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cilil · 5 months

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Scribbles & Drabbles overview

An overview of my works for @fall-for-tolkien's Scribbles & Drabbles event!

𝑹𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝑵𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝟐𝟓𝒕𝒉 ~ now live!

𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒈(𝒆𝒓) 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔

✧˖ "Wings Of War, Beating No More" for @ruiniel

Two Maiar meet after the war, one chasing a long lost lover, the other seeking something else. [Eönwë x Mairon]

✧˖ "Of Secret Shadow" for @ruiniel

A Maia awakens with no memories of who she used to be. Melkor offers her a second chance. [Thuringwethil character exploration]

✧˖ "The King's and Queen's Comfort" for @the-red-butterfly

After discovering the Dwarves and arguing with Aulë, Yavanna seeks comfort from her fellow Valar. Manwë and Varda take care of her until her sorrows and worries are soothed. [Threesome, smut]

✧˖ "Floating World" for @melkors-big-tits

After tedious war meetings at the Emperor's palace, Mairon decides to enjoy himself in the capital's most renowned brothel, the Taniquetil. As he searches for a courtesan to catch his interest, he finds something rather unexpected - something the Emperor himself has attempted to keep hidden... [Angbang, Edo Japan AU]

𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕(𝒆𝒓) 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔

✧˖ "Shrine to Melkor" for @cclumsyart

There are shrines to all Ainur in Valinor, even the fallen and disgraced among them. In which Nienna visits Melkor's shrine and reminisces.

✧˖ "Shrine to Námo" for @cclumsyart

There are shrines to all Ainur in Valinor, even the fallen and disgraced among them. In which a mysterious visitor seeks out Námo's shrine to pray for a loved one.

𝑴𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓

✧˖ "Electricity between both of us" (Glorestor ficlets) for @sortumavaara

✧˖ "Of hunters, horses and other hijinks" (ficlets centered around Aredhel, Celegorm, Oromë, dogs and horses) for @ela-draws and @goschatewabn

✧˖ "Of Fire and Feathers" (Gothmog x Eönwë | Firebird ficlets) for @i-did-not-mean-to

✧˖ "5 times Melkor came for coffee & 1 time Mairon got himself a snack" (Angbang Coffeeshop AU) for @melkors-big-tits

✧˖ "Miscellaneous Melkor Mayhem" (naughty Melkor ficlets) for @melkors-big-tits

✧˖ "Handmaiden's Tale" (Melkor x Tulkas, dead dove - please heed the warnings) for @melkors-big-tits

✧˖ "Brotherly Love" (Melkor x Manwë, dead dove - please heed the warnings) for @melkors-big-tits

𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔

✧˖ "Silver & Gold" for @welcomingdisaster

Míriel and Indis, silver and gold. A moment of tenderness and passion. [Smut]

✧˖ "Moonrise" for @niennawept

Watching the moon in the sky, Aredhel remembers. [Aredhel x Tilion]

✧˖ "Heart" for @mulasawala

[Modern verse, Bagginshield, Thorin has a band] Thorin comes back from his tour and reunites with his boyfriend.

✧˖ "Sweet Oil" for @z-h-i-e

Maitimo and Tyelkormo cook together. Nothing could possibly go wrong, especially nothing related to suspicious bottles and ingredients not meant for cooking.

✧˖ "A private conversation" for @sortumavaara

[AU in which Nerdanel and Anairë are co-rulers of Tirion after the departure of their husbands] Nerdanel and Anairë discuss the future of the Noldor in Valinor and the challenges they face.

✧˖ "The Meadow" for @ruiniel

[AU in which Míriel and Indis are engaged, no Finwë in sight] Míriel and Indis, strolling through Valinor together.

✧˖ "Ascension" for @the-red-butterfly

The king is dead, and Thranduil has to ascend.

✧˖ "Checking In" for @fishing4stars

Galadriel and Celeborn enjoy a game of chess.

✧˖ "Play, Pleasure & Passion" for Lferion

Nerdanel and Fëanor get ready for a night of passion.

✧˖ "Jelly and Gemstone" for @i-did-not-mean-to

A certain suspicious gem has turned up once again, and Ossë chases down a mischievous little water spirit to get it back.

✧˖ "The Start of the Journey" for @elennalore

Fëanor and Nerdanel, after their first journey together.

✧˖ "Alliance" for @goschatewabn

A chance meeting between Fëanor and Indis leads to something Finwë didn't expect.

