Pairings: Namor x Vigilante!Reader // Matt Murdock x Vigilante!Reader
New York City has forged you into a hooded vigilante that protects citizens from the looming threats the law can't handle. You have allies in the city that aid in your fight, and a very complicated relationship with Daredevil - your on-again off-again beau. When a mission on the docks goes sideways, you find yourself floating alone on the wreckage of your getaway ship in the middle of the Atlantic.
You’ve never bothered yourself with world powers before, but suddenly, you’re made aware of a lurking threat to not only New York City, but the entire surface-world. Hidden under the sea is a whole civilization ready for war, a war Wakanda is trying to stop. But with every new revelation about what those on the surface are doing, you begin to wonder: should you stop this K’uk’ulkan or should you burn the world down with him?
Intro & warnings // 💓= Explicit Sexual Content
Your "What the hell is going on with this Namor guy?" Era:
***So if the era titles feel like too much giving away of the story, let me know and I'll change them - I just figured since it's such a long fic people might like to know the trajectory/when certain titular characters will be back in the forefront***
Likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! Also, I'm posting it over on AO3 under Amethyst_Birch_Writes if you want to go over there to read it - but you don't get the nifty little pics with the post, so that's up to you!
Reblog this if you would not only accept, but welcome fan art, moodboards, etc. of your fics
All of these used to be so common for people to show their appreciation of different fics and authors, and I think it’s a shame people don’t do it anymore. I love seeing fan work for my fics!!
Summary: When Halbrand and Nariel rescue an elf maiden from the Sundering Seas, their reasons for survival are tested. What are each of them living for and to what end will pursuing it lead? Taking place during season 1, episode 2 with my OC Nariel - a mysterious woman who woke in the mountains of the Southlands with no memories, but in burned rags and covered in soot yet feels an inexplicable pull to the western horizon.
WC: 7,581
Dense fog blanketed the sea and refused to relent day or night. Only half the crew had survived the storm and subsequent attack by the Sea Worm, the beast eating it’s fill and then vanishing back into the depths as quickly as it came. Those who remained huddled dejectedly on the small raft they’d pieced together from the ship’s wreckage keeping careful watch on their water store that was running low already.
Nariel checked the slip knots on the joining between two parts of the raft, a pitiful thing cobbled together from bits of deck that managed to remain afloat during the storm. It would hold - for now. She shook her long dark hair out, hopelessly tangled and matted from her time at sea, and tied it back again. Now, there was no sun to shield from, no wind to buffet them about, no spray from the waves breaking over the ship’s bow to contend with. It was only the drab, still air, thick with humidity and the sluggishly sloshing sea.
Not for the first time since the shipwreck, Nariel though back to the elven watchtower of Ostirith and the silvan elf, Arondir, who had helped her. It was hot in the Southlands, yes, but the stones of the tower kept the worst of the heat at bay, it was humid, of course, but there was fresh water to bathe in and plenty of food to refresh oneself. And Arondir, at least, had been friendly. Why had she ever left the Southlands at all? She could have gone to one of the human villages and tried her luck with them, but no. A longing in her heart drug her to the sea, and beyond, west to some unknown horizon.
The humans she was with now were only bound together for survival. Nariel could see how they eyed each other warily each time the water rations were handed out. Only seven of them, but if there were one or two less, the stores would last longer. She could see the cold calculations on each face grow the longer they drifted aimlessly, unable to find any bearings in the dense fog, not knowing how far from land they might have been cast in Ulmo and Ossë’s rage.
Her eyes found Halbrand, the man who had first hauled her aboard that ill-fated vessel and the one who had drug her below deck during the storm least she be swept overboard. He had heard her cursing the Valar, tempting their wrath in the tempest, but he had not betrayed her to the crew. They remained oblivious that it might be possible Nariel herself was to blame for drawing the wrath of the sea and sky, that her attempts to sail west might have drawn their eyes and led the Valar to rebuff them all. If the crew had known, they surely would have sent her to the deeps immediately, to keep dark luck from following them further - or perhaps a sacrifice to the Valar in hopes of appeasing the reclusive gods.
Nariel surveyed the man hunched on his small piece of raft, a sac covering his broad shoulders as he gazed listlessly at the scrap of deck beneath him. She could have left him to die in the wreckage of the ship, ensured that her secret anger at the Valar would never be revealed, but she had saved him. She pumped air back into his lungs, restarted his heart, and drug him from the sea to the relative safety they all clung to now. All he’d done was laugh as he regained consciousness, and never another word about the deed did he speak.
It didn’t make sense to her, that he had foregone the safety below deck in the storm to seek her out and drag her to safety. She had thrown herself into danger, refused to save herself, and so the man had done it for her, then berated her for her actions. He could have left her to die in the storm. He hadn’t.
It still puzzled her why they bothered to save each other at all, but she’d put an end to it. She’d saved him from drowning and informed him that they were even and that was that. And so it had been as they spend hours and hours stranded at sea with their remaining crew mates.
Nariel glared out at the gray waters, her hazel eyes scanning the intermittent churning of the surface, swaying with the rocking motions of the raft. She gritted her teeth and bit her tongue as she repressed the desire to curse Ulmo once more for his treatment of those sailing his waters. Halbrand’s burning gaze reared in her mind, his hissed condemnation for her drawing the eyes of the Valar upon them, testing them. She wasn’t confident that it really had been she who brought the ship to ruin - storms sunk ships all the time, so she supposed - but if the crew were superstitious about it, she would be loathe to test their frayed hospitality.
Eamon tilted the makeshift sail, desperately attempting to catch even the slightest breeze. Hrani dug half-heartedly at the water with his broken oar. Abigail took stock of what rations remained. Joana rocked in the center of the craft, eyes darting wildly about the sea for any sign of the Great Worm’s return. Taya stroked her own oar in the waves. Halbrand remained immobile, as though in a deep trance.
Nariel bit back another curse, then her heart leapt. There was something in the waters coming toward her. A speck of light somehow catching on a blotch of white in the dark sea.
“Over here!” A bright voice called from the form.
A woman garbed in a long white gown paddled weakly forward, her pale face sallow from exhaustion, bright golden hair lank and tangled in the waters.
The crew came to life immediately - whether another lost soul in need of help or a threat, they were ready. Abigail rushed to the edge of the raft, reaching out her hand, “Come, come closer.”
Nariel bent to help her reach for the strange woman, but Eamon grabbed their shoulders and pulled them roughly back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed.
“I’m not going to leave her adrift!” Abigail beseeched him, voice strained with the first bit of hope they’d had in some time. Someone new meant there might be another ship nearby.
“I suppose you’ll be sharing your rations with her, then?” Eamon grimaced.
“If no one else will!”
The woman in the waves made to heave herself onto the raft and Nariel shook Eamon off herself and knelt to help, but Halbrand had slid in front of them all, holding up a hand to stall the newcomer from climbing aboard.
Nariel glanced at him, wondering at his caution as he addressed the woman. “The tides of fate a flowing. Yours may be headed in - or out.”
The golden haired woman sank back into the waves as Abigail and Eamon argued.
“Refuse to bring her aboard, and her death will be on our hands.” Abigail had taken the loss of the other crew members the hardest and Nariel could see her worry. It had been hard in the wake of the storm, accepting that not everyone could be saved.
Eamon wasn’t moved. “Didn’t seem bothered when we was debating Doble’s death.” He countered.
Doble had lost his leg in the Sea Worm’s attack. His blood would soon have drawn other predators and there was no way to staunch the bleeding. They’d had to leave him to drown. It hadn’t sat easily with any of them, but nor could they think of an alternative. The remaining crew had to harden themselves to the realities and lock their compassion away.
“Cruelty will not be our deliverance.” Abigail growled, shoving Eamon out of the way, Halbrand holding his hands up in surrender as he let her and Nariel stoop to the swimming woman and pull her aboard.
The white-clad woman collapsed on the raft, trembling and panting. How long she had been in the waters without a scrap of wood to buoy herself they didn’t know. Abigail took her own water flask and dribbled some into the woman’s mouth and she swallowed gratefully, gasping as strength returned to her. She managed to prop herself up and grab for the skin.
“Nope.” Eamon grunted, wrenching the water away. “Answers first.”
The woman rolled to her knees, looking up at the crew surrounding her and Nariel was forcefully reminded of her own first encounter with the crew. It had gone much the same way, albeit on a fully functioning ship and within sight of land. But the same judgmental glares had been thrown at her, and no doubt the same intrusive questions. Something about this person tickled at her absent memory, like the glow of the hearth fire in another room. She bore herself in a way that spoke of power, of noble will and strength beyond those on this raft. This woman was no wayward sailor lost at sea, she was something else.
Eamon started with the obvious, “Why are you out here?”
“I was separated from my ship.” The woman did a fair impression of demure innocence, though Nariel suspected it was more from her fatigue than true submission.
Eamon searched her face for any flicker of a lie. “Attacked?”
The woman shook her head and dropped her gaze. Joana began whimpering and pulling at her short hair. She had been most affected by the Worm’s assault, paranoia gripping her even tighter than the rest of the crew.
“Then you’ve not seen it?” Eamon relaxed a hair, perhaps thinking the woman’s ignorance of the beast to indicate it truly had moved on to other prey.
The woman’s blue eyes held confusion as she measured his response. “Seen what?”
Eamon scanned the rolling waves, “The Worm.” He said simply, offering no more explanation.
Abigail spared a glance for Joana who was now on the verge of wailing, but clarified for the new woman, “We set out two weeks ago, sailing from-“
“Need we tell her all our affairs?” Eamon cut in.
“Why not?” Abigail countered, gesturing at the kneeling woman, “Does she look dangerous to you?”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Halbrand’s assessment shocked Nariel into remembering he was here - and how a quiet word from him would lead the crew in whatever direction he chose before the wreck. It might still hold true now. His eyes flicked to Nariel when he said it, though, and she retrained her eyes on the woman in front of her. He was right, of course. This woman knelt, but the hairs on the back of Nariel’s neck stood on end. She wouldn’t want this person as her enemy. There was much being concealed with her bedraggled frame and simple gown.
Hrani shifted and darted forward faster than Nariel could stop him - doing the same as Abigail had done to her what seemed so long ago: he lifted the woman’s golden tresses, revealing a pointed ear beneath.
“An elf!” Eamon shouted, scuttling back from her.
The woman’s visage changed in an instant. Gone was the demure damsel lost at sea, her hand twisted Hrani’s wrist, forcing him to let her hair fall and snarled at him, “Remove your hand from me, sir.”
She she stood to her full height and though she was shorter than most of the crew, met each glare from them with her own of cold fire. Here was a being Nariel could see swimming across the entire Sundering Sea on her own - a being not of the Silvan woodlands of Middle Earth, but rather of the high Noldor, hailing from Valinor itself in the ancient days.
Abigail saw none of the radiant splendor Nariel did. “You liar!” She screamed, all her compassion turning to distrustful rage in an instant.
“We’re saved!” Joana rasped, pushing between the women who looked to be ready for physical confrontation. “We’re saved, look!” She pointed out into the mist at a shadow swaying on the sea.
As the form of a sail materialized from the gloom, several of the crew began shouting, waving their hands to draw the attention of the would-be saviors. Abigail yelled for a torch, but Eamon yelled for caution least it be corsairs that would leave the crew in a worse position than they were already in. Nariel might have taken the corsairs in hopes that even if they were slapped in shackles, there would at least be the hope of escape, of wresting control of the ship from them.
All those flitting possibilities were wasted. The moment Joana called their attention back the the sea, Nariel felt it: something stirring in her gut that warned of danger. The hook in her middle twisting just as it had done before the storm. She looked in dread at the approaching sail and the elven woman confirmed her fears.
“That’s no corsair ship.” Her gaze at it was fierce, though Nariel suspected she had no idea the fight she was preparing for.
“That’s…” Abigail’s voice faltered as she realized what was happening as well. “That’s our ship.”
“The Worm.” Eamon moaned and out of the mist, the waving spikes littering the back of the beast came swaying into view, part of their old ship’s sail caught between them.
It was headed right for the raft.
Nariel’s blood froze in her veins as she prepared for a fight they could not win, but an order from Halbrand arrested her steps toward anything she could use as a weapon.
“Be still!” He ordered, and every head turned to him as he peered out at the approaching beast.
If he had been hoping stillness would have dissuaded the wrath of the Sea Worm, he had been sorely mistaken. It swam directly beneath them, each slimy scale visible as it slipped under the surface, and it appeared the thing had passed them by. But its body was long like a massive snake and it’s tail crested beneath them to knock the raft halfway out of the water, tossing everyone on board about in a panic.
“The elf led it right to us!” Abigail snarled, then pushed the newcomer bodily from the pitiful excuse for a vessel.
The elf maiden fell back into the water with a yelp, long gown dragging in the sea foam, and Nariel instinctively rushed for her, seeking to save her from a fate she doubted she deserved. Not that this raft would be much more secure than swimming in the open sea. She was jostled back and forth by the rest of the crew rushing around in a vain attempt to get away, only leading to confusion and the tangling of limbs. Before she could extricate herself and get to the edge of the craft to offer another hand to the elf, she saw Halbrand violently tearing at the slipknot the held the smaller raft she had found to the larger. He was attempting to separate them.
There was no way Nariel was going to let him use her own getaway raft without her. She’d purposely made those knots easy to slip free in case of just such an emergency. With a hiss, she turned her attention to him, leaping over the pile of bodies still scrambling for something that might save them, and barreling into him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and brought him down just as the ropes fully came loose and the smaller raft started drifting away from the larger.
They each glared at each other, but in tandem, they shoved the larger raft as hard as they could away from them. Nariel had made her decision to abandon the crew in hopes that only one group would be destroyed in a split second, but she didn’t regret it. Joana was on the verge of making a decision that would endanger them all in her fear, Hrani was growing more paranoid by the minute and it was his eyes that became the hungriest when talk of rations running low began, Eamon was trying to assert more control over the group and Nariel didn’t really want to be around when the subject of sacrificing someone came up, and Abigail had just proved that if you gave her a single reason to distrust you she’d abandon you to the elements without a second thought. A split-second decision, but one Nariel was confident in.
What she wasn’t confident in, was sharing the raft with Halbrand and whether separating from the rest of the crew would save or doom them. She didn’t have to wait long for her answer to the second question.
The beast’s roar could be heard over the commotion, the lithe body contorting back on itself to head for the larger raft once more. Halbrand and Nariel shoved with broken oars more frantically to get away, and the golden head of the elf woman disappeared under the waves, swimming away from the doomed humans.
The remains of the crew didn’t stand a chance. With deadly precision, the Worm crashed into the raft, utterly destroying it, people flying into the air as it passed. Nariel’s heart pounded as she and Halbrand paddled away, her stomach clenched as mighty jaws snapped up Eamon from the sea with a single bite.
Dinner floundering in the sea, the Worm circled the broken planks of wood and writhing bodies and ate its fill.
