It's teatime, my dear!

⟡ Longing for Lilith ⟡

Jud Duplenticy x f!Reader [Part I ❥ - Part II - Part III ❥] A moment of weakness and God's sense of humor leads Jud to mistakenly assume he is talking to a phone sex operator named Lilith when he calls you, an unsuspecting artist.

⋆˙⟡ bonus content ⟡˙⋆

Fanart by my lovely moot @bananadineapple

⟡ The Haunting ⟡

Jud Duplenticy x Reader [coming soon]

⋆˙⟡ bonus content ⟡˙⋆

Teaser and Moodboard

⟡ The High King’s Shadow ⟡

Gil-Galad x f!Guard! Reader Part I - Part II - Part III ❥ You swore to serve High King Gil-Galad as his personal guard, becoming the shadow that protects his light. But after nearly losing you, he begins to challenge the path your roles dictate.

⋆˙⟡ bonus content ⟡˙⋆

Drabbles - brief insights into their dynamic GIF+Textposts - humorous insights into their romantic dynamic 

⟡ TROP Tropes Series ⟡

TROP Elves x Reader [Galadriel - Elrond - Arondir - Gil-Galad - Celebrimbor - Annatar - Adar] Ever wondered how well our favorite elves from Rings of Power would do at fake dating or as enemies to lovers? This series brings popular tropes from pop culture into Middle-earth.

Fake Dating ⟡ Reverse Tropes ⟡ Forced Proximity

⟡ Bridgerton AU ⟡

Dearest Gentle Reader - Lady Whisledown gossip about the elves and moodboards Bridgerton x trop elves friendships

⟡ Memes and More ⟡

⟢ currently reading

Just literature for my university courses, because exam season starts in two weeks…wish me luck that I'll find the time and energy for my fics in between tests, papers and an internship...

⟢ currently working on

My long-term wip (and first request) The Haunting, which currently sits at over 6k words and isn't even halfway done TT

⟢ last internet search

What items/products are most frequently stolen by ordinary citizens (like makeup or food at self-checkout) - strange what parts of fics I treat as make-believe land and where I want to be accurate XD

⟢ Favorite color

I can never make up my mind, and it's always changing. Right now it's this soft green color of the divider.

⟢ Last song

RAYE's new album is playing on repeat at my place, especially Joy. and Nightingale Lane <3

⟢ Currently reading

The Vegetarian by Han Kang. This book is definitely not my usual pick as far as horror elements and the physicality of the prose go, but I can’t put it down. It haunts and captivates me, but I don’t think I’ll read it a second time - though I definitely need to discuss it with one of my friends because there’s just so much to unpack.

⟢ Currently watching

I’ve also started watching Guy Ritchie’s Young Sherlock with my mom! We weren’t even halfway through the first episode when she turned to me and said: “They’re gonna be gay in this one, aren’t they?"

(They're gay in every incarnation, but the queer undertones? queerbaiting? - we‘ll have to see - in this show are so heavy that even my mom can pick up on the vibes)

Visually, the series is pretty nice, the soundtrack is a banger, and Dónal Finn absolutely carries the whole show acting-wise BUT I’m also skeptical about how they’ll handle Zine Tseng’s character, since I’ve had a deep-seated grudge against Guy Ritchie and his treatment of female characters since the end of The Gentleman…

⟢ Currently craving

Whatever is missing for me to finish my Jud Duplenticy fics and get past this writer's block TT

⟢ Why is your favorite elf your favorite elf?

Again, I always have a hard time deciding on questions like this and this might suprise you, but in terms of character, I’d say Celebrimbor, Galadriel, and Adar. 

Celebrimbor is simply the perfect tragic, doomed by the narrative (and himself) type character. He’s proud, but he’s kind, he wants to do good but also to free his name from the burden of his ancestors and create something great and he ends up bringing about the very ruin he seeks to prevent. There’s just something so deeply human about him (and I still can’t get over the fact that we won’t be seeing him in Season 3 TT)

In Trop, we see Galadriel before she steps into her role as Lady of Light, and I find this portrayal so much more compelling. She is compassionate, but she is also clouded by fear, anger, and grief - and that’s completely understandable! I love how we get to see her imperfections and how she forms connections with other characters and influences them.