✧˖ "Northern Lights" for Anne_Wolfe

How Arien lost a loved one and how northern lights came to be. [Arien x Mairon]

✧˖ "Only one bed (and a Balrog on it)" for @i-did-not-mean-to

A Balrog and a vampire are looking for a place to nap. Unfortunately, there is only one bed. [Nári (OC) & Thuringwethil]

✧˖ "Ever upon the shores" for @searchingforserendipity25

Wandering upon the shores, Maglor wonders if the powers that used to be his allies have utterly forsaken him. [Maglor & Ulmo, Ossë, Uinen]

✧˖ "You have mail (delivered by the Lord of Dreams himself)" for @i-did-not-mean-to

Irmo has a gift for Melkor. Melkor is not happy.

✧˖ "A New Age" for @ruiniel

[Dark cyber!Valar AU in which Melkor won the Dagor Dagorath and the Valar were captured, trapped in their fánar and twisted into new forms] They all were changed by Melkor's dark arts, and everything seems lost. Nienna, however, still has her brothers.

✧˖ "The Sorrows of Young Maedhros" for @goschatewabn

[Set during Maitimo's awkward teenage years] In which little brothers are exhausting, Fëanor and Nerdanel are trying their best and Maitimo just wants to keep a secret in peace.

✧˖ "Ineffable, Inconceivable Future" for @i-did-not-mean-to

Námo has a gift for Manwë - though is it quite what it appears to be?

✧˖ "They Loved Him For His Beauty" for @the-red-butterfly

Eärendil loses his ship during a storm, yet somehow wakes up very much alive. Who saved him? And how will he get to Valinor now?

✧˖ "Delightful Secret" for @sortumavaara

Celebrían has been turned into a man and intends to make use of it. Elrond finally admits to a certain secret fantasy he's always harboured. [Smut]

#scribbles & drabbles 2023 #my masterlist #cílil writes #my writing #heed ratings and warnings on ao3

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theknightswhosay · 5 months

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Crowley, Imprisoned

@mulasawala and I have co-created a piece of art & writing for the @do-it-with-style-events 2023 Good Omens Reverse Bang !!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51645259

The gummy bears are bleeding human blood. A waste.

Crowley had enjoyed the only one he was allowed to try. Held in his mouth for a long time to draw out the experience, tongue tracing the smooth little curves, slowly sucking out the sweetness, a hint of peppermint, a tang of acid. Only when he risked its complete decomposition had he chewed it with unpractised jaws. Like jelly, only tougher, putting up more resistance.

His teeth had felt unfamiliar, tongue rougher than it used to be. Not enough saliva. He is rarely given anything to eat.

A handful of eight gummy bears lie scattered carelessly a few metres outside of his circle. Once, it would have been a trifle to wave a finger, apply some willpower, and have them in his hand.

Gum-my-be-ars. He holds the words in his silent mouth. Such strange new creations the humans of the World far away have concocted. New candies have appeared more frequently as his captor’s twisted parties became regular occurrences. Somewhere, the Great War is probably over. It makes no difference.

The blood does not dissuade him. It might add a sharp piquancy. The little candy creatures ooze the dark liquid, swimming in a pool rapidly bronzing into a sticky stain. He runs his tongue along the sharp metal bar of his cage to distract from the saliva forming around his teeth.

A thin scrap of dainty fabric dips a corner into the dark stain. The soft silk stocking was once a pure cream colour. Now, it has a long rip along its length where it was torn, catching on the protruding, hard buckle of a stout leather belt. It might still have the thick, oily scent of deerskin, of the harsh bronze that tore it.

Flung across the room lies the garter that had once held up the stocking. In a matching cream, it is like the last tooth left in a gaping, bloodied mouth. He remembers a young woman’s yelp as the fabric tore and the resounding slap of leather on flesh that followed.

As he stares at the white elastic across the room, he loses himself in an ambitious fantasy – he lets himself dream that he might not be bound to the circle, that he might instead be bound to the entire basement. What an absurd luxury it would be to have four whole walls, complete with corners.

What might that be like?

Imagine having walls instead of bars – his domain would be twenty times bigger than the circle. It would include the claw-footed brass chair, its rough surface promising a cornucopia of aromas. All the ways he might perch on it, the days of entertainment contemplating its many curves up close! How many more dents and imperfections might he be able to observe along its surface, if it were not on the other side of this room?

All the new and interesting configurations he could languish in.

His latest favourite languishing position is on his back, hips twisted so that one leg is hitched up against the floor, the other lying straight, his arms stretched up, up, up, pulling his shoulder blades back, pressing against his ears. If he squeezes all his limbs just so, he can cause his vision to black out. Pinpricks of light appear in the gaping darkness where his field of view should be.

For a moment, he can remember what the stars look like.

