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#the battle of helms deep would be over in minutes
0fth34byss · 2 months
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Sex Isn't Love | Part 4
Noah Sebastian x female reader
Minors, please DNI
🔞⚠️: Lord of the Rings spoilers, angst, sexual frustration, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, masturbation, voyeurism, spitting, biting, kissing, praise kink, (slight) dom!Noah
2,285 words
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
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“Hold on! I don't think I can be in a relationship with someone who thinks the Battle of Pelennor Fields is better than the Battle of Helm's Deep just because it's bigger!” You exclaimed, turning to Noah who was shovelling salted popcorn into his mouth.
“Yeah, but Pelennor had oliphaunts and Éowyn killed the Witch King - you know, your favourite movie girl power moment.” Noah attempted to retort.
“Okay, but Helm's Deep has so much cool shit that goes down,” you countered. “Legolas using the shield as a sledge, Haldir showing up like a boss with the Elven army, oh, and let's not forget when Gandalf and the Rohirrim ride in.”
Noah wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in so he could kiss the top of your head before affectionately mocking you, “My little nerd.”
A few weeks had passed since you'd started dating Noah ‘for real’ and in that time you'd been on every kind of date - from hikes and museum visits to cute coffee shop dates and fancy dinners. This afternoon though, you were having a Lord of the Rings movie marathon at your place after Noah realised you guys hadn't just hung out since you'd agreed to date him.
You let out an audible sigh and turned your attention back to the movie, allowing your hand to rest on top of Noah's thigh as you leaned into him. Sexual frustration was seeping out of your pores at this point, so you hoped that at least by halfway through Return of the King, Noah would be on the same page as you. Then your mind began to race with all of the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’. What if he'd been sleeping with other people to tide himself over while you figured things out? Maybe he was just biding his time and once you had sex with him again, you'd slip back into a situationship?
It all became too much chatter in your head.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?” He replied, shifting slightly to face you.
“Please don't get mad when I ask this, but have you been sleeping with other people while we put sex on pause?”
He looked completely mortified to hear the question come out of your mouth. Tears stung your eyes as you began to regret opening your mouth.
“Wait, you really think I would do that?” He uttered, his voice shaking.
“Forget I said anything. I'm sorry, Noah. It's fine.”
“Clearly, it's not. Please talk to me. If we're going to make this work we need to communicate.” Noah pleaded.
“I just, I know that I haven't always been the only one you've been involved with since we met. So, umm, with us not having any sex over the last few weeks, I thought you'd maybe gone back to that to fill the void.” You choked out, unable to look at Noah.
Noah looked devastated. He sat with his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. You began to think that maybe you'd just fucked things up by letting your insecurities be known.
“You've been the only one since that night you came over to my place, when I told you I'd had that big argument with Matt and Jolly in the studio, just to make sure I was going to be okay. I knew then you were, not to be a cliché but, different from the others, and from there I just felt this need to get to know you.” Noah explained. After a few minutes of silence, he continued, “Why would you think I'd been sleeping around?”
You burst into tears, remembering that night from months ago and feeling incredibly guilty that you had doubts.
“Every time I've asked if you want to sleep with me since we've been dating, you've straight up said no. I dunno, I guess I just thought you were getting it elsewhere.” You sobbed.
Noah pulled away from you and stood up, towering over you while you stayed seated, “You're un-fucking-believable! You're the one who wanted no sex until it was ‘real’, remember?”
“So, you don't think what we have is real?” You shouted, now also getting to your feet.
“That's not what I said.”
“I'm so confused, Noah. One minute you're calling me yours and telling people we're in a relationship now, the next you won't do more than kiss me!” You explained, struggling to not lose your temper.
You stood facing each other with fists clenched and chests heaving like you were about to start sparring. Neither wanted to make the next move.
Noah took a step forward so you were toe-to-toe and grabbed your hips pulling you flush against him.
“I need to do more than kiss you, believe me. I just don't want to risk losing you if you regret anything.” Noah breathed in your ear.
You wrapped your arms around him, your fingertips tracing up and his back as you felt your heart drop to your stomach. You buried your face into his chest before looking up at him. The bulge in his joggers twitched against your stomach as your eyes met his.
“I need to feel wanted by you.” You whispered.
“Is that what this has all been about? You don't think I want you?”
You shrugged your shoulders, breaking eye contact and mumbled, “I don't know if that's even what it is. Noah, I love you. I want to be with you in every sense but I just have this doubt in the back of my mind sometimes. Like, you won't be satisfied with just me.”
Noah dropped to his knees, placing his hands on the front of your thighs with his fingers edging under your shorts. You tried to suck in a deep breath as you broke down and sobbed. Noah attempted to soothe you but you were too overwhelmed. He placed gentle kisses across your stomach and wrapped his arms around the back of your legs while he let you get the tears out of your system.
When you couldn't cry anymore, you looked down at Noah and ran your fingers through his hair. He looked up at you with concerned eyes and gulped down hard.
“I love you too,” Noah said softly. “You have to believe me when I say you're the only one I want and need.”
“I'm so sorry about feeling like this,” you uttered.
“Hey, don't be sorry. Thank you for not bottling it up. How about we make up for some lost time?” He said with a wink.
“Okay, but you owe me a lot of orgasms!” You giggled.
Noah pulled your shorts and thong down to your ankles and helped you step out of them, never breaking eye contact. You nodded to give him consent to continue as his hands began to massage your inner thighs. He ran his thumb over your slick folds, delighting in how wet you already were despite him barely touching you. Without warning Noah slipped his index and middle fingers inside your pussy, curling them so he could apply pressure to your g-spot. You gasped at the feeling. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he simultaneously began making slow circular movements against your clit with his thumb. Throwing your head back, you pulled on his hair, groaning as you felt your body tense. He began pumping his long fingers in and out as you tightly clenched around him. Your entire body shuddered as Noah continued to finger-fuck you through your first orgasm in weeks.
Noah withdrew his fingers and got to his feet as he licked them clean. You took off your t-shirt so you were now completely naked. You ached for Noah's touch as you asked him to take off his clothes too so you could see all of him. He obliged without question, eager to please you, as you admired his already hard cock.
He took you by the hand and led you back to the couch before throwing you down on it. Noah grabbed your legs and moved you so you were lying on your back with your legs spread, with one hooked over the back of the couch and the other positioned so your foot was on the floor. He licked his lips as he stood on the other side of the armrest and looked down at your wet, exposed pussy. You moved your hand down in between your legs until your fingertips found your clit. You bit your lip as you looked at Noah watching you intently. You were still feeling sensitive from Noah fingering you so, it didn't take much until you started getting yourself off.
“Touch yourself too, Noah. I wanna see you touch yourself,” you pleaded.
Noah spat in his hand and coated his cock with saliva before he started slowly working himself. You smiled as you began bucking your hips as your stomach and legs began to stiffen. You moaned loudly and called out for Noah as you applied more pressure and sped up your fingers to draw out an orgasm. He let go of his cock and gripped the armrest fighting the urge to cum.
“Good girl. Come on, let me see you cum,” Noah encouraged you.
Hearing him call you a ‘good girl’ was enough to drive you over the edge as you shrieked when pleasure ran through your body.
You lay there breathless for a few moments then Noah scooped you up in his arms and carried you to your bedroom. He set you down on the bed and made sure you were okay to continue.
“Please, Noah. Keep going,” you whimpered.
“Hmm, such a pretty, good girl. Move up the bed and spread your legs for me,” Noah growled at you.
You felt so sensitive but you still needed more. It was like Noah could tell you needed this to be drawn out. He crawled in between your legs, leaving soft kisses and bites on your thighs. You bucked your hips towards his face, craving his tongue. Noah dove in head first, lapping at your arousal. He was consuming you like you were a last meal and he was on death row. Your breathing became rapid as he focused his attention on your swollen clit. He teased with short licks in quick successions first, then began to suck.
“Noah. Please. Stop. I need a second!” You called out tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
Noah whipped his head up, a concerned look on his face. The excitement building between your legs had become too much too quickly and your brain started to short-circuit.
Regaining composure, you begged Noah to continue. He placed one of his arms over your hips to still them as he went back to work on pleasing your clit. He used his free hand to push your leg out wider. His tongue moved with ease against you in a consistent rhythm. A high-pitched moan escaped you lips as you held onto Noah's hair in an attempt to pull him tightly against your. Soon you were in raptures as your legs began to shake and you called out for Noah.
Before you'd even finish coming down from your climax-high, Noah crawled on top of you. Your arousal mixed with his saliva was dripping from his chin. He looked so good covered in you. You leant up as much as you could and licked his chin and mouth clean before pulling him in for a desperate kiss.
“Cum inside of me,” you breathed, breaking away from him.
“Anything for you, baby. Are you okay with me being on top? I want to feel you under me.”
You nodded and moved one of your hands to his cock to guide him to your entrance. You felt his tip begin to stretch you as you wrapped your legs around his waist. Noah grabbed both of your wrists and pushed them into the mattress above your head as he filled you inch by inch. You were so full of his cock, you felt euphoric.
“Keep your hands there. Good girl,” Noah groaned then kissed your neck desperately.
You clenched tightly around him, begging him to start moving. With his hands no longer restraining you, Noah focused on your breasts. He began kneading them tenderly, occasionally flicking your nipples with his thumbs. Once he had you squirming beneath him, he supported his weight on his elbows and began rutting into you. Noah didn't hold back. Each time he slammed into you, you felt a shockwave run through your body.
“I need you to cum soon. I can't hold it in much longer,” Noah grunted as he pushed as deep into you as possible.
You literally couldn't speak. Your eyes rolled back as you clawed at the sheets. Noah kept his pace steady and consistent as he felt your stomach tensing. Just as you started to feel overstimulated again, you lost control as your entire body shuddered.
“NOAH!” You wailed as another orgasm ripped through you.
Noah continued fucking hard and fast as he grew closer to his own orgasm. Your exhausted body revelled in the feeling of Noah seeking his own release. His movements became more urgent until he pushed himself deep into your pussy and stilled his hips as your felt the warmth of his load.
You were both panting as he pulled out and rolled off you.
“That was… yeah,” you chuckled.
Noah turned over so he was facing you, his hand resting on your stomach.
“Sex with you as my girlfriend is so much better,” Noah uttered then leant over to kiss your temple.
“So I'm officially your girlfriend now?” You teased, shooting him a wink.
“And I'm your boyfriend,” Noah replied, beaming.
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redheadspark · 7 months
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Heeeeey! Hope u r having a wonderful day
From your prompt list, can I have Azriel from ACOTAR with prompt #12? Cuz I can totally see Azriel keeping his partner from getting up no matter if the other playfully struggles and I'm melting rn bc of that thought HAJSBDK
Do as you please I love ur writing, sorry for any disturbance I could cause w this, tysm take care🙏
A/N - I think this is beyond cute for Azriel! Thanks for requesting this, anon!
Stay In
Summary - Azriel will make sure you two enjoy your morning together
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Warnings - Just some fuff :)
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“Az..Az I need to get up today,”
“Says who?”
“Says our High Lord since I have a meeting with him in 30 minutes, as do you,” 
The body next to you grumbled a bit, sheets shifting under and over you while the softer breeze from the early morning seeped into the master bedroom.  Even the softer sounds of the leaves rustling in the tree right outside along the cobblestone street.  You could breathe in the softness of the leaves and the cool air, along with the scent that your mate had along his skin and against the pillow that you were sharing together.  If it was up to him, he would only have one pillow for your entire king-sized bed since he knew you would end up in his arms anyway with your head on his chest and arms around him.
The ever-brooding Spymaster of Night Court was nothing but mush when it came to you.
“No, come on. Let’s get up—“ You were starting to say as you were attempting to get up from the bed, but Azriel’s arms around your waist were keeping you in bed still.  Of course, he would barely use any of your own strength when It came to you, you’ve seen him in heated battles and at the helm of wars.  Yet he treated you like a dainty flower, never gentle with his scarred fingers and the lingering touches of his lips along your skin.  You never had to be afraid of him, not when you knew deep down he would rather hurt himself than you.  
“Rhysand doesn’t need us this morning, it’s only a formality meeting,” Azriel said along your backside as he drew you back into the bed once again, you chuckling as his lips were kissing the back of your neck over and over, “It’ll probably be no more than an hour long before they rattle on about something unimportant,”
“Yet you thrive at these meetings,” You retorted as you turned around and stared at him.  His hair was disheveled and against the satin pillow, wings sprawled out behind him with a small lick of his shadows against his backside, the sheet pooled along his lower waist to show his tan skin and muscular chest.  He merely grinned, making his eyes that were already bright even brighter from the small amount of sun pouring into the room now.
“I do, but I think today we should have a day off from meetings,” he commented, moving his arms from around your waist to rub your hip with his fingers, “I’m sure both the High Lord and High Lady would understand two less people at the House of Wind,”
You had to smirk at him, seeing him being all pliant was something that seemed more common in later days.  There was no real threat in Night Court, the Battle against King Hybern was now the stuff of legend, nothing that was fresh and new.  The people were safe again, only remembering that gruesome time as a mere story and cautionary tale.  The rest of the Courts felt the same, and peace came over like a rolling fog.  With peace came new chapters in our lives. 
Especially for you and Azriel, who finally got married under the falling stars of Winter Solstice. 
“Come on, we need a day to stay in bed,” He urged you as his fingers were still tracing your hips with a singular finger, “The weather is perfect for sleeping in, don’t you think?”
You paused, looking over to the window and seeing the rolling clouds that came from the direction of the mountains.  Azriel watched you with his usual smirk, seeing that you were thinking it over before sighing in defeat.
“Victory!” He hummed as you laid back down in bed with him.  You chuckled and slapped his chest, hearing him laugh as he tucked you in his arms again, “Honestly, this meeting is not going to be important anyway.  Just some formalities on budgeting and the upcoming trip to Summer Court to talk negotiations.”
Glaring at him, you spoke, “How do you know?”
“High Lady Feyre,” He replied in a shrug, you looking at him in shock as he grinned widely, “I may or may not have asked her what was going to be discussed, and I may or may not have asked you and me to skip the meeting since we’re not involved,”
You had to give him credit for this, without you knowing anything about it.  He would surprise you every once in a while, and it was not like him being the Spymaster of Night Court and someone who was always on his toes and ready to fight and defend.  But these rare flickers of surprise and love that came from him, made you love him ten times more.  
Leaning back to halfway lay on top of him, seeing his gaze stay on yours as you kissed his nose playfully, “Thank you, Az,”
“Anything for you,” He replied in a murmur, leaning in to kiss you softly over and over as another chill came into the room.  You shivered, feeling Azriel move some of the sheets up to cover you both as you were still kissing one another and letting the morning roll on.  With no meeting to go to, nothing to worry about or rush to, it all seemed too good to be true.  
There was nothing better than doing nothing, with the love of your life. 
The End. 
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September Prompt Session
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gingerlurk · 2 months
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Lovers' Crest | Chapter 15: Lovers Break
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Din Djarin x f!Reader
Masterlist
Summary: All things must break.
Word count: 4.3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, ANGST, I'm sorry, flashback, Reader's f'd up backstory is in play, implied trauma, bad relatives, canon characters present.
A/N: I'm so nervous about posting this chapter. Pretty sure I lost readers when it first went up on AO3. But I promise there's a happy ending in store, it's just going to hurt for a little bit. Thank you for reading, you're so great.
--
After a particularly long session of exploring each other’s bodies and pleasures, you sleep deep for an age, swimming in dreams of him. Voice and hands and tender kisses everywhere. Eventually though, you break the surface and blink awake, stretching a hand out to Din’s side of the bed. Your fingers caress the cold covers. 
It’s not uncommon for him to rise before you wake; he’s the restless type. Still, right now, it unsettles you.
With the will of worlds, you get up to dress and stumble some minutes later into the bright cockpit while rubbing at crusty eyes. The first thing you clock is an unfamiliar nav path on the instruments.
Something about it makes your stomach churn.
Stepping up behind Din seated in his pilot chair, you snake your arms around his chest and lean over a pauldron-clad shoulder. He reaches a hand up to link gloved fingers with your own. His fully armoured state of dress just adds to the hot and unhappy roiling in your gut. 
You’re going somewhere. Somewhere important.
‘Hey,’ you say, clearing your throat some.
‘Hey,’ he responds. He tugs on your arm to get some purchase and turns in his chair to face you, settling his knees on either side of yours. ‘Good sleep?’
‘Oh yeah,’ you reply, hands now resting on his chest. ‘I think my brain shut off entirely after you… did that thing you did…’ 
He chuckles, coaxes you into his lap so you sit side-on and he can loop his arms around your waist. One of your own goes across his shoulders, the other fingers at his chest plate, toys at the edge of his bandolier. He presses the forehead of his helm into your cheek, murmurs, ‘Mm, well when you have trouble sleeping, I now know what to do.’
You huff a light laugh. ‘You’d do that on request, would you?’ you say, meaning it in jest.
But he goes quiet. He raises a hand and runs it through your hair, draws circles behind your ear. For a long moment, he holds you so tender you could cry. ‘I think you know by now that I would do anything you ask, cyar’ika,’ he whispers.
You shiver, feel a pulse of pleasure over your whole body. But that now familiar sharp pang again, gods always so intrusive, makes you straighten up and hasten to change the tone.
‘We’re going somewhere?’ you say, gesturing at the control panel now behind him. Din’s head tilts up and leans back a little to look square at you.
He holds your gaze for another long beat, studying. You do your best to look passive, curious. He just keeps staring.
Now anxious, you prompt, ‘A job?’
A reverie of some kind lifts, he gives the merest shrug as he twists you both around to the front of the ship. He holds you against him with one arm and reaches for the navigation pane with another.
‘No, not a job,’ he murmurs. ‘I have received a summons to my Covert.’
You frown. ‘To go back to Mandalore?’ you ask.
He shakes his head.
‘No,’ he says again, any playfulness that was between you now gone. ‘They’re here.’ He points to a planet in a system you don’t really know.
Still uneasy in this terrain, traversing this subject that is essentially Din himself, you puzzle over how to ask for more.
‘What, uh…’ you trail off immediately.
He doesn’t make you flounder about though. ‘After the battle for Mandalore and the defeat of Moff Gideon,’ he intones, ‘we Mandalorians began a journey to become united as a people.’
You nod along, having had this recent history lesson already.
‘Many settled on the home world, to rebuild. But we are still built to travel the stars. And now, Bo-Katan has ordered my Covert to patrol this system,’ he says, pointing. He tilts his helm back up to you, an air of fate in his movements. ‘There are rumours of a new imperial threat emerging, and we have to be ready.’
‘Imperial?’ you ask, dumbly. You’re managing to stay still where he holds onto your side, but it’s a stormy sea inside you, heart and guts thrashing and slamming against your will to calm.
‘Yes, or remnants. Alliances of warlords and former military leaders,’ he says, a hand circling on your hip as the other continues to move over the panels, bringing up data and field scores. ‘I do not know how serious it is. Or how far off these imps are from action. But… I must go.’
You don’t know what to say to all this. There’s nothing you really can say. He’s not asking your opinion, not raising it as a question. It’s decided. He’s going. You’re trying to process that internally, take it all on faith. Not lay any particular meaning over this. But you’re terrified. You make a sharp inhale just as he moves the hand on your leg up to your arm, stroking there in comfort. You realise you’ve come to be holding the fabric of his cloak in a white-knuckled fist.
You let go, move to stand. ‘How long until…?’ You trail off again, but your brain gives uninvited options to end the sentence. Until you go? Until you leave? Until this is all over?
Raw hope and fear chase one another across your racing thoughts. You hope he takes you with him. You fear what it means. And you don’t know which one makes the most sense. Which one you are truly feeling. Either way, you cannot get your thundering heart to slow down or your skin to stop prickling. 
He doesn’t pause.
‘I was hoping we would go as soon as you were ready,’ he says.
We. Hoping. You were ready.
A hot-cold shockwave cascades over you, shooting pins and needles through your hands and feet. The feeling lands hard – terror-laced panic. The realisation floods in. Something like this. You wouldn’t just be a visitor or a guest this time. You can sense it. The feeling of having sunk too deep into a circumstance you would have no control over. The feeling of being bound, pulled in and held tight. Being crushed under a weight of purpose that was not your own.
The feelings that rear up ugly and intrusive every time you sense Din trying to talk, about you and he, about us. That cause you to dodge, and evade, and distract.
Din speaks up over the rushing in your ears. ‘I know it is complicated, cyar’ika. I know that,’ he murmurs, posture held as if he were in close proximity with a wild animal. ‘But… it will be okay.’
Instead of replying, you edge around him and toward the door, mutter about changing into something more appropriate. He lets you go.
You fuss and fidget over it. Over what to wear. Like it was consequential. Like it mattered. Casting through your meagre wardrobe, you hold one top to yourself, then another. It sends you back to deeply disliked memories of seeking just the right look for whatever Estate function you were to be subjected to in any given moment. 
Eventually, you settle yourself on a wraparound vest with a high, stiff collar. The fact that it hides the love marks and bruises Din has given you is just a bonus. It’s not about being ashamed. You’re just comfortable in this. And okay, sure, presenting a more innocent side to Din’s Covert feels important for some reason. This is for him. 
This is what you tell yourself as you tuff up the collar and turn to stride back to the cockpit to ready for the jump.
The two of you are silent through the journey. When you returned to the cockpit you’d just taken your seat, and he hadn’t turned back to you. It stays quiet as you descend to a parched and wind-pruned landscape, pockmarked with cavernous openings.
You spy a small, sparse settlement or two dotted among the undulations.