To break the awkward silence, she had chattered away about her car repair shop and how Father Jud had helped her through a very difficult time, but truth be told, your brain had switched to autopilot. The remains of the goodbye party you’d thrown at Frankie’s yesterday were stirring in your stomach, mixing with anxiety and the anger that Jud had stood you up (again). It felt wrong that someone would call him -the Jud who lived in your memory - Father, and it only increased the feeling of alienation that had gripped you ever since you’d gotten off the train.

Every now and then, Jolien had studied you from the corner of her eye, but at least she kept whatever she was thinking to herself, and you truly appreciated that. You fitted in here about as well as body shots at an Easter brunch.

Jud was still tall and lanky, but he had grown into his height by now. Everything seemed more compact and coordinated, his stance less tense. A selfish satisfaction flickered through you at the sight of his tattoo peeking out from under the collar, the ink a testament to your shared past that he hadn’t erased. But a few noticeable changes still stood out. First and foremost, the nicely fitting priestly clothes, complete with a clerical collar, the black shirt sleeves rolled up. Apparently, he also kept a stubble these days.

Shit. The bastard was still way too handsome.

Of course, you’d had your share of flings with some attractive people in the city. But what was a well-toned body or a radiant smile compared to the feeling of security falling asleep in Jud’s arms or the warmth in his gaze? It was still there, that warmth.

You swallowed as he took a few steps toward you, your eyes tracing his light freckles, the familiar green-brown speckles in his blue irises, the soft laugh lines around his eyes - also a new addition.

Suddenly, you remembered why you hadn’t called him after his ordination.

It had been a solid thirty minutes of standing in the bathroom, trying to waste time. You had already exhausted your options for grooming - styling your hair, brushing teeth, putting on and taking off makeup - and the meager contents of the medicine cabinet offered an equally limited variety of activities to keep yourself occupied. Apart from two packs of band-aids and a bottle of mild painkillers, there was a gaping void inside, just like the cabinet at your old flat. 

When you and Jud had thrown out all the medication after his rehab, not even the Tylenol survived, just first aid supplies and condoms. Every time you needed a band-aid, the blue box had taunted you, a visible reminder that Jud certainly had sex - just not with you. Excluding the unacknowledged exception, of course.

Sighing, you slammed the cabinet shut and unlocked the door. There was no point in delaying the inevitable any longer.

“How did you sleep?” Jud asked as he set down the plates and poured himself some coffee too. 

“Poorly. It’s just too quiet,” you said honestly. “As if there wasn’t room for my thoughts in the crowded city, and here they’re bursting at the seams.”

Instead of concern, a knowing smile crossed Jud's face. 

“It'll pass,” he assured you. 

You thought of all the things your grandmother had claimed would pass. Test anxiety, heartbreak, hard times, money worries, your feelings for Jud. The latter in particular. It’ll pass, my love, and someday you’ll look at him and he’ll just be another man.

You watched as Jud carefully piled scrambled eggs onto a slice of toast. The sun caressed every curve of his curls, every soft laugh line, kissed the freckles on his crooked nose, and your heart reliably performed the same complicated stunt it had over 10 years ago. 

“Are you promising that as my friend or as a priest?”

Smiling, he looked up from his toast. 

“Both.”

My dear readers and Friends, I'll be honest: my work on The Haunting has been dragging on for a while now (shout-out to my academic projects, university deadlines, and writer's block), but I'm sticking with it. I want to write and share this story no matter how long it takes!

Right now, the beast that is writer's block is sitting on me, and my list of ideas and scenes isn't short, but if you have any thoughts, wishes, predictions etc. feel free to share them anyway - maybe something will spark my imagination!

Until then, I hope these wip snippets will satisfy your curiosity a little without giving too much away!