—-
Nariel couldn’t help but look back time and time again though the fog had long obscured the massacre behind her.
“They’re gone.” Halbrand said, his own eyes solidly forward on the gray sea before him. “There was nothing you could have done.”
Nariel grunted noncommittally. It didn’t mean she felt any less sick about the fate that had befallen almost the entirely of the crew she’d set out with. It didn’t help, either, that the constant pull toward the west was as strong as ever - as though it was telling her to forget about the cost and keep striving toward that bright horizon and the cries of gulls.
She scanned the sea again, this time searching for something else. “What of the elf woman? I’m sure she managed to survive and is somewhere out here.”
“What of it?” His tone expressed no feelings on the matter either way.
The woman’s face rose in Nariel’s mind - a bright light burned within the elf maiden, driven and unyielding. One of the Noldor - the only ones the Valar allowed to sail west, after gaining their permission, of course. If what Nariel longed for was so far west the Valar would take notice, having one of the mighty High Elves with her might stay their vengeful hand. One separated from her people might also be easier to draw aid from, should the need arise.
All these thoughts flooded her, but there were less logic-driven reasons for Nariel’s concern. Just as with Halbrand, there was something about the elf that said far more was under the surface than they were letting show. It intrigued her and she was willing to take the chance and save this woman, just as she’d taken the chance to save Halbrand after he had drowned.
But Nariel didn’t share those thoughts with Halbrand himself, rather she simply shrugged. “Six hands rowing are faster than four.”
Halbrand turned and gave her a steady look, his expression hard to read though his eyes searched hers for all that she had just been debating. Perhaps he was able to read her true intentions, perhaps not.
His face betrayed no sign of his own feelings as he relented. “Let’s go find her, then.”
It didn’t take long for her golden head to come into view once more, the elf scanning the waves, too, no doubt in search of the Sea Worm’s return. What she found instead was a man and a woman paddling a rickety raft her way. Perhaps not the saviors she’d have preferred, but they were the only saviors she was going to get.
She looked up at them with reproachful eyes as Halbrand knelt over her still paddling in the water. Nariel balanced the raft on the other side, watching the man’s back as long moments stretched silently in the gloom. Finally, the elf maiden relented and allowed Halbrand to heave her onto the rickety mass. Nariel handed her the water skin and the elf was finally able to drink her fill.
“What are you called?” Halbrand asked, stepping back to return to his oar.
She panted as she stood, walking to the edge of the wooden planks to survey the waters and Nariel almost thought she wasn’t going to answer. It seemed she did little without fierce internal debate. She turned her head back to pierce them with her gaze once more. “Galadriel.”
A slight smile flitted over Halbrand’s face, an expression he quickly smoothed as he looked away to continue rowing. “I’m Halbrand.” He returned the introduction, then jerked his head to the side. “That’s Nariel. What’s our heading?”
“Nariel?” The elf woman named Galadriel ignored Halbrand’s question to peer at Nariel.
Nariel shrugged uncomfortably, well aware that she still wore the elven clothing given to her at Ostirith, though they were now rags. She couldn’t stop her hand from jerking toward her round ears, hidden beneath her black hair.
Galadriel marched toward her, peering into her eyes the way Halbrand did - in a way that felt as though she was reading every thought in the other’s head. “Nariel is an elvish name, meaning ‘daughter of fire’. How came you by I?. You are no elf.”
Nariel sucked at her teeth and broke the elf’s gaze, paddling half-heartedly and glancing at Halbrand who appeared to have no interest in the conversation, as he kept his eyes trained on the sea. The tension in his shoulders gave him away, however - he’d never inquired about her name, but now he was listening with rapt attention.
“I met some elves and they gave me the name.” She kept her response curt, inviting no more questions. Galadriel did not seem to care.
“You were found as a child and raised by Silvan elves?” She asked, guessing correctly where the rags Nariel wore came from.
“Something like that.” Nariel muttered.
“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, Nariel.”
Galadriel’s expression softened as she spoke, but Nariel understood none of it. She instead gave a tight smile, hoping there wasn’t a question in that elvish phrase and turned back to the waters.
Galadirel’s face dropped as she received no response. “Pedich i lam edhellen?”
There was the lilt of a question in that phrase but it still meant nothing to Nariel, though the sound was soft in her ears, as though perhaps she had heard it in happier times before. Her face heated as she realized Halbrand, too, had dropped his feign of disinterest and was watching her from the corner of his eye.
“You do not speak any elvish tongue, yet you were raised by them?” Curiosity and disappointment warred on Galadriel’s face.
Halbrand cut in, tisking. “She said ‘something like that’ to being raised by elves, not that she had been.”
Galadriel cut him a glare, “Then she should speak plainly, being mortal yet bearing the clothing and name of an elf. One might suspect she’d murdered for her raiment and thought it high of her to use such a name of power.”
Nariel threw down her oar and faced the elf squarely at the insult, looking down slightly at the shorter woman, despite knowing Galadriel’s power far outstripped her own. “All that you see was given to me freely.” She spat. “The raiment and name given by one I might call friend, though may never see again.”
Galadriel did not back down from the challenge, seeing a foe to press her will against seeming to give her a determination she could use to dominate after her failure to cow the ocean itself. “An elf named you daughter of fire? An auspicious name for one born of man yet not raised by elves.”
Nariel grimaced as she felt her sodden clothes cling to her, bare feet sticking to the wet planks, and heard the gentle splash of water around her. “It seemed fitting at the time.” She grumbled.
“What were you called before they named you ‘Nariel’?”
Nariel knew what Galadriel was asking, but she could be just as stubborn as this elf-maiden. “Ruinë.” That’s what the less-than-friendly elves had called her: ‘fire’ as a physical flame due to her clothing being charred and body covered in soot when they found her. Arondir had asked to give her another name, but she had liked the allusion to fire and so he named her ‘Nariel’ to speak to the spirit of fire in her rather than the physical manifestation of its destruction. And so Nariel she had become, though the sea mocked it. She smiled at the frustrated furrow in the fair woman’s brow at the snide answer.
Halbrand covered his laugh with a cough, drawing both women’s glares onto him. Hazel and blue eyes alike seared him where he stood. “Well, friendly introductions out of the way, let’s get moving, shall we?”
—-
So they drifted in silence, the fog burning away under the blistering sun that broke through the thinning clouds. Halbrand quickly gave up his rowing and lounged, though it was not the listless brooding he had done on the raft with the rest of the crew - now he seemed more lost in directed thought, his blue eyes sharp as they roved between the women and the waves. Galadriel was not one to lounge. She always seemed to have something to do to the raft to make it sturdier, hold course straighter, or catch the slight wind in the scrap of sail better. Nariel herself settled against the broken excuse of a mast, oar tilted across her knees as she watched the elf work.
The longer she watched Galadriel, the stronger her read of her became. This elf was no Silvan being, having only known the lands of Middle Earth, nor was she a child of the Noldor who had come across the sea in their Great War and been trapped, but still only knowing this land. Galadriel was old. Those eyes had seen things beyond mortal comprehension, beyond the comprehension even of the younger elves though they had centuries of life behind them. There was a hardness in her, a shattered piece of her being that she was ruthlessly forcing back together though it was still jagged with the seams of ill-beaten steel. Like a broken bone that was splinted a thousand times over but refused to set right.
As the sun’s rays pierced the cloud cover, Nariel found herself having to look away from Galadriel. Her white gown was too light, her golden hair shone too brightly, even her skin seemed to illuminate the harder she worked. It was blinding if Nariel gazed too long upon her.
Halbrand, however, seemed to have no such problems.
He bent to splash sea water on his face and slick back his hair, tucking the pouch and pendant he now wore back into his ragged tunic. “You needn’t keep your distance.” He drawled, settling back onto his seat beside Nariel.
The woman snorted at that. It wasn’t like anyone could keep any physical distance from one another on this cramped raft.
Galadriel looped some rope on one of the upright bars that stabilized the craft and pulled it tight while she sneered her answer. “I’m simply wondering what manner of person would so readily abandon their companions to death.”
Nariel scowled at the assessment of their actions back when the Worm attacked, but it was a fair observation. She remained silent and let Halbrand test his luck against the Eldar.
“The sort who knows how to survive.” He didn’t bother to hide the frank confusion as to why she wouldn't understand such a basic concept. “Why be part of the larger target?”
She glared back at him, then returned to her work. “You’re a target, still. I doubt we will find safety until we make landfall.”
Halbrand gave her back an amused smile, the kind he’d often shot Nariel back on the whole ship - as though he might be making a light hearted jest or mocking her. “I suspect finding safety won’t be that easy. Leastways, not for you.”
There it was, the hidden jab, the deeper understanding of things Nariel could not comprehend, empty as her memories were.
Halbrand noted Galadriel’s hesitance and pushed his advantage. “’Separated’ from your ship.” He cocked his head to the side. “Really? You’re a deserter, aren’t you?”
“Do I have the look of a deserter to you?” Galadriel snapped back.
“You don’t have the look of someone to whom things happen by accident.” He was right, there, and he knew it. “Which means you were running. Whether toward or from something, I haven’t yet decided.”
With those last comments, his eyes flicked to Nariel with more shrewdness than she was comfortable with. He suspected the same about her, though if she was running from or deserting something, she was unaware. There was no way for him to know if she herself did not. Still, the pull in her gut toward the west, her always trying to angle the ship to the setting sun, Halbrand knew there was something she was attempting to get to.
Galadriel refused to look at him, instead working the rope in her hands. “Duty demanded I return to Middle Earth. And that is all you need to know.” Her tone sought to end the conversation, but something inside Nariel sparked white hot.
“You rejected Valinor. You threw away a gift so mighty to return here?”
Halbrand flinched as Nariel broke into the conversation, the harsh accusation bearing heat suited to her namesake.
Galadriel met Nariel’s gaze once more. “Long have I craved to see the land of my birth once more, a longing you mortals could not begin to understand. Turning away from my kin on those shores was a necessary sacrifice for my duty.”
Something about that incensed Nariel beyond reason, the longing in her heart that pulled her west becoming a physical ache so strong it threatened to bring tears to her eyes. She’d been fighting to get west and had been refused, this Galadriel had been offered it freely and turned it away. No, it wasn’t Valinor Nariel sought, it couldn’t be. She was no elf-maiden herself, she’d never be allowed on the shores of the great Powers of Arda. The way was barred to her.
Nariel opened her mouth to condemn Galadriel for her choice, but Halbrand broke in, pressing for more information rather than simply beginning an argument. “Some important elf business, no doubt.”
Galadriel turned her gaze back to him. “And what have elves ever done to you? Do you blame us for you being stranded here?”
Halbrand lifted his chin and grimaced. “The way I see it, it wasn’t elves that chased me from my homeland. It was orcs.”
Nariel glanced between the two, something about that had clearly peaked Galadriel’s interest, that mention of ‘orcs’. Orcs - Nariel didn’t know the word, didn’t know what manner of person or creature or act of nature that was, but as the word was said, a roaring red light blinded her. Screams, blood, the clashing of blades and a dark sky illuminated by fire scattered about haphazardly in her mind. Galadriel turned and another image, one she didn’t recognize from before flashed across her vision: a marking like a jagged trident wreathed in flame. Then it was gone and she was on the raft once more.
Nariel was grateful Galadriel’s attention zeroed in on Halbrand as she fought to control her erratic breathing, the frantic beat of her heart. The look of compassion mixed with steadfast determination moved Nariel, helping her ground herself back in the present.
“Your home.” Galadriel’s voice was soft. “Where was it?”
“What’s it matter?” Halbrand schooled his own features, a deep sorrow crossing his face the likes of which Nariel had never seen on him before and he looked away. “It’s ashes now.”
Nariel flinched at that, though simply bearing the name of fire was no reason for him to hold the destruction of his home against her. Her soot-blackened arms and charred clothing the elves of the Southlands had found her in couldn’t have been connected - could they? Nariel was now unsure whether she should have doubled down on her essence being of fire.
Galadriel only noticed Halbrand’s sorrow, not Nariel’s discomfort and the elf’s face softened. “I know something of the pain you carry.” She whispered. “I grieve for you. For those you lost.”
At that, Halbrand’s head whipped around, wonder and a hint of suspicion warring on his features and Galadriel turned away again, lost in her own contemplations.
Despite herself, Nariel wanted the elf to continue pressing Halbrand for information about his past. Nariel had never done it, fearing such questions would lead to ones directed at her in turn, questions she could not answer nor did she desire to admit to anyone she couldn’t answer. Either the women were of one mind, or more likely, Galadriel had her own reasons for inquiring.
“Around your neck.” She indicated the pendant Halbrand usually kept tucked into his tunic - the one that Diarmid used to wear. “Was that the mark of your people’s king?”
“My people have no king.” Halbrand sighed.
“But if they did,” Galadriel pressed. “Where might that kingdom be found?”
“To what end?”
“What if I told you we might be able to reclaim it?”
Halbrand scoffed. “I’m afraid you’re short an army.”
“Leave the army to me.” She said quickly, the bit in her teeth now, and she was galloping toward some larger goal far beyond surviving on this raft. “Why are you dodging the question?”
“Why are you stranded at sea?” Halbrand snapped back.
Galadriel leaned over him, her being starting to almost glow with her fierce will. “Because rather than rest in glory, I chose to seek out the very enemy responsible for your suffering.”
Now it was Halbrand’s turn to press back, the intensity of the elf’s passion pulling him to his feet as well. “Look, Elf.” He said, voice low and dangerous as he looked down at her. “You didn’t cause my suffering and you can’t fix it. No matter how strong your will, or your pride.” His eyes flicked between hers, holding a cold fire of his own. “So let it lie.”
Galadriel wasn’t cowed, her voice soft yet filled with such power even Nariel was drawn in. “I have pursued this foe since before the first sunrise bloodied the sky. It would take longer than your lifetime even to speak the names of those they have taken from me. So letting it lie,” She snarled. “Is not an option.”
She turned on her heel and made to fortify the raft yet again, her mission plain though Nariel couldn’t see how she could achieve it, stranded as they all were. Despite Nariel’s draw to the west, this elf stirred in her a flame pointed back east, to follow this Galadriel into whatever battle she was planning. Halbrand was not so moved.
Instead of shrinking at the elf’s condemnation of him, Halbrand smiled. “At last. A little honesty.” He shook his head, “If you want to murder some orcs and settle a score, that’s your affair. But don’t dress it up as heroism.”
“Are you going to tell me where the enemy is or not?” There was a hint of desperate strain in her voice, the sorrows of her long years being pulled forward.
“The Southlands.” Halbrand relented.
A look of shock covered her features, as though the thought to look there had never before crossed her mind, before she reined it in to resolve. “I need to know how many the enemy were, under whose banner they marched, and then you are going to take me to their last-known location.”
“I’ve got my own plans, Elf.” Halbrand backed away and sat back down, clearly ending his part in this conversation.