Din knows exactly where he’s going and picks a clear, flat opening in the terrain. Harsh, alien light floods into your safe little cockpit, heralding your landing. The Crest settled, he stands and turns to you, towering over where you reluctantly unbuckle your harness. His imposing presence is something you haven’t felt this acutely for a while, all hard edges and brute force.
Get a grip, you try to tell yourself. It’s Din.
He reaches a hand for you and you take it to stand.
‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he breaks the silence. ‘Is that okay?’
You just nod, follow. Almost in a trance you follow – match his footfalls out of the cockpit, the hold, across the rocky ground away from the Crest. Every step feels like an approach to annihilation. Your anxiety in overdrive, bile rising and heart pounding. An unnamed dread eating you inside out.
Focusing on his steady, clinking gait is usually so calming to you, so you tune into that. It helps for a little, but then a wide yawning cave comes into view and those sure, even steps carry on straight into the dark. You have no choice but to follow, moving closer as Din flicks his headtorch on. 
A winding path opens up into a well-established encampment. Warm light cast over your face and Din’s beskar as you emerge into the space.
The unbearable tension slips away for one second as you hear a pitched ‘Weh!’ and Grogu somersaults over a gathered party into your arms.
‘Baby, hi!’ you say, smiling wide. ‘What are you doing here?’ He grunts and burbles, lets you give him one squeeze before reaching for Din, who takes him from you with trembling hands. You hadn’t noticed he was shaking.
That’s when you take in the rest of the room. Several Mandalorians are gathered around what you understand to be a typical armourer’s forge.
The Armourer is in fact there, in deep conversation with a slightly shorter woman standing next to her. At Grogu’s exclamations, they turn and your jaw goes slack as you recognise the other helmet. 
Why would Bo-Katan Kryze be here?
You do the only thing you can do, you turn to the Mandalorian at your side. ‘Din, what’s--?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says immediately, not returning your gaze. He lowers the child to the floor and straightens to approach the two imposing figures, stops in front of them and raises a deferent arm to cross his chest. Grogu follows at his heels but you stay riveted to the spot.
‘I was summoned,’ Din says. ‘But apologies, Lady Kryze, I did not know you would be here as well.’
Bo-Katan gives you each a nod. ‘I came to return Grogu,’ she says. You almost relax for the barest moment, but she continues. ‘And to bear witness.’
‘What--?’ you and Din say in unison but you’re interrupted by the Armourer moving suddenly. Her sure footsteps echo in the space, hushing all present.
She strides around to stand in the space between you and Din, looks from him to you, back again. Addressing Din, she says, ‘You remain together.’
‘Yes,’ Din’s reply is instant.
‘Do you continue to couple?’ she asks and your mouth falls open, eyes wide. What the--?
‘Yes,’ Din once again replies without hesitating.
You’re gobsmacked. Indignant. Why would he just out and say that? To everyone here?
‘I see,’ she says, she looks back at you. The unmoving façade of her helmet gives you the feeling of being a piece of dirty iron that she somehow must shape into a good and useful thing. The Armourer continues to speak, but you know she’s not talking to you.
‘Have you removed your helmet in front of her?’
‘… No.’ 
‘Has she removed your helmet?’
‘No.’
The Armourer tilts her helm, then turns back to Din, taking several steps toward him. He squares up to her. And even though they’re standing right there talking about you, it’s like you’re not in the room. What the hell is happening here?
She sears Din with her appraisal. ‘But you have removed your helmet in her presence,’ she says, not a question. ‘Haven’t you.’
Din pulls back a little. The air in the room fizzes with layers of tension and you know you’re parsing only the very surface of it all. The Armourer strides back to the forge and picks up a terrifying looking hammer. Bo-Katan has steadily edged around the two Mandalorians facing off and come to stand just by you. 
A long, tense pause before Din finally speaks again. 
‘Yes,’ he murmurs, rushes on. ‘But she has not seen my face. The Creed says—’
‘I am aware what the Creed says. You twist the truth, Din Djarin,’ the Armourer replies, with a menace in her words that unnerves you. She holds the hammer in a distinctly combative stance. ‘You twist the Creed.’
But Din seems calm.
‘I do not believe I do,’ he says, broad shoulders square again.
The Armourer starts, stance affronted. Another penetrating gaze sweeps over the still and watchful Din. She seems to read something specific in his words. ‘What do you speak of?’
‘I have been reading the texts of the Creed from its original source…’ Din says into the vast space. ‘And more than a dozen different translations.’ He unhooks a datapad from his belt and holds it out to her.
He continues, ‘You told me not long ago that you were uncertain what Mandalore’s new age meant for us, for the Creed, what it means now to follow the Way. You said you were seeking answers for the good of our people.’
She looks at the device warily. ‘Where did you get these texts?’ she asks.
‘The old library, in the royal city – I… when we were last on Mandalore,’ he says, gestures to the woman beside you. ‘Bo-Katan told me of it, suggested I go there to seek the literature. I filled this datapad,’ he holds it out to her. ‘It… may illuminate answers for you, as it did for me.’
The Armourer puts down her hammer and takes the glistening tablet. She curls it against her chest, considering him hard. You don’t know how he is withstanding all this scrutiny.
‘I shall study these,’ she decrees. ‘Be on your guard Din Djarin.’
Din nods, starts to turn back to you as if dismissed – thank gods – but the Armourer is not done.
‘Our business here is not yet concluded,’ her voice booms in the space and rings in your ears. Din stops, turns back. ‘It may be that you have revealed hidden truths about our Creed here, spurred by your connection to this individual,’ she raises her helm to indicate at you. ‘But you know one thing remains absolute.’
A taut bowstring stretches across the expanse of the cavern making up this Covert’s inner sanctum. Every figure in the space stands tall and readied. The air simmers so hot you wonder why you haven’t burnt up on the spot.
‘She is not Mandalorian,’ the Armourer says. ‘She does not walk in your world. And until she does, we must consider her an outsider. This will not do as we prepare for conflict, for war.’
Something passes between her and Din. 
‘It is time,’ she states.
‘Now?’ he asks. You can’t read his tone. His voice is only just above a whisper, gravelly and soaked in emotions. You’re just not sure which ones. He glances at you. ‘I thought we would have more time.’
‘Now is not a time for uncertainty, or waiting, Din Djarin,’ she intones. He just nods, acquiesces. ‘We must be sure.’
He shoots you one long, yearning look before turning back to her.
‘Very well.’
You can barely breathe over the panic constricting your chest. You once again turn to the Mandalorian next to you and utter a broken, ‘What--?’
Bo-Katan pulls off her helmet and looks hard at you.
You swallow, force yourself to ask, ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you can be with Din. The Armourer is allowing you to take the vow, live the way of the Mandalorian, and be one with him,’ she says, in a tone that suggests you might be happy with this explanation.
You don’t have time to process any of that before the Armourer’s voice rings out loud and firm.
‘Din Djarin, will you pledge to be made one, when you are together, when you are apart. Will you share all, and raise warriors?’
The words hang in the air before drifting down over the vast expanse now yawning wide between you and him.
‘Yes,’ Din states. Says nothing more.
The Armourer’s helm swivels to where you’re stood shaking like a leaf. She simply says, ‘Will you?’
‘Din?’ you say. ‘I don’t understand.’ He doesn’t turn to you, doesn’t move. The Armourer, however, levels you with a look. You will the deepest breath you can; it’s not much.
‘Din,’ you try again. ‘Can we… talk?’
Bo-Katan, at your side, whispers, ‘That isn’t how this works. The question has been asked. It must be answered.’
You ignore her.
‘Please,’ you can’t keep the begging out of your voice now. ‘Can… we just go somewhere and talk, Din?’
He still doesn’t turn. It’s like he’s frozen in time, on a precipice. 
A memory rears up white hot in your mind’s eye. The shapes and shadows of the Crest’s cabin swim into view, the two of you are entwined and bare.
‘It wasn’t the first time he tried it you know,’ you’re saying. 
‘Who tried what, love?’
‘My Uncle, tried to get me married off.’
Din had asked once how you had come to be at that prisoner of war camp where you’d first met. Far away from home. You’d evaded the question. Not now. Not yet. I’ll tell you someday.
But you’re sprawled out and so content and relaxed right now. Din has his head resting on your stomach, where he’d laid it after dragging a series of delicious climaxes out of you. Neither of you have moved save for hands reaching. His own hold your sides and tug you close. Yours burrow into soft curls and stroke wherever’s in reach. Somehow, like this, feeling his hair and breath tickle your skin, eyes covered and mind sated, it’s not too painful to cast back through those old memories. 
‘It was just after everything… everything with Torre,’ you say, barely a whisper. ‘He’d said to me, Now child, I am not angry with you. In fact, sweet kin, I am thrilled you have deemed yourself an eligible candidate to be made one within a union. I am merely disappointed you nominated such a worthless companion as a simple house spy.’
You’re putting on his old affectations, trying to mock rather than shrink.
‘He said, Cherished flower, if you have deemed yourself so ready, I have a much, much more worthwhile co-mingling with which to engage your attentions.’ 
While you talk, Din slowly lifts himself and moves up, until he can loop an arm under your head and wrap the other around you, pull you in close. He leans over you a little. Like he’s trying to shield you from a thing that happened countless years ago.
You just nuzzle into that perfect space between his neck and shoulder. Breathe deep, try to picture the curves and lines of the face hovering above you. You’d traced fingers over it so many times, over aquiline nose, thick brows, plush lower lip. Kissed his closed eyes. You should be able to tell what he looks like by now. But it’s a monochrome sketch. Not satisfying.
‘What did you do about it?’ he asks, pulling you back to your tale.
You smile at the framing of the question. To him, the way he sees you, you wouldn’t have stood for it. Would have fought. Would have killed the fucknut suitor where they stood. Whoever they were.
It feels so delicious that Din sees you that way.
‘I fucked it up,’ you admit. ‘Couldn’t keep up the proper good graces long enough for the general’s son to be even a little charmed by me.’
You feel Din smirk against your hair. ‘I doubt that, mesh’la. I’ve seen you in that world, like royalty.’
You hum at the comment, choosing to take it as the compliment intended.
‘Actually, I got incredibly drunk. I passed out over the entremets,’ you say, enjoying his huff of laughter.
After that disastrous dinner was the first time you’d run. You’d come close to a thing you feared and dreaded, a binding of your will to another. Found that, in the face of it, you’d rather lose everything but your own sense of self. So you ran, thinking you’d slipped away unnoticed in the dead of night, too young then to understand how futile it was. The illusion of your independence had been shattered when you’d returned sometime later, greeted by your Uncle with a simple, ‘Do you have it out of your system yet, dear flower?’
He’d tried again. And again. Each time, you blew it to hell, packed up and tore off. It was almost a reflex. And each time you’d slouched back, he’d carried onto the next match. You thought his patience was infinite. Naïve as you were.
But the final straw was a horrendous dinner at which you’d said some insanely inappropriate things about the political party your suitor was a member of and significant donor to. To be fair, you only spoke up after he – ignoring you for the entirety of the event – explained to your Uncle how a wife was a fine instrument to foment an advantageous social standing. 
That was when your Uncle had told you to go, and to not dare come back until you would ‘accept your place and station in this Family’.
You give Din an abridged version of the story. Leaving out the part where you’d cried, begged, said you’d already given up your lover for the Family. You didn’t want to go. The scene – your exile – had played out in the same room he’d announced the more recent deal he’d made with you. The one he’d given you no choice in. And your family had stood and watched it happen both times, exactly the same. 
You give him the short version and say you left under orders to come back only when you were ready.
‘You outlasted him there,’ Din murmurs. ‘He had to engage me to find you.’
Your turn to smirk, though sadly. 
‘I did some outrageous things while away from that place,’ you say. ‘I think, subconsciously I was trying to get his attention, from all over the damn galaxy. “Come and get me, Uncle, I dare you.” Shocked me to hell and back when he actually did. But… well, it was naïve of me to assume it wasn’t just another proposition into unwanted wedlock.’ 
A long, quiet stretch. 
‘For me, marriage has always been a tool,’ you whisper into the air between you. ‘Either a means of control, or a weapon. Both. I’ve never seen a happy union.’
He just strokes your hair, and says nothing.
The walls of the cavern reform around you, pulling you from the memory. Nobody has moved an inch. Din still stands facing the Armourer by her forge. Grogu’s by his side, looking uneasy. Bo-Katan is at your shoulder, giving you a tap on the elbow, a subtle ‘you still in there?’
One more try. Ignoring the indignant rustles of armour and weapons from the rest of the present company, you stride forward and stand to face Din head on. You just need to get him to leave this place and talk. You’re ready to talk now.
But, when you look up into the face of the helmet you know so damn well, your insides run ice cold.
For the first time since meeting, you truly cannot get a single read on him. Not his thoughts, or emotions, or intentions. An expressionless mask simply stares back at you. He is the blank wall you’d accused him of being some time ago. 
You feel unmoored. Tilting into a depth you can’t fathom. Stripped of volition. 
Only one thought penetrates the blind panic surging along with the bile and the tremors. One word. 
No.
It’s when the harsh outside light hits your face, blinding you after the darkness within, that you realise you had turned on your heel and run from the room. Run from them. Sprinted from that terrifying proposition. 
From Din.
You turn back to the opening of the cave, no one follows.
Your feet continue to carry you. There’s nowhere for you to go but away. It’s what you do. It’s all you ever do. Blow it to hell and run.
Run away. 
--
When the frigid paralysis had eased and the reality of the past few minutes started to set into his bones, Din sensed some part of himself had left his body along with you.
It had all happened so fast. He’d frozen, disconnected. Watched himself stand stock still as you tried to talk to him, felt paralysed as you looked up at him with terror and tears in your eyes. Felt himself shatter as you flew from the room.
Bo-Katan had tried to order him to go after you, implored him. But he was outside of himself, senses blurred and sunken. The only decision he was capable of was to return to his ship.
But the Crest sits quiet and morose. 
The hull is sealed, and Din knows you aren’t inside.
Grogu, however, babbles a string of hopeful sounds from beside him. Din just stares up at his lonely craft, before stalking toward it.
‘Forget it, kid. She’s not here.’
‘Beh?’ begs the baby.
‘I said she’s gone!’ he rounds on the child, who gives a cry of shock.
Din exhales. ‘She is gone, Grogu.’ He looks at his ship again, its emptiness yawning wide. ‘She’s just gone.’
--
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I made myself so sad writing this that I had to skip ahead to work on the fluffy, happy ending. Which WILL happen, once these two figure their shit out.
Hope you stick with me, thanks so much for reading.
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helpinghanikan · 5 months
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Star Wars: Kinktober
Day 23: DP (Boba Fett and Din Djarin)
Kinktober Masterlist
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Mos Espa was still rubble when Boba and Din all but invited themselves into your bedroom. This wasn’t the first time you had them both, it was the first time they seemed to have discussed this without you. Both asked to speak with you away from anyone else after that Rancor got squared away.
“This is the only way to celebrate a battle, Like how old Mandalorians did it,” Din said, his hand in your hair. “Ravishing the willing while enemies still bleed somewhere else. It’s the best way to show the world we’re still alive.”
It was hard to focus on anything Din was saying right now. You’ve been on your hands and knees for the last few minutes. Being a good girl and sucking Din’s cock while Boba fingered your ass open. Every now and then Boba would reward you with a tease to your clit, not enough to get you anywhere but it was still nice.
“You’re making that up,” was all you could think to say. Your voice carries an authority that doesn’t usually come with sucking someone’s cock.
The deep chuckle behind you is followed by a swat to your backside.
“Except he’s not, Little one. Stand up for us.” Boba orders, his hands staying on your hips as you stand.
He turns you around to face him. Still most in his armor with only the codpiece missing. Din was the same behind you. They both knew what their armor did to you, what it did to everyone really. Nothing sexier than a wall of power dressed in metal.
As if to prove that you are a ‘little one’ to him, Boba lifts you from the floor. His gloves are a bit rough on the back of your thighs, pulling your leg around him and positioning you over his cock. He continues to speak as he slowly presses through your lower lips.
“This tradition is found in every kind of clan, it’s as Mandalorian as our helms and weapons. Plenty of willing men and women can be found at the end of battles. It’s not just Mandalorians who want to feel alive after death.” Boba tries to hide it but his voice changes while inside of you.
Din waits for your signal before pushing in your ass. Waiting for you to reach back towards him. He needs you to physically grab at him before being willing to do anything.
“Tell us if it’s too much.” He says, the cool of his helmet pressed into the back of your neck.
Boba had a thick cock that fucked your pussy with slow but deep thrusts. Barely was there any sound from his hips smacking yours. He cared more about the feeling than the showmanship of fucking fast.
Din, on the other hand, had a longer cock than Boba but wasn’t as thick. Instead, he reaches deeply inside of you. Passing by the regular sense of feeling and into the boundary of being almost too much. There’s no point in trying to get used to the feeling of him so far in, you won’t be able to when Boba is also fucking you.
Din and Boba fuck together like how they fight. Not a mirror image of one another but with a series of complimentary movements. When you think that maybe there is a rhythm for you to focus on it suddenly changes. The smacking gets louder and louder as Din forgets his position and can only think about his cock.
It was never spoken in front of you, but they seemed to have their own little rules about these trysts. The most important rule seemed to be that you needed to get off before they were allowed to.
You weren’t going to question this. Their hands seemed to be everywhere, and there seemed to be a million of them. Squeezing your breasts, holding up your thighs, rubbing gentle circles into your clit, and tilting your chin towards the ceiling so Din could nuzzle into your shoulder.
It’s not a growing warmth but a gasping explosion when you cum. Heat through your core escaping out of your mouth in a barking shout. Din groans behind your ear while Boba’s eye-line is locked onto your face.
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tathrin · 1 year
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Been doing some world-building for the Gimli Dark Lord of Erebor AU, and I think I have the general background events figured out at last. Anyone want to read way too many sloppily-written words of backstory for this unhinged canon-divergence nightmare fic? Boy are you in luck if so!
Note that any of this is subject to change until and unless actually directly referenced in the fic itself. This is very much proto-rough-draft stuff right now, just sort of brainstorming-via-prose. (Also obviously potential spoilers abound, in the sense of “things that have already happened but haven’t been revealed or discussed by the characters,” although it does stop some considerable amount of time before the day the story actually opens.) But I know there are a few folks who’ve expressed interest in knowing more about this AU, and I would love to know people’s thoughts on what I’ve come up with so far. Especially if you see a logistical issue or plot-hole that needs to be paved!
Also it’s probably less than wholly coherent (this was largely typed on my phone at work, shhh), but do let me know if you hit any part that’s just completely unfathomable and I’ll try to clarify it.
Anyway...
We start with Boromir taking the One Ring from Frodo on Amon Hen. He runs off in something of a panic (at this point in his own mind he sees himself as too far gone to do anything else, and the Ring runs with that—they'd never forgive you now!—and he goes racing off pell-mell), unaware that the others are about twenty minutes away from being ambushed by uruk-hai—although it is that fight which will give him the necessary lead-time to escape.
Frodo was injured (hand broken, knocked out) in the struggle over the Ring. The others find him after the orc fight just waking up, having been hidden by his cloak from the battle. Aragorn tends his wounds while Legolas and Gimli search for Merry and Pippin; can't find them. The others join the search: nothing. Too much ground, too many footprints, too few clues. They search for hours, but—but the Ring gets farther away with every minute. They must pursue it, must pursue Boromir. But to do so means abandoning Merry and Pippin who may or may not even be alive. What do they do?
Sam of course wants to keep looking, but will defer to Frodo. Frodo would like to search more, but his duty (and the Ring) tug at him to chase Boromir, even though all he wants to do is find his friends and make sure they're all right. Loyal Gimli of course is aghast at the idea of abandoning his friends until he knows for sure that they are dead; Legolas, warrior of Mirkwood, understands both the stakes and the bitterness of such sacrifice all too well, and votes to do what they must and chase the Ring. Aragorn is torn…but duty to the Quest wins in the end, at least in part because he is sure that they must be dead already and their hacked bodies lying somewhere in the brush of Amon Hen. (They are not: they are being carried into Rohan on the backs of uruk-hai. They will escape to Fangorn, and the Ents, and join the march to Isengard. But their friends will not come there to find them. They will not see the Fellowship again.) 
The rest chase Boromir, but they are too far behind. They will not catch him. The Ring will go to Gondor, and to Denethor, and hope will not come again to the White City.
Gandalf will go to Edoras alone. He will meet Merry and Pippin in Fangorn, but the rest of the Fellowship will not know that he returned until the moment when he leaves again. In Meduseld, he will pull Théoden out from Saruman's spell, and at the Hornberg he will bring Erkenbrand to save the survivors of Helm's Deep as they huddle in the keep beneath the unflinching assault of the White Hand. Éomer is dead, with no dwarf there to save him. Théoden lives, but as a broken man: he lost his son and he lost his nephew, and he could not save his people, but rather had to be pulled from the trap of his walls by saviors led by the White Wizard. It does not matter: his death will find him on the plains outside the White City regardless.
But before that: Boromir arrives in Minas Tirith on March 2nd. Théoden has just been healed; the Entmoot has not yet concluded. The rest of the Fellowship are at most two days behind Boromir. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas could ostensibly travel faster than him, but they have two Hobbits to bring with them, one of whom was injured, and they lingered long in search of Merry and Pippin; also the Ring, far from being a burden that drags at his feet as it does with Frodo, speeds his steps and strengthens him when he might otherwise seek rest, because he is doing what it wants. They have made good time, but not good enough to overtake him; not good enough to stop him.
Gandalf, as a Ringbearer, senses the moment that Denethor claims the One Ring…and so does Frodo.
"Wait," he cries, staggering to a halt. He drops to his knees clutching his head, his heart; trying to clutch his very soul. His shoulder burns like ice. "Wait," he says, "it's too late."