Annatar ⟡ hiding in a nook

Among all the creatures roaming Middle-earth, feared for their bloodlust, Sauron proved to be by far the most cunning hunter. While wolves formed packs to corner their prey, chasing it to death until they could sink their teeth into its throat and hawks shot down from the sky like lightning before their target could notice them or flee, Sauron preferred a more refined strategy. His prey was chosen with forethought, and every step observed until a pattern revealed itself to him, a pattern he could then sculpt to his liking. He arranged the circumstances thoroughly, sowing doubt to lure them into his snare, convinced it was their own decision.

Sauron had no need for claws or fangs, instead slipping into the minds of his victims, tearing them apart from within, and they thanked him for it. But though he hid behind a veil of deception, he understood that it was never truly an act of free volition. No deer would willingly place its neck in the jaws of a wolf, knowing that it sought blood.

Until today.

As he strode through Eregion that evening, a deer unexpectedly leapt before his feet, a game he never intended to hunt. Clatter of metal pierced the darkness, heavy boots thundering over stone, calls echoing through the night sky. Two guards rushed past Annatar, their drawn swords prison bars meant to constrain a fugitive thief who had just escaped from the hall of records. A thief who was clearly skilled enough to evade the noisy guards, heading straight toward a far more dangerous hunter.

Some strands of your tied-back hair had come loose, your ink-stained fingers clutching a few scrolls. As you ran, you glanced back over your shoulder, making sure you had shaken off your pursuers. A fatal mistake, because in that brief moment, Annatar got hold of your collar, pulling you to a sudden halt. Your gazes crossed, yours filled with fright, his calculating.

Annatar did not recognize you, so you were probably no one whose secret he could use as leverage if he let you go now. It was more useful to hand you over to the guards, further strengthening his reputation as Eregion's diligent servant. But just when he was about to call them back, something strange happened: you overpowered him.

In one swift motion, you freed yourself from his grip, shoved him back behind a wall, covering his mouth. One hand pressed against his lips, the other clutching your scrolls. The act occurred so unexpected that he simply let it happen.

You shot Annatar a determined look, the fear now vanished from your eyes. In a hissing whisper, you explained that the scrolls contained construction plans you had developed, a project unjustly confiscated from you, which you planned to present to Lord Celebrimbor personally.

A quest for justice. A renegade master builder. An elf who dared to threaten Sauron himself. Now you had piqued his curiosity, ignited a spark. He granted you this transgression, even though he could not yet deduce any benefit from it, amused by your demeanor and surprised by the turn this interaction had taken.

Footsteps approached from the other side, two guards patrolling the square. You pressed yourself closer to Annatar, attempting to blend into the shadow of the wall, your breath brushing his neck. The warmth of your hand burned his lips, and he was overcome by the urge to sink his teeth into its flesh, licking the hot blood clean off. Why had he not noticed you before? He studied your profile, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, like a startled deer. Yet your gaze calmly observed the surroundings, like a wolf on the hunt.

During the following days, this scene kept flaring up in his mind, the memory of your warmth burning his skin. You received your audience with Lord Celebrimbor, and your project was returned to you. Annatar had made sure of it, now being able to supervise its construction and draw you closer into his sphere. The surprise on your face when you realized who your nighttime encounter had been seeped into him like sweet wine. How you shifted under his gaze, shy with embarrassment. He could not take his eyes off you, and why should he? After all, you had run into his arms willingly.

1/10: The fleeting nature of this encounter only fuels his obsession

Celebrimbor ⟡ locked out on a balcony

The dancing evening breeze carried sounds of cheerful music, clinking glasses, and laughter high into the sky. It swirled around Celebrimbor, who was watching the colorful bustle of Nost-na-Lothion far below him from the small balcony of his workshop. He flinched when your voice rang out behind him and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you, your dress swaying as you approached him through the empty workshop, two glasses of wine in your hands.

The last time he had seen you, you had been in the arms of an entirely unfamiliar elf - a circumstance which had seemingly not diminished your delight for the dance you had shared. He was uncomfortable with you seeing him like this, a Lord hiding from his own feast, not to mention his feelings.