After a command like that, Nariel wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to deny the immortal being as easily as Halbrand just had, but she imagined Halbrand’s refusal had to have been more from sheer stubbornness than any true plan. He had never indicated that he was doing anything but running from the Southlands when they had shared the ship together and it was laughable to think either of them had plans now, listlessly floating at sea on this broken raft. Galadriel was the only one who seemed to know where she was running to - a concrete goal rather than a vague pull to some horizon.
Halbrand had been run out of the Southlands by orcs. There was trouble enough to keep ships out of harbors near the Aduin. Yet Arondir had said there was no sign of trouble there in the mountain valleys he patrolled. Was the danger marching his way, ready to strike at the people in the villages he cared so much about? She was only able to spare a fleeting worry for her elven acquaintance and whatever threat he may be facing now.
Nariel’s gut churned, her mind fizzed like it had on the ship, filled with too many empty places in her memory, their lack all the more painful and disorienting as emotions welled in her at the elf’s speeches and Halbrand’s vulnerability. She was simply a watcher in their battle of wills, her own will mangled and confused. Her skin felt too hot, sweat beading on her face as she fought for control over her body that began to shake.
Thunder rolled across the sea and the three shipwrecked companions looked to the horizon. Dark stormclouds were once again making their way to Nariel and she didn’t know if she had the strength to endure another tempest.
Galadriel turned to them with a smile that goaded the weather to do its worst. “Prepare yourself.”
—-
The storm raged about them, tossing the raft upon the crashing waves. They had barely survived the first storm, and they had been on an unbroken sea faring vessel, then. This rickety bunch of planks couldn’t hold together, not under Ulmo’s wrath.
Nariel’s dark hair streamed out behind her as she pulled against the ropes binding the planks together, willing them to hold just a bit longer. She screamed to the sky in defiance of yet another storm sent to block her path west. Or perhaps this storm was for Galadriel, this time. The elf had refused the call to Valinor and turned her back on the shining shores of the Valar - perhaps they were punishing her for her insolence.
Who was to blame for the storm mattered little, now. Throwing one or the other overboard wouldn’t stay the waves or calm the winds, they would only be one set of hands short to survive this.
Halbrand crawled across the pitiful excuse of a deck, lashing planks back into place, the tall man’s frame almost being washed overboard by a stray wave. Galadriel watched their attempts to keep the raft from coming apart and shook her head, shouting over the rain, “The wind is too strong!”
Of course, she was right. Unless the storm stopped right now, there was no saving the whole craft. They would have to save what they could and hope it was enough to remain afloat.
Nariel clung to the broken bar they were using for a mast, the winds and waves buffeting her about like a ragdoll as Galadriel pulled free some rope and began tying herself to the post. At least she’d be bound to something buoyant in case it broke apart - the wood would find its way to the surface despite the undertow.
Halbrand continued his attempt to salvage the raft, pulling in vain at the loosening ropes.
“Come on!” Galadriel called above the storm. “Grab my hand - bind yourself to me!” And she reached her hand out to Halbrand, her own waist tied firm.
Nariel made to do the same for herself, wrapping the rope about her forearm and holding tight, then reached out her own hand to Halbrand, seeming so far away though almost within reach.
As the two women reached out, a crack split the sky and electricity lanced down upon them. The post jerked to the side, the lightning rending it from the rest of the raft, and Nariel’s arm was almost pulled from its socket as it drug her overboard.
It was oddly quiet below the surface. The crashing thunder and driving rain so distant above her as she plummeted into the depths. Nariel looked down and saw Galadriel’s golden hair streaming upwards, a solid iron block at the end of the rope was dragging them down. It was unnatural, the weight that piece of rigging held - as though the metal within it was being drawn to the heart of the sea by some dark force beyond normal physics.
Galadriel’s eyes were closed, having been struck unconscious by the lightning. How Nariel clung to consciousness, she did not know. The ropes loosened around her arm and Galadriel began drifting farther from her as Nariel’s descent slowed. For an instant, she considered letting the entire mast slip from her fingers and leaving the elf to her fate.
She almost did.
A spark ignited in Nariel’s breast and her hand closed upon the rope and she crawled down to the knots Galadriel had tied around herself so expertly. She tugged to loosen them but the harder she pulled, the tighter they seemed to become. This was no simple slip-knot like Nariel knew, this was a knot not meant to be broken except by the hand that tied it.
She expelled a stream of bubbles from her mouth in annoyance, immediately regretting the loss of air, and moved to the elf’s arm, tugging her upward, trying to swim against the block dragging them down.
It was no use. Everything was too heavy, the surface too far away. Nariel looked up at the distant flicker of light above her. If she didn’t free Galadriel soon, she would be lost as well.
All she had felt on the ship in the storm before was rage against the Valar. She’d thrown insults and taunts at Ulmo, at Manwë, at Mandos. She would not beg their help to save herself. But this mighty being of the Eldar, it would be a great loss to Arda should she perish here, one who had turned away peace and glory to continue fighting.
Nariel reached out with her mind, the last of the air from her lungs escaping her, and whispered to Ulmo. Lord of Waters, hear me. You who had remained a steadfast friend to Middle Earth long after Mandos pronounced his doom upon those who reside there. The seas are your domain. Ossë may rend the waves and crush the sailors, but you might provide still waters and fair winds yet in spite of your wayward Maiar. Please, Ulmo, not for my sake, but for the sake of this lady of light. Galadriel who has shone too brightly for even I to gaze upon. Send your help to her. Let this not be her fate. Ulmo, Varda, Nienna, any Power left in Middle Earth - I beseech you.
Nariel did not know where the words came from, who placed those utterances in her mind, but she felt the history in them, the truth and honest plea.
Her eyelids drifted closed, her lungs screamed for oxygen, and a dark figure appeared above her. It pulled itself down, hand over hand, upon the rope stretching from Galadriel to the surface, Halbrand’s face materializing in the dark. As suddenly, their descent halted, as though the waters had stilled around them and the rigging block had been cut free. A new energy surged in Nariel as Halbrand reached them and her eyes snapped open, bright once more, the ice that had begun to settle in her bones thawing and boiling in the man’s presence.
She grabbed his arm and tugged him down so they both were level with the unconscious elf. Nariel tore once more at the ropes around Galadriel’s waist and motioned for Halbrand to help. His eyes roved the ropes, the wooden post the elf was tied to, then his eyes widened as they spotted something at her waist. Nariel followed his gaze and couldn’t believe she had missed it - a gold and silver dagger, slender and expertly crafted was pressed to Galadriel’s gown.
He ripped it free and its blade cut easily through the thick ropes, the man and woman grabbing the Eldar together and swimming her back up to the surface.
They all three broke into the air, Galadriel regaining consciousness as the sweet oxygen was available to her once more, and Nariel gasped for the breath that had long been denied her. Halbrand helped them swim back to the raft and the three beings set adrift collapsed onto the raft that was half the size it had been when the storm began. They panted and clung to the boards, the storm finally slacking and Nariel could not help but laugh.
Summary: Halbrand has saved Nariel from falling into the sea, but is this man from the Southlands more than he seems? When a storm hits their ship, Nariel and Halbrand will have to decide if they're willing to let the mysterious other live to see another day.
WC: 5,540
“Am I going to regret catching you?”
Nariel looked up at the man holding her arm, her feet dangling above the foaming waters of the harbor.
Had it been rash to run for the last ship leaving and make a wild leap to catch it despite the distance? Perhaps. Had that pull in her chest dragging her west cared for the danger? Not a bit.
The wind had caught the ship’s sails and the docks were quickly shrinking behind them and the only thing keeping Nariel from the depths was this man who seemed uncertain if he should hold her fast or let her fall.
“Well?” His eyebrow raised in question, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her.
She glared back up into his blue eyes that held no small amount of mischief. She could believe he’d drop her on a whim so she chose her words carefully. “I mean the crew of this vessel no harm. I am just a traveler who is loathe to wait another month to continue my journey.”
All truth, for now. Her desires to go west were none of their concern, nor was her shadowy past.
His eyes held hers, flicking back and forth as though he was reading her very thoughts, and his smirk vanished. It was as though a mask fell over his face, unreadable and just as liable to turn to rage and dismissal as friendly acceptance as he assessed her answer. This was no Silvan elf with a soft spot for protecting humans that she had found before, he was a different being entirely.
Without warning, he hauled her up and over the ship’s railing in one smooth movement. Nariel barely had time to catch her breath as she tumbled onto the deck, rolling into a crouch as the rest of the crew circled in. Though the man had judged her worthy to be saved from the waves, he made no attempt to help her to her feet nor did he stop the crew’s barrage of questions and prodding fingers.
“Those are elven clothes.” One hissed.
“Check her ears! We can’t have one of them bringing us bad luck!” Snarled another.
Rough hands grabbed held her still as a woman yanked Nariel’s black hair back to reveal her rounded ears. “Human.” She turned from Nariel and shrugged at the crew.
The man who had caught her stood back, arms crossed and leaning against the ship’s mast as though he couldn’t care less what the outcome of this interrogation might be. But Nariel could see the sharp intensity of his gaze despite his casual stance. It would not be the crew who made up his mind about her, he’d come to his own conclusion - one he hadn’t fully drawn quite yet.
Nariel knelt on the deck, the crew around her almost blotting out the whole sky as they crowded in, and tried to meet each gaze openly and honestly, displaying much more submission than she was really feeling. “I am no elf, only a traveler whom they helped along while I was in their lands. They sent me on my way, wanting nothing to do with me, and I have no intention of bringing bad luck upon you.”
Again, all the truth. She didn’t need to mention how the elf Arondir had found her unconscious and devoid of memories deep in the mountains of the Southlands. She didn’t need to mention that the reason she was wearing elven garb was because the clothes she had been found in were singed and coated in soot, nor that it had taken her some time to even remember how to walk or speak. And she most definitely didn’t need to mention how the shadows of memories she did have were all of fire, blood, and the clashing of steel.
“Why you runnin’?” A man in a tight leather cap scowled at her, pale eyes squinting as though he, too was trying to look into her mind, though was too weak to even come close to spying something she did not wish him to.
Nariel calmed her racing heart, surveying the crew to get a sense of their own purpose, what story would set them at ease. There was the look of fear in their eyes, uncertainty and paranoia that an attack might come at any moment. “There are many dangers in this land.” Nariel began, seeing the confirmation in the crew’s faces. “I have decided to seek my fortunes elsewhere.”
Those gathered grumbled, but took a small step back from her, easing their tension as Nariel had struck upon their own reasons for setting sail.
“Dark things be moving in the Southlands.” One of the women whispered, her short silver hair rustling in the ocean breeze, blue eyes darting.
“Hush, Joana.” The man in the leather cap snapped, then scratched his white beard and peered at Nariel once more. “You may stay on the ship as long as you’re useful. Help keep things running, you understand.”
Nariel nodded in agreement, not that she had much choice else. It would be like with Arondir and the elves - she’d start a task and soon remember how it was done. At least, that was her hope.
She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling a bit as the sea heaved them about, and the crew backed away, still cautious.
Finally, the man who had caught her stepped forward as the rest of the crew retreated. The wind ruffled his brown hair that hung to his chin, the setting sun glowing upon his face as though no amount of grime or salty rime could mar his noble features. “What are you called?” He asked.
Nariel yet again had the sensation that his eyes could see right through her and he would be able to sense a lie. “Nariel.” She responded, catching herself as another jolt from the sea shook the ship.
The man rolled with the movement though the rest of the crew swayed uneasily, too.
“Halbrand.” He lifted his chin as he named himself, his eyes darting back to her ears as though double checking that they weren’t pointed. “Come, let me show you around the ship.”
So the searing heat of the days and sticky humidity of the night found Nariel pulling ropes and tightening rigging, swabbing decks and cooking up meager fare for the crew’s meals just like everyone else. There seemed to be no hierarchy on the ship though Eamon, the man in the cap, appeared to take the lead on most things. Halbrand was quiet, withdrawn from any official capacities on the ship, yet somehow every suggestion he made to the crew ended up being the course of action decided upon. It became clear immediately that these were no seasoned sailors, they were rather a cluster of frightened people trying to start a new life by any means necessary - just like she was.
—-
“Blasted ropes!” The cord was yanked from Nariel’s hands as the wind caught on the sail she was attempting to maneuver, shearing the top layer of skin from her palms.
The rope jerked taught as Halbrand caught it, tying it securely back in the position it had been in before. He gave her an amused smile, as though he was surprised she hadn’t caught on to sailing as quickly as he’d suspected (nor as quickly as she herself had hoped) and it was entertaining to him to watch her fail.
“Trying to steer us west again?” He drawled, swaying easily with the waves while Nariel continued to stumble. “You know Eamon will have your head if he catches you again.”
She hissed and ignored him, instead looking down at her hands, raw and blistered from the rope and almost two weeks at sea. The crew insisted on taking a south-west course, keeping relatively close to the shoreline in hopes of finding a friendly harbor farther south. Nariel, however, tried to convince the crew to veer west fully, toward that horizon the unknown force in her gut kept pulling her toward. No one had yet acquiesced to her suggestions.
“Is it really that bad?” The man asked, his tall form towering over her and casting her in shadow as he took her hands in his so that he could examine the damage.
As with the rest of the crew, he was looking worse for wear from the time at sea, his hair lanker from always being tossed in the salt-spray, skin raw from the wind and sun. Nariel had taken to wearing her hair tied at the base of her neck, dark waves cascading down her back in windswept tumbles. She’d had no chance to look at the state of her own skin in a reflection and suspected her face was just as sunburned as the others. The sea was no kind mistress to those who did not know her ways.
She begrudgingly allowed Halbrand to cradle her hands in his. He hadn’t been hostile to her, not like some of the crew, but he had a way of making light of situations in ways Nariel was never sure if it was good-natured or secretly laughing at her. At least the elves at Ostirith had been open about their dislike of her - this man from the Southlands was entirely too difficult for her to read.
His skin touching hers felt like fire just barely imprisoned in flesh and she fought to keep herself still and not pull away. Nariel’s stomach lurched and heart stuttered as he easily manipulated her hands in his, angling them in the light better to see the damage. The crew had all rubbed elbows with one another before - it was a small ship and shoulders were clasped, bodies steadied against each other to add more leverage to hauling ropes, knees bumped beneath the dining table - but never were they touches of intimate kindness. It was pragmatic physical contact in order to get the job done. Which is why Nariel’s thoughts jumbled at how gentle Halbrand’s touch was now.
It was not the clinical examination of a patient, it was something else. The heat from his calloused hands flashed bright in Nariel’s mind, the memories of fire she’d woken to drawing forward once more. The longer his hands held hers, the farther the fire spread, rushing through her veins and sending white sparks into her vision.
Perhaps it was the heat from the day, perhaps it was dehydration or how famished she always seemed to be on this ship, perhaps it was because that the tugging in her chest that drug her to the west hadn’t slacked no matter how far they sailed, but the whiteness overcame her vision and she found herself collapsing, legs no longer willing to hold her upright.