Aragorn stares at him in horror. "Sauron has the Ring?"
"No," Frodo says. "Someone else…a Man, I think. A tall Man, he looks old. He feels very old. I don't think he is, though. I think he…I think he is someone very important. Not a king, but something like a king, I think," he says, and Aragorn sinks to the ground beside the Hobbit. His face is gray and grim. Frodo tries to offer him a reassuring smile out of instinct, but he cannot quite manage it; instead his face curls in a thoughtful frown. "He reminds me of you, a little, Strider," Frodo continues, "but…but not, also. Very much not like you, in some ways, I think. But I saw a White City, and a dead tree, and the Ring was on his hand, and…and it is his. Aragorn, the Ring is his."
"Denethor, " Aragorn says, and his voice is a lament. He bows his head. "Alas for Gondor, then, for Denethor has claimed the One Ring."
"What does that mean?" Legolas asks. "What do we do next?"
"What can we do?" Aragorn shrugs, and stands, and he looks older than he ever has as he turns his face south towards Minas Tirith. "The choice has been taken from us. Now all that is left is to stand with Gondor in the war that will come, or flee before Sauron's victory."
"But Gondor cannot defeat him," Gimli says.
"No," says Aragorn. "They cannot. But I will pledge them my sword nonetheless."
In the end, they all decide to go on with heavy hearts to Minas Tirith. Denethor welcomes them with smiles and poorly-concealed suspicion. (He does not want them here, but it is better to have them under his eye, where he is the one in control.) Boromir swaggers to cover his feelings of shame. (He does not want them here; he does not manage quite to meet their eyes.) Faramir is fascinated by the Halflings especially, and it is he who manages to coax the truth out of Frodo and Sam about exactly how Boromir really got his hands on the One Ring. (He is grieved, but less surprised than he wishes he was; Faramir knows his brother, and he knows furthermore that he has been acting strangely since he returned from Rivendell. This truth explains much.) 
The Beacons have now been lit, although it will be some days before Rohan arrives, if they can come at all; if they had come sooner, perhaps Gandalf would have stopped Aragorn and Frodo from passing the gates of the White City and placing themselves in Denethor's power. But Gandalf was not there, and his friends still think him dead. So Aragorn and Frodo enter Minas Tirith, but they do not bring hope with them when they do. Denethor is already lost to the Ring, and to the visions of glory and dominion that it feeds him.
Sauron, of course, also knew the moment someone claimed his Ring. So Mordor marches to war against Minas Tirith…but Sauron is not committed to this war. He knows where the real battle is being fought, and he has already decided that he will win it by agreeing to lose. This is merely the necessary process to make his surrender convincing. So he sends an army, and Minas Tirith fights, and the Maker of the One Ring strives in his mind against the Master of the One Ring, and Aragorn can do nothing to stop Denethor from dooming them all.
Boromir rides at the head of Gondor's army, and Aragorn rides beside him with Andúril in hand, and the people whisper; but Aragorn makes no move to claim the kingship. Gondor's army stands against Mordor, but slowly they are pushed back to the gates of the White City. Their lines are beginning to falter on the third day of battle when dawn finally breaks to show the Riders of Rohan coming up over the grass, the Grey Company (who came to Rohan seeking Aragorn, and found Théoden instead, and were persuaded by Gandalf that the most likely place to find Aragorn will be Gondor) with them—but there are many orcs yet, and the Corsairs of Umbar are coming up the river, too, and there are Nazgûl flying out of the east towards the battlefield. Three of them converge on Théoden—but it is not the king they seek, but rather the counselor riding beside him: Gandalf Greyhame, wielder of the Ring of Fire.
Gandalf yells for Rohan's forces to flee from these foes which are beyond their strength. Many do; Théoden stays. He masters the bitter fear the Nazgûl bring and defends Gandalf from their blades, until one pierces his shoulder. He goes down to his knees with a cry, and still he raises his blade one last time…and so he dies beside the wizard when Gandalf uses all the power within him to destroy the three Nazgûl Lords and a goodly portion of the armies around him, too.
The surviving Rohirrim are rallied by a young soldier they knew as Dernhelm, who throws off her helmet and reveals herself to be Éowyn of the House of Eorl. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she leads her people back into battle. They follow her with a roar and the strength of their spears and shields sends many orcs of Mordor running.
Then Denethor stands on the battlements and holds his hand aloft in a blaze of fiery light, and he commands the forces of Mordor to cower before him. And they do.
It is in that moment that Aragorn knows hope is lost. 
The battle ends with most of the orcs slain, the rest fleeing either back to Mordor or into the wild. The Easterlings and Corsairs are taken prisoner, or strike out on a desperate flight for their distant homes. (Denethor will deal with them, he decides, once his business with Sauron is finished; for now, let them flee.) Aragorn walks alone through the ashes of the Wizard's fall, which none other will dare brave. He retrieves the Rings left behind by Gandalf's inferno and takes Narya for his own: not because he wants to, but because he trusts no other there to wield it, and he does not believe that it will be left unclaimed if he does not. He means to bring it to Rivendell, and to give it to Elrond to bestow upon one of his advisors (most likely Glorfindel, he thinks; Glorfindel would be a good choice for that Ring, if he can brace himself to face fire on such close terms once again)…
But Denethor does not approve. He demands all the Rings; Aragorn refuses to give him any. He says that those of the Ringwraiths were born by Kings of Men once, and while they do not know which kings Gandalf burned, still Aragorn has thus the closest claim to those Rings than anyone there, for he is descended from Kings of Men, including some who once ruled Númenor and were lured into becoming Ringwraiths by Sauron's words. He will not give up those Rings; and as for Narya, he will return it to the elves, for it was an elvish ring before it was gifted to the Wizard.
Denethor declares that he is the Master of all the Rings now, and Aragorn will hand them over; Aragorn refuses. They match wills, and for a moment seem almost evenly matched: Denethor has the One Ring, which was built to command all the others, but Aragorn is mightier than Denethor, and he has not worn his spirit low contending with Sauron, and the Three were never fully dominated by the Dark Lord. They are evenly matched, for a moment… Then while they strive, on Denethor's quiet command, Boromir murders Aragorn. (He is horrified, later, to realize that he struck from behind; horrified to realize that he slew a friend. But in the moment, all he could feel was the compulsion of the Ring and the bloodlust of his own fury that Aragorn would dare defy his father, the Steward who ruled the land which the descendants of the kings abandoned.) Denethor takes the four Rings in triumph, and he gives to Boromir the Ring of Fire still wet with Aragorn's blood.
The secret of Aragorn's death is one they will not keep for long, but for now, none know what happened in the great hall between the Steward and the man who might have been his king.
Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin are back at Edoras; they left Isengard with Gandalf and the Rohirrim, but were not carried to battle with the rest of their forces. Frodo and Sam have decided to go there to seek their friends, since they will be of little use in the battle at the Black Gates, they figure—but Denethor has something else in mind for the Hobbit who once carried the Ring. He asks Frodo to stay at his side while the end of the war is fought, and Frodo cannot find a polite way to decline and Sam will not leave Frodo's side. So they stay in Gondor, while the survivors of the army ride out to break the Black Gate and throw Sauron down from his Dark Tower.
Boromir, with Narya on his hand, leads their forces; Faramir, now wearing one of the Nine, rides with him. Legolas and Gimli notice that Aragorn is not with the army, and the Ring he briefly claimed is now worn by Boromir, and they are distressed—but what can they do? The war is here at hand, and there is no time for questions now (just as Denethor arranged, of course). The army rides to the Black Gates, and Sauron's forces pour forth to battle…
And then Sauron himself strides onto the field. Terror grips the forces of Gondor and Rohan…and then Sauron kneels. His Nazgûl kneel beside him. He surrenders his forces and offers himself a prisoner to Gondor; a prisoner to the Lord of the Rings.
No one wants to go near him, to touch him. Even bold Boromir quails, the Ring in his mind shrieking in terror of the maia who would have mastered it. Eventually it is Faramir who walks forward, and the sight of his little brother showing such bravery stirs Boromir's courage and he follows, and together the two Captains of Gondor take Sauron prisoner.
The army rides back to Minas Tirith in escort, while Faramir and a smaller force stay to claim and investigate Barad-dûr. One of the Nazgûl stays with them to play (terrifying) guide; the other three go back with Sauron as prisoners, although no one wants to bind them or go near them, and in the end they march back under their own power and by their own will, or at least that of their master, rather than under guard or bindings (three Nazgûl died to Gandalf and there are two currently stationed in Dol Guldur leading the war against Mirkwood, Dale, Erebor, and Lórien, so there were only four left in Mordor). Sauron is brought to Minas Tirith as a prisoner, but he walks in with a faint smirk on his face and his head unbowed, with three Nazgûl framing him in escort, and there are some who cannot help but think he looks more like a conqueror than a captive when he crosses through the white stone gates that once held back his Shadow and kneels politely before the Steward.
Sauron is no longer fair to look at, no; he lost that seeming in the wreckage of Númenor. But there is a grim beauty to his fell features nonetheless, the sort of cruel and regal beauty of hatred and power. He does not look fair, he does not look good—but he looks strong, to be sure. In a way, he even looks faintly kingly standing there before the unclaimed throne of the king. A tyrant of a king, yes; but a king, to be sure. It will be Sauron, in fact, who eventually convinces Denethor to claim that throne, since the kings will never be coming home now, and does not the Lord of the Rings merit a throne, even if he is not (never will be) a king?
It will also be Sauron who, having flattered the story out of Denethor, spreads the truth of what happened to their would-be king through the White City…although it will not be he who tells Faramir. That will be Boromir himself, in the cold hours one night, wracked with guilt and trying to invent excuses to lift the weight of it from his mind. Faramir will be horrified, but he will not speak out against his brother's actions then; he will have already learned, by then, when to keep silent under the weight of Denethor's dominion. There is a reason his father gave him a Ring, after all, and it was not because he thought Faramir deserved its power.
But that is later; for now, there are the few remaining members of the Fellowship to consider.
Frodo, having carried the Ring so far, has fallen under Denethor's sway. He will fall farther, soon: Denethor will gift him with the second of the three Nine Rings taken from the charnel of the battlefield, and will send him back west to rule the Shire and all its surrounding lands in Gondor's name. Sam will go with him, of course, because Sam is loyal and will remain loyal; even as Frodo falls deeper and deeper under the sway of the Ring, and becomes more and more of a wraith—more and more of a monster—at Denethor's hand, heartbroken Sam will always be loyal. Even as he grieves for what the Shire becomes under Frodo's increasingly merciless rule, and for the ever-growing distance and cruelty of his corrupted master, he cannot help but stay loyal.
Aragorn's friends and kinsmen do not know exactly what happened to him, but they know that some foul play must have been involved; they know, too, that their own lives are under threat in Gondor. They know too much, and their loyalty is not and has never been to Denethor. He is busy now with Sauron and with Frodo, but he will not stay busy forever. They need to go now, while they still can—but none of their attempts to politely take their leave are accepted, for while Denethor has more important things to deal with right now he also does mean to deal with them eventually, and intends to keep them cooling their heels in his city until he can spare them the proper attention. So he plans victory feasts, and pretends great grief at the notion of their parting, and says that they must stay until after Aragorn is laid in state in a great funeral as befits Isildur's Heir, and so on and so forth; one excuse after another after another, all fairly-couched and on the surface far too noble and justified to balk at. But they know it is a pretense, and they know they are running out of time.
(And Sauron is in the city, too. And if he is in chains…well, he has been in chains before. It did not stop him working evil then, and the Dúnedain know those stories well. They need to leave.)
So one night the survivors of the Grey Company leave Minas Tirith under cover of darkness. They go on foot for all that it pains the Dúnedain to abandon their loyal steeds, because they know they would not be able to sneak out with the horses. Legolas and Gimli go with them—or at least, Gimli was supposed to be with them. But Gimli stayed, because he feared that he would slow them down. Worse, he feared that he would slow Legolas down. He remembers how tireless the elf was during the pursuit of Boromir; remembers thinking that if Legolas had been unfettered by mortal limitations, he would have been able to outpace him, and perhaps all this would have gone differently. He thinks about the fact that Mirkwood is not so far to the north, and how Legolas could probably cover that distance in a little more than a week if he were alone; he thinks of how much slower he would go, if he had a dwarf in tow, and how likely that delay would get him killed, and so Gimli stays.
The rest of them disappear into the night in their grey cloaks, fading into the wilds as only those who walk with the light tread of Rangers or elven-kind might do.
Gimli begs the sons of Elrond to lie for him, and so it is not until they are many miles from the White City that Legolas discovers his friend did not come with them, and by then it is too late to go back—and even if he did, what would he do? Drag Gimli away with him? The dwarf chose to stay, and chose not even to say farewell. Well, that was his choice to make; Legolas cannot unmake it for him.
So Legolas returns to Mirkwood, bereft and bewildered by Gimli's betrayal, and throws himself into the doomed fight against the Shadow there. Galadriel did not throw down the walls of Dol Guldur, after all; she, too, knew the moment that Denethor claimed the One Ring for his own, and she knew what that would mean for Lothlórien. She and Celeborn did not lead their forces across the river to aid Thranduil; they stayed in their forest, and prepared for the end.
Without Lórien and Nenya to dwindle the forces of the Enemy, Erebor fared poorly in the war. The dwarves nonetheless held out long in the siege against the orcs and goblins of Mordor, but when Denethor sent forces from Gondor to aid the armies that had once been Sauron's and were now his, the dwarves thought that the Men were coming to their assistance. They sallied forth from the mountain, meaning to trap the orcs and goblins between the two armies…and were instead subjected to a vicious slaughter, as Mordor and Gondor fought side-by-side against them.
Denethor told Gimli, who had stayed in Minas Tirith with the thought that he would act as a delay on whatever pursuit would inevitable follow Legolas and the Grey Company, that his people's army has been decimated and the surviving dwarves are trapped in their mountain under a siege they have no hopes of either outlasting or escaping. He tells him that Dain is dead, and all the line of Durin, and every person living in the Lonely Mountain will be slaughtered if they continue to defy Gondor…or he can claim lordship of the mountain, and make peace with Gondor on Erebor's behalf, and so save them from destruction.
Gimli accepts the terms, because he sees no other choice. He accepts the Ring that Denethor insists he take (the Ring that once belonged to Durin, and which was reclaimed from Barad-dûr by Faramir's scouts, and brought to Denethor as Master of the Rings), if he is to be a vassal-lord of Gondor, for the same reason: he has not choice. He does what must be done, and he goes to Erebor, and he saves his people by damning them to Gondor's rule.
Dale was sacked and devastated, and Denethor declares it to be a vassal state of Erebor now, under the dominion of the dwarves. The farms of Dale deliver their crops to the Lonely Mountain, which disperses a share of the harvest back to them according to Denethor's will. Mirkwood belongs to the Nazgûl in Dol Guldur, but still has bands of elves in its trees, fighting and dying.
(As for Lórien…that story is told elsewhere.)
Merry and Pippin were in Edoras, and do not learn of what happened to everyone else until Queen Éowyn returns with the few survivors of Rohan's army. She will not be bound by a Ring yet, but in less than a year Denethor will demand more obsequience than he thinks Rohan is offering. (Partly this will be due to his own paranoia, earned under long years of striving against the Shadow with the palantir; part of this will be due to the bold temperament of Rohan in general and Éowyn in specific, and their dislike of all things that reek of the Shadow; the last part will be due to Sauron whispering in his ear, sowing division between the realms of Men.) Éowyn will be forced to take a Ring, the third of the three Nine Rings that was found in the ashes of Gandalf's death, and Rohan will now fall fully under Gondor's domination.
But that is later; for now, there is Saruman to consider. He slips out of Isengard, when the Ents tire of watching him. Knowing that he cannot oppose Gondor now that Denethor has claimed the One Ring and a victory over Sauron as well, he slips away to his fallback position in the Shire. That goes well enough for him, at first—but then Frodo and Sam come back from Gondor with a Ring on Frodo's hand and no mercy in his heart. Saruman does not know what to make of this quasi-wraith of a Halfling, and he makes the mistake of treating him like an ordinary Hobbit. Frodo is no longer someone who can be cowed, at least not by anything less than the One Ring itself: in his wrath at what the wizard has done to the Shire, he destroys Saruman using the power of his Ring, and so tips his soul entirely into its domination.
Sam remains loyal, though. Sam will always remain loyal to his Frodo.
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annoyinglandmagazine · 6 months
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Hii, so for the ask game can I ask this two for Russingon?
Having their hair washed by the other
One falling asleep with their head in the other’s lap.
it would be absolutly amazing!
Thanks for the ask! Hope you like it!
Fingon watched apprehensively as the gates were lifted and the clatter of hooves on cobbles filled the courtyard; banners of lush red warring for precedence over the blue lining the walls, none as deep or as indicative of the infamous flame as draped the shoulders of the nér at the helm of the escort. Fingolfin gestured for him to wait as he strode down the steps, every inch the king, to meet his nephew; his nephew who despite the shallow bow carried himself much the same way, radiating such authority that it was hard to tell who was greeting who. How much of this was intentional Fingon couldn’t say, Maedhros commanded deference in many a situation in which he was attempting to exhibit it towards another.
‘You must have had a hard journey, we were not expecting you for several days more after you expressed your intent to visit.’ Which Maedhros well knew of course, he had a deep hatred of being at all predictable in his movements.
‘You are welcome to our guest chambers, luckily we have no other important delegations passing through at present so we have space for you and your escort in the castle itself.’
‘You have my gratitude your majesty, we ran into some trouble near Doriath and many of my men are in dire need of respite.’
Fingolfin raised an eyebrow at the phrasing, ‘As you yourself are, no doubt. I would confer with you over dinner but for now, please, take a few hours. The healers are where they always are, they are at your disposal should you need anything tended to.’
Fingon waited until all the commotion had died down and Maedhros had finally satisfied himself that his men were well provided for and retired to his chambers to follow him there and softly close the door behind them. ‘I had him prepare these rooms for you as soon as we received your letter you know. It is well nigh impossible to get you to express any sort of personal preferences but I think over the past century I have managed to at least ascertain that your shoulder seems to ail you less on this bed than others. By the state of you you’ll need it.’
Maedhros sighed, sheer exhaustion melting through as he saw Fingon’s teasing, interpreting it not wholly incorrectly as a prelude to flirtation. ‘It’s been a hard month,’ he finally gave in and hung his cloak over the chair to drip the icy water unto the wooden panels rather than his slightly less soaked through clothing, ‘Not tonight, Finno.’
He looked so heart wrenchingly vulnerable as he whispered those last words that Fingon could have sobbed as he choked out, ‘Alright. That’s perfectly fine, you know that Nelyo don’t you?’ There was a long pause in which Fingon slowly moved towards him and laid a hand on the desk Maedhros had sunk down at and waited for the familiar rough squeeze of his cousin’s fingers before breathing again.
‘You grew your hair out again I noticed. Is that troubling you?’ He inquired gently as he observed that Maedhros seemed to wince every time the damp bloodstained strands dragged across his cheeks or his now thinly covered arms, ‘I can cut it if you want,’ not that he particularly wanted to but it wasn’t his decision was it?
Maedhros took a minute to reply, the only sound in the room the drips of the muddy water, echoing as loud as drums in the silent room, far from the hubbub in the lower floors of the castle another reason this room had been selected for his use. ‘I don’t wish to cut it. I want it long like it was before, not how it was afterwards, it’s just…… hard sometimes.’ He heard what Maedhros was not saying, he wanted to steal back this seemingly insignificant piece of the person he used to be that had been stripped from him, he could not claim his nights back from the horrors but he could once again ride to battle, the flame streaming behind him a reminder and warning that Prince Nelyafinwe Maitimo Russandol had not been crushed.
‘Would you allow me tend to it?’ It was a long shot he knew, unlikely to be accepted but maybe, just maybe, if Maedhros was a very certain combination of weary and longing for affection from a trusted and familiar place, he might find it soothing.
A few moments found him smoothing soap and warm water through the length of Maedhros hair and he hummed pleasantly to himself as he relished the way the other nér relaxed into the sensation of nails gently scrubbing the grime of the past few days from his scalp. ‘No wonder it’s been frustrating you, it’s just as thick now as it ever was and Eru knows you had more time to tame it then,’ he said with a little chuckle.
He used to take so much pride in it, perhaps quite a bit of vanity but at that point he hadn’t yet began to contemplate thinking critically of his older cousin, he’d braided it about his head and down his back with gems and circlets and had had what Fingon gathered was a rather time consuming regime involving various different ointments. Once the hair was clean he set to carefully teasing the knots out; by this point Maedhros hardly had the energy to protest at the amount of Fingon’s time being taken up by such seemingly menial tasks and simply sagged unto his lap with a scarcely concealed sigh of contentment.
Fingon smiled fondly down as he continued to run his fingers and the comb through the hair and speaking enthusiastically about various things until he felt the tension in Maedhros’ shoulders seep away in a little muffled yawn with only a brief flush of awkwardness for it.
He could see the locks had grown back almost exactly as they’d been before once oils had restored it from impacts of ice and wind, it curled thick and soft across his thighs and spilled onto the pillows in precisely that same shade that had always fascinated him since as long as he could remember, so unique to anything he’d ever seen elsewhere.
He wondered sometimes if the beauty that had remained or returned to its former glory might pain Maedhros more than any that he saw as lost, that the outside called to mind on occasion the golden child of Tirion’s nobility that had long been destroyed and reforged into something harsher, stronger and brimming with fury. That when he looked into mirror he could sometimes see in it the ghost of someone he now hardly knew at all.