Under your watchful gaze, a heat crept under his skin, so he picked up a glass and swiftly downed some of the sweet wine, trying not to dwell on why he always felt as if he were standing in the flames of his forge whenever in your presence.

A few petals from the flowers adorning your hair in honor of the festivities sought to sway along with the music beneath you and got caught among some loose strands in the attempt. The urge to gently brush them out of your hair was almost impossible to resist. Celebrimbors fingers fidgeted along the rim of his glass, seeking a distraction, and finding it in the question of what had moved you to leave your dance partner behind.

Your mouth opened to reply just as a violent gust of wind rushed through the open workshop door and slammed the balcony door shut. The loud sound struck you like lightning. Instinctively, you grabbed Celebrimbor’s arm, his glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. Celebrimbor stammered an apology as you pressed against the door, both of you rushing to hide the flush spreading across your faces.

To your surprise, the wood did not yield. The bolt had slammed shut from the impact, locking the door from the inside. Celebrimbor possessed the strength and technical skill one would expect from a smith of his reputation, yet even he could accomplish nothing against the simple lock mechanism from the outside. Calling for help seemded hopeless as well, due to the height of the balcony and the festive commotion. There was nothing left for you to do but drink the remaining wine and wait.

A scenario that appeared to have been deliberately constructed by the Valar solely to torment Celebrimbor. He was not averse to sharing the last wine with you, but the implication of pressing his lips to the same glass that had touched yours made him hesitate. It felt too akin to the intimacy of a kiss. Not that he recoiled from the thought of kissing you. Quite the opposite.

He tried to let himself be carried along by the flow of your engaging conversation as usual, but that proved to be a far more challenging feat when you were this near, and, to make matters worse, were crowned with delicate blossoms and silver moonlight. It illuminated you so brightly he could study the color of your Iris. For years, Celebrimbor had searched for the gemstone that could best capture its brilliance, but now, for the first time, he was close enough to take in their color in every facet.

His gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips just as you leaned forward slightly, and, seemingly absentmindedly, plucked one of your stray petals that had found its way into his hair, as you spoke. Your story faltered, you looked up at him, the gemstone of your iris, which Celebrimbor had finally recognized, shimmering. The empty wine glass rested abandoned on the balustrade, the imprint of your lips long since cold. If he tilted forward just a fraction, he could truly taste their warmth.

He wanted to taste them.

Terrified by his own thoughts, Celebrimbor flinched back at once and was saved just then by a voice from outside. A guard had discovered the open workshop and had entered to inspect it. Surprise was written all over his face when he found none other than the Lord of Eregion and his herald trapped on the balcony. His discovery left the young guard so taken aback that he completely failed to notice his lord’s troubled state.

In the months following Nost-na-Lothion, Mirdania would be left wondering why her master exclusively would use one particular gemstone for his work.

2/10: Out of insecurity, he misses the perfect opportunity for a first kiss

Adar ⟡ receiving medical care 

He can not recall how he got here, but when Adar awakens, he is lying on a mat woven from reeds and ferns. The blurry outlines of a weathered wooden shack become sharper, the smell of fire catches his attention, rain drips onto the roof above him. It takes Adar a moment to gain his orientation in this unfamiliar environment. His skull feels as if someone had split it open with an axe, and judging by the various injuries and pain throughout his body, someone had attempted to do just that.

No surprise that his weary mind immediately suspects you once you step into the shack and his line of sight. He feels more vulnerable without his breastplate; instinctively reaching for the nearest sharp object to defend himself. But you don’t even flinch, you just stand there with the bundle of wood in your arms, looking down at him. Your eyes are tired, deep shadows adorn their undersides, a bandage decorates your thigh, and only now does Adar notice that you, too, appear to be injured.

You command him to lie down, for if you wanted him dead, you could have spared yourself the trouble of stopping his bleeding, bandaging him, and brewing that reeking herbal tincture for his fever. It takes some time for him to grasp the meaning of your words, but when you order him to keep still so you can change the bandage on a particularly gruesome flesh wound on his arm, he begins to understand.

