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cilil · 11 months

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𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝒾𝓇𝓈

Characters: Manwë, Varda, Oromë, Námo and Irmo; reader's gender is unspecified - all up to your imagination~

Featuring: Dom/sub dynamics/undertones, predator/prey kink, soul sex

Warnings: Possessive themes, bit of rough foreplay and sex, smut/suggestive

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who voted on my recent polls. I'll be trying out a bit of a new format, combining headcanons with small scenes/imagines, with this one and hope you'll find it enjoyable. If there are other characters you'd like to see for this, feel free to suggest and keep an eye out for future polls!♡

Manwë

ଘ The Elder King is a romantic lover and enjoys courting you, though even during these early stages he finds ways to subtly claim you for himself: He showers you with gifts like jewellery with sapphires (his signature gemstone), robes in his colours, objects decorated with feathers or bird-shaped items and writes poetry for you which he recites and sings for you both in private and in public.

ଘ Once Manwë has successfully conquered your heart, he makes sure to publicly display his affection for you by making you sit on his lap, kissing you and wrapping his wings around you at every opportunity.

ଘ In the bedroom, little remains of Manwë's calm, serene demeanour. He loves marking your body with his talons, covering you in love bites and engaging in breath play to make you feel just how much you need his element - need him.

ଘ Manwë has a breeding kink that gets particularly strong when he's in heat or nearing it and loves filling you up to make sure that his essence remains inside you as long as possible and his scent stays on you, deterring any other suitors from approaching you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Your lips part to release a soft gasp when Manwë pulls you closer and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck, biting and sucking gently to leave blossoming marks. His mighty talons draw patterns on the naked skin of your back, causing you to arch and lean into his embrace; he is careful not to hurt you, though you already know you will be covered in thin red lines once he's done with you.

"My little dove," Manwë croons between kisses, his voice deceptively soft; he caresses you like a warm, gentle breeze, though you know a mighty storm is slumbering underneath his calm exterior, ready to be unleashed, should anyone else attempt to touch what is his.

"Yours," you whisper. Your hands claws at his robes as Manwë continues to mark you as his for all to see; the Elder King's mate and lover that no other would ever dare to lay claim to.

Varda

✧ The Queen of Stars is often absent from the daily affairs of Valinor in favour of tending to her creations in the depths of Eä, but she makes sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to even when she's not present.

✧ Varda loves giving you pretty necklaces, bracelets and other jewellery adorned with charms that are filled with her starlight, protecting you and burning anyone who attempts to touch you without her permission.

✧ When she makes love to you, she ensures that you will remember her touch and others see the marks she left on you as will - in case anyone was doubting that you are hers - by painting luminous constellations on your skin with her fingers, twinkling little stars reminiscent of notes in a song of her love for you.

✧ Varda also gives you water from her wells to drink, enjoying the thought of her essence filling you and providing you with light and refreshment. She will stop at nothing to make sure the powers of darkness and evil stay far away from you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Hold still, my little light," the Queen orders, pushing you down and into the soft sheets of her bed with gentle authority.

You blink nervously when you see the tip of her index finger glowing with sacred, primordial light, ready to paint the canvas of your bare chest with tiny, glittering stars.

"Will it hurt?"

Varda smiles and leans down to kiss your brow. "Of course not. There is no evil in your heart, dearest; my light would never hurt you."

Her starlit touch is hot, and for a moment you fear it'll sear your skin, but as soon as she begins caressing you, reminiscent of the gentle strokes of a paintbrush, the sensation changes to a comfortable heat. You raise your head to watch as she turns you into another one of her masterpieces, and your beloved Queen looks pleased whenever her nimble fingers elicit small noises from you, her luminous eyes holding your gaze while she slowly works her way lower and lower.

Oromë

♘ Oromë is a hunter with all his heart, so once he has caught you, he certainly won't let anyone take away his favourite prey. He loves giving you trophies from his hunting trips to wear as accessories, a not-so-subtle message to all that you now belong to him.

♘ But that won't satisfy him for too long. The huntsman of the Valar is a wild and passionate lover and covers you in bite and scratch marks every time he takes you, making sure they are visible too.