He’d lost himself in the wonderfully familiar rhythm by the time he noticed that Maedhros’ breathing had evened out and his eyes had slipped shut. Elbereth, he must have been exhausted, Maedhros never just fell asleep like that, let alone in front of some or when he has a meeting in, the bell tower tolled for the evening meal, ten minutes. Well he’s not going and that’s that, he might pass out or something with how much he’s no doubt been running himself into the ground of late, most likely the nightmares have something to do with that though he didn’t mention them. Atar will just have to deal with it.
His lips split into a wide smile as he watched Maedhros slip into a rare peaceful rest and knew that there was nothing that could compare to this moment right here, nothing else that would fill his chest with such uncontainable joy as this. He’d take it as long as he was able to because such things were rare and unlikely to be this perfect again. The purpose of his visit could wait until tomorrow he thought as he relaxed against the headrest and pressed a kiss to the warm skin of Maedhros’ brow.
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for the characters ask - what about eowyn? :)
oooooh, yessss I love me Eowyn-Dernhelm
First impression
You know, I initially didn't like her. At least in the movies. She came off a little too much of "I'm not like other girls~~~" for my tastes.
In the books, though, I always loved her because she was a stone cold bitch for 90% of the time until her personality transplant at the end.
Impression now
I still prefer book Eowyn to movie Eowyn (I personally find move Eowyn too 2D for my tastes).
I like book Eowyn for her flintiness. Strike her at the right (wrong?) angle and you'll start a forest fire. She would walk on you in a sexy way but it would also absolutely hurt. And that would be the point.
I also like book Eowyn's selfishness that runs equal to her brazenness, her fearlessness, her rage, her love. She's just as impulsive as her brother, it's simply masked more. I also really love her as a foil/mirroring to Grima - especially the mutual selfish Oath Breaking aspects of their characters. She's also just as likely to burn the world down, if for radically different reasons and done through a radically different way. I think that's a very nice, subtle touch on Tolkien's part.
The ambiguity of her gender subversion is also fun. It doesn't feel like the "~~I want to be a knight UWU I'm not like other girls UWU~~~" that a lot of characters can fall into who follow the same trope line as Eowyn. I'm so glad she escapes that and it feels more nuanced and complex.
I just love, love, love Book Eowyn's anger and recklessness and yeah. All her faults. She, like her uncle, is deeply human in a way that I appreciate.
Favorite moment
In the books - absolutely her argument/heated discussion with Aragorn before he leaves for the Paths of the Dead. Where she says that line about how when the men have died in battle and honour, women have leave to be burned in the houses the men left behind. And also that if someone tells her do her duty one more time she's going to shank a bitch (perhaps not exactly what she said, but the essence is there).
I also love the scene in the books when Theoden is like "but who will take care of Edoras while we're at Helm's Deep? My son is dead and Eomer won't listen to me if I told him to stay put. No one is left" and Hama is like, "???? Eowyn???? wtf how are you overlooking her???" And then she takes her vow/oath to stay and defend Edoras and she gets the great like about how there will be a Return of the King (to Edoras, she just means her uncle).
In the movies - I'm not sure. I suppose the scene with Grima at Theodred's deathbed is an interesting one.
Idea for a story
Same one as I did for Boromir: What if Boromir lives and Eowyn gets to shack up with him and Aragorn as the ultimate power couple? Let the woman be queen of Gondor!!
Unpopular opinion
I think movie Eowyn is a bit boring/too sad/needs way more rage in her. Be uglier! Be more insane! You're from the House of Eorl - no one in that family is normal!
In both book and movies, I don't think her relationship with Faramir is earned. And I know it's because Tolkien initially intended her for Aragorn then made a last minute change-up so there's really no building up of why they're good for each other and how it is she could possibly be happy settling for something we have been told over the course of last two books isn't what she wants.
Yeah, yeah, "she healed" or whatever and found a happier way to be after the war but it just reads as weak. Like, to me it just seems clearly shoehorned in as Tolkien absolutely pulled his punch so far as Eowyn's ending is concerned. He could have done better.
(Honestly, Aragorn has always made waaaay more sense as a partner for Eowyn than Faramir. It was such a let down to me as a kid watching the movies that they didn't end up together. I was like "whatever, Arwen has 2 minutes of screen time. Don't care. Let Aragorn get with this woman who sword fights and makes him laugh.")
I suspect my other unpopular opinion is that I don't think she and Eomer were ever very close. They do not give off vibes of siblings who confide in one another. It's clearly the sort of relationship where Eowyn is like "yeah that's my brother...I know absolutely nothing about him and vice versa. Despite his absence from my life he is still somehow overbearing and over-protective."
I mean we get that scene in the books where Eomer basically admits he doesn't know his sister at all and was always too busy to make time for her (and he regrets this).
But I know fandom likes to write them as besties.
Favorite relationship
Theoden, of course! I love her relationship with her uncle who is her veritable dad. I think it's so sweet and probably one of the most important relationships in her life. I can't imagine what she felt when he died in front of her. Like, the heart shattering and the anger and the grief and so on. It must have been a red-hot knife to the chest.
I also like her and Aragorn in the book. They have great conversations and clearly are able to push against one another yet still clearly respect and care for each other.
Favorite headcanon
(Power couple with Boromir and Aragorn)
She cut her hair when she became Dernhelm. None of this flowing locks down to her ass somehow hidden under her helmet. Do you know how much hair she would have? Absolutely not. She chopped that shit off Mulan-style. It was somewhere between chin and shoulders in the style of Rohirrim men.
----
Thank you so much for the ask! :D :D
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tiefthieves · 2 months
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Where There's Smoke, There's Fire [Faerûn February Day Five]
slowly but surely catching up on these prompts :) luckily I already have a Sikah teaching snippet ready for posting as well... but there are a few other teaching scenarios on my mind... who knows! maybe I'll post both, wouldn't that be crazy! masterlist is here!
Day Five: First time seeing companions/LI in battle
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When Wyll had mentioned hunting down one of Zariel’s soldiers, Sikah had expected more of a challenge. She’d dealt with a handful of devils in her years and they were no easy feat. One could imagine the rogue’s confusion when the party stumbled across Karlach, the so-called “Advocatus Diaboli”, who was no devil, but a fellow tiefling. Perhaps Sikah had misunderstood Wyll’s words, for if she knew the task at hand was to hunt one of her own, she would not have agreed.
The woman seemed to pose no obvious threat and, from what Sikah had seen through their brief psychic connection, was rather similar to herself. Devils were no easy employer, with the tendency to craft fastidious agreements; and although her devilish dealings were nowhere near the hells Karlach had endured, she knew how unpleasant it was to do a devil’s bidding.  
“Remind me again why we’re helping the woman Wyll insists on hunting down?” Gale whispered to Sikah as they followed behind their party, now accompanied by the barbarian.
“Karlach is as much a devil as I am,” Sikah responded shortly. “and I know all too well what it’s like to be seen as one, to be judged by the company you keep. She’s a victim of the Blood War the same as the refugees from Elturel, and I don’t plan on letting any of my kin down. Besides, we could use the muscle.” 
The muscle was indeed needed whilst fighting the faux paladins of Tyr. Both Gale and Shadowheart’s spell-casting did minute damage as the opponents continuously cast a field of silence around them. Sikah’s arrows could only do so much against the opponents’ heavy armor and despite her dexterity, getting up close and personal for dagger attacks resulted in more detriment to her and less to the enemy. 
As she was knocked to the ground by the helm of a longsword, Karlach stepped in front of her before the paladin could bring the blade to meet her skull. The collision with the barbarian’s axe sent the opponent’s weapon clattering to the ground, allowing time for her to cleave the man’s head off his shoulders in one fell swoop. 
The taller tiefling looked over her shoulder, “Doing alright down there, soldier?”
Sikah looked up and nodded, trying her best not to stare. 
Karlach was hot. In both the objective and subjective sense. Embers licked the ends of her hair and danced across her shoulders. Tattoos of infernal scrawl wrapped around her limbs, which only tempted Sikah to stare at her muscles more as she attempted to read them. Metallic valves were embedded in her scarred skin that emitted steam in sync with her breathing, the leather of her clothing straining as her chest rose and fell. Her thighs were practically ripping the haphazardly altered seams of her pants that were held together by the mercy of belts and buckles. The infernal engine in place of her heart flickered like candlelight, causing the beads of sweat that trailed down her deep, red skin to glisten as they mixed with the blood and viscera of her foes. 
“I’d help you up but I don’t want you to burn yourself,” Karlach chuckled as she noticed the smaller tiefling’s fixated stare. “You sure you’re alright? Those bastards didn’t hit you too hard, did they?”
“No, I’m fine, just needed a minute,” Sikah finally stood up and brushed herself off. “Thank you, by the way.”
Karlach couldn’t remember the last time someone had thanked her. Hells, she couldn’t even recall the last time anyone had willingly helped her without being ordered to. War didn’t fuel much generosity, especially a war in Avernus. 
“Don’t sweat it. I’m the one who asked for your help, and I’d be quite the arsehole to let them kill you.” She reached up to wipe sweat from her brow. “It's been a while since anyone has shown any sorta kindness toward ol’ Karlach, and it feels good to be bashing baddies with someone again. It gets lonely doing all the dirty work by yourself.” 
“There’ll be plenty more baddies to bash where we’re headed if you care to join us,” Sikah glanced over her shoulder to where Shadowheart was healing Gale’s bleeding wounds. “We could use the extra muscle.”
“Fuck yes! Kicking ass, getting the tadpole out of my head, and good company? You sure know how to drive a hard bargain, I’m in!”
As they began their trek back to camp, Sikah couldn’t help but watch Karlach as she walked. The rouge hadn’t been piqued like this, in regards to someone rather than something, since her previous companion years ago. She couldn’t help but want to learn more about the infernal soldier, to listen to stories of her battles and the tales of her scars, to know the origins of her engine, and to solve the mysteries behind her fiery eyes. Maybe Sikah was being selfish by inviting the other tiefling to join their ranks, but she couldn’t extinguish the blaze of curiosity that burned within. 
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lennjamin-o7 · 10 months
Text
To Be Truly Free
Chapter 11
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If nothing else went right, at least it was a pretty nice morning. Not too hot, not too cold. The downpour had stopped and while the air was damp with fog, Technoblade didn’t feel weighed down with the extra weight of rain. 
If everything went wrong, there were worse days to die.
Technoblade tightened the breastplate, making sure he had full range of motion. The armor fit well, even if it was, in Technoblade’s opinion, really ugly. It was perfectly functional, but the red painted iron was incredibly gaudy. Especially the intricate swirls that apparently were written in a secret tongue of the priests. Technoblade doubted that. He had never seen any special writing that the priests used.
Technoblade twisted his hair into a tight bun as he looked out at the horizon. One by one, the few stars that could pierce the scattered clouds winked out. Only the brightest were still shining as the sky slowly lightened. From the city wall, he could see the frenzy of Empire soldiers getting into attack positions. Technoblade could sympathize with the chaotic scramble. He had been rushed to the wall only ten minutes ago. He hadn’t been asleep very long.
It was happening. The war, this battle, it was happening. And a strange emotion welled in his chest.
He wondered what Tommy and Wil were doing? If they were watching the same sunrise with the same trepidation? Maybe they had a plan of escape. Or maybe the fact that they weren’t technically from Scywar would give them some amount of protection when inevitably-
Technoblade shook his head and took a deep breath as he finished tying his hair back. His pessimism was unhelpful. Leaning down, he grabbed his helm, before straightening to put it on his head.
A loud caw right beside his ear had him looking quickly.
A crow flapped excitedly, landing quickly on the cobblestone wall. Technoblade heard many other birds echo the noise, though he didn’t see them in the early morning light. The crow’s big brown eye stared at him intently as it bobbed its head.
“That’s a crow,” Technoblade glanced down at a frowning child, eyebrows pinched together as the child stared at the crow, which seemed incredibly excited over something.
“Yeah, it is. There are a lot of them around lately,” Technoblade said, a little at a loss for something to say. He grimaced when he got a closer look at the child. The kid was probably around twelve, way too young to be here. But that wasn’t something Technoblade had any control over. However… “Kid, your armor is way too loose.”
“What?”
“Your armor,” Technoblade sat his helm down on the wall as he reached toward the kid. The kid froze, Technoblade hesitated. “Let me fix it for you.”
The kid stayed silent, staring at Technoblade with an unsure frown before nodding slowly. Technoblade reached forward again, pulling at the straps on the kid’s shoulder that kept the armor in place. It was too big, but there was no fixing that. Technoblade could only give the kid the best chance.
“Thanks,” the kid muttered.
“Don’t mention it,” Technoblade grumbled as he adjusted it. Eventually, he felt satisfied with his work, leaning back to examine if there was anything he could improve. 
“Um…”
Technoblade glanced over, seeing three more way-too-young soldiers shifting from foot to foot.
“Can you fix ours? Please?” The girl at the front asked hesitantly, wincing as the words left her mouth. “We never-they never told us how to-”
“Sure,” Technoblade drawled as he waved them over. They scuttled closer, and Technoblade did the best he could do with what he was given. 
“Technoblade!” 
“What do you want, Clovenscythe?” He didn’t look up from where he was adjusting a thirteen year old’s bracer.
“It’s not about what I want, Technoblade. It’s about what the Blood God wants. I just got our orders from the Priests.”
“Really?” Technoblade deadpanned. “Let me guess. Don’t let them go over the walls. Don’t let them through the gate.”
“It’s a little more nuanced than that-” Clovenscythe scoffed, and only then did Technoblade look up at the man.
“How so?” Technoblade drawled, tapping the kid on the shoulder to show he was finished. 
“Well, the Empire has been building siege towers-”
“Shocking.”
“Will you shut up and let me speak?”
Technoblade raised an eyebrow, before miming zipping his lip.
“Anyway, you are in control of the Blessed on this side, the left side, of the gate. I am going to be in charge of the right side. Intel shows that they are going to be pushing most of their troops this way to break down the gate.”
“Who could have predicted that? Trying the front door? Unheard of strategy,” Technoblade deadpanned, earning a quickly muffled giggle from the kid that was next to him. Clovenscythe shot a glare at the thirteen year old, and Technoblade stepped in front of them. “So, in essence, don’t let them go over the wall. Don’t let them go through the gate.”
“...someone needs to knock you down a peg, Technoblade. Maybe then you will learn to shut up when your betters are talking to you,” Clovenscythe growled.
“Really? I’ve never met any of my betters. Unless you are talking about yourself? Which… cringe,” Technoblade drawled again, stepping even further in front of the kids when one of them couldn’t help but snort. It really was a curse to be as funny as Technoblade.
Clovenscythe flushed, baring his teeth as his hand twitched toward the sword on his hip. The Blessed opened his mouth to retort, just as a squawking bundle of feathers flew right into his face. Technoblade blinked in surprise as the crow from before clawed and pecked at Clovenscythe’s face before flying up into the air with a discordant cry. 
Technoblade watched as it gained altitude, the sky steadily lightening and making its black feathers more visible. It soared over the Sleeping Empire’s army, wings flapping rapidly to move quicker. Motion out of the corner of his eye spurred Technoblade to look at Clovenscythe.
The man had a bowstring pulled back to his ear and before Technoblade could interfere, it twanged. The arrow cut through the air and the crow gave a pitiful squawk as it fell with the arrow lodged in its chest. Technoblade’s heart squeezed as he watched the bird flounder, wings frantically trying to right itself as it hurdled towards the ground, its landing blocked by the bodies of the Empire soldiers. 
“Damned birds,” Clovenscythe swore as he rubbed his hand across his face. Deep scratches across his cheeks and forehead. 
“Congrats, you killed an animal and wasted an arrow. Great job,” Technoblade tried for an unbothered tone. But it came out tight and irritated, even to his own ear. But Clovenscythe didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Just do your job, Technoblade,” The man snarled, before turning away. Uttering more curses as he walked, Clovenscythe slid down the ladder.
Technoblade took a deep breath, before turning to the Blessed on the wall. More than just the little ones had heard the exchange, some with varying amounts of amusement and fear. Technoblade was uncomfortable under the stares.
“Alright, so a plan of action,” Technoblade started, then grimaced as every eye was focused on him. He shoved the anxiety away, not meeting anyone’s eye and trying to imagine them all in their underwear. Or some other technique Steve had told him to do. “This is going to be chaotic. We all know that. So here is what we are going to do.
“All of you under the age of fourteen? You guys are going to shoot all of your arrows as accurately as possible. Take out as many as you can. And when you are out, I want you to climb down the ladders and make it to the chokepoint that was set up six blocks back.”
“Wait, we can fight! We don’t have to run! The Priests said-”
“The Priests said I’m in charge, so deal with it,” Technoblade interrupted. “Inexperience is going to get others killed. The wall is narrow, no one needs to be dodging around people who don’t know what they're doing. That’s worse than being a little outnumbered.”
“A little?” A Blessed snorted. Technoblade glanced at them. They were a head shorter than Technoblade, a nasty scar running across their nose.
“Just a little,” Technoblade deadpanned, earning a laugh from more than just the one Blessed. Technoblade sombered. “Watch each other’s backs. Whatever your thoughts on each other, today you all have the same goal: to still be breathing when the sun sets. Don’t let pettiness cost you your life. Seems a pretty lame reason to die.”
Technoblade rolled his eyes as he heard a cheer from Clovenscythe’s side, a loud chanting of the Blessed of one of the many mottos of the Church. One that was so familiar he could quote it in his sleep.
Blood for the Blood God
Blood for the Blood God
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD.
Technoblade winced at the volume. That sounded like it was right in his ear. And suddenly a new noise cut through the air. 
Technoblade turned his head as a horn sounded from the Sleeping Empire, the first peek of the sun above the rolling hills and red light seeping through hazy clouds. Reaching down, he grabbed his helm and slapped it on his head, latching the strap under his chin. Technoblade glanced at all the others, seeing each doing the same. Some bent down to help the younger ones, taking from Technoblade’s example. But with hair hidden and uniforms completely identical, you could barely tell one person from another. Well, other than height. The kids looked incredibly out of place, barely peeking above the cobblestone.
Completely identical sacrifices for the King’s Greed.
A beating drum rallied a cry from the Sleeping Empire, the forces streaming forward like a tsunami, bodies completely blocking sight of the ground. The thunder of thousands of steps was as intimidating as it was loud. 
Technoblade pulled his bow from his shoulder, notching an arrow and aiming.
“On my signal,” He yelled, the familiar words from years of practice, practice he wished he never had to use.
The army marched forward, unbothered by the arrows pointed at them Technoblade watched, and watched, waiting for them to come within range before-
“Fire,” He called, releasing his own arrow. An orchestra of bowstrings sang in response.
Not all targets are the same.
There were thousands and thousands of soldiers and it went without saying that Scywar did not have thousands and thousands of arrows. Merely picking off foot soldiers did very little to stop the tide.
So Technoblade chose his targets carefully.
A bannerman held no sword, but guided the soldiers onward, keeping them organized. So Technoblade shot him in the throat and watched him crumple, impaling the soldiers around him with the pointed tip of the banner pole.
The drummer kept the soldiers in line, keeping their steps in time, so Technoblade shot him in the eye, his heavy drum dragging him down onto the ground and crushing the instrument underfoot. 
Officers wore different armor and colors to distinguish them, but were much quicker with a shield. So Technoblade shot their horses’ legs, causing the animals to buck and rear and toss their riders to the ground.
His goal was chaos.
For in chaos, there was opportunity.
And he needed every opportunity he could get.
The other Blessed had been taught much the same, picking similar targets, if with slightly less success. Each ducked behind walls and shields to avoid returning fire, collecting enemy arrows to refill their quivers. 
It didn’t take long for the Sleeping Empire to guard their vulnerable parts, to realize Scywar’s targets were not random. Something they should have realized from the start.
But Technoblade had always found some amount of enjoyment in trick shots. 
Technoblade fired an arrow, the arrowhead glanced off a shield held aloft and landed directly in the new bannerman’s temple.
Technoblade fired an arrow that cut across a footsoldier’s throat before landing in an officer’s side. 
Technoblade fired an arrow and it landed in a soldier’s knee, ending his adventure and causing him to trip six other soldiers.
And if Technoblade was having fun, he would admit it to no one.
If he’s having fun, we’re having fun.
Aww, baby’s first slaughter.
Depends on your definition of first, I think.
Technoblade gritted his teeth at the thoughts, before pausing his assault in confusion.
His thoughts? It didn’t-that didn’t really feel like his thoughts? But no one said that. No one was-why would anyone say that anyway? Technoblade blinked in confusion as he let another arrow fly and bury itself in an officer’s stomach. He knocked another arrow.
Oh, he noticed us?
About time. Kind of oblivious.
E
Probably not the best time to be distracted
What in the-?
A light tugging on his shirt had him looking down.
“I’m-I’m out of arrows,” A quiet voice said, a bleeding cut across the kid’s face.
“Down the ladder,” Technoblade said quickly, taking aim once more. The drum beat changed, and he saw the massive wooden towers slowly being pushed across the battlefield. Still too far for Technoblade to put down the people pushing them.
“But I can still help.”
“No, get out of the way. Back to the choke point.”
“But-my friend-I don’t want to leave-”
“Go grab them. Quick.” Technoblade didn’t look down as the kid scurried, firing in quick succession at the soldiers carrying ladders. Ladders seemed a waste when they had literal siege towers but whatever. The more resources the Empire wasted, the better.
But Technoblade couldn’t focus all of his attention on the army literally trying to kill him because of the voices talking over each other in his head . 
Had he lost it? After nineteen years, finally lost his mind? Why couldn’t he have picked a better time to go insane? This was just inconvenient.
Not insane.
Surprisingly.
The trauma just gave a little zest, but not insane.
No, definitely insane.
Shush, don’t gaslight him! It’s rude.
I’m just saying, insanity is a matter of-
“I got them,” Technoblade glanced down again, the same kid as before towing their friend behind.