“Nariel, open your eyes.” Halbrand’s command came as though from a long corridor - so far away from her yet loud as a ram’s horn in her ears.
Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring at the wooden beams of the underbelly of the ship. She swayed gently in the hammock Halbrand must have laid her in and gingerly felt at her head. A piercing headache had settled behind her eyes and she looked in wonder at the clean bandages wrapping her hands. It seems their store of aloe hadn’t run dry quite yet, though they had used it liberally in their first days at sea, and Halbrand had spared some on her.
Having regained her bearings, Nariel looked over to the man sitting at her bedside. His brows smoothed as her eyes found him, his casual smile flitting back onto his lips that had been set in a scowl. It seemed he wanted to pretend the slip of his carefree mask had never happened.
Only when he leaned back on his stool did Nariel realize just how close the man had been to her as she laid unconscious. So close she could feel the ghost of his breath whispering the command to wake into her ear.
“Your hands are burned from the rope, but they’ll heal quickly.” Nothing in his tone suggested he had been worried for her in the slightest though there was a shade half-drawn over his blue eyes that betrayed his facade. “Here, drink.” He handed her a skin of water without leaning forward but rather stretching out his arm as far as he could.
Nariel took it from him and he snatched his hand away before their fingers could brush, back to his usual aloof self. “How long was I out?” She’d felt like she was catching fire, then nothing. Heat sickness, surely.
“Only a few moments. You were in and out of consciousness as I dressed your wounds.” Halbrand’s voice was low, like he was keeping his voice soft so only the two of them could hear. It was only the two of them down here, so Nariel didn’t see the need even if he did worry about being overheard.
Nariel sipped the water slowly, rationing their meager supply, and wracked her memory. She didn’t recall regaining consciousness at all before, no flickers of sensations or thoughts, only the bright light, darkness, and then Halbrand’s voice. Had she said something in her delirious state? Was that why Halbrand was acting so strangely? If she had, he certainly wasn’t saying.
His eyes roved around the cramped space, looking anywhere but her, now, and made to stand. “Spend a few more moments in the shade. Best not to go back into the sun too quickly. Next time you might not wake.”
Nariel sat up on the swaying bed and closed her eyes briefly, waiting for her dizziness to pass, though the headache remained. “I can still pull my weight.” She didn’t like the edge of a threat in his last comment.
He paused halfway to the ladder leading up to the deck, broad shoulders tensing, muscled arms taught, and the profile of his face was limned in the filtered light as he glanced back at her. “We shall see.” He muttered.
Nariel’s gut lurched once more, but it wasn’t from her medical state - the hook inside her pulling west twisted and her headache fizzed to cloudy static, as though her mind had grown too large for her skull and had turned to sharp mist spreading around her. “Something’s wrong.” She hissed, drawing a furrowed brow from Halbrand. She forced herself to her feet and staggered to the ladder, shoving past the man as he grunted with surprise.
Nariel scrabbled up the ladder into the gleaming sunset and scanned the horizon, the churning feeling that wracked her body causing her to lurch rather than walk to the ship’s railing. The rest of the crew paused in their duties to watch her, fear and concern on their faces at the wild look that had taken over her hazel eyes. Her nails dug into the wooden banister as she glared out at the sea and barely registered Abigail stepping up behind her.
“What is it?” The woman’s voice was strained and Nariel didn’t want to know where the other woman’s mind was heading at her strange behavior.
Nariel spun to face the other woman, realizing the rest of the crew and Halbrand had gathered in a small huddle around her, expressions ranging from worry to a guarded hostility as they readied themselves to take out a threat had she gone sea-mad. None of them would have the luxury of such concerns, soon. Despite the cloudless sky and gentle waters, Nariel pierced them all with her gaze because she knew,
“There’s a storm coming.”
—-
The clouds rolled in quickly through the darkening sky, the sea turning choppy from the moment Nariel uttered her warning. They had faced a rain shower at sea before, and that had scared them all more than enough. This, though, this was a storm fit for a shipwreck.
“Hold the line!” Eamon yelled over the crashing thunder, his own feet slipping in on the soaked deck. Rain beat at the sails as they attempted to furl them.
Halbrand tugged at his own rope along with Abigail, Nariel strained on hers with Hrani, his long brown curls whipping at her in the fierce wind.
“Get below deck!” Taya screamed, her bell-cap almost flying off as a wave crashed over the stern, throwing everyone forward.
The sails stowed away from the ripping wind, those still on deck rushed for the relative safety of the cargo hold. Nariel squinted through the driving rain that battered her face, watching the roiling clouds flash with streaks of lightning before bone-rattling booms of thunder.
The storm had blown in from the west. Just as the sun touched the horizon, it was obscured by the clouds racing in. Nariel couldn’t help but feel this storm was targeted at her, mocking her for attempting to change course and follow the hook in her stomach. As though the Valar themselves didn’t want her to reach that glowing horizon and hear the song from somewhere beyond.
Her body shook with anger, fear at the storm’s might paling in comparison to her rage at being kept from her calling. She barely noticed how the sea tossed the ship from wave to towering wave as she ran to the port side. Grabbing at the rigging, she held herself fast, tethered to the ship as she climbed onto the railing and bared her teeth at the sky itself.
“Manwë!” She screamed, “Have you sent your storms to thwart me? To keep fair winds from bearing me forward? You fight against me and mock my journey?”
A crash of thunder replied, a gust of wind ripping her hair from its tie to stream behind her like a flag.
“Ulmo!” Her call upon the Valar of the sea sent a rippling chill across the waters, “Is this how you treat those who sail your waters? Are we punished for even daring to enter your domain?”
A mighty wave reared before her, tilting the ship so that she hung from the rigging, parallel to the deck, before the ship rolled over the crest to careen wildly in the other direction, the woman now holding to the ropes and standing on the railing though staring down a cliff face of water to the surface lengths below her.
“Mandos!” Nariel laughed as she skirted death when the ship righted once more, remaining firm on the railing though her bandaged hand was ripped open anew as it gripped the rigging. The words she screamed were being drawn from her mouth from some deep and unconscious source, not knowing the history of her anger, but feeling it all the same. “Are you attempting to place your judgment upon me? Cast my fate in your books of the dead yet refuse my place in your halls, mortal as I am?”
The wind howled in response, and she bared her teeth in defiance of the judgment of the Valar. Then something cut the surface of the waves. Dark spikes tall as half the mast emerged from the sea, then dipped under once more. Nariel almost thought she’d imagined it, but the ice forming a pit in her stomach told her what she’d seen was true.
“Nariel!” Halbrand’s voice was whisked away on the wind the moment it met her ears. “Nariel get down from there!”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her down from her perch on the railing as she kicked and screamed at the Valar again. Halbrand ignored her protestations and hauled her bodily across the deck as it heaved and groaned though the storm, his grip tight as iron bands around her. Nariel could do nothing against his strength though her will pushed her to jump back onto the railing and continue castigating the gods who had abandoned her. He threw open the door to get below deck and shoved her through it, caring little for how she tumbled down the ladder to land in a heap on the wooden planks below.
“Testing the Valar like that.” He hissed, stomping down the ladder and shoving her against a beam the moment she was on her feet. “What were you thinking? Bringing their attention onto us?”
Nariel snarled at the man, meeting him glare for glare as his face pressed close to hers. “Who are they do decide our fate?” Her breath heaved and she was glad for the rain drenching her face so that he could not see the tears streaking down it. “Who are they to deny us our destiny?”
A hint of a smile twitched at Halbrand’s lips, that spark of amusement flickered in his eyes, but he schooled his expression to anger once more. “Foolish to tempt them in this storm. If we die for your insolence, I cannot imagine the afterlife will be kind to you.”
“Well if I die, I won’t have to deal with your snide comments or mocking laughs anymore, so perhaps that would be preferable.” Nariel didn’t know where her anger at Halbrand was coming from any more than she did her rage at the Valar, but it had lit up inside her during the storm and all she could hear in the crashing waves was the clash of steel, in the howling wind: screams of pain, and in her heart: an all consuming flame.
Halbrand’s face showed that he didn’t know where her anger with him was coming from either as his head cocked in confusion at her petty complaints when they were all on the brink of destruction in this storm. His lips parted to question her when something massive impacted the side of the ship, the crunching of wood as it strained to hold sending panicked screams throughout the hold from the crew huddled far from the ladder. The impact jarred the pair as the ship tilted again and Nariel tumbled into Halbrand’s chest as he fell backward into a storage cupboard.
Through hissing and cursing as they tried to disentangle themselves from one another, they heard the ship get impacted again, this time from the other side, throwing them back the way they had come. But the cupboard door had swung shut so that instead of falling back into the larger hold, Nariel and Halbrand were being tossed around a tiny room, unable to escape from one another.
“Get off me.” Nariel groaned as Halbrand’s weight pressed onto her, his stubbled cheek rubbing against her face as he tried to push back against the door that they were now partially laying on due to the tilt of the ship.
“I’m trying, if you would quit wriggling.” He fussed, slapping her wet hair off his face from where it had stuck during their tumble.
So cramped in this room, the heat from their bodies caused their drenched clothes to steam immediately and Nariel tried in vain to get her hands free from where Halbrand’s arms were pinning them, hoping to help push him off her, but the storm flouted her plans. The ship listed again and Halbrand was thrown back against the far wall of the cupboard, Nariel now colliding into his chest, laying atop him, his arms wrapped around her waist for stability.
“Well, this is cozy.” Halbrand snarked, unable to hide the flitting amusement in his blue eyes as the ship finally seemed to settle back upright.
Nariel, back on her feet, attempted to step away from the man in front of her, but the jostling had thrown about everything that had been stored in this room, forming a jig-saw wall between her and the door. It left her no room to move back from Halbrand and his back was pressed to the wall. They were stuck together until they could rearrange the detritus and get to the door.
She glared up at the man’s face, shadowed in the dark room, only the barest light filtering in from the cracks around the door. “The Valar are laughing at me, aren’t they?” She grumbled.
He leaned down so that his breath tickled her as he purred in her ear, “That’s what you get for testing them.”
“Gah!” Nariel writhed against the boxes, barrels, and mops that were keeping her trapped in this room but only succeeded in bunching up her own wet clothes as well as Halbrand’s. He gripped her arms to hold her still and she begrudgingly relented though the heat from their bodies so close together was growing unbearably humid.
“Let me see what I can get out of our way.” He let go of her and began shifting things he could reach, arms on either side of Nariel as he worked, and she tried to stay as still as possible. Which surprisingly, wasn’t difficult.
Her spine tingled and chills ran over her scalp. “Halbrand?” She whispered.
He grunted as he tried to shove a barrel from around her and hissed, “Yes, Nariel?”
She wet her lips and looked up at him through her lashes though he didn’t bother to glance down at her. “Why is it so still?”
He froze, then his gaze snapped to hers. Halbrand took a deep breath, but before his shout of warning could breach his lips, the ship’s hull shattered with a screech.
Sea water flooded the small compartment and Nariel didn’t even have time to take a breath before she was plunged into the dark waters.
All was chaos beneath the waves as broken wood from the ship swirled around her. She couldn’t tell which way was the surface and which to the depths - bubbles foaming around her and blocking all vision of her surroundings. Nariel had lost track of Halbrand in the melee. Though they’d been pressed tight together, when the ship broke apart, they’d been ripped apart as well.
For all she knew, she was the only one left alive. So she kicked out, prying her way forward between the wreckage and seeking some sense of direction. The underwater waves drug her one way, then just as quickly shoved her the other and she could finally see more than just the flurry of bubbles. She almost wished she was back in the dark as a massive, scaled side drifted past her.
It was so close, she could have reached out and touched it, but she didn’t dare. Nariel craned her head up to see waving spike-like fins cresting the back of the massive Worm - the thing she’d seen coming toward the ship as she’d screamed at Mandos. Perhaps a creature sent to punish her.
She had little time to dwell on that as its massive tail cut through the waters, catching her in its vortex and pushing her farther from it. Grateful for the distance, she watched it move and saw the way to the surface. Just as her lungs were fit to burst, she broke into open air and gasped a breath half-filled with sea water as another wave crashed over her. Fighting to the surface once more, she blinked in the flashing light of the storm and watched as a gargantuan mouth opened wide and crunched down on what was left of the bow of their ship.
Nothing but scattered bits of wood remained of the vessel that Nariel could see, and she scanned the heaving waves for any survivors from the crew. She could only tread water for so long, and if this beast from the depths wanted her dead, she’d be an easy snack just floating alone.
There - a bit of sail fluttered in the wind, the white fabric bright against the roiling dark of the sky and waves. Someone was crouched at the base of the broken mast and they were haling someone else from the sea onto their pitiful raft. Nariel twisted around, checking for signs of the great Sea Worm, but it appeared to have taken the portion of their ship to the depths, satisfied for the moment with its destruction. She paddled off toward the two survivors.
Never had she been more grateful to have full control of her movements than in that moment. If she had taken any time to acclimate to swimming as she’d done walking, she would have drown in that storm. But her body was stronger now, more sure of itself, and she kicked her legs and stroked her arms through the churning sea with enough competence to keep her head above water though her limbs tired quickly. The sea itself was fighting against her, pushing and pulling in wild directions, fickle as a changing wind.
Quick as it had come, the storm quieted.
The towering waves settled and the driving rain abated to a soft patter against the sea, the crashing thunder rolling off in the distance leaving only a blanket of clouds overhead. It was unsettling the hush that fell over everything and every nerve in Nariel’s body screamed that danger had to be coiling, readying to pounce.
“Nariel!” Abigail’s voice echoed across the water from the raft and she picked up the pace, eager to get to some sort of safety and out of open waters.
“Up you get.” Eamon gruffed, the two crew mates gripping either of Nariel’s arms and hauling her aboard the tattered raft they’d pieced together.
Nariel coughed up no small amount of sea water and laid gratefully on the sodden planks, limbs screaming from exhaustion. She blinked stars from her eyes and pushed herself up, scanning the few who’d made it - over half the crew were still missing. “Halbrand.” Nariel croaked, coughing more water from her lungs. “Where’s Halbrand?”
Those gathered shook their heads and shrugged. It had been enough trouble getting themselves to safety and fishing out those who had found them. They hadn’t had time to search the wreckage for more survivors.
It wasn’t as if she particularly liked the man, but he had be the one to first decide to let her onto the ship. She didn’t want to see him go down with it. Nariel helped the group paddle through the scattered remains of their ship, searching for more survivors and supplies to shore up their raft, when she spotted him. Floating face-down amongst the wood, Halbrand hung in the water, unmoving.
“There!” She pointed, digging at the water with her broken oar. It was too slow, the raft too big to fit through the jumbled mess of the ship to get to the man. She dove into the water.