♘ Oromë loves all sorts of cuddling and physical affection and actively initiates it whenever an opportunity presents itself. While this is certainly done for his and your enjoyment, he also wants others to see that you are his and his alone and ensure that his scent will be all over you even when he isn't around, in order to ward off unwanted attention from other suitors. For the same reason, he also breeds you thoroughly.

♘ If you are a good little pet for him, Oromë will reward you with a lovely collar he made specifically for you, letting everyone know that he has claimed you and intends to keep you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Oromë's large hands hold on to your hips with a strong, bruising grip that has you whining into the moss below. You already know not to expect mercy whenever you play his favourite game of hunting and catching his prey, a symbolic earning of his right to claim you.

"What a lovely little deer," Oromë purrs and leans forward to bite the juncture between your neck and shoulder while he enters you with the fierce determination of a feral beast.

Your cries and moans only spur him on to thrust deeper and harder, his hands keeping you in place with the strength and steadiness of an experienced hunter. As far as you know, you two are alone in this part of his woods, yet something tells you that he wouldn't mind if one of the other hunting parties found you – to see him taking you, marking you, filling you with his seed to ensure that his scent you be on you for days to come.

Námo

☯ The mark of a Fëantur may be subtle, though no less intense than those visible on your skin. Once Námo has taken you as his lover, he binds your fëa to his, leaving an echo of his song and a ghost of his touch with you wherever you go. Those proficient in ósanwe and/or attuned to spiritual matters feel the Doomsman's presence wherever you go, no more than one call through your bond away.

☯ Nevertheless, Námo knows that not all Incarnates are able to sense and heed his silent warning, so he also presents you with clothes and jewellery to adorn your body. He likes long, flowing robes in dark colours, veils and little charms shaped like crows and ravens, similar to his own attire, and greatly enjoys seeing you wearing those, an unmistakable sign of belonging to him.

☯ When he isn't present and you are outside of his halls, Námo may occasionally guide your fate in whichever way he sees fit to make sure you return safely. Those who attempt to harm you will face the Doomsman's wrath.

☯ Yet as much as he wishes to protect you, Námo wants nothing more than to own and mark you in the most intimate way possible - which is your fëa. Should you ever be slain, or once his need and longing overwhelm him, he will whisk you away to Mandos, keep you there until the end of the world and fill your spirit with his song and essence time and time again until you know no other than him.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Cool lips kiss the nape of your neck when Námo takes you, slowly and deliberately, enjoying the way your smaller form trembles in his arms. He's sitting on his throne with you on his lap, your robes covering the illicit image of the Master of Fate penetrating you, yet the small moans falling from your lips and the movement of his hips betray the truth.

"Let me have you," Námo whispers, and you know he wants more than to claim just your body, so you open your mind to him as well.

The sensation of his fëa reaching out to touch and intertwine with yours is just as intense as the joining of your bodily forms. Your helpless noises increase in volume despite your best efforts to hold back, yet Námo doesn't seem to mind – in fact, you begin to suspect that he wants the residents of Mandos to look up at his throne and watch, so they will know who you belong to for all ages to come.

Irmo

☾ No one has escaped the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams without remnants of glittering dream dust on their clothes and skin, and you are certainly no exception, quite the contrary: As Irmo's favourite little butterfly, he makes sure to touch, embrace and cuddle you to his heart's content, and ever since your courtship started, you feel like the dream dust has never left you again. He feigns innocence, yet you suspect that this is very much his intention, so everyone can see his touch upon you even when he isn't around.

☾ Irmo crafts a special dream catcher for you and makes sure you wear it at all times, an unmistakable sign of his love for you. It contains a small part of himself and his power, and he taps into it to ward off nightmares.

☾ He also likes entering your dreams, spending time with you there and, most importantly, ensuring that no other suitors may ever find their way there, because you belong to him and him alone. When you sleep in his gardens, you often wake up feeling his lips and hands kissing and caressing your body, leaving trails of dream dust and, at times, colourful patterns on your skin.

☾ As much as he enjoys claiming your body, he desires nothing more than to possess you in spirit as well, so that the union of your fëar leaves a permanent mark on your very being, filling you with his song and his essence.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Here? In the middle of your garden?"