“Good. Get out of here.”
“I still have arrows,” The other protested, pulling an arrow out of their quiver.
Technoblade reached down and grabbed the arrows in his hand, pulling them out and placing them in his own quiver. He couldn’t help but notice the staves were too long for kids in the first place. Because of course they were. 
“And now you don’t. Go,” Technoblade took aim again. Finally, the siege tower was within range, and Technoblade wasted no time in firing at the soldiers pushing it. Others held shields to block any incoming fire, but Technoblade began to make a dent. Killing or hobbling those directing the tower. One tower was completely stopped when he heard a dull thunk and a wet gurgle beside him.
Technoblade looked down to a tragedy. One of the kid’s whose armor he adjusted, hand clasped around an arrow in her throat as blood trickled through her fingers and down her front. The kid opened her mouth, glancing up at Technoblade with a pleading look as a stream of blood poured past her lips. The kid dropped to her knees, a sharp sob causing the kid to retch as blood splashed onto the cobblestone. A wheezing wet noise preceded a choking gasp as the child tried to draw breath. 
Technoblade looked away, firing another arrow, knowing he couldn’t stop as he felled another soldier. Knowing he couldn’t help, he took careful aim, and listened to the final moments of fear as the kid choked. And when he glanced down again, the kid slumped on the ground didn’t so much as twitch as blood pooled on the wall. 
Technoblade looked away, an unbearably heavy weight in his chest. There was nothing he could have done. There is nothing he can do now.
Avenge her.
Avenge them.
Avenge all of them.
Slaughter and kill.
Make them pay.
Spill their blood.
BLOOD
Make them regret it.
Technoblade hissed, air blowing hard between clenched teeth. He nearly missed his next shot as a roiling sensation of rage and pain twisted in his gut. His hands shook as he nocked another arrow.
Avenge me.
It sounded so quiet, like a whisper in a typhoon, hidden among the storm winds. Nothing more than a drop of water in a tsunami. But he heard it. And the voices heard it and howled.
Insanity or not, he was more than willing to do that.
All of the younger ones were off the wall when the siege towers latched onto the wall. Technoblade had kicked them off, whether they were out of arrows or not, ignoring their protests. Though at the sight of the dead, there weren’t many protests.
When it seemed like everyone was running low on arrows, he had called the remaining Blessed to hold their fire, to save their shots. The sun was high in the sky, a giant red ball behind the clouds and the heat was beginning to rise. Even without the sun beating down, Technoblade and the others were drenched in sweat, fingers raw from the constant draw of bowstrings. Many sporting cuts and scrapes from close calls with enemy arrows. 
Clovenscythe had not given a similar order to his side. Technoblade could see arrow after arrow flying from his right, making the siege tower approaching on the right stutter and stop in its path. He was either stupid or better supplied than Technoblade’s side.
Either was possible.
But it was inevitable it would come. And Technoblade would rather be prepared for it than to stall.
Siege towers were a simple thing, in their efficiency. A fortified moving stairwell, making it easy for enemies to climb to the same level of wall defenders without taking fire. While they weren’t complicated in design, they were dangerous. 
“You five,” Technoblade pointed at the three Blessed closest to him. They snapped their eyes to him, weariness evident but each wore resolute expressions. “When the siege tower latches on, I want you to shoot anyone that tries to enter the bottom stairwell. Keep anyone from entering that isn’t already inside.”
“Got it.”
“You four, on me,” Technoblade said simply, earning nods from those he pointed out. 
The siege tower approached, and Technoblade drew his sword, latching the shield onto his wrist. He waited, listening to the chatter in his head with curiosity, but also dismay. He couldn’t exactly be happy about losing his mind.
Again, not insane, but I suppose that will be a conversation for later.
We can let the Big Guy explain.
I think that’s a bad idea
It's a great idea
E
Blood for the Blood God.
When’s the ad break? I gotta pee. 
Here comes the tower!
Technoblade raised his shield, watching as the tower stopped, the wood settling as Technoblade readied himself. The front of the tower looked like a drawbridge, and as Technoblade watched he could see it move slightly, slowly opening like the maw of a beast. The door creaked open as Technoblade waited for his moment to rush onto the bridge, over to the people inside-
Dodge!
Technoblade jumped to the left as something faster than his eye could track hurtled past him. With a harsh boom, he glanced back briefly to see a giant spear embedded into the side of a stone building. Looking back, he could just make out the shape of what reminded him of a huge crossbow. Soldiers scurried to reload it, pulling back the tension on the string and grabbing another massive bolt.
Technoblade didn’t give them the chance. 
Technoblade didn’t check to see if the other Blessed followed as he rushed in, sword held high as he lopped the head off the nearest soldier before rushing to the strange contraption. With one swipe of his blade, he cut clean through the cable, the force of the tension snapping and whipping across the face of a soldier who screamed. Technoblade turned, catching a blow on his shield before stabbing the man who attacked him. Blood splashed into Technoblades face, dripping down his chin as he moved to the next one. And the next one. He could feel his already sweaty white shirt getting soaked with sticky blood as it dripped under his armor. With every slash of his blade, another soldier cried out in agony before never crying out again. 
Before he knew it, the only people in the room were himself and the other Blessed, who were looking at him with undisguised awe.
“Quickly, we need to block the stairway,” Technoblade barked out, looking around for some way to prevent others coming to the top before those on the wall ran out of arrows.
The thing!
Heh? The thing?
Technoblade’s eyes landed on the big crossbow…thing. 
Oh.
The thing!
Technoblade winced as multiple voices chanted it, but he got the idea.
“Help me push this thing over the stairs! Hurry!” Technoblade shoved his sword into the scabbard, not caring that it would ruin it. He rushed around the other side, knocking a corpse to the side before pushing his back against it. It barely moved, the thing being impossibly heavy. How the heck did they get something like this to the top of a siege tower in one night?
Multiple bodies lined up beside him and began to push as well. The thing inched forward before moving easily across the wooden floor. Technoblade stopped when he felt the metal base of the thing bang against the wall. With a deep breath, he pushed himself off to check that it covered the entire stairwell.
It did.
The relief Technoblade felt was echoed by the voices’ jubilation. But he couldn’t relax yet. A loud bang echoed from outside and Technoblade rushed to see what was happening. Stepping back in the sunlight, he searched around for the cause. He noticed many of the Blessed around weren’t looking toward the army, but towards the city. Technoblade followed their gaze, until he saw it.
A massive spear was embedded in a stone building, just like the one Technoblade had dodged.
Except Clovenscythe was impaled on it, hanging limply as blood dripped on the road below, a hole blown clean through his armor. 
As sick as the sight made Technoblade, the voices in his head seemed split.
Deserved.
No! That’s awful.
He killed a crow!
He was a victim in all of this as well.
Yeah, but he was unlikable.
Poor little meow meow
E
Clovenskewer kekw
“Shut up,” Technoblade whispered to himself. It didn’t seem to help. Technoblade shook himself, forcing himself to look away. He never cared for Clovenscythe, so he shouldn’t mourn. But still, he had known the guy. And that could just have easily-
That could just have easily been him.
Nope, on that you are wrong.
Yeah, as if that could have been Technoblade.
Can you imagine Dadza’s reaction though?
Oooh, so many people would be pissed. Not least of which-
No MCD here.
A shout had Technoblade’s head snapping over to Clovenscythe’s side. To his horror, he saw Empire soldiers on the wall, fighting back against the Blessed there. And Technoblade snapped out of whatever shock he was falling into.
That could still be him if he didn’t pull himself together.
“All of you, off the wall! We are retreating to the choke point. Quickly, quickly, get off the wall now !”
All heads snapped to Technoblade before rushing to do the same. No one took the time to climb the ladder, instead sliding down as quickly as possible. Technoblade glanced over, a plan forming in his head. Though slightly ridiculous.
But if it worked…
Technoblade looked at the gate.
It was weird to think that this was the spot he had met Tommy. That the kid had been arguing with the royal guards to open the gate and Technoblade had bluffed them into doing it. 
If this worked, less people would die.
Which would mean more people who can fight.
Which would mean maybe Wil and Tommy-?
Refusing to think about it, Technoblade jumped on top of the giant wooden gate posts and quickly ran across. They were about two feet wide, but slightly curved, and Technoblade focused on where he put his feet. He held his shield up, catching arrow after arrow in the wood as he made it to the otherside. Blood was already splashed across the ground, making footing slippery and difficult.
It didn’t matter though.
As soon as Technoblade stepped on the other side, the side Clovenscythe had been in charge of, his sword was already swinging. Hacking through arms and necks, rebounding attacks thrown his way. He played dirty, not ashamed to trip and hit below the belt. He knocked unsuspecting soldiers off the wall, pushed them onto their comrades' swords. Disemboweled any unfortunate enough to be open.
“Retreat,” He shouted with a cracky voice, cleanly slicing the arm off his attacker. “All Blessed, retreat!”
The wounded and bloodied Blessed rushed to get off the wall as more and more Empire soldiers exited the maw of the tower. A giant spear was launched again, but it hit nothing as the Blessed rushed away.
Technoblade stood at the top of the ladder, killing any soldier that got close as the Blessed climbed down one after the other. 
Until the only Blessed left was himself.
Which made it a little hard to make his own escape.
A bit of a conundrum, sure. He probably should have considered this. Maybe tried to close the tower before he called a retreat. Before he could get too worried, though, he heard a shout behind him.
“Fire!”
Arrow zoomed from behind, hitting the Empire soldiers around and giving Technoblade room to breathe. He didn’t waste another second, turning and sliding down the ladder as quickly as he could.
Another volley of arrows ripped into the soldiers that tried to follow Technoblade down. Technoblade rushed over to the Blessed. A familiar face at the front.
“Ashenpike,” Technoblade tried not to sound as relieved as he felt.
“Technoblade,” Ashenpike raised an eyebrow. “Were you planning on taking on the whole army yourself up there?”
“I mean, somebody’s gotta. Might as well be me,” Technoblade shrugged.
“Right, you’ve been ordered back to the chokepoint. Where’s Clovenscythe?”
“Dead.”
“...oh,” Ashenpike said.
“Yeah.”
“How did-I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Technoblade did his best to not let his eye wander up to where Clovenscythe was still impaled. 
“What’s the plan?” Technoblade asked.
“We are to fall back to the chokepoint, set up a blockade there and-”
Technoblade stumbled as a loud boom shattered the air, the very ground shaking below them. Technoblade looked up, following where the noise came from and saw a tower of black smoke curling into the air.
“That came from the palace!” Technoblade watched as the smoke only grew.
“How? The only way into the city is through the gate,” Ashenpike said.
Technoblade thought back. A smuggler’s grate that he had almost escaped through. A person dressed in white with a bola attached at the hip.
“Not the only way, just the best way to get a large part of the army through,” Technoblade said. “It’s Hacker’s Pass all over again.”
“What?”
“There’s no time. Just accept that somehow, some way the Empire is at the Palace. That means-”
“The King! The High Priest!” Ashenpike’s face paled. 
Wil. Tommy.
“We have to go. Now,” Technoblade nearly growled.
“Right, fall back!” Ashenpike turned and faced the line of archers. “Everyone, retreat to the palace! Fall back! Retreat!”
Technoblade moved to follow, when he noticed the frantic buzz between his ears.
Behind you!
Too late, now.
RIP Ashenpike, I guess.
E
Arrow! There’s an-
Technoblade moved.
He pushed Ashenpike to the ground, the woman yelling in shock.
Technoblade yelled as well, but not in shock.
An arrow neatly penetrated through the where his pauldron met his breastplate, embedding itself deep in his right shoulder. 
Technoblade stumbled, cradling his shoulder in his left hand as his shield dropped to the ground. Ashnepike pushed herself up from the ground, looking at Technoblade with wide eyes.
“Tech-”
“Not now. We need to get out of here.”
“Your shoulder-”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine-”
“It’s fine! Let’s go. Now! We don’t have time for this.”
Ashenpike gaped for a moment before turning once more to the Blessed. 
“I said retreat! Stop staring and go! Back! Back to the Palace NOW!”
Technoblade reached back behind him, gingerly touching the stave of the arrow. He clenched his teeth as even that small motion caused him pain.
In a normal situation, this was a bad enough wound to take him out of a fight.
Technoblade didn’t care for that solution.
He wrapped his fingers around the arrow as he walked, following the crowd of Blessed and trusting them to cover him. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the arrow and dropped the stave and fletching on the ground under his feet. The feeling of the arrowhead in his arm was awful, but if he pulled it he could do more damage. Or he could bleed out. And neither of those options were acceptable.
As carefully as he could, Technoblade slid his belt to the side, making it so he could grab his sword with his left hand and attached his shield to his right. He wasn’t as good at fighting with his left hand, but he was still leagues better than others.
The palace was on fire.
Well, parts of it anyway. Most of it was actually made of stone so it couldn’t really burn. Yet dark smoke poured out of the windows as Technoblade and the other Blessed climbed around the wreckage and made their way inside.
Already, the halls were littered with bodies. 
Technoblade glanced at them before forcing himself to focus on running down the hall. He wanted-he didn’t know if he wanted to know if Tommy and Wil were among them.
They’re not
Completely safe
Well, they are dead
Blood for the Blood God
How do you think he’s gonna react?
Shut up, or you’ll get blocked. 
E
You shouldn’t worry so much, just kill more people. It's funny.
“This way,” Ashenpike barked, quickly turning a corner. Surprisingly, there were no bodies down this fork, the ground completely clear as they made turn after turn, winding their way to the throne room in an unfamiliar path. 
The Blessed rushed through the halls, the only sound being their heavy footfalls and the jangle of armor, until a blood curdling scream cut through the air. Technoblade slid to a stop, staring down the hall where the voice came from.
“Technoblade, there’s no time to stop. They’re probably already dead. We have to make it to the throne room.”
“I-”
No! You have to follow it!
Follow the scream!
It’s important.
What are you talking about?
Go! If you want to see Wil and Tommy again-
Low blow
“Go on without me,” Technoblade called out to Ashenpike, ignoring the way the other Blessed tried to stop him. Instead, he sprinted down the hallway, following the echoing screams as they continued to reverberate down the halls.
He was hearing voices. Without a doubt, he had lost his mind.
But they had already been right more than once. And it could be coincidence.
But-but if this had anything to do with Wil and Tommy.
The screams grew louder, and louder, and Technoblade pushed himself further until he slid into a wide hallway.
Brown clad guards were attempting to beat back Empire soldiers. But the Church guards were only ever meant to intimidate teenagers and nobility, not fight actual wars. Their clumsy movements did not stop their inevitable deaths. 
Technoblade rushed in, killing two soldiers before they even realized he was there. More soldiers streamed in to replace the ones he killed. Pressing forward, he slew three more, angling himself closer to the people cowering behind the unprepared guards. 
He didn’t see a familiar head of curly brown hair, nor bright happy blue eyes. Instead, there were only priests and some nobility he may or may not have glimpsed at the funeral.
Technoblade grimaced as he recognized at least one of the priests.
He fell for it
L
“It’s about time,” Jerry screeched from the floor, hair in disarray with blood spattered across his face. His sleeve was torn and Technoblade could spot the smallest scratch across the man’s shaking wrist.“Where were you?”
“Fighting a war,” Technoblade drawled, slicing the hand off an Empire soldier before beheading him. Jereth’s eyes sharpened as he recognized the voice.
“Technoblade,” Jerry said in some mixture of relief and disdain. The Priest pushed away from the corpse that had nearly fallen on top of him. “You are to escort us to the throne room at once .”
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” Technoblade responded, pushing forward against another soldier and knocking them off balance. With a rushed slash, Technoblade dug his sword into their gut, before ripping it out to block a person’s attack on his shield. 
“That was an order!” Priest Jereth screeched, shrinking behind the remaining priests and guards.
“Right,” Technoblade huffed, stepping forward again as he met two soldiers. He sidestepped, tripping one before slaying the other. With a quick motion, he stabbed downward, stabbing the fallen man in the back. “Not sure how you expect me to do that, but I’ll get right on that.”
Technoblade grunted as a soldier smashed a battleaxe against his shield. He felt the wood splinter, making him flinch as it jarred his shoulder. With quick movements and gritted teeth, he struck out, slicing off both hands. Blood splashed the floor and Technoblade stepped around it to finish off the now screaming soldier. 
Technoblade hadn’t thought that war could be worse than what he imagined everyday of his childhood. Blood and guts were the length of his creativity. But between the crazed screaming of voices in his head and the shrill demands of Priest Jereth, Technoblade could admit that he never considered that war would include such a literal headache. He winced as the voices shrieked in victory as more blood anointed the white marble floors, soaking into the thick rugs. The voices also yelled insults at Priest Jereth, which were just as distracting if more pleasant content. Plus the general whining of the priest was familiar but decidedly unwelcome.
He really hated all the noise. Why couldn’t everything just be quiet for once?
Technoblade chose to focus on each opponent, letting himself get lost in the movement instead of trying to think around the noise in his head. A quick step, a stab, a block, a parry, a splash of blood, the scent of bile, the noise of dying men and women. As soon as one drops, more soldiers rushed down the hall, and they had already sealed their doom on the end of his blade. He was so focused on what was before him that he almost didn’t notice when the atmosphere of the room changed.
Almost.
Technoblade dragged his blade out of a man, the corpse hitting the ground with a dull thud. Technoblade gasped in another breath as he turned to find who his next opponent would be.
But no one approached him. Instead, those dressed in the Empire’s colors gathered in a clump at the end of the hall.
In front of them, stood a man dressed in green with golden blond hair, and a shining crown upon his head. 
Technoblade met his eye, and a shiver ran up his spine.
Suddenly, like the flip of a lever, the voices in his head were painfully silent. Cold blue eyes seeming to stare directly into his soul.
“Hey, mate,” Emperor Philza said, a sharp grin stretching across his face. “You seem to be giving my soldiers some trouble.”
Technoblade blinked in shock for a moment, his mouth opening without much thought.
“To be fair, they are also giving me quite a bit of trouble,” Technoblade gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Hallways really aren’t supposed to be this red. Or sticky. I’m sure this is going to be a pain to clean.”
Emperor Philza snorted.
“How thoughtful. No one ever really thinks about who has to clean up these messes, do they? My sons certainly don’t,” Emperor Philza continued to grin. “Though I don’t think anyone will have to worry about this one in particular.”
“I mean, I feel like you should? If you get your way, you’ll sorta own this, right? I feel like bloodstains on the marble is going to lower the property value,” Technoblade tried to appear unbothered as he stalled for time. “Seems like a bad idea.”
“I’m a vampire, mate. I’m pretty sure I know how to get blood stains out of things,” Emperor Philza chuckled again. “But thanks for your concern.”
“If you really wanted to thank me, you could turn around and walk-”
“Not gonna happen, but nice try,” Emperor Philza cut in again, taking a step forward. 
“Eh, it was worth a shot,” Technoblade raised his sword back up as the Emperor came closer. “Can’t say I really expected it to work.”
“No, you certainly don’t seem stupid or delusional,” Emperor Philza acquiesed. “But you do seem very determined. I’d hate to kill you. If you want, you could lay down your sword and walk away. Killing you would be a waste, I think. I don’t like to be wasteful.”
Technoblade sighed, grimacing as the metal weight around his wrist seemed heavier than ever.
“Unfortunately, I can’t do that,” Technoblade said, shifting the sword once more. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
“Well, at least we can agree that it is an unfortunate choice,” Emperor Philza shrugged. “Oh well, it's your decision.”
Technoblade couldn’t help but feel a burst of anger in his heart.
“Right. My decision,” Technoblade’s words tasted as bitter as they sounded.
Emperor Philza tilted his head, not unlike a bird, seeming to ponder Technoblade’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, before he was interrupted.
“Enough of this! What are you waiting for? Kill him already,” Technoblade rolled his eyes as he heard the panicked voice of Priest Jereth.
“Sure, I’ll get right on that,” Technoblade answered dryly, not looking away from the threat in front of him. Emperor Philza snorted, muffling a laugh in his hand. “Because, historically speaking, killing Emperor Philza has been a simple task. Not a problem.”
Emperor Philza didn’t even try to hide his laugh this time, throwing his head back in amusement. If Technoblade was any less skilled, he might think that the Emperor was distracted. That it was an opportunity to attack, to get out of this alive. But Technoblade wasn’t less skilled.
He could tell when a person was baiting him.
The Emperor wiped a tear from his eye, focusing back on Technoblade.
“It really is too bad,” Emperor Philza said again, before humming thoughtfully. “How about a different deal?”
“Do not listen to him!” Technoblade heard Jerry say. But the sound seemed to choke off as Emperor Philza leveled the man with a cold glare. Technoblade shivered, feeling the ire in the gaze even though it wasn’t directed at him.
“I don’t believe you are involved in this conversation,” Emperor Philza’s voice was clipped, cold, an undercurrent of danger that caused Technoblade to swallow nervously.
For his part, Jerry held his tongue. Seemingly pleased, Emperor Philza turned his attention back on Technoblade.
“How about this, we play a little game,” Emperor Philza was back to grinning, but it seemed more predatorial. “If you can lay a scratch on me, I will leave those you are guarding alive. If you can’t, then I kill them. Pretty simple, wouldn’t you say?”
“...I can’t help but notice you didn’t mention what happens to me,” Technoblade rolled his left shoulder.
“Clever. You die. Sorry, mate, it's nothing personal. You’re just too loyal. I wouldn’t mind that sort of thing if you were loyal to me , but, well. It would be too much of a risk,” Emperor Philza smiled wryly. “I’d have to always be watching you to make sure you didn’t enact revenge or something equally as boring. And that is far too much effort.”
“Loyal, right,” Technoblade snorted, earning a curious look from the Emperor. “Okay, I have one amendment, though.”
