. Nienna, the name came to her.

Barren landscape with a gray sky. Next to her was the edge that held the void. One step away from her doom. The voice in her head had dragged her here. She had been close, so close to succumbing. It had been harder than the last time. Her will, non-existent. Still, she had made it.

Desolate Halls of Nienna stood next to her, the Valier, and the child who she had yet to remember. It was far from the grandiose of her dream, but it was better than any power. Eönwë, as it seemed, was her doom and redemption at the same time. His four words were potent enough to challenge her existence and his mere sight was greater than any illusion.

She would grieve the loss of her love but one thing that her near-fall had taught her was that whatever she felt was far greater than the entire world’s worth of pleasure or pain. She had made that choice on the edge of the world. She would choose him and pine for him over anything anyone could offer.

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In the gloomy, isolated Halls of Nienna lives a Maia. A Maia who serves no Vala not even Nienna, whose halls she resides in. It is said that the tearful Valier who takes no servants and lives alone is sometimes accompanied by a companion. One gazes into the void with sorrow and hope, and the other stares towards the looming peak of Taniquetils. Both yearning but not doomed.

It is also said that another lives in the Halls of Nienna. A Maia barely of age. They call him Ólsónd. He flutters around bringing life to the quiet. He flickers around, sings, and dances to his own songs. A close confidante of the mysterious Maia by Nienna’s side.

There also lives another Maia. A newer addition. They call him Olorin. He too does not serve Lady Nienna, instead, he learns from her the art of sympathy and empathy. With each passing day, he finds himself growing fonder of the mismatched company.

The halls of Nienna are no longer hauntingly solitary. Instead, they carry small proofs of a budding acceptance. On serene evenings, the company gathers and talks with a drum of wine snuck in from one of the cities.

Halls of Nienna where laws and etiquette of the world hold little weight.

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Eönwë waits. He obeys commands and fulfills his duties. In hope of one day meeting her again. One day when the One would unbind him from his purpose, and he would be free to love her. That day loving her would not come with the bargain of hurting Manwe,

He lives and awaits.

#the silmarillion #ainur #eonwe #Eonwe x OC #Maiar #Maia #Manwe #Varda #Nienna #OC Maia #Hurt #ansgt #sad ending #long fic #ao3fic

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swanmaids · 1 year

Note

the ever so classic legolas x gimli for the ask game ⭐️🧚🌿 if that’s already done then perhaps éowyn x faramir, a lot of people have interesting opinions about that one :D

oh YOU KNOW :')

Ship It

What made you ship it?

I have eyes and reading comprehension and a brain and a heart no but for real, like, all their on-page interactions - including the ones I didn't catch on my first read! "yet you comfort me" "i shall not come to fangorn alone" "the tree is glad of the fire" "where you go i will go" "you would die before your stroke fell"....there's so many great moments. And as a side note, I think Legolas' skill with words is a little underrated- Gimli is an excellent wordsmith to be sure, but Legolas has some great romantic lines here too!

What are your favorite things about the ship?

The anti-tragedy nature of it all! The privacy the narrative grants them! The Yavanna/Aule parallels! Also, superficial af but the aesthetic is so perfect and L/G shippers really WON by having so many wonderful artists on board (hi @matrose and @carlandrea !)

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

It's really not as enemies-to-lovers as it's sometimes made out to be! They never hated each other and they didn't bicker that badly...also gigolas is an ugly ship name and gimleaf is superior.

#ask game #gimleaf #thank you!

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celebrimbor-loves-you · 2 years

Text

Melkor:

Aulë:

Mairon: dad???

Aulë: I can explain dear he's just too hot or maybe I'm really in love?

Melkor: I thought all of it? anyway hey you little clown you can call me daddy—

Mairon: I'M MOVING TO MY MOM.

Aulë:

Yavanna: o h —

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overlord-of-fantasy · 3 months

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They ARE like this!!!

Aule: Wakey Wakey Eggs and Bakey! Yavanna: But I'm a vegan. Aule: Wakey Wakey Vegetables and Sadness.

#silmarillion #lotr #silmarillion memes #incorrect silmarillion quotes #valar #aule #yavanna #aule x yavanna #the original vegan x meat-eater relationship

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cilil · 8 months

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✧˖° Day 2: Relationship with nature | Aulë x Yavanna ✧˖° Synopsis: Aulë admires his wife's work. ✧˖° Warnings: / ✧˖° Drabble

"What a lovely construction."

Yavanna laughed as she watched Aulë examining a sunflower with reverent fascination while she braided his hair, occasionally sneaking flowers between his earthy brown locks. How long would it take him to notice this time, she thought to herself with a little snicker; her dear husband was prone to forgetting everything around him when he got lost in his thoughts.

"Almost perfectly symmetrical," Aulë continued his musings.

"But never completely," Yavanna said. "As is the nature of living things."

"It is," Aulë agreed. "But then again, your work has never needed perfect symmetry to be beautiful."

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!♡

read more? main masterlist get tagged for my writing? tag list form

taglist: @ainurweek @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @singleteapot @wandererindreams

#aule #aulë #yavanna #yavanna kementari #aule x yavanna #valar #ainur #ainurweek #ainur week #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing

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valardynasty · 17 days

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Aulë

Maître de la terre et des minéraux.

"Aulë, n'a guère moins de pouvoir que Ulmo. Sa suzeraineté s'étend sur toutes les substances dont Arda est composée. Au début, il avait surtout travaillé de concert avec Manwë et Ulmo; la configuration des terres était de son fait. Il est forgeron, et maître dans tous les arts, il prend autant de plaisir aux travaux qui demandent une main habile, si petites soient ils, qu'aux majestueux palais d'antan."

Création par Intelligence Artificielle.

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotredit #ainur #tolkien fanfiction #maiar #valar #silmarillion #tolkien #ainulindale #aule #aule x yavanna #dwarf #tolkien edit #the rings of power #valardynasty #le seigneur des anneaux #seigneur des anneaux #god

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ewa-jednak-chce-spac · 2 months

Text

Congratulations to Romione fans

Your ship won with Aule x Yavanna in my second true ultimate shipping tournament and advanced to the fourth round!

Aule x Yavanna fans, don’t weep, because your ship remains awesome!

youtube

#harry potter #ron x hermione #ron weasley #hermione granger #tolkien #aule x yavanna #aule #yavanna #tumblr games #the one true ultimate shipping tournament

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lathalea · 9 months

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The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs.

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier.

“Look at his back!”

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said.

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.”

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop.

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice.

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body.

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups.

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice.

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain.

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head.

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…”

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin.

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

“We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again.

“Help me understand this, laddie.”

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes.

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

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