Irmo merely laughs in response and rolls you over on your back to climb on top of you, his iridescent butterfly wings fluttering excitedly.

"Why not, my darling petal? Is our love not the fairest and most beautiful thing my garden has ever seen?"

Glittering dream dust falls from his wings and hair as he leans forward to kiss you, and you soon find yourself feeling both soothed and excited by his presence and the comfortable weight of his fána on top of you.

Sensing your emotions, Irmo's gentle hand sneaks between your legs and finds you willing and eager for him, ready to be taken. He breaks the kiss to gaze at your face, delighting in your blushing cheeks, half-lidded eyes and parted, wet lips, panting softly as you look up at him.

"I will make love to you until you fall asleep in my arms," Irmo whispers, "and when you do, I will continue to make love to you in your dreams."

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 2 months

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The Guardian, Chapter 3

I needed an emotional break after working on so much Théodred stuff lately (I ♥️ him, but he dies!) so I did some more of my continuing Haldir story. Parts one and two are available for catch up, but the TL;DR is Haldir finds a small girl lost on her own. They can’t speak to each other because she only speaks Rohirric (though he’s now taught her a few basic Sindarin words), but he’s taking her to other elves who can help figure out who she is and where she belongs. This is my Haldir, who is a gentle, sweet person but is EXTREMELY reserved and kind of awkward, whereas Mildrithe is…not. Chapter 4 (next week) will finally be from her perspective!

(Art by the incomparable @brigwife )

************

Haldir let Mildrithe sleep until the morning sun stirred her on its own, an errant beam of light slicing through a crack in their little tree shelter and falling across her closed eyes. She blinked them open slowly and yawned, and he was relieved to see no traces of the previous night’s frightening dream still on her face. Her calm expression, however, was in sharp contrast to the chaos that framed her cheeks and surrounded her entire head when she sat up. Her hair, freed by the river from the messy remains of her old braid, had dried in a riotous amber cloud that sprang away from her scalp in all angles and directions.

As he watched her repeatedly attempt to push the same curls out of her still sleepy eyes, he raised a hesitant arm to help but then quickly lowered it again. It was one thing to carry her over rough terrain or to let her take his hand when she was frightened–such actions were necessary for her safety and well being. They were part of his duty as a protector. But for him to touch her hair now was something else entirely. To initiate that kind of personal contact, even just to use his own hands to tame those curls and wrangle them back into a simple binding, felt deeply presumptuous to him. That was the job of a parent, someone who saw not only to the protection of life and limb but also to the provision of nurturing care. It wasn’t his place, and he worried that she would be made just as uncomfortable by it as he was. But even as he resisted the notion, he also balked at the idea of leaving her intentionally disheveled. It felt like negligence to deny her the dignity of a neat appearance and the practicality of getting that hair out of her face when it was easily within his power to help.

Before he reached a conclusion in his own mind, she let out a frustrated huff and stood to fish around in her pockets, eventually pulling out a short leather band. Thrusting it at him, she plopped down in his lap, either oblivious to his startled gasp or choosing to ignore it, and looked back at him expectantly over her shoulder.

“Min feax.” She pointed an exasperated finger at her head.

He had been a soldier long enough to recognize an order when one was given, even if the exact words were unfamiliar. Swallowing his hesitancy, he gently smoothed the hair back from her face and raked his fingers loosely through it. He winced a little each time he hit a knot that tugged at her head, but she made no complaint and soon her unruly halo of frizz had been subdued enough that he could weave it into a strong, tight braid that he tied off with the band she’d provided.

He leaned around to get a look at his work from the front, and the sight of the face looking back startled him. Cleaned of old dirt and mud by the river yesterday and now with her hair neatly done, she looked even younger and more out of place than before. More fragile. He felt a clench in his chest and dropped his hands to his sides.

She turned her head back and forth, feeling the braid swish around behind her neck, and gave him a satisfied nod before moving off his lap and out of their little shelter. He gathered up his things, checked to be sure every ember of their fire was out and then joined her. They each took a swig from their water canteen and had a few bites of the food that remained in his pack, and then they set off again deeper into the forest.