Stars. He is swimming in them. Galaxies swarm into life beneath his hands with kaleidoscopic force; purple hearts pulse in greeting; each tiny explosion the rattling gasp of a newborn’s cry. Because he wills it, because he dreams it, so it is.

He sits up.

Crowley has rules. It is how he has survived. There are things he is not allowed. He re-focuses his mind on the gummy bears.

The telltale creak of boots on the stairs announces the imminent arrival of company. Another of Crowley’s rules: he will not react. And so, he does not move a single hair, does not even cover his hideous nakedness, does not curl up or shy away as familiar dark brogues enter the room in confident strides.

He does not in any way acknowledge this person’s arrival, which never fails to irritate. Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

The claw-footed chair is dragged closer to his cage. Better viewing distance. Crowley can sense a long talk coming. These are usually irritating. He will while away the time it takes by imagining all the ways he would destroy this man, inside out. It would be so easy.

Throw him into a dream where he is the King of all the World; have women and men in power throw themselves at him; have him enthroned in the grandest of coronations. Let them sing his praises from every shit-stained rooftop, every bunged-up armchair, every soot-soaked alleyway.

And then, when he’s at the highest he has ever been: break him.

It wouldn’t be hard. For the man who wants unlimited power, simply strip it back, bit by bit, piece by piece. Do unto him as he has done unto others. Every ounce of pain, every lash of the whip, every woman forced. Let him experience all of it. Take away all his power until he is nothing. Until all he has is metal bars and a binding circle, not even a scrap of cloth to cover him, not even a voice to speak with. Leave him there.

Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

He sits on the chair, stooping over, knees on his thighs, hands supporting his chin. His mood is dark turquoise; heavy but low in energy. Thankfully, Crowley detects no undercurrent of violence.

“I’ll get it right this time,” says Burgess, “I’ll get it right.”

He runs a hand over his face. His head sags, shoulders forming sharp, twin hills. Whether he is talking to his prisoner or himself is unclear and makes no difference.

“It has to work. It must work. This time will be different.”

He pauses.

“You will help me, whatever the fuck you are. You’ll help me succeed where I failed when I captured you. I know what we did wrong that night…we didn’t go all the way. It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice. Well, I’m not taking any half-measures this time. We’ll get it right, and you’re going to make sure of it.”

Crowley finds the use of the imperative so entertaining. Will. Must. What must he do exactly? A being with no powers; no clothing; no dignity; no voice. He is not even capable of an audible gasp of shock. All he has is his refusal and his shredded pride. So, he does not react.

He continues to gaze with limpid eyes at the gummy bears which are still there, unmoved. Burgess has not noticed them.

The man talks some more, mostly repetitive stuff, easily tuned out. The chair gets pulled back over to its customary corner. Some quiet time.

But then people. A small stream of robed figures clunking down the narrow staircase. The first few bring small tables which they place against the far wall. Not there! Crowley would yell if he could, that’s off-centre! But they are unconcerned. They have no interest in interior design.

They bring candles next. Lots of candles.

What is it with these ritual-obsessed types and their candles? A precarious and flammable habit. Too easily knocked over. An easy source of disruption. Inviting pyromania. If only he could just send out a little nudge… He reaches with his will. But of course, nothing happens. Nothing has happened for a long time. It is lost, along with his voice.

As the décor operation continues, Crowley muses that it must be nearing Burgess’ favourite time. Somewhere, it is night-time, out there in a World he is no longer part of, does not dwell on, will not let himself remember. Knowing Burgess, it will be approaching midnight. Superstitious wanker.

Sandalwood incense is lit. The only smell heady enough to mask the scent of blood and much worse bodily fluids that can’t be scrubbed out of the room. The thin thread of smoke is woody, smoky, and pungent but undercut with anxiety because he knows what accompanies it.

It is only when they attempt magic that the sandalwood comes out.

They draw a circle to mirror Crowley’s in bright chalk and runes he might once have recognised. One of the Believers is clutching at a book. He imagines it is probably 120 Days of Sodom. Naturally, all of them are fans.

Burgess’ deep voice is murmuring upstairs, directly above. Footsteps sound – more than one pair. Someone brought into the study that hides the basement.

A short time later, the man re-emerges, but the person who follows him is distinctly lacking Believer’s robes.

The girl glows. She is a bright sprig of garlic flower petals; her creamy sleeping shift dazzling amongst burlap-sack figures, a fragile light against the indigo of gloomy basement. Her skin is rough, freckles and pimples dust her cheekbones, her hair limp and dull, a lacklustre mousy brown. Yet she radiates with the fragile uncertainty of youth and worse, far, far worse, Crowley knows what she is here for.

This, he cannot ignore.

He sits up. He pushes himself as far against the cage bars as he can, clutching them, knuckles going white.