Now that the seas were calm, Nariel had no trouble reaching Halbrand and tugging to her chest as she swam backward to a smaller collection of planks that had managed to hold together through the massive destruction. She scrambled onto the smaller raft herself and then heaved Halbrand’s bulk up behind her until his torso was solidly out of the sea. His long legs didn’t quite fit, but there was no time to make it more comfortable.
Nariel knelt beside him and felt for his breath. Nothing. She pressed her ear to his chest - silence. Snarling at the man for making her feel obligated to save him, she pumped her ragged palms into his sternum, the bandages he’d wrapped them with only hours earlier soaked and half-gone. She tilted his head back to open his mouth and pressed her lips to his, blowing breath back into his lungs. His lips were oddly cold after how his skin had seared her with its heat before. She suppressed a shiver and pumped at his chest again, then pressed her lips to his once more, his stubble rough against her skin, as she tried to get his heart to beat, his lungs to breathe.
“Wake up, you infuriating man!” She yelled, pressing into his chest with her entire weight in hopes that something inside him would come back to life.
As if obeying her command, Halbrand spasmed, coughing up the sea and gasping for air.
He writhed on the rocking planks, jolting to his side to vomit up water and almost tumbled back into the sea before Nariel wrapped her arms around his chest to keep him on the raft. She held him as he regained consciousness and cleared his lungs of water, his hand reaching up to grip hers to steady himself as he came out of whatever darkness he’d slipped into for those moments. With a sigh, he flopped back down on his back and took deep breaths of the clear air, the rain slackening to a drizzle, and then ending to leave a dense fog.
“We’re even.” Nariel grumbled, trying to keep the shake from her voice as she realized just how close the man had come to death - perhaps from her own actions. She watched him from the corner of her eye, seeing if there would be any indication be believed it truly was her who brought upon such destruction, but she saw no signs of it. He simply stared up at her with his blue eyes and slowly nodded, then heaved a sigh as he chuckled to the heavens.
Nariel gazed down at the man, his hair slicked against his face, tunic torn and soaked, face battered and pale. He was alive and so was she. She wondered how much longer that would last.
Summary: Arondir finds a woman stranded and alone in the Southlands. She's covered in soot, her clothes are burned tatters, and she doesn't have any memories but ones of fire, screams, and the clashing of steel. Despite the complaints of his fellow elven wardens, Arondir takes the woman to Ostirith to heal and perhaps find some answers about her past.
WC: 5,216
Once, there was peace. The gentle light of the stars mingled with the warm glow from some unseen source. Then came blazing fire. Pain, loss, the cold clashing of blades and the screams of the dying. The warm glow turned to searing heat, green fields to burning husks soaked in blood.
Then, there was darkness. An endless void bereft of stars. Floating in the nothingness, mind blurring until only the sensations of a long distant conflict remained.
Numbness settled into the bones like lead, the eyelids held closed by stones. Then, out of the nothing, the stones began to glow.
Shining light pricked through closed lids and suddenly there’s warmth once more.
Soft blades tickled the fingers and the backs of arms. Weightless floating settled into something solid beneath the body. The scent of pine needles and loam mixed with the humid wetness of the air.
“Is it dead?” A smooth tenor voice cut through the light birdsong.
“She’s breathing, Médhor.” The second voice was deeper, more earthy than the other.
“Oh, shame.”
It was difficult to tell who was more annoyed: the one who wanted the being lying in the grass before him to be dead, or the one who had to point out the obvious breath to his companion.
It was the earthy voice that finally convinced the figure on the ground to open her eyes. “Are you alright?”
Hazel eyes blinked open directly into the sun. She threw up a hand to block it, immediately seeking the cool, dark void once more. But the emptiness eluded her - the world around too loud, too bright.
She groaned, the rumble of noise in her chest shocking to her after the period of silent numbness.
She tried again to open her eyes, keeping her gaze down, below the tree line and toward the voices beside her. It was startling how close the two were to her - she hadn’t heard their footsteps in the underbrush as they approached, yet the earthy-voiced one was kneeling, almost touching her, while his companion stood by, clearly bored by the whole endeavor.
The kneeling one spoke again in his soothing baritone. “May I help you up?”
She blinked once at him, then opened her mouth though she didn’t know what to do after that. An exhale that was like the hiss of a burning log being doused with water came out as she tried to force some sound out of her disused throat.
The kneeling one’s eyebrow quirked up, his pointed ears twitching as though trying to translate the sound into a language he might know, then reached out a hand. The woman looked at it for a moment, sunlight playing off his brown skin in shadowy patterns of the leaves overhead, and she forced her arm to move. It fell from where it had been shielding her eyes to land on the elf’s hand and his full lips broke into a slight smile as he slid his other arm around her shoulders to help her sit up.
“Great.” The other, much paler than his friendly companion, huffed. “She’s not dead, but seems she doesn’t even have a fraction of the pitiful intelligence of the rest of her kin.”
The one whose strong arms helped hold her upright ignored him. “I’m Arondir. This is my comrade, Médhor. We patrol this area, keep it safe. Are you injured? We can help you back to your village.”
The woman tested the use of her neck, moving her head slowly from side to side, reveling in the sensation of her spine twisted at her command.
“May I?” Arondir let go of her hand and gestured as though to touch her face. “To check for injuries.” He clarified, and she nodded, watching his eyes for any change in friendly demeanor.
His hands were warm and slightly calloused - clearly used to using the bow he carried, but not rough and hardened like a human’s might be. She looked again at his ears.
Elf. A Tawarwaith of the Mandor.
She glanced away quickly, not wanting to hold the elf’s intense gray gaze for too long. Instead, she sent her gaze down to herself and wondered at the black grime coating her arms. Arondir’s hands gently slid over her shoulders, her ribs, down each arm and leg, checking for injuries that didn’t appear to be present despite her worn appearance.
“Looks like the girl crawled out of a fire.” Médhor’s brown gaze flicked over her, then dismissed her, choosing instead to scan the trees. “Hurry up, Arondir. We need to send her back to her pack down in the valley. You can’t adopt every human woman you come across. One is quite enough.”
Finally, Arondir’s eyes flashed with anger at his companion’s snide comments, his gaze shooting back at the other elf.
Silvan elves watching after humans - that was odd. They both clearly felt some sort of possession over custody of this area, but Médhor didn’t seem nearly as altruistic as Arondir did about the situation. The woman’s thought skittered back to the present as Arondir’s fingers found their way onto her neck, pushing long dark hair back over her shoulder and nestling his fingers into the waves to feel her scalp. His touch was always gentle, eyes soft despite their curious intensity, but not once did the woman feel he was overstepping his place. His hands never lingered where they shouldn’t, his eyes never wandered carelessly, his intentions to check her body for wounds remained pure.
She’d much rather think about the elf’s hands soothing her scalp and whether his soft ministration might turn hostile rather than dwell on how she knew what type of elf he was or why it was odd to her that he was here watching over humans.
Humans. She repressed a shiver as Arondir’s deft fingers smoothed over her ears, his hands continued in a smooth curve around them - no sharp point like his had. So she must be human like the two had suspected. She wondered why she hadn’t known that when she woke up - why when they spoke of villages in the valley, no spark of recognition kindled in her mind.
She prodded into her memory as gently as Arondir prodded her skin, but like Arondir, she found nothing. Even the starless void was fading from her mind. It was all just…blank.
“You seem physically fine…” Arondir removed his hands slowly, checking to see if his charge would keel over once his support was gone, but she managed to take control of her entire body and mercifully remained upright. The elf gave a satisfied nod and stood, holding his hand out for her to use should she need it again.
In a vain attempt at competence, she tried to stand on her own, but her limbs just wouldn’t cooperate. They were weak and wobbly like a newborn colt. Hopefully, she’d get her bearings as quickly as a colt as well.
“Come alone, Ruinë.” Médhor snapped, already walking down slope to some predetermined location.
Ruinë. Something about that word made her think of fire and, finally looking down at what she was wearing, seemed fitting enough. What rags of her former clothing was left had clearly been in flames at some point. The hems ended in ragged black-stained tatters, her exposed skin coated in what she now surmised was soot, and her sore throat that refused to make intelligible sounds might well be suffering the effects of inhaling ash and smoke.
She gripped Arondir’s hand, her own being swallowed by his, and he hauled her to her feet as his companion rolled his eyes. She stumbled as she tried to get her feet under her and only managed to collapse into the elf’s chest, clinging to his breastplate to keep upright. She found herself face to face with a tree guardian carved - or perhaps grown - in the shape of his leaf-covered face. In her current, charred state, it was unnerving to be so close to such a flammable piece of armor, but Arondir didn’t seem concerned at all, simply supporting her weight as she leaned helplessly against him.
“Don’t call her that.” Arondir snapped, wrapping a protective arm around the woman being called Ruinë as he helped her navigate through the underbrush. Apparently, she’d been found in some mountain foothills, the ground rocky but fertile as there were thick trees as far as the eye could see. Now that she had the sensation of feeling the air was unreasonably hot and humid, the bugs that seemed to want to eat her alive not interested in the two elves at all. She tried to surreptitiously huddle closer to Arondir in a vain attempt to be protected in his anti-bug shield.
Just like the aforementioned colt, her limbs responded to movement and caught on quickly. All her senses and abilities seemingly coming out of a long hibernation and only needing a few moments to remember what they were supposed to do. Soon enough, she was walking independently, avoiding roots and slick spots in the hills that steadily sloped down - though her newfound comfort in movement was still a far cry from the elves’ unnaturally graceful movements. Even if her ears hadn’t indicated she wasn’t one of the fair race, this confirmed it.
They traveled in silence until an ancient stone spire peeked over the trees.
“Do we really need to bring her to the watchtower?” Médhor asked, nose wrinkling as he looked at her. “Can’t we just send her off into the valley now that she seems able to walk again?”
Arondir’s jaw clenched as he pinned his companion down with a glare. “We are still the stewards of the Southlands, tasked with watching out for the humans who live here.”
“Watching, Arondir. Watching the men here so they don’t think to side with the Dark again. Not ‘watch out for’.”
Arondir shoved his way past Médhor and gestured the woman to follow. “She comes to Ostirith until she’s ready to move on.” His tone brooked no room for argument and at the grumble in her stomach, she was more than happy to stop by somewhere she might get some food.
What food did she like? She couldn’t remember, but she imagined anything these beautiful creatures ate had to be delicious. She couldn’t imagine them eating anything but the finest meals. She’d find out soon enough.
Warm stone met her bare and scratched feet as they finally made their way into the elven stronghold. She paused in awe as the view of the valley opened before her. Majestic mountains whose high peaks were capped with snow loomed over green fields and marshes, the little clusters of settlements sprinkled around, lazy streams of smoke from some chimneys dissipating in the hazy air.
“Come on.” Arondir whispered into her ear, hand on her waist gently steering her along as Médhor grumbled at her distraction.
A bath with fresh spring water, fine scented soap, and a brush and soda for her teeth had the woman being called Ruinë ready for some food. Arondir had provided her a soft tunic of pale green and breeches of brown suede along with sturdy boots of leather and the woman almost felt like she fit in. That is, until she stepped into the room with all the other elves and was reminded how clumsy she was in comparison, how much memory was stored in their ancient eyes, and how little she had in her own.
Eating was a learning experience just like everything else had been. The elf rangers, those who even acknowledged her presence at all, looked upon her with pity and no small part disdain - like she was a horse being allowed to eat at the table.
The woman called Ruinë, as the other elves had taken to that name quickly, couldn’t really blame them. Her salad fell out of her mouth twice and she almost choked on their sweet ale and so Arondir had appointed himself her personal aid to help her. As he’d been in the forest, he was endlessly patient with her to the point where she wanted to hide her face in shame every time he responded with compassion to her inability to complete the simplest tasks.
One thing that wasn’t difficult for her was to hear the elves whispering about how they wanted her out as soon as possible so they could leave this place forever. Where they were going to, they never said, not in front of her anyways, and had it not been for Arondir’s kindness and her utter lack of knowledge of where she was or what she was doing here kept her in the shelter - hostile as it was - of the elven watchtower of Ostirith.
-
“This area is called the Southlands of Middle Earth.” Arondir explained to her as he packed her a bag for travel. It was late, the stars were all alight out the stone window of the tower, and the woman called Ruinë sat on one of the many cots in the barracks. “There are a few villages in this valley, remnants of an old kingdom of men before the Great War many years ago.”
The woman shifted against the headboard carved into the exquisite likeness of a tree with three pointed leaves. The fading sensations from before re-emerged in her mind: bloodshed, screams, death.
She opened her mouth and a broken “Aro-“ pushed out. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried for her first word to be a multi-syllable Silvan name, but she couldn't remain mute forever. She’d need to learn to speak with her hands or her mouth sooner or later.
The not-quite-named elf rushed to her side at the sound of her attempting to speak. “Do you need some tea? We have honey if your throat is still sore.”
His concern brought the heat rushing back to her face and she shook her head. Just like eating and walking, there was nothing explicitly wrong with her body, it was just knocking the rust off of something not used in a long time.
She attempted again. “Arondir.” It was a broken word, said slowly and carefully, each syllable agonized over, but she said it. Her first word she could remember saying.
The elf knelt by her bed, travel bag forgotten as his light eyes pierced into hers. The woman took a breath as each word came easier. “How many years?”
Arondir’s eyebrows creased at the question, clearly not what he’d been expecting. “Centuries, now. Nothing bad has happened in so long, we’ve been recalled from the tower to go back to live with our own kind.”
Centuries. Well then it couldn't be the Great War that cast the fiery haze in the little memories she had. “Any fires recently?” She’d need to start speaking in sentences longer than three words.
“Not that we’ve seen, but the valley is large and much takes place far from our eyes. It’s possible you lived on a farmstead that burned down or a house fire took your home in the village.”
The woman being called Ruinë pursed her lips and tried to remember, but there was nothing to look back on. Even the flames and screams were too distant now to get anything clear from them. But some force inside her roiled at the thought of human habitation here. There was no comfort or sanctuary at the idea, only the same feeling she got surrounded by the elves in their feasting hall - that she didn’t belong.
There was nothing for her here. What she sought was elsewhere - if she ever would find a feeling besides this nothingness that filled her now.
“Not from the valley.” She whispered, mouth twisting and eyes leaving Arondir’s to gaze out into the night sky.
Arondir gave her a sad smile and squeezed her knee. “We don’t have to make any decisions tonight. Rest, now and may the morning light bring us more clarity.”
With that, he set her traveling pack beside the bed and retired from the barracks room. The woman discovered that night that elves didn’t actually sleep and few utilized the beds here. Several came in only to wrinkle their noses at her as though she still smelled like soot and promptly turned on their heels and walked right back out. Those that stayed simply laid on the downy mattresses with their hands folded on their chests, eyes open to the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling as though deep in thought. Mark down as more proof that she wasn’t an elf: after her discomfort at the elves sharing the room with her, she fell into a deep, eyes-fully-closed, sleep.
