And the deep river ran on

CELEGORM

an atmospheric rendering of a re-embodied Celegorm with Huan 2.0 commissioned by the excellent @justdrowthings, pictured here changing into his hunting gear in the forests for the first time after being re-embodied, feeling scritchy and ever so alive 🐕 the dog gives no shits. the dog says ‘glad you like the sun and shit but pay attention to me’.

Harvest

Summary: Khamûl fades before becoming one of The Nine.

Pairing: Mairon x Khamûl

Words: 654

Rating: Mature

Warnings: illness, a tiny bit of bodily fluids

As always: If you like this piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

i feel like the problem with this question is best illustrated by a conversation i had with a friend a while back, where i said something like, "i feel very safe with you because you don't do subtle hints and you are always very straight-up with me about what you are thinking and feeling."

On the days Elwing longs to be back in those caves again, speaking of them to the birds of Aman is the only thing that takes her there. How strange, that those cramped, reeking, salt-worn hollows, temporary as everything else in her early life, are the most enduring thing she carries. Even stranger, that she can close her eyes in the eternal gardens of Aman and still feel Sirion's rock caves under her feet, her caves, those unforgiving labyrinths, studded with sharp seaglass and crusted barnacles, slick with bladder-wrack and kelp. Where she need only call but once for her children and trust the caves to send her voice to wherever they'd wandered.

The Blitz here manages to qualify as Britain's Darkest Hour, thus triggering the return of Arthur from the Realm Avalon.

He does not speak a lick of modern English. He speaks an unholy mishmash of Brittonic and Late Classical Latin.

(Honestly I can see the latter becoming a plot point if they manage to get their hands on a Roman Catholic priest to act as a translator. It wouldn't be a perfect arrangement, but probably better than anything else.)

Truthfully he probably gets mistaken for a madman.

Somehow manages to steal a Spitfire out from under the RAF's nose, proceeds to use it to bring down like half an enemy squadron on his own, then lands in a field in the middle of nowhere.

♥ ominous, known, wind, sounds ♥ but the sea is wide, and I can't swim over / neither have I wings to fly ♥ All my stories are about being left, / all yours about leaving. So we should have known.

A great storm roared outside the Havens, the winds making her little home shudder ominously. The twins slept in a basket of shore reeds at her feet, wrapped in blankets stuffed with the down of shorebirds, blissfully unaware of the danger nature posed to them. She worked by candlelight, the sounds of her loom clacking rhythmically. This fabric would become a tunic, she thought, for Eärendil, away at sea. How she wished to sail again, wished for the winds to be useful again, instead of frightful. She understood why he left, again and again. She wished he didn’t have to.

Summary:

At the meeting of their eyes, Melkor smiles, teeth agleam in the candlelight. Behind that smile there is something like victory. Like power infatuated with itself. And then Melkor kisses him: leaning in, he brings their lips together, nothing more than a graze, a delicate flicker of tongue; and Mairon wants it yet does not, doesn’t want it yet burns for it. They warned him about this, his friends, Gothmog and Thuringwethil, they looked at him darkly when he told them who he was bedding and they spoke words of foreboding: that their master cannot love anything he has not destroyed first. He laughed at their concerns, back then. He thought himself invincible. How wrong he was. How foolish. He kisses Melkor back. He throws himself into it, open mouth to open mouth, wants to bite but does not dare to commit such sacrilege. There are a great many things he does not dare to do anymore.