Does she know? His eyes seek her, reaching for her – trying to express, voiceless, his word of warning. Burgess had said, hadn’t he? It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice… They guide her to the new circle they have drawn. She goes willingly, expression unchanging, peaceful.

Get out! He mouths at her, Get out! Over and over, hoping she will glance his way. His fists rattle against the cage.

“Interesting creature, isn’t it?” says Burgess as he runs a hand through the girl’s hair, “all these years and it just sits there, half asleep. But now - now it responds. It has some kind of heart after all.”

He cradles her face and positions her chin so that she must look directly towards the cage. She is limp, obedient to his will. Why isn’t she fleeing? Her wide, brown eyes finally find Crowley’s yellow ones. He is still mouthing at her over and over, but her eyes are glassy, unfocused, distant. Her gaze looks right through him.

She retreats into herself and avoids Crowley’s urgent gaze as the ceremony begins. Through the chanting, the burning of objects, the spilling of blood, and the making of potions, she does not look at him again.

It is only as Burgess withdraws the dagger, his favourite, the one engraved with his initials, then the girl finally jostles herself and raises a hand.

“Wait,” she says, “Can…can we say a prayer together?”

He pauses. Then, “of course, sweet child.”

The dagger is tucked back into its holder. Around the room, every chin is lowered, every head ducked in prayer. Burgess clasps his hands behind his back and closes his eyes.

But the girl, the girl isn’t praying. That’s not what she’s doing. Her eyes are wide open. She looks at Crowley once, gives him the slightest of nods and leaps to her feet, pulling up her skirt to reveal a blade she has strapped to her thigh.

“IT’S HIM!” she yells, in a voice so loud and confident it immediately rips away the docile, innocent demeanour. Before anyone can react to her call, she thrusts the blade into Burgess’ stomach, her expression transformed into one of hatred.

His mouth falls open as he grasps the wound.

“Fuck! You little shit… don’t let her leave! To think, you should have harboured this malintent all this time…” if her expression is one of hatred, his morphs into something monstrously dark and ugly, “you will not get away with this, girl. You will need to be punished before we sacrifice you. Punished well. Don’t think you will be leaving.”

Two robed figures block the exit. A third retreats up the rickety stairs. The last two grab her shoulders, even as she flails and kicks in their grasp. Her blade is still embedded in Burgess’ side. He paces towards her, one hand on his wound, one hand coming to grasp her throat. Tight.

Crowley looks away. When they do not make him watch the things they do in the basement, he will not make himself.

He can still hear and smell. There is no way to turn those senses off (he has tried).

There is a faint crackle reminiscent of lightning accompanied by the rustle of paper and the musty scent of old books. Several, pronounced, bodily thuds - weights hitting the floor. Heaving intakes of breath, rickety and rasping. The dull clatter of a wooden handle on wooden floorboards.

Footsteps approaching the cage. He is still curled up, turned away from it all.

A rough sob of concern, and then a familiar voice. A voice he has tried so hard to forget. A voice that cannot possibly be real.

“Crowley?”

His angel’s voice. An angel belonging to a world long ago, a different life, a different being than him. He knows better than to believe it. He won’t turn towards it. He has spent too long lost in dreams, in fantasies. In exactly these moments of deepest, most despairing violence, his imagination will conjure up that which he misses the most.

“Crowley, it’s me. It’s Aziraphale. I found you…I finally found you. Oh, my dear…I am so, so, sorry it took me so long. You were hidden from me. What have they done to you…”

Another set of footsteps approaches. It can only be the girl, all in white, who had stabbed Burgess. “Mr Fell,” she says, throat creaking, “it’s him then? The one you’ve been searching for all these years?”

“Yes. It’s him,” voice trembling and soft. So soft. “Thank you – I couldn’t have found him without your assistance.”

“Thank me later. Right now, we need to get out of here, fast. There’ll be more of them.”

“Right. Right, yes, of course.”

The click of fingers.

A great constricting pressure vanishes as if he has surfaced after being trapped underwater at a great depth. Something is different. But still, he does not trust it. He keeps his eyes pressed shut and curls tighter in on himself. This is one of the nicer fantasies.

He cannot help wanting the hand on his shoulder to be real. It feels real. The palm warm, the fingers short and thick. Two arms gather him, the swaddling softness of fresh fabric appearing over his naked figure, fibres delicate, soft as clouds. The arms that cradle him are solid and strong. He is enveloped by the smell of chocolate, old curtains, tea with a dash of lemon.