The reasoning behind your aid sounds rational. The Uruks place all their trust and loyalty in him alone. Adar is a means of keeping them under control, a predictable variable and a potential temporary ally in the war against Sauron. Without him, the horde of his children would dissolve into an uncontrollable mass, another fire burning the Elves' strained resources.

Your explanation and the earnesty of your efforts to keep him alive appease Adar's mistrust for the time being. It is a strange arrangement: you cook, maintain the fire, brew ointments, tend to his wounds and your own, while he can only observe your every move with masked suspicion. The gentleness of your touch, the care with which you treat him, is unfamiliar - not solely due to your previous interactions. He is the one who provides for others, ensuring his children have food and shelter, never the other way around.

By the fourth day, relief outweighs his alertness when you return from gathering in the forest. You still keep his weapons hidden beyond his reach, but you don’t carry any yourself - a concession, the visible proof of your temporary partnership. Adar tries to repay some of the debt he is accumulating by sharing his herbal knowledge with you, where to find the right plants, which mixtures hasten wound healing, calm inflammation. He still feels unease when you touch him, your beautiful hands against his scarred skin, but it is no longer rooted in the fear you might seek to harm him.

The quiet care you bestow upon him, no matter how conditional it may be, is slowly consuming him. He knows you, or at least, he once thought he did. The enemy who crossed his sword, he knew. But the elf who stays by his side day and night, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth or serving him warm soup - that tender person, he does not know. It throws him off balance, gnaws at him in the night when you sleep beside him. A faint feeling deep inside his chest, a whisper he tries to shut out, telling him that no matter how you two part ways from here on out, he can no longer face you the same way he did before.

4/10: He does not know how to deal with this kind of affection, the hidden longing for it unsettles him deeply

Gil-Galad ⟡ being taught a craft

When his herald delivered your message, Gil-Galad considered it a jest. But by the time he stood in the doorway of Lindon's palace kitchen - a figure framed in gold by the midday sun, completely out of place in this workspace - he gave credence to Elrond's words. Even though his eyes still hesitated to accept the scene presented to them. Your jewelry rested safely on a wooden tray behind you, hair tied back, a simple apron covering your formal court attire, your hands buried in a bowl of dough. Unbelievable.

With a brief wave of his hand, the High King dismissed everyone else, guards and kitchen staff alike. He could not resist raising an eyebrow, displaying his scepticism, as he approached the cooking station to inspect your culinary skills. You merely responded with a knowing smile when he inquired the purpose of this decidedly...humble activity. Although it was you who had summoned him – which in itself would be considered impudent – you made no effort to follow courtly protocol by greeting him with a bow or otherwise honoring his presence by pausing your work.

Such formalities were not required when you were alone, privacy granted your friendship precedence over your ranks. Secretly, Gil-Galad enjoyed your casual manner toward him, although he would never gift you the satisfaction of displaying his fondness outwardly.

As you continued to work through the dough with firm movements, you explained this unusual choice of meeting place. It was not the first time that you had taken refuge in the kitchen in order to sort your thoughts. As your hands shaped the dough, your mind shaped thoughts, the steady motion grounding you. Sometimes the answer was not buried in stacks of scrolls gathered by Lord Elrond, but in the silence and warmth of bread rising in the oven.

Naturally, you had to punish Gil-Galad’s doubtful gaze and lofty tone with a demonstration. Before he knew it, he found himself facing another bowl of sticky mass, while you tied an apron behind his back. This was certainly not how he had imagined the strategy meeting with his advisor. Putting on an indifferent expression, he swallowed the nervousness that crept up as you carefully removed his rings and placed them beside yours.

His first movements were awkward, clearly the attempts of an elf who only ever encountered food when it was elegantly arranged and placed before him by servants. So you stepped in to guide him, an act Gil-Galad submitted to with dignity, despite his heart nearly leaping from his chest whenever your hands brushed his. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when you withdrew to continue kneading your own dough. You were mistaken, this activity did nothing to calm his troubled spirit.