“Oh?” 
For a brief moment, the voices came back. And they were all in amused agreement about his choice.
“Priest Jereth back there dies no matter what,” Technoblade nodded to the side. “The others are fine, I guess, but I can’t stand the idea of Jerry outliving me.”
Technoblade doesn’t look behind him, but he hears the deep intake of breath.
“You ungrateful little-!”
“I’m sorry. As funny as that amendment is, I can’t do that,” Emperor Philza interrupts.
Jereth’s words stutter off into nothing. The chatter in Technoblade’s head fade away, letting their disappointment known.
“Bruh. Seriously?”
“Sorry,” Technoblade did not expect the Emperor to be the type of person that laughed so often, but once again the guy was chuckling.
“That’s really unfair,” Technoblade drawled, ignoring the sputtering behind him.
“If it makes you feel better,” Emperor Philza starts, a cruel light in his eyes. “I’m only holding off because I’m pretty sure my oldest wanted to get his hands on a ‘Priest Jereth’. And I can't help but assume that it’s the same person.”
“Probably is,” Technoblade hummed. “What about protecting a different group of people? Like, I can give you the names of-”
“That’s not the deal, mate. I’m not going to waste my time taking attendance of the people that get killed. If they stand against me, they die. The deal is saving the people behind you, or none at all.” 
“Oh well, in that case I accept.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Just like that?”
Technoblade shrugged, wincing slightly when his right shoulder was jostled.
“A fight to your death, then,” Emperor Philza nods his head, before pulling a netherite blade from its sheath. 
Technoblade raised his sword carefully, staring down the Emperor. The vampire/man seemed completely relaxed as Technoblade analyzed him. Unbothered as he stood with an amused glint in his eye. Technoblade narrowed his eyes as a grin spread wider and wider across the Emperor’s face as the seconds ticked by in tense silence.
Technoblade shifted his foot slightly, and suddenly the Emperor was there, sword held high. Quickly, Technoblade raised his own sword and deflected the blow. Technoblade couldn’t help but be shocked by the power behind it. The Emperor was shorter than him, but the strength behind the swing was much more powerful than Technoblade could produce.
Again, the Emperor swung his sword and Technoblade just managed to deflect it to the side. This time, however, Technoblade retaliated, slashing his sword at the Emperor’s throat. Iron met netherite as Technoblade’s attack was easily pushed to the side. Technoblade followed its momentum, not wanting to be thrown off balance as he sidestepped to jab at the Emperor’s stomach.
Once more, the Emperor brushed his attack to the side with apparent ease and Technoblade couldn’t help but be impressed. Technoblade had always been at the top of the game, so it was novel to find someone better.
Even if that meant he was going to die.
Oh. He was going to die.
For some reason, he wasn’t afraid of that fact. He was going to die. The difference in skill was obvious from the very first blow. He didn’t stand a chance. That should feel terrifying, had felt terrifying this morning. His limbs should be locked up in fear. Or he should mourn the life he never got to live.
But instead, as he blocked yet another attack, the only thing he could feel was exhilaration. He didn’t have to worry about what would happen if he won or lost, how the priests would punish him, if the High Priest would finally decide to just destroy his sanity. He would die as himself.
There was here. There was now. And then there would be nothing but Lady Death’s halls.
So why not have a bit of fun?
The voices returned at the thought, cheering him.
Is this the end already?
Did you see how many he slaughtered? It would be a really cool ending! Poetic!
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
So many new chatters lol.
Yeah, newbies don’t even know the most basic facts.
Technoblade grinned, laughing slightly as he pressed a series of complicated attacks. Parries and ripostes and jabs and feints and blocks. A flurry of motions effortlessly blocked by the Emperor. He had used each of these forms before in sparring, but never in a combination like this. He had never fought anyone who could keep up with the complexity. He had only practiced them against straw dummies and in his own thoughts. 
The Emperor responded in kind, using movements and attacks that Technoblade had only ever read about. Most were completely foreign to him, outside what he had ever considered a possibility. But Technoblade made note of them. And when an opening arose, Technoblade couldn’t help but steal a particularly clever elegant slash.
The Emperor seemed surprised, pulling away quickly as Technoblade followed. The vampire grinned wide, a chaotic gleam in his eye as he defended against Technoblade’s attacks. 
Technoblade had no idea how long they traded blows, back and forth. Seconds and minutes had no meaning, only the time between the swords bashing against each other. He could tell the Emperor was holding back, seeming to draw out the somewhat desperate fight for as long as possible. But as time ticked on, Technoblade tired and the Emperor did not. Technoblade’s sword grew heavy, while the Emperor hadn’t broken a sweat.
Inevitably, Technoblade made a mistake. The Emperor’s sword seemed to cut straight through the iron armor on his thigh, leaving Technoblade’s leg bleeding freely. It hurt to put weight on, but Technoblade persevered. He couldn’t afford to pause his movements, speed being one of his only defenses against the Emperor’s heavy blows.
Technoblade twisted his wrist, trying to disarm the Emperor with one decisive desperate attack. But he could tell as soon as he started that it would fail, just by a hair. Imperfect. He winced as he heard the crack of his wrist when the Emperor’s sword smacked against it. And instead of disarming the vampire, Technoblade’s sword was flying from his hand. 
Technoblade’s leg gave out and he fell, smacking the back of his head against the floor with a loud clang from his helm. Technoblade grimaced, ignoring the pain in his skull and trying to roll towards where his sword had fallen.
A foot came down on top of his right shoulder and pushed down. Technoblade yelled as his vision briefly went white, the stave of the arrow digging deeper into his shoulder. Technoblade reached up to push the foot off when a netherite sword was pointed at his throat.
“Well, that was quite a pleasant surprise,” Emperor Philza said, grinning down at Technoblade. “It has been some time since I have met such a skilled swordsman. I’m thoroughly impressed.”
Technoblade didn’t respond at first, suddenly aware of how hard he was gasping for air. Sweat dripped down his face, smearing the blood splatter that had been building since this morning.
“What can I say? I’m just that good,” Technoblade croaked out between gasps of air. Emperor Philza laughed.
“You are. It really is a shame,” Emperor Philza seemed genuinely disappointed. He raised a hand, gesturing for his troops to move forward. Technoblade ignored the screams of the group as each voice was cut off with a wet squelch. 
“Eh, there’s worse ways to go. And this was fun,” Technoblade answered back, letting his head fall to the floor and enjoying the rush of adrenaline, moving his hand away from the Emperor’s boot.
“Was it?” Technoblade closed his eyes, noting the amusement in the Emperor’s voice.
Technoblade couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander to the last month. Of Tommy and Wil’s friendship. He prayed to whatever god was listening that they would get out of this okay. But otherwise-
“Yeah, very fun,” Technoblade sighed deeply.
“No regrets?”
“I have many regrets. But nothing about this fight, if that’s what you’re asking,” Technoblade answered. “Again, very fun. Ten out of ten would fight again.”
“You are a strange one, that’s for sure,” Emperor Philza snorted. “Sorry you have to die, mate.”
“Eh.”
“Pfft, okay,” Technoblade didn’t open his eyes as he felt the cold netherite edge on his throat. He lifted his chin.  “I’ll make it quick at least. My quarrel isn’t with you. But before I do, how about you tell me your name? This fight was definitely memorable, might as well remember the strange guy that gave me a fuck ton of trouble. I’m sure my sons will want to hear about it.” 
Technoblade snorted.
“My name’s Technoblade,” He said simply, ready for the quick cut of netherite. Everyone’s end came at some point. Really, how bad could it be?
Except, the netherite sword didn’t move. Technoblade frowned, slowly opening his eyes in confusion.
The Emperor stood completely still, staring down at him in shock.
“Technoblade?” The Emperor asked, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.
“Um, yeah?”
Slowly, the Emperor removed his foot from Technoblade’s shoulder. Technoblade bit down on a scream as the shaft moved in his arm once again. His whole body flinched as he reached up with his left hand to cover it, as if that could somehow make it better.
Technoblade blinked his eyes open and was shocked by the Emperor bending down beside him, sword discarded to the side. He froze as the Emperor’s hands came closer, a light finger under Technoblade’s chin tilting his head further back. Technoblade was too confused to move as he felt the leather strap of the helmet rip. Before he could think of a remark, the helmet was pulled off as well, tossed against the wall with enough strength that Technoblade couldn’t help but flinch at the noise. 
Emperor Philza stared, eyes wide, as he reached up and grabbed a sweaty piece of hair that had escaped from Technoblade’s bun. Technoblade watched in exhausted confusion as the vampire ran the strand slowly between his fingers, wiping away the blood and dirt sticking to the hair..
“A very unique color,” The Emperor murmured.
“What?” Technoblade asked and then immediately regretted it. Emperor Philza’s piercing eyes whipped from the hair in his hand to Technoblade’s face. The Emperor didn’t say anything, just stared at Technoblade with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
“Your Highness, we captured the priests and disposed of the others. What are your orders?” The Emperor looked up as a soldier approached. Technoblade took a shuddering breath and glanced to where his sword had fallen, considering his chances of sliding toward it.
A hand reached out lighting fast and pressed down on his chest, pinning him in place.
“Have one squad take the prisoners back to the camp, and one squad stay here. The rest should push ahead and secure the throne room. That’s where the King and his filth are hiding.”
“Yes, Your Highness. And…what of this one? Should we take him with the prisoners?”
“No,” The Emperor said firmly, a look of anger crossing his face.
“Understood. My apologies, Your Highness,” The soldier bowed deeply, before turning to follow the Emperor’s orders.
Which meant Emperor Philza’s attention was back on Technoblade, some emotion that Technoblade couldn’t decipher in the vampire’s ice blue eyes. Slowly, the Emperor rubbed a sleeve over Technoblade’s face, wiping some of the sticky blood from his cheek.
Oh no, was the Emperor going to eat him?
Please don’t let the Emperor eat him.
Dadza
Quiet you! 
I mean, Technoblade would probably taste like cotton candy. His hair’s pink.
Technoblade never dies, tho.
And now the voices are back. Wonderful.
“Change of plans, mate,” The Emperor said, smiling softly. A completely different expression from the violent grin of before. Which somehow made Technoblade even more on edge.
“Um, what kind of change-?” Technoblade cut himself off as the Emperor tore the straps that held his armor on. “I would like to keep that on, actually, so how about you stop-”
The breastplate was pulled away and the Emperor threw it to the side as well. Without it, you could see how drenched in blood Technoblade’s white shirt had become. The Emperor tsked at the sight, before reaching for the bracer on Technoblade’s wrists. Reflexively, Technoblade moved his hand out of reach of the Emperor.
“I don’t remember part of the deal being you stealing my armor. This just seems rude,” Technoblade said. Emperor Philza snorted, reaching out with lightning fast reflexes to grab Technoblade’s left wrist. Technoblade hissed, the pain not nearly as bad as his right shoulder but still not great .
“I think I might have broken that,” The Emperor seemed to murmur to himself.
“You think?” Technoblade huffed, tugging experimentally on the Emperor’s grip. It didn’t budge and the Emperor continued to destroy the armor as he removed it. 
When the Emperor pulled on his right arm, Technoblade couldn’t stop the pained yelp. The Emperor immediately dropped the arm.
“Where are you hurt?” The Emperor frowned. It took Technoblade a second of blinking away black spots to answer.
“What?”
“Where are you hurt? Your arm.”
“I-why do you-?”
“Do you want me to alert the medics?” A soldier stepped forward. Technoblade glanced over at them.
“Yes, have a bed prepared. A private one. I don’t want anyone else in there,” The Emperor responded. The soldier nodded their understanding.
Okay, medics? So, the Emperor wasn’t going to kill him? The Emperor wasn’t going to kill him. At least not right now. That’s good news, at least. Right?
And he was going to send him to a medic? By himself? That-that is actually great news. He should be able to escape from that. As long as the Emperor isn’t watching him, he should be able to sneak out pretty easily-
And the Emperor is giving him a strange look now.
“Actually, have the medic come to me,” The Emperor seemed almost amused as he studied Technoblade’s face. “It’s probably best not to let him out of my sight.”
“Bruh.”
“Now, back to my question, Technoblade. I would rather not thrall you,” The teasing tone in the Emperor’s voice didn’t really hide the steel of the vampire’s resolve, making Technoblade’s stomach drop.
Technoblade had heard of thralling. Of course he had. A vampire forcing a human to do what they say, just from the words they spoke. A complete override of a person’s free will. It was almost like drugging someone, a floating sensation that had a human bowing to a vampire’s every word.
Why did…something in that description feel familiar? 
“Sh-shoulder. There’s an arrow in my shoulder,” Technoblade said hesitantly.
“It’s still in there?” Emperor Philza sounded concerned.
“I couldn’t exactly yank it out so-” Technoblade cut himself off at the look Emperor Philza was giving him. Right, he was being a little informal with an Emperor. Maybe he should watch his words before the guy decides to end him here and now. Again. Technoblade’s mouth clamped shut with a clack. 
But the Emperor didn’t say anything about his tone, instead just moving on and removing the remainder of Technoblade’s armor. This time, he was much more careful about removing the bracer, before removing the greaves on his legs. Technoblade tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but everytime the Emperor pushed him back down. Which, on the one hand, was probably a good thing as Technoblade’s head had started to spin from blood loss. But Technoblade was not fond of being in such a vulnerable position. And honestly, it was just blood loss. It’s not like it wasn’t anything serious.
“Mate, if you try to sit up again, I’m going to sit on you,” Emperor Philza scolded. 
“Bruh,” Technoblade huffed, letting himself fall back once more. 
“Your Highness,” A soldier called down the hallway. “We’ve taken control of the throne room. Everyone is in your custody.”
“Perfect,” The smile on the Emperor’s face was satisfied, like the cat that swallowed the canary. The Emperor tilted his head, glancing down to study Technoblade.
“I can’t exactly leave you here. Who knows what will happen?” The Emperor said, eyes thoughtful. “I’ll have to bring you with me for the time being. Are you going to give me any trouble?”
“No,” Absolutely.
The Emperor snorted, holding out a hand to a soldier near. He didn’t say anything, but the soldier didn’t seem to need any prompting as they handed over a short length of rope.
“For some reason, I don’t believe you,” Emperor Philza sounded…amused? Maybe? It didn’t sound particularly angry. Or irritated. Technoblade grimaced as the Emperor gently wrapped the length of rope in a complicated knot around Technoblade’s wrists. Honestly, Technoblade was curious to see that the rope carefully avoided pulling on his broken wrist, or dragging his shoulder in a painful direction. It was probably the most considerate way he had ever been bound.
Cautiously, Emperor Philza helped Technoblade sit up. Technoblade only winced in pain once, but he was glad not to feel trapped on his back. And from that small amount of rest, he felt quite a bit better. He could probably find a moment when the Emperor was unaware to-
A finger touched his chin again and lifted his head to meet the Emperor’s eye.
“ Stay close ,” he said, and a shiver ran up Technoblade’s spine. A slight foggy feeling settled in Technoblade’s head as he nodded, blinking in confusion. 
This felt… really familiar .
The Emperor grinned, looking satisfied as he helped Technoblade to his feet. He stumbled as he gained his balance, trying to put less weight on his injured leg. The Emperor caught him, a hand on his back.
“Have the medic meet us in the throne room,” The Emperor called out without looking away from Technoblade, an affirmative answering his order. “Now, it’s time we end this silly little war.”
With a gentle nudge, the Emperor pushed Technoblade forward. Technoblade grimaced, but followed, feeling slightly nauseous when thinking of doing anything else. It wasn’t far to walk, Technoblade was shocked to see. After only three turns down the halls, Technoblade found himself staring at the destroyed doors to the throne room, ripped off the hinges. Technoblade couldn’t imagine the power it would take to break such massive doors. 
After only two steps into the room, Technoblade heard a familiar voice.
“Dad!” Tommy yelled and Technoblade’s eye found the blond standing from where he sat at the foot of the dias, quickly making his way over.
Technoblade glanced upwards and stopped breathing when he saw Wil's mouth affixed Hallowlance’s throat, rivulets of blood trickling from Wil’s lips.
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Healing Hands- Eomer x OC
Eomer x Kitra
Description: Kitra is one of the many healers sent to Helm’s Deep to aid Rohan in their battle against Isengard and meets a certain Rohirrim Prince.
Word Count: 2.3k
The Battle of Helm’s Deep had been a long and gruesome fight. Of course, Kitra didn’t know the full extent of it until it was over. While both of her older sisters were more acclimated to battle, she preferred to clean up afterwards. Her talent lied in healing, not a sword.
That’s why while her sisters fought alongside Men and Elves alike, she was helping the other healers prepare beds for the eventual high number of injured soldiers. It was a real hit or miss as they all waited because, from what they heard, there was a high chance that they would not see the light of tomorrow. The room was filled with tension as they (impatiently) awaited to hear word of what was going on.
It was very overwhelming when tomorrow finally arrived and the healers were bombarded by what felt like thousands of injured soldiers. Kitra was immediately put to work by Lady Mirabella of Lothlorien, doing as much as she could to ease the pain of the soldiers. She worked for hours upon hours on soldiers of various races, even sitting with a few who got to her just a little too late. There were a few times where she had to step out of the room to make sure she didn’t cry in front of anyone. She took the deaths of those who she attempted to help very personally. At most she was gone for a few minutes at a time before remembering that there were some who still needed her, so she walked back in and got back to work.
Eventually she was allowed a break from healing to just go around and ensure the comfort of those who weren’t a top priority. That included cleaning and redressing a wound, getting some water, an extra pillow, more blankets, etc. Many soldiers had been assigned a single room with a few others as they didn’t need immediate attention with eyes on them at all times, so that’s where Kitra had been making her rounds. Most patients, despite not needing eyes on them, were still bedridden. So, Kitra would just knock then enter as she didn’t want them to have to get up.
That’s what she’d done with one room, and she immediately regretted it. Upon knocking twice then opening the door, she wasn’t met with a room full of two or three patients. Instead she was met with a singular man who looked like he was taking off his armor. The man, obviously surprised by the abrupt entrance, whipped around to face her with wide eyes.
It only took a split second for Kitra to recognize him. She’d talked with a healer of Rohan and discovered who their King was and if he had any kin. It was there that she learned of King Theoden, and his niece and nephew Eowyn and Eomer (as well as his son Theodred, who’d recently passed away as a result of an Uruk-hai attack). Now, Kitra had already seen Theoden at least once, so the healer only had to describe the Prince and Princess.
Based on her description, Kitra could conclude that she was standing in the presence of the Prince of Rohan. Once the realization hit her, the girl found herself curtsying with wide eyes, an embarrassed blush on her face.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she said quickly. “I thought this was the room of another injured soldier.” She spared a quick glance at him, and noticed him shake his head.
“Please, it is okay. No harm done,” he answered with a patient smile, gesturing for her to stand normally, which she did. “I’m not in need of any healing, so you may go if you please.”
“Very well,” the girl answered, curtsying one last time. As she turned to walk out, she caught sight of the Prince’s arm. There was a large gash on the side of it that started as his elbow and ended just past the middle of his forearm. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but he likely hadn’t noticed it as his adrenaline was still pumping from battle.
“Uh, Your Majesty…” she trailed off, eyes still on his arm. Eomer’s eyes met hers, a curious glint in them.
“Yes?”
“Your arm,” she gestured to it. The Prince’s gaze fell to his arm and he turned it to get a better look. His eyebrows shot up at the sight, and Kitra continued.
“It doesn’t look too bad, but it will get infected if it doesn’t get cleaned and dressed soon,” she explained gently. “May I?” The man was silent for a moment, but he eventually nodded and allowed her further inside. Kitra closed the door behind her then dug into the satchel slung over her shoulder for the right supplies.
“Sit down, please,” she instructed gently. Eomer did so, and she kneeled beside him after grabbing the bowl of water that sat on the bedside table. She had an extra cloth in her bag, so she dipped it into the water before carefully grabbing the Prince’s wrist. As she began dabbing at the wound, she glanced up at him.
“I can bring you another bowl of water when I’m done, but it’s just quicker to use this one,” she muttered.
“It’s no worry,” Eomer answered simply. “From what I hear, we will be returning to Rohan soon so there is no need.” The girl nodded in response as she dipped the now bloody cloth into the bowl once again. While she continued to work, she could feel the Prince’s eyes on her, examining her.
“Pardon me if I sound rude, but I’ve prided myself on getting to know as many people in my Kingdom as possible. I have no memory of you, though, nor do I recognize the symbol in your cuff,” he gestured to the cuff of her sleeve, which held the Wanita Hutan’s crest. “And based on your ears and dark hair I don’t believe you’re an Elf,” he commented. A small smile graced the girl’s face while she began dressing the wound.
“Wonderful observation, Your Majesty, I am not an Elf. And no, your memory does not fail you. We have never met until today because I do not belong to Rohan. My name is Kitra Underlake, I am a healer of the Wanita Hutan.”
“Wanita Hutan?” Eomer repeated curiously, earning a nod from the girl.
“Of the MapleElm realm,” she clarified. “It was the men and women of our Kingdom that aided your victory just this morning.” An embarrassed blush appeared on Eomer’s face and he averted his eyes.
“I’m afraid I was more focused on winning the battle than who I was beside,” he admitted apologetically. “I hadn’t thought about it until you said that.”
“I doubt you would have known who they were even if you were paying attention,” Kitra brushed off. “We are not a very well known Kingdom as we don’t like a lot of outsiders. My Queen Indah only allowed us to aid Rohan because we are allies of the Fellowship and promised help if/when they needed. Now, I’m no fighter, but I believe that my healing abilities are a good enough reason for me to be here.” As she finished her explanation she finished wrapping the bandage around his arm. Once she finished, she packed all her supplies then grabbed the bowl of (now bloody) water and stood.