So overpowering are the sensations that tears spring to his eyes. So focused is he on drinking in that old, familiar scent that he does not notice the motions, the sound of stairs creaking, the shock of an air change, the muffled steps on the carpet beneath them, the chiming of a mahogany grandfather clock, the quickly stifled gasp of a servant followed by a thud, heavy front doors opening on their own.

And then: fresh air.

It is enough to shock him awake. His eyes snap open as he drinks in the flavours.

His view is obscured by a beige overcoat and a shock of white hair, but above that – stars. With hungry eyes, he drinks in the deep, velveteen depths of the night sky. How could he ever have forgotten the magic of that ever-shifting tapestry, crested by a silvery moon?

He is bundled into a horseless carriage, but Aziraphale’s arms never leave him. He is cradled, held firm, limbs sprawled over the back seat, head resting on the angel’s thigh. Thrown backwards against the backrest as the vehicle careens away at speed.

Only then does he believe.

His unpractised fingers clutch at the arm cradling him, watery eyes finding the angel’s blue ones. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, and only then does Crowley realise the angel has been repeating this over and over, “I’ve got you. We found you. You’re free, Crowley, you’re free.”

Drops of water hit his nose. Lines streak the angel’s cheeks.

“Angel.” Crowley finally manages. He can speak again. It has been so, so very long.

He is free.

#crowley #good omens #go #do it with style #reverse bang #event #my fics #mygofic #aziraphale #inspired by the sandman #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #good omens fanfic #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #hurt/comfort #hurt crowley #aziraphale to the rescue

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tolkienrsb · 4 years

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Hello, Tolkien fans! Reveals are drawing ever closer, and to whet your appetite for the big day, today we are bringing you a terrific movieverse piece from the lovely...

Mulasawala

I am fairly new to the fandom, although I read the hobbit in elementary school. I am listening to the audiobooks of The Two Towers now, because I finished the Fellowship of the Ring a few days ago. Where can we find you? I am Mulasawala everywhere! Ao3, twitter, tumblr (@mulasawala), etc How are you joining in with TRSB20? I am an artist! I drew two pictures and am working with two amazing authors :3

An Unexpected Friend

Teen and Up. No Warnings Apply. Info about your piece: A different first encounter between Bilbo and Smaug changes the course of history, and an unlikely friendship conspires to redraw the map of Middle Earth. It's Thorin/Bilbo - I created it because I am weak and hate sad endings TuT

Top creative tips/words of wisdom for fellow participants: my only tip is to have fun!

#TRSB2020 Summer Showcase #mulasawala #trsb20 #the hobbit trilogy #fanfic #bagginshield

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adder24 · 4 years

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Jim study

Okay so this idiot here decided to challenge a few demons when it comes to drawing and it all came about when I had someone view my paintings and said “Yeah but that’s not real art though” Bit of a punch to the gut but kinda put my ass into gear about attempting to at least try and redevelop my style again. It’s not perfect but lets be honest, it’s been a solid 8 years since I even tried to draw something half decent.

A few things to point out:

1) The picture on the left helped me to develop a base and get used to the shape of Jim's face, so essentially this is what they call a trace study, I just needed it to figure out where the fundamentals are.

2) My lines are a bit shaky as I am cool as fuck and broke both my elbows, so that’s never gonna be perfect unless I buy some amazing software to help smooth shaky lines.

3)It’s not tidy but I wasn’t aiming for a finished piece in all honesty,

4)It’s my first day.

5)Feel free to throw helpful shit my way to help me improve.

I also did an alternate version where I turned him into Orson just by changing his eye colour

He looks even more intimidating that way XD

Anyway enough of my rambling.....here is my art.

@savhcaro @plinkitee @vegetarianvampireduck @detective-fiasco@dementedfurbie @eyesofwitt @imo126 @imelopsittacus @mnemonicmadness @aragarna @caviezeldaily @bonnie131313 @dontgetfunny @untilthe12ofnever @reeselivesforeverinmyheart @myfriendtheurbanlegend @mulasawala @sunrise68 @suesskatz @frenchfrostpudding @heike-251 @idinink @kenobiwcn @lionsassy @purpleshield1548

#Jim Caviezel #Drawing #Fanart #Mr Reese #day 1 #begin #art #Caviezel #Person of Interest #POI #The man in the suit #Start again #begin again #art style #Personal style #Blue eyes

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ao3feed-reesefinch · 7 years

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Discovering the hidden secrets of fancy dressing

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2vCs4gB

by merionees

Pen & marker sketches inspired by this post by @mulasawala on Tumblr. Still one of the most absurd things I've been drawing, but I just couldn’t resist :D

Words: 7, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Person of Interest (TV)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch

Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese

Additional Tags: Fanart, Markers, Sketches, Traditional Media

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2vCs4gB

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #person of interest #reese/finch #harold finch #john reese #harold finch/john

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

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Diary found in K---D--- : Part 2

So, here's the next little part of this :D

Imagine by @lathalea is indented!