Their misadventure in the river the day before had actually sped them along their path, the swift-moving water carrying them further and faster downstream than they would have made it solely on foot. He estimated now that they could reach the safety of a temporary patrol talan by nightfall and then the closest staffed post, where more help would be available, early the next day.

As they walked, she kept her usual place close by his side, but she occasionally skipped a few steps off their path to look closer at a clump of bright orange mushrooms or to point out a long, fuzzy caterpillar inching its way across a fern frond. When they passed a small glade that was nearly carpeted in delicate, bell-shaped white snowdrops, she gave an excited squeak and plucked several to bring along. Separating one out, she held it up to him. “Niphredil?” The Sindarin came from her mouth slowly but clearly.

He nodded. “Niphredil, very good. You remembered.” He accepted the proffered flower and admired it before tucking it into a pocket. She took several blossoms of her own and put them behind her ears or pushed them into the plaits of her braid, and when she looked up at him for approval he nodded again and smiled.

They made steady progress, and her pace was faster than yesterday, perhaps the result of the extra sleep she had that morning. They walked mostly in silence, though she occasionally talked to herself in a low voice, mumbling just loudly enough that he could hear the unknown words strung together in an amorphous mush of sound. As she talked, he wondered how she would describe this whole experience to her fellow Rohirrim one day. Would she remember only the terrors she had faced, or would she make room in the tale for the beauty of his beloved Lórien as well? For the golden leaves of the winter’s mallorns or the brilliant field of stars that shimmered above the treetops like silver dust? For the frost-tipped woodland flowers that sparkled in the first light of day?

Amidst these thoughts, a strange and unexpected question suddenly formed in his mind–how would she remember him when she told this tale to others? What would she choose to say about the quiet, solemn elf who appeared unexpectedly in her life and looked after her for a short time? But no sooner had the question emerged, unbidden, than he shook it out of his head, reproving himself for idle thoughts at a time when he should be focused on the task at hand.

Their way was smooth and uneventful until the early afternoon, when he began to notice a slight change in her gait as they walked, a minor favoring of her left foot. When the favoring grew worse and she began to limp outright, he brought them to a rest and pointed to the foot. She reached down and gingerly drew off her battered boot, exposing a woolen sock that had worn through at the toes, all of which were now rubbed raw and bleeding.

It never ceased to surprise him how quickly the bodies of mortal beings betrayed them. Though not often, he had fought alongside men in battle before, and he had seen firsthand how they took injuries more easily and healed with more difficulty. Some elves looked down on this fragility of men, but he found it oddly moving. To go through the world and face the very same risks and dangers while trapped in a body that was so much more susceptible to hurts took bravery that he believed many elves didn’t appreciate and couldn’t match.

The pain in Mildrithe’s foot was nothing compared to a battlefield injury, but it did require redress or it would only get worse. He eased the sock off her foot and poured a little water from the canteen onto her toes to rinse lingering dirt away from the broken skin. While the foot dried, he searched his pack for anything soft and pliable, finally drawing out a felt square that he usually kept wrapped around his pocket knife and a few other small tools. Now he wrapped it carefully around her foot, trying not to put any pressure on tender places, and slid her boot back into place.

She took a few tentative steps back and forth and looked up at him, smiling, but the relief they both felt was cut short by a distinct cracking noise in the distance behind them. She didn’t hear it but clearly understood the way his face snapped to attention, and she immediately froze, one foot still raised mid-step. He strained for any hint of further activity, and soon it came, loud enough that even she heard it—the tread of heavy feet plodding through the forest, breaking twigs and rustling leaves as they went.

He shoved the ruined sock into her hand and lifted her up into the boughs of the nearest tree, setting her on the highest branch he could reach. She hugged herself to the trunk, both anxious and unsteady, and pulled her dangling legs up into the protective cover of the thick green leaf canopy. He put a finger to his lips before quietly turning away and secreting himself behind another nearby tree to wait for the imminent approach of the intruders.