—-
Darkness enveloped her, but unlike the starless void from before, this dark had a horizon - one that glowed with a dim light. She was drawn to it, the cries of gulls ringing in her ears as she drifted toward some unknown point far away. That light. Those gulls. She needed to know where it led.
A hook embedded itself in her stomach and tugged her forward. She was racing toward the light and then…she stopped.
The hook was still pulling, now her very heart was straining for the horizon, but she could go no farther. The way was clear - no obstacles blocked her path. It was a vast and empty space with only the line of the light so far away. The light that was forbidden her.
Bird-song that sounded weak and frail next to the gulls from her dream woke her. No elves lingered in this room made for rest now that the sun was rising and gentle murmuring from beyond the door barely reached her. She glanced at the traveling pack beside her bed and left it there, seeking out Arondir instead.
The woman called Ruinë found the elf at the top of the watchtower, leaning against the stone railing, staring off into the green valley. His eyes seemed to see beyond the physical, gazing somewhere deeper, unseen to the woman, but clear in the elf’s eyes.
“Arondir.”
He tilted his head to indicate he had heard, but didn’t seem surprised. No doubt his elf ears had long heard her before she even stepped foot on the strange ladder that led up to this haunt.
“I had a dream last night.” Her own voice seemed strange to her ears. It was still halting, but getting smoother with a slight melodious tilt.
“Dreams can be windows to that which is important.” He murmured, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Did it give you any answers you have been seeking?”
The woman grimaced and leaned up against the stone beside him, scanning the horizon so bright with the rising sun. “I still can’t remember where I came from.” She started, picking at her fingernails. “But I have a feeling, some sort of pull…” She glanced back toward the mountains, to the west. “I can still hear the gull’s call even while waking. I think I need to go to the sea. Somewhere west. I saw a sun on a horizon, like a memory of a dream calling me.”
Arondir turned from the valley and leaned his hip against the stone, facing her, his hands braiding and unbraiding a length of leather. “Strange, that you should be called west.” He murmured. “And yet are not of the Noldor.” His eyes scanned her once more. “There are some human settlements to the west, along the sea. And of course, there are those of Númenor - an island nation in the Sundering Seas. Perhaps you hail from one of these places.”
The woman nodded, the elf’s gray eyes so open and earnest. Perhaps.
“Do not think to go too far west.” A new voice cut in - loud in the soft morning, an air of command to his tone. Another elf man with longer hair than the others climbed up to the parapet and gave her a sharp look before shooting a warning one at Arondir. “To the west beyond Númenor lies the blessed realm of Valinor where no mortal may enter. Best to put it out of your mind lest you garner the wrath of the Valar against you.”
Arondir gave a small bow. “Watchwarden.” He addressed the new elf.
The woman inclined her head, but surveyed the newcomer - she hadn’t seen him last night, perhaps he’d been on patrol. His wavy brown hair caught the sunlight, his blue eyes guarded and just about as friendly as all the other elves’.
“Arondir.” His tone commanded though he barely raised his voice. “See that this human woman finds her way - we leave tonight.”
And with that, he retreated, dismissing the one the elves called Ruinë without a second thought.
“Don’t mind Revion.” Arondir gave her a tight smile. “He’s been in these lands far longer than I and misses home.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Seventy-eight years.” He glanced back at the valley, a wistful look overtaking his features.
“You don’t wish to leave.” The woman surmised.
Arondir’s eyes darted back to her, then he sighed, looking toward one town in the distance that his gaze seemed to always find. “It will be an honor to return home after so many years stationed here.”
“Hmm.” The woman didn’t know this elf man well, it wasn’t her place to pry or presume, so she let it lie.
---
Though Arondir had said she didn’t need to rush her decision, it seemed the other elves were not as accommodating. Before the sun had reached it’s peak, she and Arondir were on their way into the valley, hiking along the foothills heading north.
It wasn’t clear where they were heading. Arondir listed to the east, toward the human villages, but the woman being called Ruinë tried to steer them back as far west as possible, though the mountains rearing beside them made it difficult.
On one such occasion, Arondir paused to let her rest where she might sit in the shade a bit and drink some water. “Do you truly not wish to see the people of this land and ask them if they know you?”
She shook her head. “No, they want no woman born of fire amongst them. I need to go west.”
Arondir rolled his shoulders, the green cloak of his people nearly making him invisible in the forest. “Do not take the name Médhor gave you to heart. He cares little for the feelings of the mortals in this realm and does not think before he speaks.”
The woman grunted and stood, stretching and rolling her neck. “It seems fitting. You found me apparently burned, and the only flicker of memory I have is of fire. I don’t see why I should try to erase that. If it’s the name they gave me, it’s the only one I know.”
Arondir shook his head. “No, ruinë is a physical blaze - a campfire or flame that consumes. For a name, if you wish to embrace the flames of your mind, Nariel is more fitting.”
“Nariel?” The woman rolled the name along her tongue. It did feel better, more lilting than the guttural ruinë.
“It means ‘daughter of fire’ - though not a physical flame, more the concept of fire, a force of nature, the element rather than something tangible.” Arondir looked to the sun climbing higher in the sky. “It feels more fitting as a name to me. Speaking to the spirit rather than the flesh.”
Nariel smiled and placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you. I think Nariel suits me well.”
They carried on in companionable silence, sticking to the foothills rather than veering into the eastern valley with the other humans.
A gap opened in the mountainside, a narrow gorge cutting straight through the range, merging east to west.
“This pass will take you to a river, the Anduin, that runs south to the Côf Belfalas. There, you may find settlements you recognize, or ships that can bear you farther west, should that be your wish.”
“And you will go to the villages?” Nariel asked, sensing the elf’s reluctance to leave this side of the mountains.
“Yes.” He shifted his feet nervously. “If my company is to leave this land, I would like to gaze upon it one last time.”
“The land, or the people?” She asked, piecing together Médhor’s insinuations and Arondir’s friendlier demeanor toward humans.
“We shall see.” He whispered back. “Namárië, Nariel. May we meet again someday if the Valar will it.”
Nariel raised her hand in farewell as they took to their own ways, understanding without words that they each had a path they must walk, and both were capable of walking it on their own. Arondir could no more accompany Nariel to the sea than she could go with him to the human villages of the Southlands and each did wish in their hearts that they might see each other again once both had found what they had been searching for.
—
The sun was setting over a white spire of mountain off to the west, past the rushing Anduin, as Nariel settled in for the night in the ramshackle town that had built up along the river’s edge. The wooden buildings sprawled on either side of the river, docks and jetties holding space for many fishing boats and the odd trade vessels that would come through from month to month. Luckily, the barman at the local tavern on this east side said one such ship was coming in from the north - all the way up near the Gray Marshes where hunters traded their meats and pelts in the good seasons.
Ever since her dream the previous night, Nariel had felt the pull to the west like a constant pressure sending her on her way. Staying still made her jittery and she was tempted to take off on foot down-river in the night, but the ship would be much faster and there was little chance it’d pause in it’s flight downstream just for a stray traveler. So she tossed and turned on the straw mat provided her in the packed sleeping room, her brief dips into sleep filled with glimpses of the elusive glow on the horizon and the call of sea gulls.
The gruff boatman spent more time than Nariel was comfortable with haggling prices for large antlers, pounds of salted meat, and thick furs for the winter, but finally they set off down the foaming river. The hook pulling her forward slackened with the speed of the craft, but it only ignited something else inside her - hope. Forward momentum toward something she knew she needed.
Somehow, she felt as though if she only could reach that horizon, her memories would be restored and she would know why she’d woken burned and abandoned in the wilderness of Middle Earth. Nariel sent her thoughts to the water rushing beneath her and her mind turned to Ulmo - Valar of all the waters of the world. If only he would lend speed to her craft, then she would get there faster. A sharp pain on her brow diverted her prayers. Ulmo wasn’t listening. None of the Valar were.
She wasn’t sure how she knew, only that something she was reaching out toward was absent - an empty place where the Valar and their might once sat. The great powers of the world were not here. They were not listening. They’d retreated from Middle Earth, for what reason, Nariel couldn’t say. But the absence sparked anger in her chest, stoking into a raging fire as she traveled west. How dare they abandon Middle Earth? How dare they abandon those who might draw upon their strength and power? They had created this world and now they cast it aside, bored with their own creation?
These thoughts came unbidden to Nariel’s mind, but something inside her felt they were true. They were dangerous sentiments, she knew. To throw your own might against the Valar was foolishness, but it was as though the anger at their abandonment of Middle Earth was branded into her very bones.
Arondir had thought she might spend time in the villages around the mouth of the Anduin, that perhaps they would kindle in her some memory she’d lost, but Nariel knew that what she needed wasn’t in any human village here. It was farther west - across the horizon of the sea that stretched farther than the eye could see.
The only ship set to sail out of the bay sat at the end of the pier, crew members scuttling along the deck on their own business, while traders and travelers milled about the busy docks. It would be the only ship leaving for a month - some trouble up north keeping other sea-faring vessels at bay.
Atop the masts, white canvas began to unfurl, catching in the brisk wind that was ever-present near the bay. The ship was leaving and Nariel was still on the river boat.
A panic rose in her the likes of which she didn’t understand. She had to get on that ship. She couldn’t wait another month. The hook in her middle drug her forward and as though it was a physical force, Nariel leapt from the boat’s railing onto the docks and ran.
Her feet pounded into the wooden slats that made up the dock, each thud of her step reverberating up her body, slowed so she could feel every muscle straining, yearning for that ship.
“Stop! Wait!” Her yell was swallowed by the milling crowd that she shoved heedlessly aside as the massive ship began to drift away from the docks.
The gangplank had long been stowed, the oars maneuvering deftly around the sea pillars, but there were ropes and nets draped down the sides of the vessel - if she could grab hold of one of them…
“I need to get on that ship!” Nariel willed the boat to slow, for someone to hear her, and a few heads turned on the ship’s deck. Some of the crew had heard her - but the ship wasn’t slowing. The wind caught the sails and they billowed into taught clouds, ready to bear its charges hence.
Nariel jumped.
She soared over the brackish water, salt stinging her nostrils as she reached out vainly to catch something. The ropes and nets were too far away - only the bare wooden planks of the hull would meet her hands, if she even managed to make it that far.
This was it - she’d woken up covered in soot and now would end soaking wet in the sea due to some wild idea from a dream. She didn’t have any proof going west would bring back her memories - there was no way to know this ship taking her across the sea would help her at all. But that void filled her mind, the light on the horizon beaconing her. She’d risk it all to find out what that meant. And she was about to find out what that cost was.
Her fingertips brushed the boat’s hull. She began to fall.
Then a hand reached out and clasped her arm, the grip strong and calloused.
The sorrow that had enveloped her in those moments was burned away and resolution to continue on her path settled upon her like a mantle.
*SPOILERS FOR RINGS OF POWER SEASON 2 EPISODE 5!!!*
Summary: During the events of episode 5 at the temple of Nienna, the temple spirit wakes as one of the Faithful is struck with a killing blow.
Word count: 2k
While I get the narrative weight of a tragic death, this is me running off to my computer to say 'nuh uh!!' for a bit. Hope you enjoy this super quick fix-it where Valandil DOESN'T die.
The quiet grief of the Faithful hung heavy in the air of the temple. In the darkness, flickering candlelight reminded mourners that even in the deepest night, there was yet always a seed of hope to warm cold spirits. As the Faithful said their prayers, the spirit of the temple exhaled softly. Though her eyes were closed as they always were, she could feel the parishioners’ presence and so she let her breath urge their candles out to sea where Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, would keep them.
A great calamity had brought those seeking Nienna’s comfort here. Not a tragedy on this island’s soil, but one far across the sea, in a land where few knew or worshiped the Valar. The Southlands of Middle Earth she had heard it called in their prayers to her. It did not matter the grief and sorrow those here felt had been born in a land far away, the temple of She Who Weeps was open to all who had suffered wounds to the spirit. Here, they would always find comfort, wisdom, and return to the world with a new resilience of spirit.
If she had form, silent tears would have tracked down the temple spirit’s face as she felt the grief of those gathered - as she shared it with them. They would know that they were not alone, not on this dark night. She sent her energy to the candles flickering in their votives and the flames burned a little brighter, a little warmer. Two remained kneeling even after the prayer had been sent to sea. A young man and an older - the young man mourning the loss of two dear friends, the older a son. The older man was adrift in his pain, his spirit strong, goal clear, but his course to reach it was yet uncertain. The younger man beside him shone with steadfast resilience. His heart beat true and strong, there was no waver in his sails despite his pain. The spirit of the temple felt their grief as she did for all who gathered. Endlessly, she shared it.
A crash of the temple door and the stomping of boots broke the reverent moment. The spirit of the temple tensed as armored men marched in, led by a being with a twisted and wounded heart. She longed to reach out to the boy, have him sit at Nienna’s feet as she comforted him and taught him her ways of pity and healing. But those who entered were not of the Faithful. They had turned their backs on the Valar and the spirit felt their cruel dismissal as a knife in her breast. It diminished her, but the steadfast mooring of the Faithful gathered would not let her pass on, back to Valinor as so many of her kin had since the men of Númenor had turned away from the Valar.
Muffled commands reached the spirit of the temple, but as they were not speaking to her, their meaning was lost as it left their mouths. Conflict had arrived. Mourners were jostled and pushed out of the temple, their absence stealing the warmth from this place. A loud order from one of the Faithful stilled all hands for a moment. Then the sensation of a piece of her being touched - lifted - by the one with the twisted heart. If she had a heart, it’s beat would have quickened, chest tightened, as the clay likeness of her goddess was held aloft. So close to one of her most Faithful, a man who had kept this temple clean and welcoming for years. But something was wrong - she could feel him being restrained. Yet her eyes did not open.
The clay figure of Nienna the Compassionate shattered on the stone ground. A piece of the spirit shattered with it, borne away on the sea breeze, back to the land of endless spring, never to comfort the people of this land again. Yet she clung on, nestling back into the votive candles and drawing from the shared grief of those who had lit them. Spikes of anger, fear, resentment, rage shot through the air of the temple - feelings the spirit was familiar with as they so often accompanied grief. But now she was unable to offer sanctuary for those emotions. Those emotions had not come to her from outside, they had originated here - they had originated for her.
And she was afraid.
The interlopers intended to remove her from this place, cast her out so that she could no longer comfort the grieving. She could not fight them, that was not her nature. All she could do was listen and feel the trouble raging around her. One of her Faithful struck the boy who had shattered the statuette - the man who had lost a son. The unfaithful restrained him as well, but before the one with the twisted heart could retaliate, the young man with the steadfast heart stilled the violent hand.
The Faithful father had been spared the blow and some of the tension left her. But the one with the twisted heart had been insulted, humiliated. Instead of reaching for healing, he let his caustic pain seep out to those around him. He shared harsh words with the one who had stopped him, then she felt the eyes of the steadfast Faithful look to her.
“May the Valar forgive me.” His voice cut through the veil to her. The plea addressing her giving her new strength.