Enjoy <3

Taglist: @shrimpsthings, @mulasawala (so you see where I'm going with this lol)

(Yes, there will be MORE artwork coming, stay posted...)

Fandom: Hobbit

Characters: Ori x OC

Rating & Warning: Fluff and silliness

His name was Ori and he was a scribe in Erebor. It turned out he visited the forest often to sketch the animals and plants. You spent the rest of the day together. In the evening, you exchanged campfire stories, sharing a meal. At one point, he shyly asked about where you came from. Blushing, he admitted, almost whispering, he never saw a person with such beautiful hair before.

You told him that you came from another world, from a region called East Asia, where many people looked similarly to you. He was very curious about your homeland, your culture and your world. You spent hours telling him everything about it and he listened to you in awe.

“Ori.” He replied, his lips quirking a tiny bit as if he was not used to speaking his own name. “I’m a scribe. In Erebor. The Mountain.” He pointed to a tree beyond the clearing.

Thankfully, I was familiar with the Lonely Mountain and did not think that he didn’t know the difference between a living organism and a pile of minerals.

“I have never seen you, neither here nor in that Mountain.” I replied, for I went into the halls sometimes to translate for travellers, but for the most part, I let the king be his grumpy, glorious self.

“I come here often, to sketch, but I seem to have lost my way.” He admitted with a tiny frown. Ah, a real dwarf. They only knew up and down seemingly and if there was no way into a hill, they’d stubbornly trek up until they tumbled off the other side again.

As if to prove to me that he was not lying – dear reader, he had a face that was utterly devoid of malice or dissimulation – he showed me rather good sketches of the fauna and flora of the dense forest surrounding us. “That is really good, Ori, the scribe, from under the Mountain.” I commented which made him blush with a fierce and, apparently, unexpected pleasure.

In an expression of indescribable cuteness, he literally wiped his face with his sleeve as if he could clean away the rosy hue like a stubborn ink stain from under his skin.

“What are you here for?” He then asked, pushing out his chest heroically. As a reminder, he was the one who had lost his way, but apparently, he wanted to defend either the forest from me or the other way around.

“I am here to think…in silence.” I replied; he retreated a few steps. “Oh? I’ll leave you to it then, I guess. It was great to make your acquaintance…”

I gave him my name, after all, he had given me his, and he chewed on it for a few moments before his face split into a smile that was like the sunlight breaking through the cloudy afternoon sky: tentative, warm, and strikingly beautiful.

“Stay. I like your face.” I heard myself saying. Maybe, it was my teasing, mischievous streak acting up, but I had liked his embarrassment so much that I couldn’t help wanting to coax more of these blushes out of him.

“My…face?” In that weird dance he had been engaged in for the last few minutes, Ori stepped closer again, shuffling his feet in the heavy boots dwarrows insisted on wearing.

No, your ass, I thought, but bit my tongue; Ori the dwarf looked like someone who would die on the spot if I said anything even remotely inappropriate…as I was wont to do when nervous.

My sarcastic thought spurred my own interest though and I examined him a little closer: he was indeed swaddled like a babe, beads of sweat pearling down his temples on account of the steep climb and the stubborn blush powdering his nose and cheeks with pink blotches.

“Sit down, you’ll get a heat stroke.” I invited him and pointed to a patch of moss beside me while rummaging in my pack for the flask of ale I had brought.

“Thank you ever so much.” He plopped down in a cascade of earthen-coloured wool and awkward limbs. He did smell warm, I noticed, a blend of cinnamon and comfort.

Also, he had one of those faces that only became better when seen up-close, I admit freely; there were golden stars dancing in the depth of his dark eyes and he had the most adorable freckles as if some outlandish fairy had sprinkled gold dust over that heart-wrenchingly handsome face.

“Are you thirsty, Mistress?” He asked, nodding at the flask in my hand.

Handing it to him rather abruptly, I realised that I had spent the last moments intently staring at his face as if I had never seen a male dwarf before in my life.

“I have work to do.” I snapped, feeling immediately guilty for taking my own embarrassment out on him, but he merely nodded and pulled his sketching supplies into his lap.

Strangely enough, Ori did not disturb me. If anything, the silence felt fuller, richer, deeper with him by my side. As I translated a letter, as a spinster I had to support my family and my insufferable sisters as best as I could, I felt like the chirping of the birds and the vibrancy of the colours around me were even more enjoyable now that I shared them with someone else.