But after a while, the tension in his shoulders eased a little. Warmth from the oven seeped into his tired bones, the scent of herbs and charcoal filled the air, soothing his senses. By the time you took the fresh loaves out of the oven, a solution for every matter on your meeting agenda had been found. As always, you had been right. It was grounding to create something with one's own hands, something with a tangible outcome. Not merely abstract commands and plans, the consequences of which weighed solely on his head.

He expressed his reluctant gratitude to you as you savored the still-warm bread with a few figs and wine, a knowing grin playing across your face. The golden midday sun streaming into the kitchen cast a soft glow around you, presumably the reason for the warmth spreading from Gil-Galad’s core throughout his entire body. Or so he assured himself.

6/10: He’s still too caught up in his own head to fully savor the moment and will find himself yearning to return there weeks later without admitting the reason why

Elrond ⟡ taking shelter during rain

t was supposed to be nothing more than a brief ride to the Grey Havens, but within the first third of the journey, delicate raindrops kissed Elrond's hair, turning into a dense veil of pearling water by the halfway point. The saddles' leather grew slippery, and the view across the open meadow was obscured by a fog so thick that even the sharp elven eyes could barely tell west from east. Only a fool would insist on riding on under such conditions, and Elrond Half-elven was many things, but certainly no fool.

As soon as a tree with a mighty crown came into view, Elrond signaled for you to halt there and seek shelter. Breathing heavy, you dismounted the horses. As if the sudden downpour was not trouble enough, the High King had chosen you, of all elves, to accompany Elrond. It should have been expected - the success of your other missions spoke for itself - yet he could not help but question whether Gil-Galad was abusing his authority to torment him beyond necessity.

White wisps of mist curled around your wet face, your damp clothes clung to your body, outlining every curve, every muscle. Elrond averted his gaze, using the excuse of loosening his horse’s saddle slightly so that the wet leather would not rub against the animal’s coat, in order to hide the blush spreading across his face. You followed his example, checking to see if the scrolls in their metal cases had stayed dry. Then you both stood a bit self-conscious under the tree’s canopy, while the horses grazed peacefully on the other side.

Elrond was never at a loss for words, language his sharpest weapon, one he wielded with precision. But under the circumstances - alone with you in such a confined space, soaked to the bone, your clothes leaving less room for the imagination than he was comfortable with - his tongue twisted itself around the words, unable to form a smooth, flowing stream.

You seemed to sense his unease and, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of affection, you made a joke that lightened the mood a bit. Chuckling, Elrond brushed his damp curls back and carried on discussing the next steps with you. As you spoke, you attempted to tame your windswept and rain-soaked hair into a presentable state as well. A far more challenging task given the length of your braid. You had tidied your hair as best you could, but a few loose strands at the crown of your head escaped your attention. Elrond moved closer before his better judgment could stop him and asked for permission to assist you.

Gently, he untangled the disarray, ignoring his treacherous heart racing. The conversation fell silent, only the soft rain and a cascade of feelings pouring down upon you. Small clouds of steam rose from your breath, intertwining in the close space between your bodies, gazes and unspoken words mingling within.

Slowly, careful not to startle you, Elrond brushed a strand of hair clinging to your forehead back behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, caressing the tender skin of your cheek. He had been mistaken. He was a fool after all, for only a fool would be so reckless to do what followed.

Hesitant, giving you enough time to pull away, he leaned in toward you, drawn by the irresistible gaze of your eyes tracing his face. The kiss was as light as a feather, merely the gentle touch of your lips, as delicate as the rain that had caressed your skin moments before. You leaned in, and Elrond’s heart struck the first note a melody, so much sweeter than the fading rustle of the water above you.

9/10: He seizes the moment and finds what he longed for, even if it was an impulse

Galadriel ⟡ trapped on a raft

What are dreams if not shadows of the past, tightening their clutches around the lungs and hearts of those they haunt? Galadriel dreaded sleep, for at night she lost command of her mind. It became vulnerable to Sauron, open for him to slip inside and play his cruel games with her. Even after she closed that door and lay down, safe in the knowledge that she had banished him, she did not find the peace she longed for. Her newfound freedom proved to be yet another cage, trapped in experiencing the same dream time and time again. She stood on the raft amid the storm, begging Halbrand - no, Sauron - to bind himself to her. Her greatest regret played out endlessly in her sleep, mocking her.