In a few minutes’ time, a trio of broad, stocky bodies came into view. Orcs. One was a bowman and the other two held short swords, and all three moved slowly, stopping every now and again to check and recheck the scent trail they followed. Haldir silently cursed the loss of his arrows, which had been claimed by the river when he dove in the day before, though in truth he wasn’t sure whether his bow still had its aim and balance anyway after having bounced off of boulders and all kinds of other underwater debris that might have bent the hard yew wood.

Without a better purpose for it now, he gripped the bow in his hands like a bludgeon and held his breath, listening intently to the sound of steps moving ever closer. His mind raced through strategy—timing, angles, approaches—but when the moment presented itself all he needed were his instincts. He sprang from his hiding place, taking a full-body swing with the bow at the nearest orc. It cracked on impact, but the force of the blow knocked the unsuspecting creature backwards and into a companion, sending them both sprawling to the ground. He leaped onto the first prone body, pressing what was left of the bow in his hand across its neck to hold it in place as he snatched the short sword from its side, and he slashed quickly across first one and then the other toppled opponent. As he attempted to stand, the third orc launched itself at him from the side, knocking the sword from his hand, and they grappled for a time, rolling across the leaf-covered ground as each sought to pin the other down or to land a debilitating blow. At last, using a forearm braced against the orc’s chest to force some separation between them, he managed to snake his other hand down to his belt and pull his hunting knife, jamming it into the orc’s side all the way to the hilt.

The dirty, rough hands clasped around his neck immediately slackened. He pulled the knife back out and the orc slid off him, rolling silently into the low brush that surrounded them. He listened carefully for several long moments, ensuring both that he heard no further breath from the three orcs he had just dispatched and no indication that others might still be coming. Hearing nothing but silence, he wiped the blade of his knife on a clump of grass, returned it to his belt, and went to Mildrithe.

She looked down at him from her perch in the tree, eyes wide and face pale. Her boot sat on the ground below her, having slipped off as she tried to scrabble further up the trunk to a higher bough, and her bandaged toes now dangled near his face. He reached up for her and she leaned forward into his arms so that he could lift her back to the ground. But no sooner had he put her on her feet and straightened up again when she cried out, her voice shrill with panic.

“Dreor!” In less than an instant, tears welled up in her eyes and she burst into heaving sobs.

His heart leapt into his throat. He spun around, expecting to see another orc headed their way, but there was nothing but calm stillness behind them. He turned back, but her sobs only increased as he faced her once again. He dropped to his knees, grabbing her shoulders and turning her in a circle, scanning for an injury of some kind. She had been out of harm’s way, but he could think of no other explanation for her cries, which came now as long, shuddering wails that shook the entirety of her small body.

He sat, frozen, his heart pounding with frantic energy but his mind stunned into confused paralysis. She had been in control of herself when he lifted her out of the tree. What could be causing this anguished distress, so unlike anything she had shown before? Dreor? Was she trying to tell him that she was hurt? Was she merely terrified, needing to let out the horror she had swallowed while hiding silently in the tree? Or some other horror brought back to life by this newest brush with violence and death?

He finally took her shoulders once more, attempting to force her focus to his face. “Mildrithe, what do you need? What can I do?” He could only hope that she would understand from his tone and expression alone what he had asked.

Her sobs continued, but at last she raised a small, trembling hand and pointed at his chest. Looking down, he saw a deep red stain spreading slowly across the front of his tunic, clear evidence of a wound he hadn’t felt or even been aware of. He pulled several layers of clothing over his head, laying bare a long gash that ran from his left shoulder to the middle of his collarbone, the handiwork of a sharp claw.

Bunching up his thin undershirt, he wiped his chest, and in the fraction of a second before fresh blood spilled out again he got a clear view of the wound. Wide, but not deep. The kind of injury that bled a lot but caused him no real harm or serious pain. But she didn’t know that. She had seen blood, and perhaps she assumed the worst. That he was seriously hurt. That she would be left all alone once again, only now even farther from home and having lost yet another protector.