…

The sun crept along its never-changing arc slowly and yet, much too fast.

As I looked up, I wished I was a better painter myself, for this dwarrow was made for sunsets.

The way the last golden hurrah of a perfect day exploded in a halo of warmth around his figure, the way all the greys and the blues seemed to bleed out of the world to leave nothing but warm tones behind, and the way his smile was the perfect expression of this mellow, unhurried mood…it struck me deeper and more violently than a thunderstorm in all its booming rage would have.

“Will you join me for dinner, Ori?” I asked gently, “I shall escort you back down.”

“It would be my honour.” He nodded, tearing out a page of his notebook and handing it over.

“It was an invitation; I do not demand payment.” I said seriously, for the sketch of the doe was so good, it might have been worth actual money. “Oh…” His nose crinkled at little at that.

“I wanted you to…have something beautiful. I have seen you work very hard.”

Of course, he was a scribe as well, he would consider the scribbling work, I thought and gave him a thankful smile. “You’re beauty enough for one day.” I shrugged.

He gasped, bringing his notebook up to his face as if to shield himself from my words.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you? Dori has warned me that girls do that sometimes.” He sounded utterly dejected. “I am not having you on. Has nobody ever told you that you’re handsome?” It was my turn to be wide-eyed with shock.

“And who is Dori?” I followed-up when he didn’t really reply to my question even though I thought I had seen his braids move like strings of pearls in a draft. The minutest of shakes of the head, a quiet admission of inadequacy that sunk ugly, ragged claws into my soft heart.

“He’s my brother. I have two of them. Dori…and Nori. They’re…” – “Older than you.” I completed. “Protective.” He supplied.

He was still holding his drawing out to me, and, after a moment, I took it gingerly and put it between the pages of my own writing supplies. I would hang it in my room and look at it daily.

Nowadays, there were but very few gifts for me; all the money went to my two younger sisters who were still nubile and would, if Mahal willed it so, be able to make a good match.

Busying my hands with making a fire, I asked him to tell me about his brothers.

“Oh, Nori is…agile. He’s…funny and brave and resourceful.” Ori started, his voice warm with affection and admiration. He sounded like a proper rogue to me, and as it turned out, he was, but he also deserved every single ounce of the deep-felt care Ori held for him.

“Dori is…fussy. He’s polite, he’s very caring, and he’s exceedingly proper.” Ori went on as I waved a hand for him not to stop. I enjoyed hearing about the life of other families than my own.

“So, is he the one who raised you to be this…warmly clad and gentle?” I asked, turning to place the foodstuffs I had brought up and stored in the cool lake water on spits to roast over the fire.

“Warm? Oh yes…I was a sickly pebble and he’s been worried ever since. I hope I have behaved in a way that would not make him disappointed in me.” Again, he worried his lip.

“Let’s see, you’ve startled a bird and an unsuspecting dwarrowdam.” I listed with a wicked gleam in my eyes; his face fell, and he looked properly guilty.

“Then, you’ve kept me company, and the best company I’ve ever had, it has been, on my grandmother’s grave, I swear.” I went on and that treacherous blush was back with a vengeance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He then said in a low voice. “Great beauty is always startling.”

“I am hardly Thorin Oakenshield.” He laughed. Readers, you cannot imagine that sound just by reading my words. If flowers blossoming had melody, if the sun setting on the eternal sea had a song, if autumn leaves dancing on a gale had a tune, they would have sounded like nails on scree, like cats having their tails trampled, and like kettles going unheeded compared to Ori’s laughter.

“There’s beauty in the doe as much as in the wolf.” I replied gently.

“May I…can I ask where you’re from? I don’t seek to be rude, but I’ve never seen anyone quite like you; your hair looks like those fabrics the Elves weave. It…seems so soft, so liquid, so smooth.” He blushed a darker shade yet.

This might well have been the first time that someone had asked me about my origins without making it sound like an accusation; there was honest fascination in his demeanour.

“My family and I have come from the Far East. I have travelled a lot, Ori, I have seen landscapes entirely made up of rock and sand, I have walked forests so stiflingly hot and moist it felt like being underwater, and now, I am here in the land of tall trees and taller mountains.”

I said, surprised by my own frankness.

“That sounds amazing.” He took the food I offered readily enough, and I told him about the people I’ve left behind to be stranded at the other end of the world.

“This is good, is that a recipe of your homeland?” He asked, looking down on the piece of meat I had seasoned with herbs I had grown myself in our small backyard.

“It actually is. I’m glad you like it. I had not planned to have company, otherwise I’d have brought something more palatable to the local tongue.” I apologised quickly.