“All done.” The Prince took a moment to examine his now bandaged forearm, then looked at her with a grin.
“I thank you, My Lady,” he muttered as he stood. Apparently both of them had miscalculated how close they’d be when they were both standing because now they were practically chest to chest. Both of their eyes widened and they froze, their brains simultaneously short circuiting as they didn’t know what to do. Kitra’s eyes met Eomer’s which entranced her for a moment. His were gorgeous, dark brown irises only showing deviation around the pupil, where a golden/hazel ring lay around the pupil. When she finally snapped out of whatever trance she was in, a deep blush coated her cheeks and she cleared her throat.
“Make sure you clean and rewrap your arm twice a day until the wound fully closes. If you require more bandages, just go to the healers,” she instructed softly before curtsying and walking out of the room to continue her duties.
Finally, the rest of the healing was left to the Elves as their capabilities far surpassed that of any Man. While they did that, the people of Rohan returned to their homes, inviting the surviving Wanita Hutan and Lothlorien soldiers for a celebration of victory. Queen Indah, who figured her people deserved to celebrate, allowed them to go.
As Kitra walked with the rest of her people, she couldn’t help but glance at the back of Prince Eomer, who rode near the front of the travelers. She had no idea what happened earlier with him, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. He was an attractive man, and she knew based on a few people she’d talked to that he cared about his Kingdom fiercely. So the fact that she’d shared such an intimate moment, even if it was only for a minute, knocked the breath out of her when she thought about it.
Once everyone had made it back to Edoras, preparations were made for the celebration of all the soldiers and healers that did their part. Kitra, who had managed to find her sisters once arriving in Rohan, changed into more appropriate attire for a party in the same room before promising to meet the others later. Citra wished to find Boromir, and all Netra cared about was finding a pint of ale and continuing a discussion she’d been having with Alphine from earlier (something about Elves or another, she couldn’t quite remember).
Kitra was the last to arrive at the Golden Hall, and apparently most of the people inside had already had several drinks by this point based on the volume alone. A small, amused smile played at her lips as she began weaving her way through the crowd to find a drink. It didn’t take her long to find a small stack of barrels behind a table. It looked like Legolas and Gimli were setting up for some sort of drinking game. Kitra was pleasantly surprised to see that it was Eomer who’d be distributing the drinks, and her smile widened as she walked over to him.
“Got a pint to spare?” She asked upon approaching him. Eomer whipped around and, just like her, he was pleasantly surprised to see her.
“I’m sure I can manage one,” he answered easily, pouring ale into a cup and setting it in front of her while she took a seat at the table. He offered her a small smile before filling up a few more pints and setting them in front of the Dwarf and Elf.
“No pauses,” Eomer stated, setting two tankards in front of the two. “No spills.”
“And no regurgitation,” Gimli added, lifting the tankard to his lips.
“So, it’s a drinking game?” Legolas clarified, glancing at Alphine, who nodded as Gimli drank his tankard all in one go.
“Last one standing wins,” Brooke, who also sat there, concluded, gauging his still slightly confused expression and giggling. “Don’t worry, Merry and Pippin did this a whole bunch of times back at the Green Dragon. You’ll be fine.” The elf finally nodded then began drinking as the others watched.
“Any bets?” Kitra heard from beside her. She glanced to the side and saw Eomer staring at her expectantly.
“Oh, Legolas all the way,” she answered without hesitation, taking a sip from her tankard afterwards. “Elves are unmatched in their drinking abilities.”
“I don’t know about that,” the Prince shot back. “If you asked me, I’d say that Dwarves are a worthy competitor. This one may even win with how many he’s downed so far.”
“Ah, but it's not about speed, Your Majesty, it’s about how many. My money is on the Elf,” she shrugged with a grin.
“I’ll take that bet,” Eomer responded, returning her grin before holding out his tankard to her, which she quickly tapped with her own before they took a drink in unison then faced the competition.
Nearly half an hour later the hall had gotten significantly louder as people got more drunk (which is saying something). Gimli giggled drunkenly before taking another gulp from his tankard. He began singing a shanty, but quickly quieted down when Legolas expressed concern about the ale affecting him based on the tingling sensation in his fingers.
“What did I say?” Gimli slurred with a chuckle. “He can’t hold his liquor.” Not even ten seconds after he said that, his eyes became crossed. Kitra watched with raised eyebrows as he sat quietly for a moment then keeled over backwards off his stool. Legolas mimicked her expression then faced Eomer.
“Game over.”
“Wonderful job meleth (love),” Alphine said, resting her hand on his arm. “I believe it’s time for a small break now.” Once they walked away to find him some water, Kitra turned to face Eomer.
“Well, I believe I win,” she said with a triumphant smirk. A small chuckle left the Prince’s lips as he nodded.
“I guess you did.”
“Do I get a reward of any kind?”
“How would you feel about a tour of the palace? No tricks or anything like that, just me showing you the beauty of Rohan. What do you say?” He asked, already holding out his elbow for her to take. Kitra stared at his elbow, then at him.
“No tricks?” She repeated cautiously, earning a nod from him.
“No tricks,” he concluded sincerely. That’s what made her smile and hook her hand around the crease of his elbow. He helped her stand and then led her out of the loud and rambunctious room. This certainly hadn’t been what she’d been expecting when she said yes to going to Helm’s Deep with the other healers, but she couldn’t say she didn’t like it. Things would certainly get interesting from there.
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nvrcmplt · 10 months
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© - No credits for images, Baiu is just loosely based off these images.
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( Befriended ) - Name ::
⮚ Baiuzensen [ 梅雨前線 ] [ seasonal rain / the seasonal rain front ] ⮚ Kido-type Zanpakutou ⮚ Reiatsu - #b5d4f5 A pale blue with a white simmer around his form, moves with the ripples of an ocean surface.
He/They stand upon the mirror like water's surface, clouds around geto-ends, that stretch around two foot to their actual feet. Clothing is minimal, mostly because he almost has no-body to hide. Dainty, feminine, shapeless or shapely but unlimited by humane constraints. Baiuzensen is a creature of transparent flesh, black skeletal form with a fully opaque face. Mouth is muzzled, black bone pushing through and over the skin, but still fused to his/their skull in the same method as a jaw would. White teeth overlay nose and cheeks in a symmetrical upward arrow shape.
Crown is settled with a hat that matches his muzzle, but domed over, more Jellyfish like in terms of soft, shapelessness but still firm in movement. Long tendrils curtain his back from view and his sides but still show the curved black-bone spine that protrudes from Baiu’s back connecting to his helm. Arms are longer than most humans, elbows rest easy at his hips, and fingertips bush the back of his carve muscles, black bones shimmer blue in different hues of light but overall, dark and strong looking.
Pale blue yet vivid eyes, white hair and white opaque facial shield. Baiuzensen is a beautiful, yet haunting ghost of the rain filled Inner World. Clothing ranging from blinding white with black outlines and hints of watery-blue in rain drops that cover the ends of the fabric that hangs from his beltline.
⮚ Hirohito enjoys talking to Baiuzensen and states his Zanpakutou can not speak with his jaw being fixed. ⮚ Telepathy is his method of communication with Uekawa.
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Sealed form ::
⮚ past form 1 :: Asauchi Katana, Black Hilt, White Pommel, Square Hand guard ⮚ past form 2 :: White, semi translucent bamboo shaft Wagasa with a crudely made Teru Teru Bozu doll on its pommel held on by a blue string. ⮚ current form :: A modern day translucent white plastic umbrella with a curved handle. Steel shaft and ribs - that has a comically blackened sword piercing straight through the top. His sword seems to be wrapped in the umbrella at first glance.
The first kengen took him seven and half years from learning his Zanpakutou’s name and another three to release himself from its sealed form. ( Ten years in total to learn his Shikai. )
Baiuzensen’s talent is being blindly curious, and this obsessive need to know, like Uekawa’s is what allows them to battle for long hours, instead of minutes, to gather information. It was one of his many flaws in the training academy! However, he was the first in his unit to know of his Zanpakutou’s name during a seven-year-long period of Jinzen ( sword meditation ) and then unlocked the first Kengen ( manifestation )
⮚ No one knows what Baiuzensen and Uekawa spoke or had conflicts about but it was reported that he sustained zero injuries during that Seven Year meditation. ⮚ He was also exempt from any training routines / schedules, due to the deep trance he fell into. ⮚ When he woke up, his Zanpakutou had awakened and took on a form of a white wagasa. ( Oil-paper Umbrella. ) ⮚ It was several hundred years later, when permitted to a trip to the human world with his Taichou, Uekawa and Baiuzensen took in the happenings of the human world. When they returned with research and results and numbers on hollow activates, the two of them had a conversation upon what they saw, and once again awoken from a week long jinzen. It was after this that Baiuzensen took up a new updated form of a white, translucent plastic umbrella with a curved white handle.
Whenever asked about his all-too-long meditations conversations, Uekawa always replies the same; ’we talked about everything and anything.’ For some, it was too vague for them to understand, but to his fellow curious Shinigami and current Taichou, they understood.
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sehnsuchts-trunken · 2 years
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alright so this is a matchup for the lovely @kameon (who’s also doing one for me btw, so thank you!) - okay first of all i had so much fun reading through your info? it may be the website, but the layout is amazing and in general its just really aesthetic? like. omg. but anyway, enough of me talking
I ship you with... 
Aragorn! 
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and no i did not just pick him because i was lazy and he’s one of the protagonists, but like, he just fits best you know. he just. it just works. so let me tell you why 
- Aragorn is well able to match your personality and I believe he’s the only one who can perfectly understand all of your moods. He too seems intimidating at first - especially when he’s sitting brooding in a corner with his hood down, darling i love you but was that dramatic flair necessary - so he has no problem working through that upper layer of your character and quickly meeting a much more excitable person. He definitely values your honesty and your confidence in speaking your mind, which makes communication between the two of you easy, if not always in the sense of agreement. Neither of you ever have to fear lies or mistrust. Aragorn is also one of these people who immediately catch on to the slightest irritation, so whenever you feel annoyed or unnerved, he notices and manages to get you out of that situation. When you’re struggling, self-sabotaging, criticising or overthinking, he’s the most supportive partner you could wish for. He makes sure to offer his help with whatever matter upsets you, but he’ll also just do his best to make you feel comfortable if you decline. 
- I do think his love languages are quality time and acts of service both, but really all of Tolkien’s characters have acts of service as their love language. Like, name one who doesn’t. So he may not be as set on physical touch as you are, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t absolutely enjoy it. Especially because he notices that it’s important to you, so he’ll pay extra attention to it. He’s also just very soft about it. His touches are always feather-light and lingering and the complete opposite of the brute force he shows on a battlefield (I love characters like this sm). 
i might have got a bit distracted at this point and watched like ten minutes of “aragorn entering helm” edits but like, a lady gotta do what a lady gotta do. anyway
- Because he’s an absolute horsegirl, I can totally see the two of you bonding over horses, travelling more than necessary, dates on horseback... or in the stables, maybe, or both. Even though he’s not really reckless (but still impulsive and mindless at times, let’s be real, Aragorn in battle is the exact opposite of what we usually see from him and, again, I adore characters like this sorry i’m rambling so much btw) I think that’s a very different thing when it comes to horses - he would definitely join you when you’re training a young stallion, even though usually he keeps you from doing crazy things that have a higher chance of you dying than normal life does. Like, he’s an absolute horsegirl and that’s all this paragraph is. 
- In general though I just feel like the two of you could share a lot - because you take up so many hobbies and often jump from one to the other, he’ll be able to show you a lot of his as well, so I’m just picturing him giving you a few swordfighting lessons or teaching you Sindarin or how to make use of a bow. And he certainly will have just as much interest in all the things you could show him and, especially, in all the things you both adore - like your love of music, for example. It’ll be very special to him that you trust and cherish him enough to share things that you usually keep to yourself and, well, you know you can trust him because he’s Aragorn, he’s respectful as fuck and he would never do anything that could possibly harm you. 
- Also!! This is totally dependant on the world Tolkien created, but during battles like Helms Deep, Aragorn would never leave you behind to “stay safe” if you wanted to fight (which I personally think you would, if only so that Aragorn wouldn’t go out alone and maybe die). He’d give you one of his weapons - if you didn’t already have one of them anyway, which is just as possible - and stay as close to you as he could manage during a fight, not because he thinks you can’t defend yourself, but because just in case, he wants to be there, whatever that case may be (it’s normal to think about someone dying, right, in the midst of battle? even when you don’t want to consider it truly, you do picture what you’d do if the other one got killed) though luckily it hasn’t happened so far. Anyway my point is that you’d make a super duper battle power couple because of what I said before, like him teaching you how to wield some weapons and you doing the same for him, and just the blind trust that exists between you two.
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tamurilofrivendell · 1 year
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Heart of Stone | Chapter 7
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
AO3 LINK
pairing(s): Thranduil x Tamuril (oc) storyline: Tamuril was in love with Haldir but the battle at Helms Deep took away all hope she had for the future. She struggles with her grief and tensions eventually run high when she shares a moment with Lord Elrond she feels she cannot come back from and flees Rivendell, hiding herself away in the Elvenking Thranduil’s Halls. chapter summary: Arwen attempts to speak to Tamuril and Elrond goes to the stables to talk to Thranduil.
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Tamuril’s heart jumped in her chest as the door slammed shut in the wake of Elrond’s retreat. He was angry. Was he angry at what she’d done or was he angry at what she’d said? She decided that it was both, there was no other answer that would make any sense. She hated how it hurt and wished she could go back to feeling nothing. If only she could turn back the clock and make it so none of this ever happened. She stood still for a long minute before she closed the bag and turned to the window. She caught sight of Elrond striding across the courtyard in the direction of the stables. He was going to speak to Thranduil, she just knew it, and her stomach dropped as she wondered over his reaction to finding out that she had lied.
Before she could think too much on it, the door to her room eased open gently and she turned around. “Arwen…” She whispered, frowning softly as she looked at her friend. 
Arwen smiled softly back at Tamuril, moving a few more steps into the room and gently closing the door behind her. “Are you alright?” The way she asked made it clear she knew the answer already.
Tamuril lowered herself into the chair next to the window and covered her face with her hands. “I have been better.” She admitted.
Arwen gave her friend a sympathetic look. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”
Tamuril could have laughed, though it would have sounded as bitter as it would have felt. She wasn’t sure how she could ever talk to Arwen about any of this, especially not about what she had done! Elrond was Arwen’s father and Tamuril thought of her as the closest thing she had to a sister… it was just all so terrible. She lowered her hands and lifted her gaze to look at the other, who was still smiling kindly at her. 
“My friend, there is nothing you can say… nothing you could do.” 
Tamuril eyed Arwen and then sighed. “You already know?” She questioned.
Arwen gave her an apologetic nod. “I am afraid I was in my father’s private garden…”
Tamuril’s face flushed bright red again as the embarrassment once more flooded through her body. “Oh, gods…” She frowned. “I am so sorry, I have no idea what–”
“Hey, hey.” Arwen shook her head quickly, holding up her hand. “It is alright.” Arwen understood, or… well, she thought that she understood, at least. “You have a lot going on. Up in your head.” She murmured. “Tamuril, please do not think my father will hold this against you. He would never. He does not have it in him.”
Tamuril shot her a look. “You did not see him when he came to find me. He is angry, Arwen, I have shamed him. I have disgraced myself and I have pushed him too far. He will not forgive me and he is right not to.” She did not deserve it.
“Tamuril, please.” Arwen began but Tamuril wasn’t quite finished, standing up and moving back over to the bed where she had packed her things.
“He did not even attempt to get me to stay.”
“You are leaving?!” Arwen interrupted, turning to follow Tamuril’s movements across the room, her gaze falling upon the bag of belongings in the middle of her bed. “You cannot! Why? Where will you go?!”
“I am going to Mirkwood.” She felt shaky as she said it but she did her best to keep her voice level, glancing at Arwen. “There is nothing you can say that will stop me… and even if there was, your father would not agree. He already planned to send me away on a ship.”
Arwen frowned. “Tamuril.” She said softly. “Do you not think… perhaps that is an idea you should have considered?”
Tamuril stilled her movements and turned to give Arwen the most incredulous look. “You would also wish me away?”
“It would not be right away but you… you do realise that in doing so, you would be reunited… with… with Haldir, yes? Eventually.” Arwen knew it wasn’t an instantaneous thing and the time apart would still be bitter and full of longing but his spirit would surely leave the halls of Mandos at some point and Tamuril was gifted with the long life of the Eldar and she could go… heal… and eventually be reunited with the man she loved, whose presence she grieved over.
“Do you not understand?!” Tamuril practically shouted, causing Arwen to freeze as she stared back at her friend in absolute shock at the reaction. “He is not coming back!” She could feel tears pricking at her eyes yet again, clouding her vision. It was frustrating to have gone from never shedding a tear to not being able to stop once more. “He has left me!”
Tamuril turned and fled the room, running away down the hall with her bag on her shoulder, leaving Arwen standing in the middle of her chamber.
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Thranduil reached up to pet his majestic Elk on the nose, allowing himself the briefest ghost of a smile. He truly loved that animal and they had been through so much together. “Ready to go home, boy?” He murmured. Thranduil was more than ready but part of him was anxious to return. There was a lot that needed to be done within the woods. The memory of the fires raging across the trees came back to him and he lost himself for a moment before he managed to blink it away.
It was just then that Elrond walked into the stables, looking distressed. Thranduil’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise as he regarded the other, not often having seen him in such a state.
“Am I to assume that your talk with the lady did not go as you intended?” Thranduil wondered, turning back to his Elk.
Elrond frowned at the back of Thranduil’s head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 
“She had informed me that she is departing with you for the woodland realm at dawn.” He said calmly, gaze fixed on the King. “Apparently you offered her a place there.”
Thranduil was taken aback by this revelation because of course he hadn’t said anything of the sort and his mind quickly worked back over his previous interactions with Tamuril. They hadn’t truly said much of anything to each other from what he could recall. He had spent time with her and, yes, he had perhaps lingered a little more than he maybe felt that he should have… had she taken his attentions the wrong way? Though he realised that something had happened between Tamuril and Elrond, something that had quickly made the pair tense and uncomfortable with each other. Thranduil wasn’t privy to what this was but he had seen enough to know that something happened. Perhaps the girl simply wanted away and this was her best bet, the first opportunity that seemed to present itself to her.
Thranduil turned back to Elrond after a brief second. “Do you disapprove?” He asked, not admitting to have invited Tamuril to Mirkwood, but also not admitting that he hadn’t.
Elrond kept his expression blank as he studied Thranduil for a moment. He didn’t know what was going to happen if Tamuril went to the Woodland Realm. Thranduil had a temper and often spoke out of turn, much like he had at dinner the other night. Elrond didn’t put it past him to say the wrong thing and make Tamuril’s state of mind worse. But he knew that he could not keep her here after what happened. He saw it in her eyes and he felt the chasm between the two of them growing by the second. It hurt but he forced himself not to think of it.
“No.” He half-lied. “I merely wonder why.”
Thranduil shrugged. “We need all the help we can get at the moment.” He said. “I intend to bring the wood back to its former glory… but it will take time and many hands.”
Elrond mulled this over in his mind. Here, he had allowed Tamuril to drift where she wanted, not wanting to push her too far in the wake of Haldir’s death. She had spent a lot of her time hiding away but she had friends here that he had hoped would help bring her back out of her shell. Elrond didn’t know how she would adjust but surely she had agreed already if she and Thranduil had talked about her going.
“Right.” Elrond nodded, frown deepening as he looked back at Thranduil. The King could see this whole thing was difficult for the Lord of Rivendell and that he was doing his best to keep it buried and accept what came his way. “Anything else you need, Thranduil, please do let me know. You have Rivendell’s full support.”
Thranduil dipped his head in thank you and watched as Elrond turned and strode across the courtyard back into the building. He watched until he disappeared inside and then turned back to the Elk, his thoughts now full of Tamuril and Elrond, which irked him.
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demiclar · 2 years
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Grief
Grief - AO3
Zavala and Ikora discuss an old friend.
(Also this is the last chapter of my writing challenge! You can find some of the chapters on my page here, and the whole thing is on AO3!)
Zavala wasn’t expecting to find Ikora in his office when he entered, returning to his office after a visit to the HELM to finish processing the last of the paperwork pertaining to the Vanguard’s operations in the Leviathan. He wanted it out of the way. Something was going to change, things were about to get worse, and he wanted to be ready for it. But he hadn’t been expecting to return to find Ikora, in the late evening as night sunk onto the city, inspecting the shelves of his office as if she had not read every book on them already—and even written some of them, as well.
“Zavala.” Her eyes caught his as he entered, and she gave him a polite smile, returning the book she’d been looking at to its place on the shelf. “I was hoping we could speak.”
Zavala gave her a nod, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Of course,” He told her, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. I hope you didn’t wait long?”
“No.” Ikora shook her head, “I asked Targe to notify me when your ship docked in the hangar. I’ve only been here for a few minutes.”
“I see.” He stepped further into the room, rounding his desk and seating himself behind it. Ikora sat down across from him. He tried to hide his surprise at her words. Targe had told him nothing of her request. Perhaps she had asked him not to. “What did you want to discuss?”
He couldn’t help the prick of anticipation in his chest. He and Ikora had little time for formal meetings, and less still for something unscheduled. If she was coming to him unannounced, something must have happened, but what would be urgent enough for her to show up unannounced, but not worth sending him a message?