Then violence broke out. Her Faithful fought the one who would tear her temple down, defended her and all the others who sought refuge here. Their blows fell like hammer strikes to her senses, each straining for the upper hand. Her Faithful had it for a time, then the other gained it.
A shiver wracked the spirit as her Faithful’s hair dipped into the waters of the bay. Sacred waters being marred by violence, used to cause harm rather than offer comfort. The young man’s head dipped below the surface. She screamed for Ulmo - for his intervention in this tragedy. Tendrils of her essence raced through the waters, riding the currents of the bay out to open sea where the Lord of Waters would surely hear her. Though he did not always answer.
She sent what strength she could to her Faithful, but she was no warrior. Only her presence could she offer him. And still, her eyes did not open.
Whether by his strength alone or perhaps her aid had made a difference, her Faithful found new strength and leapt from the waters, throwing the twisted heart off him. The spirit flinched as her Faithful hurt the interloper terribly, something had happened to his arm. At last, her Faithful was standing above the beaten opponent, a sword to twisted heart’s throat and the spirit tensed once more.
Her Faithful, steadfast and strong, was poised to bring death into her house of mourning. She had already forgiven him for striking out in violence within her temple the moment his plea had left his lips, how far could her forgiveness extend? A word from the Faithful father stilled his blade. She relaxed once more as her Faithful, victorious in defending her and all those who sought refuge here, cast aside the weapon and moved toward her altar once more.
If she had a mouth, it would be smiling as the young man drew nearer. She longed to have him sit at the candle-filled wall and heal from this together.
But it was not to be. Her Faithful moved toward her, but so did the twisted heart. A sword split her chest just as it did her acolyte’s. His pained gasp reached into her, their shock mingling in a spike of overwhelming emotion.
She opened her eyes.
The Faithful father stood closest to her, no longer restrained. Guards in shining armor and wicked weapons pushed against her parishioners. And Her Faithful stood facing her, dark curls dripping with seawater, a startled expression frozen on his face, brown eyes creased with pain, and a bloody sword protruding from his chest. The dark blue of his tabard quickly soaked with red as he stumbled forward, onto his knees before her altar, and the father rushed toward him while the twisted heart backed away, still holding the killing blade.
Her Faithful was dying. In her temple. Struck down by a non-believer.
The young man had plead for her forgiveness, but this temple was not only one of forgiveness and compassion, her goddess was one of mercy. And she would give it.
The spirit strained and stretched, separating herself from the condemned temple she knew would be gone in only a matter of days. She took corporeal form for the first time in so long, her spirit donning a body like those of the mortal realms had, and she leapt from the candle-lit wall, the stone breaking with a reverberating crack. Votives tumbled from their sconces, the waters of her temple trembled, and the men stumbled back in fear.
Those of the Faithful knelt to her, but the father was reaching for the wounded man, his eyes fixed on the one who had shared his grief at the water’s edge. The one who was dying.
“Valandil.” She heard him call the young man in a broken gasp as he saw the damage the blade had done.
Valandil’s dark eyes were already growing dim, skin growing ashen as his life left him. Time slowed as if Manwë himself had stopped the turning of the heavens and the spirit did what she always had and always would.
She wailed.
The grief she had felt so silently for years finally burst forth into the waking world as the spirit of the temple of Nienna wept for Her Faithful. Her newly formed heart broke as she stretched the young man’s breath out, not letting him take his final death rattle. Not yet.
Her feet never touched the temple floors as she flew to Valandil, wrapping him in her arms before he could fully fall to the floor. But her flight did not stop, she lifted Her Faithful in her arms and dove into the waters of the bay with him, taking him away from the temple that was no longer her home. She would weep, but it would be for the loss of her home for these past years, not for the life of this young man.
She sped away, but she had not left the temple empty. As her presence retreated deeper into the waters, another surged up. Ulmo had heard her cries and he had answered. She could feel the waters of her temple rise up as a wave and crash through the once-sacred space, grasping at the unfaithful and tossing them against the stone walls with enough force to shatter bone and dragging some into the depths to sink in their heavy armor. It was no longer her place to decide what happened in her temple, not her decision who lived or who died, so she did not know if the one with the twisted heart had found his way to safety or to the sandy bottom of the bay.
As she swam through the dark waters, Valandil in her arms, she felt the currents pulling her, guiding her along safe passages, out to sea and around the island of the star to the western reaches where the ocean beat at dark boulders at the water’s edge.
What grace the Valar had blessed her with during her creation she poured now into Her Faithful as he lay on the rocky outcropping. The spirit lay beside him, looking down on his face that had become so still though shallow breaths kept him from that path from whence no mortal could return. She whispered soft words of resilience in the ancient language of the Valar and as the sun broke over the mountain behind them, Valandil stirred.
His eyes opened and the wound in his chest healed, spilling his blood no more.
The spirit smiled to see her Faithful wake and she brushed his sodden curls from his face as he looked at her for the first time. A smile of his own tugged at his lips as he gently cupped her hand and sighed.
There would be more grief, more mourning before the ending of the world. But today, she would not mourn Her Faithful called Valandil. Today, he would live.
*SPOILERS FOR RINGS OF POWER SEASON 2 EPISODE 5!!!*
Summary: During the events of episode 5 at the temple of Nienna, the temple spirit wakes as one of the Faithful is struck with a killing blow.
Word count: 2k
While I get the narrative weight of a tragic death, this is me running off to my computer to say 'nuh uh!!' for a bit. Hope you enjoy this super quick fix-it where Valandil DOESN'T die.
The quiet grief of the Faithful hung heavy in the air of the temple. In the darkness, flickering candlelight reminded mourners that even in the deepest night, there was yet always a seed of hope to warm cold spirits. As the Faithful said their prayers, the spirit of the temple exhaled softly. Though her eyes were closed as they always were, she could feel the parishioners’ presence and so she let her breath urge their candles out to sea where Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, would keep them.
A great calamity had brought those seeking Nienna’s comfort here. Not a tragedy on this island’s soil, but one far across the sea, in a land where few knew or worshiped the Valar. The Southlands of Middle Earth she had heard it called in their prayers to her. It did not matter the grief and sorrow those here felt had been born in a land far away, the temple of She Who Weeps was open to all who had suffered wounds to the spirit. Here, they would always find comfort, wisdom, and return to the world with a new resilience of spirit.
If she had form, silent tears would have tracked down the temple spirit’s face as she felt the grief of those gathered - as she shared it with them. They would know that they were not alone, not on this dark night. She sent her energy to the candles flickering in their votives and the flames burned a little brighter, a little warmer. Two remained kneeling even after the prayer had been sent to sea. A young man and an older - the young man mourning the loss of two dear friends, the older a son. The older man was adrift in his pain, his spirit strong, goal clear, but his course to reach it was yet uncertain. The younger man beside him shone with steadfast resilience. His heart beat true and strong, there was no waver in his sails despite his pain. The spirit of the temple felt their grief as she did for all who gathered. Endlessly, she shared it.
A crash of the temple door and the stomping of boots broke the reverent moment. The spirit of the temple tensed as armored men marched in, led by a being with a twisted and wounded heart. She longed to reach out to the boy, have him sit at Nienna’s feet as she comforted him and taught him her ways of pity and healing. But those who entered were not of the Faithful. They had turned their backs on the Valar and the spirit felt their cruel dismissal as a knife in her breast. It diminished her, but the steadfast mooring of the Faithful gathered would not let her pass on, back to Valinor as so many of her kin had since the men of Númenor had turned away from the Valar.
Muffled commands reached the spirit of the temple, but as they were not speaking to her, their meaning was lost as it left their mouths. Conflict had arrived. Mourners were jostled and pushed out of the temple, their absence stealing the warmth from this place. A loud order from one of the Faithful stilled all hands for a moment. Then the sensation of a piece of her being touched - lifted - by the one with the twisted heart. If she had a heart, it’s beat would have quickened, chest tightened, as the clay likeness of her goddess was held aloft. So close to one of her most Faithful, a man who had kept this temple clean and welcoming for years. But something was wrong - she could feel him being restrained. Yet her eyes did not open.
The clay figure of Nienna the Compassionate shattered on the stone ground. A piece of the spirit shattered with it, borne away on the sea breeze, back to the land of endless spring, never to comfort the people of this land again. Yet she clung on, nestling back into the votive candles and drawing from the shared grief of those who had lit them. Spikes of anger, fear, resentment, rage shot through the air of the temple - feelings the spirit was familiar with as they so often accompanied grief. But now she was unable to offer sanctuary for those emotions. Those emotions had not come to her from outside, they had originated here - they had originated for her.
And she was afraid.
The interlopers intended to remove her from this place, cast her out so that she could no longer comfort the grieving. She could not fight them, that was not her nature. All she could do was listen and feel the trouble raging around her. One of her Faithful struck the boy who had shattered the statuette - the man who had lost a son. The unfaithful restrained him as well, but before the one with the twisted heart could retaliate, the young man with the steadfast heart stilled the violent hand.
The Faithful father had been spared the blow and some of the tension left her. But the one with the twisted heart had been insulted, humiliated. Instead of reaching for healing, he let his caustic pain seep out to those around him. He shared harsh words with the one who had stopped him, then she felt the eyes of the steadfast Faithful look to her.
“May the Valar forgive me.” His voice cut through the veil to her. The plea addressing her giving her new strength.
Then violence broke out. Her Faithful fought the one who would tear her temple down, defended her and all the others who sought refuge here. Their blows fell like hammer strikes to her senses, each straining for the upper hand. Her Faithful had it for a time, then the other gained it.
A shiver wracked the spirit as her Faithful’s hair dipped into the waters of the bay. Sacred waters being marred by violence, used to cause harm rather than offer comfort. The young man’s head dipped below the surface. She screamed for Ulmo - for his intervention in this tragedy. Tendrils of her essence raced through the waters, riding the currents of the bay out to open sea where the Lord of Waters would surely hear her. Though he did not always answer.
She sent what strength she could to her Faithful, but she was no warrior. Only her presence could she offer him. And still, her eyes did not open.
Whether by his strength alone or perhaps her aid had made a difference, her Faithful found new strength and leapt from the waters, throwing the twisted heart off him. The spirit flinched as her Faithful hurt the interloper terribly, something had happened to his arm. At last, her Faithful was standing above the beaten opponent, a sword to twisted heart’s throat and the spirit tensed once more.
Her Faithful, steadfast and strong, was poised to bring death into her house of mourning. She had already forgiven him for striking out in violence within her temple the moment his plea had left his lips, how far could her forgiveness extend? A word from the Faithful father stilled his blade. She relaxed once more as her Faithful, victorious in defending her and all those who sought refuge here, cast aside the weapon and moved toward her altar once more.
If she had a mouth, it would be smiling as the young man drew nearer. She longed to have him sit at the candle-filled wall and heal from this together.
But it was not to be. Her Faithful moved toward her, but so did the twisted heart. A sword split her chest just as it did her acolyte’s. His pained gasp reached into her, their shock mingling in a spike of overwhelming emotion.
She opened her eyes.
The Faithful father stood closest to her, no longer restrained. Guards in shining armor and wicked weapons pushed against her parishioners. And Her Faithful stood facing her, dark curls dripping with seawater, a startled expression frozen on his face, brown eyes creased with pain, and a bloody sword protruding from his chest. The dark blue of his tabard quickly soaked with red as he stumbled forward, onto his knees before her altar, and the father rushed toward him while the twisted heart backed away, still holding the killing blade.
Her Faithful was dying. In her temple. Struck down by a non-believer.
The young man had plead for her forgiveness, but this temple was not only one of forgiveness and compassion, her goddess was one of mercy. And she would give it.
The spirit strained and stretched, separating herself from the condemned temple she knew would be gone in only a matter of days. She took corporeal form for the first time in so long, her spirit donning a body like those of the mortal realms had, and she leapt from the candle-lit wall, the stone breaking with a reverberating crack. Votives tumbled from their sconces, the waters of her temple trembled, and the men stumbled back in fear.
Those of the Faithful knelt to her, but the father was reaching for the wounded man, his eyes fixed on the one who had shared his grief at the water’s edge. The one who was dying.
“Valandil.” She heard him call the young man in a broken gasp as he saw the damage the blade had done.
Valandil’s dark eyes were already growing dim, skin growing ashen as his life left him. Time slowed as if Manwë himself had stopped the turning of the heavens and the spirit did what she always had and always would.
She wailed.
The grief she had felt so silently for years finally burst forth into the waking world as the spirit of the temple of Nienna wept for Her Faithful. Her newly formed heart broke as she stretched the young man’s breath out, not letting him take his final death rattle. Not yet.
Her feet never touched the temple floors as she flew to Valandil, wrapping him in her arms before he could fully fall to the floor. But her flight did not stop, she lifted Her Faithful in her arms and dove into the waters of the bay with him, taking him away from the temple that was no longer her home. She would weep, but it would be for the loss of her home for these past years, not for the life of this young man.
She sped away, but she had not left the temple empty. As her presence retreated deeper into the waters, another surged up. Ulmo had heard her cries and he had answered. She could feel the waters of her temple rise up as a wave and crash through the once-sacred space, grasping at the unfaithful and tossing them against the stone walls with enough force to shatter bone and dragging some into the depths to sink in their heavy armor. It was no longer her place to decide what happened in her temple, not her decision who lived or who died, so she did not know if the one with the twisted heart had found his way to safety or to the sandy bottom of the bay.
As she swam through the dark waters, Valandil in her arms, she felt the currents pulling her, guiding her along safe passages, out to sea and around the island of the star to the western reaches where the ocean beat at dark boulders at the water’s edge.
What grace the Valar had blessed her with during her creation she poured now into Her Faithful as he lay on the rocky outcropping. The spirit lay beside him, looking down on his face that had become so still though shallow breaths kept him from that path from whence no mortal could return. She whispered soft words of resilience in the ancient language of the Valar and as the sun broke over the mountain behind them, Valandil stirred.
His eyes opened and the wound in his chest healed, spilling his blood no more.
The spirit smiled to see her Faithful wake and she brushed his sodden curls from his face as he looked at her for the first time. A smile of his own tugged at his lips as he gently cupped her hand and sighed.
There would be more grief, more mourning before the ending of the world. But today, she would not mourn Her Faithful called Valandil. Today, he would live.
Because I'm a wild person, I'm still writing fics. Many, many different fics (along with my original novel). Don't worry, What's Worth Saving is still on my plate and I think about it often - but as with creative surges (plus real world events), that fic is on the back-burner in a special place in my heart and mind where it can be wrapped in a protective blanket for now.
That being said, I have a new fic idea that's come to me in parts rather than chapters that will be able to be more 'complete' little stories that I can publish as a whole that follows the same character, but in separate storylines with separate characters.
I know a lot of times when people are looking for fics, they're looking for a specific dynamic between certain characters - stuff that doesn't always fit with my ensemble-cast penchant for writing. Known characters will come into the story, stick around for a chapter or two, leave, then come back chapters later, then leave, then come back...it's all very dependent on where the story takes my (almost always) OC character in the narrative.