“No, I like it. You should definitely trade some recipes with Dori…and Bombur…oh, and if any of your delicious herbs are medicinal, Óin.” He laughed again when he saw my dumbfounded expression.

“I make a good honeycake, if I can interest you in that? Maybe…” He fell back into silence.

…

A look at the sky told me that it was too late to go down in the inky darkness.

“We’ll have to stay here for the night.” I mumbled, slightly uncomfortable at the idea of spending the night with a dwarrow who had not lost a single word about a wife.

“Are you married, Mistress? Will that endanger your wedlock?” He asked shyly.

“No, I am not and I have no name to lose…It’s a long story.” I didn’t feel like blurting out my disgrace, lest it give him strange ideas after all, especially as he would easily have been able to overpower me if he so chose.

“Neither am I. I don’t know about my name…Doesn’t look like I’m going to be married either. There’s not enough dwarrowdams as it is, and I think the royal line has a prerogative there.” There was no resentment in his tone; he seemed to accept this as a fact.

How could someone that sweet not be married, I wondered. He was courteous, he was cute, and he would have made the fortune and happiness of someone.

“Well, in that case, I think we can risk our reputation rather than our necks.” I grinned, rolling out a blanket I kept tied to my pack for emergencies and stretched out next to the fire on the moss.

“Erm, yes…Good night…” He mumbled, fidgeting around with his different layers of clothing. Apparently, he was deciding which one he needed least on his body to use it as a bedroll or blanket.

I eyed the proceedings with interest and a good deal of amusement.

“I can offer you my cloak to lie upon…the ground will grow very cold and wet soon.” He said in a low voice, not sure if I had already fallen asleep or not.

“Alright, I can offer you a spot under the blanket then?” I extended my own graciousness.

“With you?” No, with the red bird, I thought, rolling my eyes internally.

“Yes, Ori the scribe, with me. I will not eat you, as you have witnessed, I have had dinner.” Not that he did not look good enough to devour, standing there with his cloak in his hands and his face all crunched up in embarrassment.

“Hmmm…I guess.” He muttered doubtfully, spreading out the cloak and sitting down on it carefully. Impatiently, I scooted over and spread my lousy blanket over the both of us with a flourish.

“Sleep!” I commanded as I turned around only to find him staring wide-eyed at the spot where the back of my head had been only a second ago. Now that he was presented with my face, only inches away from his, his eyes grew even rounder and bigger in wordless distress.

“Friend…Have you never lain with a woman? And I literally mean, lying next to one?” I laughed for there had been friends and cousins aplenty in my own life and the feeling of having another body so close to mine was not a new experience for me.

“Well, I fell down on the battlefield once, next to a foe…I’m pretty sure that was a Lady-Orc. She was dead. There was a…” He gestured, indicating a spear or a lance sticking out of his chest and brushing against my own with the back of his hand. Dear reader, he flinched back as if I was a tiny Durin’s bane wreathed in flames.

“A Lady-Orc, indeed…” I mused; no doubt, he could hear the smile I hid in my voice for his face crunched up in embarrassment.

“I am sorry.” He sighed, rolling his eyes, and thinking – there was not a shadow of a doubt about that much – of his brothers who would have mocked him mercilessly for his stammering.

“There’s no need to be sorry” I tried to reassure him, but I admit now that there were things that I did not tell him right away then. We had only just met, and he was blessedly unaware of my shameful past.

How could I have made him understand – without hurting his feelings – how much I enjoyed that air of purity about him that I had squandered myself on an undeserving fiend? As a daughter amongst others, I had been used to dwarrows coming to court or to seduce, their eyes ablaze with greed and their hands wandering.

He would not have comprehended how much the absence of that voracious hunger that had plagued my youth and had ended up destroying my promising future meant to me.

“Sleep.” I repeated, unable to put into words how miraculous and precious the things he seemed to be most ashamed of were to me.

“Good night, Mistress.” He breathed with a soft smile that was nowhere near the wolfish baring of fangs I was used to and so, it was easy to return it.

You who may or may not have stumbled upon this ludicrous account of the most important story in an otherwise unimportant life, you shall hear another confession I did not make at the time.

I was fiercely aware that – had I but leant forward a little – I might have pressed my lips upon his; I was young still at that time and, despite what had happened, parts of me, that should have withered and died in the aftermath of my botched engagement, were much alive.

He smelled like our dinner and warmth, and the gentle reticence of the curve of his smile was more inviting than any flashing grin I had ever seen before.

Yes, in that very moment, on this very first evening, I had already been conscious of the shrewd attraction this self-effacing dwarrow held for me…and it scared me half to death.

…

Part 3

#Fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ori the dwarf #Ori #OC #Fluff #Diary #1st person

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