Ikora smiled again, but there was something sad in her eyes. The formality between them felt almost stifling. There had been times, before their system seemed to be falling apart at the seams, when Zavala had been the stickler for formality but even he would relax in the privacy of their Vanguard meetings. When they could set the business aside and make little jokes or enjoy one another’s company. As much as he had been the one to remind Cayde of their expectations of formality, halfheartedly fighting the loosing battle of returning their focus to official matters, he missed those times greatly.
“I’m not here for a formal meeting, Zavala.” She told him, and he felt himself relax just slightly, but confusion grew in place of his worries. “I wanted to see how you were doing. I know I wasn’t very present when you were dealing with your Nightmare. I’m sorry.”
Zavala couldn’t quite hold her gaze, looking away from her and down at his desk.
“It’s alright, Ikora.” He told her, lifting his eyes once more. “It was difficult to overcome, but I did. I have been holding onto my doubts for long enough.”
“Do you feel better? Now that it’s over?” Her eyes were colored by the question, curiosity blooming beneath, but mixed with something almost like…desperation. Zavala felt concern stir in his gut.
He shook his head. “No.” He murmured, his voice low. He drew in a deep breath, trying to give Ikora a somewhat warm expression. “I believe in discussing it with Caiatl I described myself as feeling tired and old.”
Ikora smiled softly, looking down as she laced her fingers together on her lap, her legs crossed at the knees, her back straight.
“I can certainly understand the feeling.” She murmured, and there was something weary in her expression as her smile fell.
“You visited the Leviathan, early on.” Zavala recalled, “was there someone waiting for you?” He asked, then worried he’d been too intrusive. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
Ikora drew in a deep breath. “There was.” She confirmed, her voice soft. Her eyes were sad when she met his. “Cayde.”
Zavala felt his chest ache at the mere mention of their old friend. He had worried himself if he might face a Nightmare of Cayde, or a mass of Guardians whose deaths he felt responsible for, but Hakim had been the first warrior he’d lost in battle. Every death that had weighed on him afterwards had lined up behind the face of his son, boring into him with lifeless eyes.
“I had…begun to wonder if facing him might be better for me. Or if I would just be returning to something I’d rather not relive.” Zavala had seen how deeply Cayde’s death had impacted her. They were still working to bridge the gap it had split between them, the loss of their friend creating a chasm that at the time had seemed impossible to cross. Zavala knew now that it wasn’t, but some days were harder for them than others.
“We are not responsible for his death.” Zavala reminded her quietly. “ You are not responsible for his death.” They were words he’d uttered to himself over and over, late at night when the video feeds from the Guardian’s Ghost haunted his memory. When Cayde’s voice rasped in his ear.
You tell Zavala and Ikora…the Vanguard…is the best bet I ever…lost.
Cayde wanted them to know he didn’t regret it, and yet his last words had cut through Zavala like a knife because was it not his duties to the City and to the Vanguard that had gotten him killed? Cayde had taken action against a threat that would eventually move against the City if they let it, and Zavala had sent him one Guardian to support his efforts. One Guardian. Would things have been different if he’d listened? If he had given the threat that was Uldren Sov the attention he deserved?
But wishing would get them nowhere.
Ikora’s lips were pressed together tightly, and she gave him a stiff nod in acknowledgment of his words, but did not speak.
“What did he say to you?” Zavala asked instead.
Ikora frowned. “He talked about Crow. He was angry at me for welcoming him to the Tower. He called him a murderer.”
Zavala sighed wearily. It was a sentiment they’d both heard plenty of times, Hunters angry for retribution that had already been delivered by someone else’s hands, so blinded by their anger that they couldn’t properly remember the man in whose name they fought so hard. As much as his anger wanted to win, as much as he wanted to lash out at them for corrupting the memory of his friend with their false ideals, he just felt hollow. Tired and old, yet again.
He met Ikora’s eyes across the space between them. “They are only your doubts.”
“Mine and many others.” Ikora breathed, “but still untrue.”
Zavala felt a hint of tension bleed out of him, grateful Ikora could acknowledge the false claims. Still, he knew it didn’t make bearing those doubts and fears any easier.
“Cayde would have liked him.” She murmured. “Crow. He would have thought that Uldren becoming a Guardian was the best trick of fate there ever was, but he would have been kind to Crow.”
Zavala smiled softly, pressing his head into one of his hands. Cayde and Crow were similar in many ways, brash, bright as fire and sharp as knives, they would have wreaked havoc if they could.
“We wouldn’t have survived the stunts they would have pulled together.” He murmured, and Ikora laughed softly. It was weak, a bare chuckle, but Zavala’s heart bloomed to hear it. When was the last time either of them had been truly happy? Not bone weary and exhausted by the weight of their roles.
“No,” She agreed, her voice warm with her smile. “We wouldn’t have. But I would have liked to see it, anyway.”
Zavala watched her for a long moment, breathing around the ache in his chest that had tightened to the point of pain, hoping the memories of Cayde’s rasping voice would not return in his dreams.
“Do you want to face him?” He asked her, and Ikora frowned again, drawing in a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” She met his eyes, looking tired and afraid. “I worry that if I do, I will not be able to overcome my doubts. But I also wonder if those fears are only my desire to choose cowardice.”
“It isn’t cowardice to acknowledge when things are difficult for us.” Zavala murmured. “And you don’t need to face your Nightmare through a ritual and a combat mission to overcome your own doubts. In fact, I’m not sure facing your Nightmare would be an entirely beneficial experience.”
Ikora’s expression turned guarded. “Why?”
Zavala felt his chin dip just slightly. “You said your Nightmare was of Cayde. The Guardian has been going aboard the Leviathan during all the missions where we have attempted to sever Calus' connection to the pyramid and overcome the Nightmares. Every time, they have to fight someone. For Caiatl, they fought Ghaul, for Crow, they fought the Fanatic. If your Nightmare is Cayde, I imagine they’d be fighting either Cayde or Uldren. I cannot imagine that would be a beneficial battle for anyone, to fight or simply to witness.”
Ikora breathed a sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Zavala.” Her eyes drifted away from him, shifting around his office before she met his gaze again. “Is it wrong for me not to face him?”
Her voice was quiet, holding a tentativeness Zavala had rarely ever heard from her.
“It’s not.” He told her, holding her gaze. “I believe, when you’re ready, you will face him in your own way. Nightmare or not.”
Ikora nodded. “Thank you.” She breathed, and he reached across his desk, holding out his hand. When she set her hand in his, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, and after a moment, she gave him a sad smile. “He wouldn’t want this for us.”
Zavala returned her sad smile. “No, he wouldn’t.”
Cayde would rather they remember him with epic tales of his exploits, jokes and laughter that honored his life and the man he was. He wouldn’t want them to be dragged down by uncertainty and grief.
“I was going to finish some paperwork,” Zavala began, gauging Ikora with his eyes. “But, perhaps we could both use a small break. And, since you’re here–”
Light kindled in Ikora’s eyes, warm and hopeful. “Ramen?” She asked, and Zavala smiled.
“My thoughts exactly.”
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bradenthompson · 1 year
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Rating the Christmas songs on Tidal's Christmas Classics playlist
I only have some shame saying that I like most Christmas music, even when I was working in retail, so understand this is not written by someone going "ooooh grr Christmas music sucks." But I noticed Tidal's Christmas playlist is packing a few deep cuts, and I thought We'd have a little fun and give em some ratings (going until failure--there are a lot of these)
Mariah Carey - All I Want For Christmas Is You: 7/10 Is it safe to say this song is about as ubiquitous as any Christmas song ever written? It has the benefit of the singer not being dead, which must go some way towards its popularity. Any potential overplay disregarded, there are things about this song that work. I like the bells at the top, the backup vocals are funny, Mariah's got some pipes. I'm never itching to throw it on, but it's rare I skip it.
Brenda Lee - Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree: 5/10 I respect the retro vibes, I do, but this song has never done much for me. It's best moment is referencing a better Christmas song. Rockin' is a load-bearing word here, and I think it has some people thinking this song is more fun than it is. Saxophone is fun.
The Temptations - Silent Night: 6/10 Most of the points are coming from just how much this song is doing. Not a standard cover of Silent Night at all. Very chill atmosphere, everyone sounds dead on. Don't think I need it to be the six minutes that it is.
Bobby Helms - Jingle Bell Rock: 4/10 This is another song people trying giving a pass for having some snazz to it, but folks, I do not understand it. It's so boring. That's All I got
Nat King Cole - The Christmas Song: 9/10 I'm compelled to give every Nat Christmas song a 10, and it only loses a point for being The Christmas Song. Not a big favorite of mine. I do appreciate how loose it is, but lyrically it really does feel like going through the motions. Nat is always packing a punch, tho, so it ranks.
Wham! - Last Christmas: 4/10 I'm sorry, Wham!. No one would love to have a Whammer rank than I, but the hook is so boring. The synths are very clean, honestly the instrumental does the heavy lifting, this one.
Bing Crosby - The Little Drummer Boy: 3/10 Again. Bing, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Not your fault. It's The Little Drummer Boy. There are no depths to which this song blows ass. He's such a great voice that he probably has the best version possible, but still. 3.
The Pogues - Fairytale of New York: 9/10 Pleasant surprise. Never heard of this song before now, or The Pogues. This vocalist is so boozy sounding, it's great. Piano is very whatever sounding and then the FUCKING accordion busts in the tempo jumps, Kristy MacColl joins the battle, and shit ramps up so fast. Halfway through the song I was ready for a 5 and my tune thoroughly changed. Have to respect it.
Donny Hathaway - This Christmas: 8/10 Didn't know this song was this old. I'm a fan, and this incarnation ranks with the best ones. Drums are so good, Donny sells it. If you like fucking on Christmas, I'm just saying you have options.
Boys II Men - Let It Snow: 6/10 Points for originality, but I've never really been a Boyz II Men boy/man. This is another one that feels a lot longer than it is. Christmas R&B has a hell of a time coming up with things to sing about other than Christmas activities with your special friend. "god must have sent you down from heeeeeeaaaaaaaven" is a good moment.
Frank Sinatra - Let It Snow: 7/10 I will always rank Bing over Frank, I'm afraid, but I'll give it up for him. He does as good as you can do with this job, the backing vocals halfway through make for a fun, unique moment. Most Christmas covers fall on their face when they try to add anything new, which I cannot say for this one. Part where Frank says "that fire is mmmmm delightful" gives me the heebie jeebies.
Elton John - Step Into Christmas: 7/10 MMMMMM. It pains me to only go as high as 7. I want to go higher. Come on. It's Elton. The hook is so fucking crisp. His pants on the album art. The la la la la la's. The RIFF mmmm. But I can't escape the feeling that there's one too many things going on in the composition. Especially if you're listening with headphones, and I suppose fuck me for doing that bc who listens to these songs alone. It's close to an 8, I'll say that.
Darlene Love - Christmas (Baby Please Come Home): 9/10 Powerful statement from a Christmas song with one of the less inspired hooks. But the instrumentation is everything to this song. And Darlene's got a serious voice. Oscar goes to the drums. This is an ideal song for hollering and Darlene was right to go for it.
The Jackson 5 - Santa Claus Is Coming To Town: 4/10 Here's where I delegitimize this entire list, bc I can't say I love any of the Jackson 5 Christmas efforts. Like, I already don't care for this specific song at the best of times and no I don't think the "sAAAAnta Claus" so many artists go for saves it. Sorry, Tito, Jackson 5 member I've selected at random.
Eartha Kitt - Santa Baby: 10/10 Yeah, you heard me. I do not understand thinking the hate in the slightest, apart from the awful Bublé cover. Eartha has one of the best voices of this era and she never gets the credit I think she deserves. Best Christmas song where a woman asks a very rich stupid man to buy her a platinum mine. "Come and trim my Christmas tree/with some decorations bought at Tiffany's." So good.
John Lennon/Yoko Ono - Happy Xmas (War Is Over): 5/10 idk, man. I didn't expect these two to do something generally appealing, in a way I applaud them for writing a Christmas ballad with a lil bit of sass to it. "Yes, Happy Christmas... to some people hmmhhmhmhmhmhmm." Why the Silent Hill strings.
Destiny's Child - 8 Days of Christmas: 8/10 "You know Christmas?" Great first line. Special place in my heart for all Christmas songs that are about and only about getting swagged out. Also for Christmas songs that feel incidentally about the holiday. Fun one.
Band Aid - Do They Know It's Christmas?: 0/10 Awful. Shit's for the birds. Deplorable pond scum. Might be my least favorite Christmas song ever. Breaks into being one of the worst Christmas songs ever, so fucking cloying and boneless. This song pats you on the head like you're a child. Get it out of here.
Bing Crosby - White Christmas: 10/10 Bing! Biiiiiiiiiiiing! It's Biiiiiiiiiiing! He's from Spokane! I'm from Spokane! Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Vince Guaraldi - Linus and Lucy: 10/10 All time rager for the ages, though I may somewhat object to it being a Christmas song. I welcome it, don't get me wrong, look at the score, it's just odd. There are most Christmas-leaning Peanuts songs on this very album. Alas. Great tune.
Justin Bieber - Mistletoe: 5/10 Oh, what? I'm supposed to give Biebs a zero on principle or something? I'll have you know he's got some earworms. Except I'm not so convinced this is one of them. idk, I feel like as far as subject matter goes, mistletoe as a tradition is low-hanging. Too easy. Try harder. Regardless, "the wise men follow the star/the way I follow my heart" is uh--its good. It's a good line.
Michael Bublé - I'll Be Home For Christmas: 6/10 inoffensive. That's what I got. Buble can lay it down when he wants, but almost all of his Christmas diddies are just going through the motions. Rarely does he make it his own, and when he does we wish he didn't (google Santa Buddy). Eh.
The Ronettes - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: 5/10 Tempo is fun, and Ronettes are always a treat. This is another case of a song just being really hard to make fun. Not a favorite of mine, but I don't totally hate it.
Elvis Presley - Blue Christmas: 9/10 Apologies in advance, I really fuck with this one. Never a skip for me. If you already don't like him, this one song will not change your mind. My grandpa could do a mean rendition of this one; honestly might be what I'm thinking about with this rating.
John Williams - Home Alone Theme: 7/10 Good on Tidal for tossing this one in. Good Christmas playlist has a variety of pulls. Can't say I love it, John always did have a "sound" for any film involving children and it's not my favorite type of work from him. Still, nice to see it here.
The Temptations - Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer: 3/10 Sorry, lame song removed from Rankin-Bass. Temptations are really going for it, but they don't melt my chilly heart.
Judy Garland - Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas: 8/10 Before embarking on this, I actually didn't know Judy Garland had done any Christmas music, let alone a whole Christmas album. I'm into it. Anyone else ever think the title of this song sounds a bit facetious?
Gene Autry - Frosty The Snowman: 6/10 Can't get too mad at this one. Combination of the album art and how goofy this version is. Saying it's bad feels like telling a six year old they're acting cringe. Good for Gene, he knew what this song is supposed to sound like. If nothing else. And I think there's literally nothing else.
The Jackson 5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: 2/10 Man, I was about to rate this one seriously, then the kiss sfx played two seconds in and i winced so hard my hand slipped and I hit the 2 key. Crazy. But seriously, I can't do this one. Michael's performance borders on his worst ever, but I'll give him credit for just how long he holds the note at the end. Also funny how the implication of the outro is a large group of people attempting to silence him. S/O to whichever one tells him to shut up, lmao.
The Supremes - My Favorite Things: 9/10 I'm not the arbiter of what is and is not a Christmas song, but this song's on thin ice. That said, I like this version a lot. Maybe more than the original. The oooooOOOOOoooo's are fun. The big band feel does a lot for this one.
RUN-DMC - Christmas In Hollis: 10/10 Heeeeeellllllll yeah. You gotta hand it to them. Not a request. Hand it to them right now. Rocks so hard. Turning them in a spotless peer review.
Paul McCartney - Wonderful Christmastime: 3/10 Okay. I'm aware opinion on this song is split. For some, this is a Christmas diamond in the rough. Some people cannot stand it. I'll tell you what, the synths do create a mood of sorts, annoying as they get. That and I don't love the jingle bells that start and simply do not stop. Also feels like the songs runs out of things to do like a quarter of the way in. Can't say I hate it, but I'm far from liking it.
Wizzard - Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day: 2/10 This sounds like a Christmas song written as a tax write-off. Not an original bone in its body, I forgot this one as soon as it was over. Poor effort.
Chuck Berry - Run Rudolph Run: 6/10 Very eh on this one. This isn't a sound criticism, but it just sounds like everything else Chuck was doing at the time. This is another song I forget exists until the holiday season. Chuck's done better.
The Jackson 5 - Up On The House Top: 4/10 Just learning of this song right now. I mean, this version. They still aren't getting to me, sad to say. It's a little fun, but hmmmmm. Not stunning me.
Johnny Mathis - Sleigh Ride: 9/10 I'll be real. I rank Sleigh Ride. One of my preferred tenured Christmas songs. Johnny perfectly executes, too. Some versions are doing way too much, this one does just enough. These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives...
Alvin and the Chipmunks - The Christmas Song: 10/10 WOOOOOOOOOOOO. Love this one, I don't care who knows. Total earworm, I am a child again. You get basically all the Chipmunks lore in like twenty seconds total. Marvel of worldbuilding. I STILL WANT A HULA HOOOOOOOP (starting to feel the strain of writing all of these)
Will update this when I got the energy back
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tathrin · 8 months
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✏ 🐺 ⚠ 📚 please! :D
Answers for this LotR ask-game.
✏ rewrites: here's a pencil, which ONE thing in the novels/films are you changing?
Oh gods, just one? Ughhh that's hard. Okay, even stretching the definition of "one thing" to the utmost limit to be an entire character subplot...I'm still torn between Give Arwen An Actual Coherent Plotline (which I think would do the best thing to fix for the movies) and Show Legolas And Gimli's Friendship Arc (because that's at least something that just gets largely overlooked-and-glossed-over with the occasional flicker of lip-service paid to it at random rather than being an absolute cluster-fuck of incoherent half-assed thoughts that stumble all over themselves without any actual fucking resolution/explanation like the Arwen Stuff). Much as I would personally like to see the latter, I think if I were actually given the chance to change one thing, then it would be the Arwen Situation just because that's such a fucking MESS and it really needs fixed.
If we're going with literally just one single thing, then: Denethor burns to death on the pyre instead of running like three fucking miles to the end of the city what the fuck.
🐺 GROND GROND GROND: which of the battles is your favourite to watch? is there a combat scene in particular that you enjoy?
The Battle of Helm's Deep. As much as it bothers me that the elves are there without any plausible explanation, and especially that they just fucking disappear from the entire plot as soon as it's over, it also looks so damn good to watch! And my irritation is mitigated by the GRIN that I absolutely cannot stop from breaking out over my features every single time I hear "that is no orc-horn!" and see the look on Théoden's face when Haldir walks in (and the smug little grin on Legolas's face too because let's face it, he doesn't get to be a little shit in the movies the way he is in the books and that is a crime) as well as by the absolute fucking BEAUTY of that battle itself, not least of all the heart-wrenching scene where Haldir dies. THAT MUSIC OH MY FUCKING GODS AM I RIGHT!? Gods, even when you're watching it as critically as possible and picking-out the bits where cause/effect break-down and narrative order was shuffled in ways that don't make logistical sense and picking up on the minute little errors and inconsistencies...it's still so damn fucking good.
(btw I know I cannot be the only one who noticed, but since it seems that many of the little details that the early movie-fandom used to talk over obsessively in the 2000s have fallen out of common knowledge in more recent years...who else desperately wants to see the footage of the cut where it's Legolas who hauls Gimli out of the water after the wall is breached, rather than Aragorn? Because it's Legolas's hand that actually pulls him up, but then the footage cuts to Aragorn helping Gimli away...but it was Legolas whose hand pulls him out of the water, Legolas who yeeted himself down the stairs on an orc-shield to get to Gimli, so why don't we get to see the rest of that!?)
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PJ, the Extended Editions are godsends don't get me wrong...but could we have ALL the deleted footage sometime? Pretty pretty please with elevensies on top?
⚠ fucking buckleberry ferry: from the clip of Dom and Billy discussing the one swear word they could theoretically get by censors, which line would you change?
I honestly don't know, because I don't know that that would actually do anything to add to the weight of things? But a very soft, "oh fuck" when Théoden sees the Nazgûl flying towards him, perhaps!
📚 boxset: how were you first introduced to Middle Earth?
My little brother actually read them first, and he made me read them. I think I was in eighth grade? Give or take a year or two.
Our mom had a collection of "classic novels" that she'd gotten from some kind of book-club some years back, so we had copies of all four books on the "fancy shelves" in the living room next to all the "real literature" and boring biographies and stuff, so I read nice pretty leatherbound editions first, with lovely maps and illustrations, and I think that added to the "weight" of the story in a way, because none of my other fantasy/sci-fi books ever merited such treatment so it made them feel special.
But it also made me leery of reading them tbh, because I'd spent my whole youth being told that the books I liked were crappy books that just Could Not Compare to the Worthwhile Literature that real readers liked (and which were, imo, usually shit). So I'd actually ignored LotR my whole life because it was on the Fancy Book Shelf so I assumed they were also crap. But my brother insisted that I suck-it-up and read them anyway, and that I had to read all of them and not just The Hobbit and call it a day (he knows what a stubborn, contrary person I am, and that it was A: going to take several thousand words for me to give them a fair chance and also B: the Hobbit alone wasn't going to blow me away) and I was reluctant, but he persisted and I did and oh boy was he right. Then like one or two years later, we found out they were making movies so of course we had to re-read them so we'd be ready and I think we both read them at least a dozen times between then and the release of Fellowship, to the point where mom eventually bought us each our own paperback copies so keep us from pestering each other lmao.
(The Silm took a while. I had to literally trap myself on a train freshman year of college with nothing else to do in order to get through that one the first time shhhh.)
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