She could not conceal her unrest and weariness from you, your concern touched her like rain falling on parched flowers. Galadriel hid the contents of her dreams from you, but naturally that did not dissuade you from seeking a way to lighten her burdens. The advice you had given her that day still echoed in her mind as evening fell. She was the master of her dreams. She could shape them to her liking, you had said, and if that failed, you would pray to the Valar, asking to be sent in her dreams.

A silent smile had graced Galadriel's face, touched by affection for your declaration to protect her. But when she eventually lost the battle against fatigue that night, she was once again overcome with fear of what would await her on the other side.

She found herself in the same hell as the previous weeks. The sea was raging, black waves crashing against rotten wood, tossing the raft. Trembling, Galadriel closed her eyes, water sticking to her skin, cold air scratching her lungs. You are the master of your dreams. Your voice echoed through her, a ribbon of delicate light she clung to. She repeated the words in her mind, tracing them with her tongue like a prayer. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Galadriel steeled herself to hear the words that would follow now.

But Sauron's voice never reached her ear. Galadriel's eyes flew open, her heart beating high in her throat. The image before her had been completely transformed into its opposite. Seawater gently rocked the raft in its arms, warm sun soaking up the cold from her skin. In disbelief, she turned around. Instead of facing her incarnate nightmare, her gaze fell upon your familiar figure, fastening the mast with rope. When you noticed her and paused your work to approach her, she shied away. Galadriel was certain that your lovely form would shatter any moment, revealing the true nature of evil that wore your face in mockery. But her fears remained unfulfilled.

Your eyes gave no sign of malice, only tenderness and worry. You urged her to breathe, affirming that you were with her. Shaky fingers reached out to your face, seeking reassurance. When Galadriel felt the warmth of your hand holding hers, the dam broke. She sank to her knees, letting you hold her in your arms, tears silently escaping her. You held her tight, promising you would not let any harm come to her.

In the following days, this dream returned. Once Galadriel fell asleep, she found herself back on the raft, but instead of Sauron, you were the one awaiting her, speaking to her, holding her in your arms. You bathed in the sun and swam in the sea, sharing laughter and glances, even a kiss one night. The raft was no longer a prison, but a small haven of peace.

10/10: The forced proximity is her sanctuary, her refuge, and her salvation

Liked what you read and looking for more?

➳ Masterlist

➳ Other posts from this series:

Fake Dating TROP Elves or TROP Elves as Reverse Tropes

Among all the creatures roaming Middle-earth, feared for their bloodlust, Sauron proved to be by far the most cunning hunter. While wolves formed packs to corner their prey, chasing it to death until they could sink their teeth into its throat, and hawks shot down from the sky like lightning before their target could notice them or flee, Sauron preferred a more refined strategy. His prey was chosen with forethought, and every step observed until a pattern revealed itself to him, a pattern he could then sculpt to his liking. He arranged the circumstances thoroughly, sowing doubt to lure them into his snare, convinced it was their own decision. 

Elrond was never at a loss for words; language his sharpest weapon, one he wielded with precision. But under the circumstances - alone with you in such a confined space, soaked to the bone, your clothes leaving less room for the imagination than he was comfortable with - his tongue twisted itself around the words, unable to form a smooth, flowing stream.

Galadriel dreaded sleep, for at night she lost command of her mind. It became vulnerable to Sauron, open for him to slip inside and play his cruel games with her. Even after she closed that door and lay down, safe in the knowledge that she had banished him, she did not find the peace she longed for. Her newfound freedom proved to be yet another cage, trapped in experiencing the same dream time and time again. She stood on the raft amid the storm, begging Halbrand - no, Sauron - to bind himself to her. Her greatest regret played out endlessly in her sleep, mocking her.