He put a hand under her chin and tipped her face up. “Mildrithe, you don’t need to be scared. It’s alright. See?” He pressed the cloth against the wound again and tapped it lightly a few times with his fingertips, keeping his face calm and even as he did so. “It doesn’t even really hurt. It’ll be fine, I promise.” When her weeping continued unabated, he sat back on his heels, adrift in helplessness. He could think of only one thing to do, but he found himself oddly afraid to do it. If he got this wrong, if he somehow made everything worse, he would hate himself. But if the alternative was to do nothing, to let her just continue suffering alone in her distress, he knew that was more unforgivable. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her.

She collapsed into him and hid her face in the soft curtain of his hair. They sat for long minutes holding each other as she cried, unable to just turn off her flood of emotions after the dam had broken. His cheeks blushed a furious red, but he held on tight and rubbed a comforting hand up and down her back, feeling at once broken hearted for her fear and immensely relieved that an embrace seemed to be what she wanted and needed.

When she had at last cried herself out and sobs were replaced by the occasional hiccup, she wiped her face with his sleeve and released her hold on his neck. Her eyes were swollen and red and she looked exhausted, but she managed a small, embarrassed smile. He gave her the water canteen and sat her against a tree while he set to work tearing his undershirt into strips, wrapping them around his neck and shoulder to cover the gash along his collarbone. By the time he was almost done, she had regained enough composure to come hold a loose end as he tied off the final strip, and he pulled his regular shirt and tunic back over his head.

As spent as she looked, she seemed to understand that they had to keep moving. Orcs rarely made it this far into the forest, and it nagged at his conscience to know that he could have stopped them much sooner had he been at his regular post as planned. But if there were three, there might be more, and they couldn’t linger here in the open. They gathered their things and set out again, and after several more hours of silent, uneventful trekking they reached the talan where he intended to spend their last night together.

She accepted the idea of climbing a tree and sleeping on a suspended platform with surprising nonchalance, perhaps having already used up all the energy needed to question or wonder at the day’s events. When they were settled safely on the talan and she had a few bites of food, she curled up next to him again and dropped quickly into wearied sleep even though the sun was barely below the horizon and the mild glow of twilight still surrounded them.

Her cheek rested against his ribs, and he spent a long time simply watching her head gently rise and fall in time with his own breathing. He tried to imagine what Idhrien would think to see him in this position, and he pictured her sitting quietly across from them, her bright, thoughtful eyes watching her husband with both surprise and pride. They had talked many times about starting a family of their own, but only in general terms–something for a later day–and he had always wondered in his heart whether he had the makings of a good parent. His father had been a cold presence in his childhood, and Haldir worried that his own natural reserve might come across as a similar coldness to those in his life that he loved deeply. Gazing at Mildrithe cuddled up to him now, it seemed that maybe his concern was unfounded. Maybe this was proof that he could figure out fatherhood just as he had figured out many other challenges before. Or maybe he was ridiculous for even thinking about it in this situation, holed up on a talan with a child that he barely knew–that wasn’t even his kind–and would be out of his care entirely as soon as he reached other wardens the next day. He sighed and stared up at the stars, lost in a swirl of thoughts, until the soft trill of birdsong replaced the chirping of crickets and the first rays of sunlight returned to the forest.

The morning passed easily with a quiet breakfast and early start. The air was cool, but not unpleasantly so, and within a few hours they had come within scouting distance of the wardens’ post that he knew lay just ahead, out of sight. A familiar whistling signal soon emerged from the trees, and no sooner had he answered it than his brother Rúmil appeared, slipping out of the brush where he had been expertly concealed. Mildrithe drew closer to Haldir’s side, edging behind him as Rúmil approached, but she still followed him forward, reassured by his own calm and no doubt also by the striking similarity between this newcomer and her guardian of the last few days.

“Maedol, hanar,” said Rúmil, placing a hand on his chest and inclining forward slightly.

“Mae govannen, honeg,” replied Haldir. They each threw an arm loosely around the other’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“We weren’t expecting to see you here,” said Rúmil when they separated. His eye trailed down to the bloodstains on Haldir’s clothing, but his evident concern was quickly dismissed with a wave of the hand.

“I wasn’t expecting it either, but sometimes fate forces a change in our plans.” He took hold of Mildrithe’s elbow and inched her out from behind him.

Rúmil cocked an eyebrow at his brother but smiled down at her and gave a courteous bow. She offered a hesitant smile in response. “Pedig edhellen, píneth?”

She looked to Haldir, who answered on her behalf. “She doesn’t. At least, not more than the few words I’ve taught her. She’s a Rohirrim. Her name is Mildrithe.”

“I see.” Rúmil studied her face for a long moment and bit thoughtfully at his bottom lip before looking back at his brother. “And what is she doing with you?”

He listened intently as Haldir described how he had found Mildrithe and what little he knew of her, and as he listened Rúmil’s expression became ever more grave. He shook his head sadly when Haldir reached the end of the tale.

“Yesterday we received a report from Haedirn of dead men found over the border by the Celebrant, only a few leagues from your post. Six of them, headed further north but ambushed by orcs before they made it to the marshes. No women and no survivors, or so he thought. But it’s hard to imagine that a child of men ends up lost and alone so close to such a massacre by pure coincidence.”

Haldir frowned. “None of what you say sets my mind at ease. And if orcs attacked this group at the border, they have only grown bolder since. Three followed us as far as the Hithglad, and there may be more.” He looked down. “Being drawn away from my post has left us without good scouting information.”

“Well that, at least, is a problem that can soon be addressed,” said Rúmil. “One of the wardens here can take the girl the rest of the way to Caras Galadhon, and then you’ll be free to return to your post and reset the watch.” He squatted down in front of Mildrithe, and they eyed each other with cautious interest. “You say she is a Rohirrim? Are you certain?”

“As certain as I can be when I can’t ask her directly. But I’ve heard enough Rohirric in my life to recognize it. That’s the language she speaks, I’m sure. Why?”

Rúmil pulled a small knife from a bag that was slung over his shoulder, and turned it over in his hands so that the hilt faced Mildrithe. She paled at the sight of it and grabbed onto Haldir’s leg, burying her face in the fabric of his tunic. Haldir gave his brother a sharp look.

“Put that away, you’re upsetting her.” He ran a hand gently over the crown of her head and down to her shoulder, where he rested it.

“Haedirn took this from one of the dead men at the border,” said Rúmil, standing up and holding the knife out now for Haldir’s view. “Do you see the charging stag engraved there? That’s a Dunlending symbol, the device of one of their clans that lives now in the Loeg Ningloron. And yet she clearly knows the knife. So if she is really a Rohirrim as you say…what would she be doing in a group of Dunlending men on the move?”

Haldir breathed out a long, slow sigh. He had always known that something horribly wrong must have happened to ever put Mildrithe in his path, but the true weight of her circumstances was easier to forget while her tragedy was still abstract and undefined. To imagine her now in the midst of that ambush, terrified and helpless, filled him with both anger and pity, and he gave silent thanks to Eru that she had somehow escaped. And yet Rúmil’s question was far from the only unknown remaining. Did she know those other men were dead? If she knew, would she be sad, or would she be glad to be free of them? Where could the elves take her to be reunited with her own people if her only connection to those people lay now in a field by the river, hastily buried by Haedirn and his companions?

She pulled back from his side at last and ventured a wary look in Rúmil’s direction before turning her eyes back to Haldir. He pushed the uncertainty and sorrow from his face, if not from his heart, and smiled encouragingly. Today, at least, she was safe, delivered to the protection of this post. Where she went next and what fate ultimately lay before her was not his to control. He had his own obligations to contend with, duties that weighed on him, and no one would think twice at him returning to those duties as quickly as he could.

And yet, as he contemplated that possibility now, a dull, aching feeling crept into his chest and settled heavily on his heart.

**********

Min feax = Old English/Rohirric for “my hair”

Dreor = Old English/Rohirric for “blood”

Maedol, hanar = Sindarin for “welcome, brother”

Mae govannen, honeg = Sindarin for “well met, little brother”

Pedig edhellen, píneth? = Sindarin for “do you speak elvish, little one?”

[Don’t @ me if the translations aren’t perfect, I tried! 🙂]

@konartiste @dancerinthestorm @emmanuellececchi as requested

#lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #haldir #lorien #haldir fanfic #i just like stories of big strong guys who find their soft and squishy sides

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