So with this new set of stories written in the Rings of Power setting (yes, my Haladriel brainrot has come back in full force due to the new trailer), I'm trying something new: not a cohesive 'novel' of a fic, but rather a series of lump-sum stories featuring one character or another so maybe it'll be easier for people to search up the dynamic they're interested in seeing.
No clue when I'll actually post it, but this is just my stream of consciousness, noon-day buzzed on a glass of wine, info dump about what I've been up to. Arondir x OC [platonic] fic is almost done and I'm super excited about it!
It’s called copula deletion, or zero copula. Many languages and dialects, including Ancient Greek and Russian, delete the copula (the verb to be) when the context is obvious.
So an utterance like “you a bitch” in AAVE is not an example of a misused you, but an example of a sentence that deletes the copular verb (are), which is a perfectly valid thing to do in that dialect, just as deleting an /r/ after a vowel is a perfectly valid thing to do in an upper-class British dialect.
What’s more, it’s been shown that copula deletion occurs in AAVE exactly in those contexts where copula contraction occurs in so-called “Standard American English.” That is, the basic sentence “You are great” can become “You’re great” in SAE and “You great” in AAVE, but “I know who you are” cannot become “I know who you’re” in SAE, and according to reports, neither can you get “I know who you” in AAVE.
In other words, AAVE is a set of grammatical rules just as complex and systematic as SAE, and the widespread belief that it is not is nothing more than yet another manifestation of deeply internalized racism.
Pairings: Namor x Vigilante!Reader // Matt Murdock x Vigilante!Reader
New York City has forged you into a hooded vigilante that protects citizens from the looming threats the law can't handle. You have allies in the city that aid in your fight, and a very complicated relationship with Daredevil - your on-again off-again beau. When a mission on the docks goes sideways, you find yourself floating alone on the wreckage of your getaway ship in the middle of the Atlantic.
You’ve never bothered yourself with world powers before, but suddenly, you’re made aware of a lurking threat to not only New York City, but the entire surface-world. Hidden under the sea is a whole civilization ready for war, a war Wakanda is trying to stop. But with every new revelation about what those on the surface are doing, you begin to wonder: should you stop this K’uk’ulkan or should you burn the world down with him?
Intro & warnings // 💓= Explicit Sexual Content
Your "What the hell is going on with this Namor guy?" Era:
***So if the era titles feel like too much giving away of the story, let me know and I'll change them - I just figured since it's such a long fic people might like to know the trajectory/when certain titular characters will be back in the forefront***
Likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! Also, I'm posting it over on AO3 under Amethyst_Birch_Writes if you want to go over there to read it - but you don't get the nifty little pics with the post, so that's up to you!
Chapter Summary: You join the ranks of Talokanil warriors as they attempt to stop missile strikes against Talokanil cities
Warnings: death, war, combat, attempted killing of innocents, extreme xenophobia
Author's Note: due to current world events, this part of the story is getting difficult to write/read. At the end of the chapter, I have more on my thoughts about the genocide Israel and the West are perpetrating against Palestinians, but just know I don't take this subject matter lightly, nor am I attempting to say 'this is what resistance fighters should be doing' with this story.
You don’t even flinch as the bullets ricochet off your vibranium suit.
You’d learned to repress the instinct to dodge out of the way since with this Wakandan tech it wasn’t even necessary. No mere bullets could touch you now.
Your heart races as you take stock of the new additions on the battlefield. Six military personnel - two Americans, three Russians, and one Chinese soldier rushing from the newly arrived tank. Their basic info flashes across your vision as your battle suit scans them and their gear, though some sort of tech on their person must be scrambling your tracker as their location only shows up as a haze on the mini battlemap visible you in the corner of your helmet’s screen.
Quick updates from the Wakandans and Talokanil type across your vision and the amount of kinetic energy stored in your suit from the bullet impacts ticks up. A quick scan of the building the troops were guarding shows heat signatures - most gathered in the basement, a few clustered on the top floor.
The translucent green projections scatter at a thought from you, leaving your vision clear again so you can focus on what was actually in front of you. Helpful though all that technology was, you still preferred to rely on your own senses the majority of the time.
Namora catches your eye and she nods, her fingers flicking in a code that lets you know her next move and you signal back your own.
The usually busy streets of Karachi, Pakistan have emptied around you, civilians taking cover in buildings or just making a run for it at the sight of several world militaries squaring up with the blue enemy from the depths of the sea. The blue enemies and you, of course.
Your battle-wear completely covers your body, hiding your human skin so it’s normal for everyone to just view you as another of the Talokanil. And that suits you just fine.
Karachi doesn’t have the extreme skyscrapers found in New York, but the building under siege is still plenty tall and you hope the civilians trapped on the upper floors don’t plan to make a jump for it. You were here for those in the basement - the cowards hiding from your wrath - not for innocents caught in the crossfire.
Two weeks of non-stop missions to the surface world had only fed the fire of rage inside you more and more. The only thing you could see was a blanket condemnation of anything Talokanil and blind support for the military of the surface to wipe them out.
Those inside this building were the ones planning a bombing of a Talokanil city in the Indian Ocean - one of the settlements closer to the surface that the humans had found. The Talokanil began evacuating as soon as they could, but you remember the panic in Lachina’s eyes as Attuma revealed the intercepted battle plans. This was one of the most populated Talokanil cities outside Talokan itself. So many children, so many elderly unable to make long journeys. There was no way to get them all out.
Righteous anger burns in your chest, the beast inside you growling in approval of the heat as you dart forward with Namora. Your golden knife flies from your hand, embedding itself in one of the American soldier’s necks - in the crease between their shoulder armor and their helmet. She falls with a gurgle of blood while her compatriot is impaled through the middle by Namora’s spear, vibranium cutting easily through the body armor he wears.
The other soldiers break formation under the Talokanil assault and you slip past them and into the building, Namora at your heels. Your blood pounding in your ears is deafening as the pair of you race down the stairwell, Namora’s natural stealth letting her move almost silently on the tile, your suit muffling your own steps with Shuri’s ‘sneaker’ technology. The others would follow - or they might be held up by more reinforcements. You and Namora had never failed a mission together, and you didn’t intend to fail this one - whether you had to complete this last stage alone or not.
The beige stairwell is deserted, incandescent lighting overhead flickering at intervals as though it could feel the battle raging around it. You steady yourself against the wall as the building shakes from an explosion outside. Whether aimed at the Talokanil or the surface-soldiers, you don’t know nor do you particularly care right now.
Machine gun fire explodes around you as Namora turns the final corner into the door to the basement. Her shield is up and absorbing the bullets in an instant, only a few cuts to her blue skin showing where the bullets hit, smears of red that are quickly healed. Though the bullets were unlikely to kill her on their own, it was an annoyance to wait for a body riddled with holes to heal and you didn’t want to waste the time today, so shields it was. The split second of warning allows you to ready yourself for the onslaught, your helmet reading two heat signatures guarding the door, both with standard-issue assault rifles.
You don’t stop the grin that spreads across your face as you take a running leap toward the corner of the stairwell, kicking off the wall to change direction, blades forward as you catapult into the two soldiers. The rain of bullets silences as you slice the wrist tendons of the soldier on the right, gun falling from the limp hand. Namora’s spear decapitates the other soldier, head thudding to the ground moments before the body. With deft motions, you drive your blade up beneath your soldier’s chin, sinking the metal deep into his brain.
The soldiers discarded, you get to work on the door’s security system, Wakandan tech having already started the hacking process the moment you were within range.
“Movement inside.” Namora relates to you, cocking her head to listen.
You nod back, clenching your fists to extend the blades along your knuckles. The integrity of the door’s security system ticks down, a glowing bar expanding in your vision as Shuri’s genius easily slices through the protocols before it. With a soft click, the door unlocks.
There’s no time to think as you breach the door, the shouting of military personnel fuzzy and distant in your ears as you scan the room for the highest priority.
There. Along the right wall, an analyst frantically tries to finish typing out a code, the whirring of the computer’s cooling fans dominating all other sounds in the room. You had to stop that code from being sent.
Namora engages the forward security, her spear a windmill keeping most from even being able to keep their guns lifted. You let her work on the people in the room while you take the computer.
The Wakandan suit knows what you want as you think it, your hand flicking out and the nano tech streaming toward the usb ports on the military device, inserting themselves to stop the command. It’s too late - the analyst smashes the final key and steps back just as the suit’s tech takes hold of the computer. In a flash, you change your instructions from shutting the thing down to working on reversing that order that was just sent.
Green text glows on the screen, the confirmation that missiles aimed for the Talokanil city had started their launch sequence. You bark the mission update into your helmet, Yucatec Mayan words broadcast to all the warriors still up on the surface - and those elsewhere on the battlefield. “Launch code sent - find the missile bay and destroy them!”
You’d continue to try to emergency cancel the launch from here, but if you failed…
Shuri’s tech would break through the military firewalls and take over the computer, there was no doubt about that, but whether it could do it in time was another matter. The countdown on the screen began, large numbers flashing - 1:59, 1:58, 1:57…
You had two minutes to stop this.
So much happened in the mere seconds that you’d entered the room, the analyst had only taken two steps away from the computer before your fist tightened around their neck, drawing them close. The blades extended from your knuckles grazed their jaw, carving shallow lines that bloomed with red as you switched to English to match the soldier’s US uniform.
“Countermand that launch.” You snarl, the voice modulation from your helmet coloring your words into an almost demonic rasp.
Your elaborate armor is reflected clearly in the wide eyes of the man you have by the throat, the face of your helmet eerily featureless, giving you an otherworldly air. No eyes for the man to read, no lips to see the tilt of, no expression on the cold, golden metal. He’s satisfactorily cowed, upper lip coated in nervous sweat, eyes locked onto your face in rigid terror, but he doesn’t move. You hiss and move in front of him to take the stray bullet into your own back rather than let him die by his own ally’s hands and turn to survey the state of the room.
Namora’s spear takes the last soldier standing in the gut - the one who’d shot at your prisoner in an attempt to remove his cooperation from the table permanently. Too bad, now it was just the poor analyst and two angry warriors from the deep.
To the man’s credit, he didn’t rush to obey your orders. Though he knew he was damned, he seemed ready to go out without betraying his cause. Admirable, in other circumstances. Horrifically evil, in these.
“Those missiles are going to slaughter thousands of innocent civilians - you know that?” You give him a small shake, imploring his conscience to finally wake up. “People who want nothing but to live their lives in peace, you’re about to murder. Stop this!”
The update on the hacking job flashes onto your helmet’s screen and you check it against the countdown - only one minute thirty seconds left.
The man clenches his jaw and stands his ground.
Your hand leaves his neck to grip his jaw in a vice and forces him to face the map on screen. You point to the blinking target in the ocean. “Right there, children are huddled, terrified in their houses, the elderly are trapped in hospitals, unable to evacuate, mothers hold their babies, doctors tend to the wounded, and you’d condemn them all to death for simply being different than you? Simply for having resources you want?” Your grip tightens, the suit’s enhanced strength causing the man’s bones to creak under the pressure.
The man whimpers, but makes no move to stop the launch.
Namora shifts behind you, knowing that this was a precarious situation - the wrong tactic would ensure he refused to comply. She won’t interrupt your attempt to appeal to the man though you know she wants to torture compliance out of him. You’d like nothing more than to let her loose on him, but with only a minute left to convince him, physical pain was unlikely to sway the man.
“Cancel the order!” Your command reverberates through the room, but though the man’s hands flinch toward the computer as though he’s going to finally comply, he withdraws them just as quickly.
“No.” He manages to gasp out around your grip. “Every last one of you blue terrorists are going to be wiped from this earth. You don’t belong here, this is our planet.”
Only thirty seconds left before launch.
The man wasn’t budging.
You fight to keep your voice from shaking with the rage and fear coursing through you. You felt so helpless. “You’re disgusting.” You grate out. “Stop the missiles.”
Ten seconds.
The man stands taller, proud of his defiance in the face of humanity.
Five seconds.
“Update!” Namora shouts into her comms.
Only static answers.
Three seconds.
“Please!” You beg.
Two seconds.
“Die you blue scum.” The soldier sneers.
One second.
You release the man’s face and ball your fist, knot in your stomach writhing and knees going weak.
MISSILE LAUNCHED flashes across the screen.
“Whatever afterlife you go to, I pray you suffer.” Your voice is cold and hard as your bladed fist drives into the man’s gut. Namora’s spear takes him in the back as the pair of you skewer the man who refused to spare the innocent.
His lifeless body collapses to the floor and you stare at the computer screen in dismay. You want to rush from the building, leap into the air and try to stop the missiles yourself, but you know it’s impossible. The launch pads were nowhere near this command center, they’d be halfway to their target by the time you got to the street again. So you stand helpless and let Shuri’s tech continue to work on the computer. It might not be able to stop the missiles now, but it could learn the software and be faster at hacking the system next time.
You lean heavily onto the desk at that thought. Next time.
Would you succeed next time or would you have to watch as death was sent streaking toward the Talokanil once again?
“Something’s wrong.” Namora shakes her head, staring at the screen. “Shouldn’t we see the missiles launching?”
You analyze the screen again. She was right. There should be little green lines making their way to the dot of the Talokanil city, but the map remains clear.
“Update!” You call into your comms, echoing Namora’s request.
There’s a crackle of static, then one of the warriors outside the city responds. “Missiles neutralized.”
You collapse onto the bloody floor, air huffing out of you in an almost manic laugh. They’d done it. The team sent to find the missiles on the ground had done it, infiltrated the compound, and stopped them at their source. Your grin echoes Namora’s as she shakes her spear to the sky, shouting an ancient Talokanil declaration of victory.
The Wakandan tech finishes its analysis of the computer and retracts back into your suit and the pair of you make your way back to the street. All is oddly quiet as you step from the building, the roads deserted but for the few blue-skinned warriors standing guard. No enemy combatants remain standing.
“How?” You ask, wondrous disbelief had replacing gut-wrenching despair so quickly your head is still spinning.
One of the warriors stationed on the street shrugs his massive shoulders. “Seems like the tanks had all been dispatched here and were unable to get back through the roads once they realized we’d found the missile bay. The roads got blocked and the missile silos were left unlocked - our people were able to get in without too much resistance.”
You grin at your compatriots as you run through the streets, seeing a few brave faces peeking out from behind curtains and window panes. Those at the missile launch location might still need help with extraction, but if the tanks were unable to get back to the base…
The group skirts the streets where the tanks are congregated, the info on your helmet’s screen showing you a pretty clear picture of the soldiers ramming into what appeared to be two cement trucks that had tipped over in the roadway. The tanks were vainly attempting to crawl over the vehicles, but the nature of the truck resisted being easily crushed. It wouldn’t hold them off forever though, so the group picked up their pace.
A new message blinks across your vision. “They’re out, just sent meet up location.” You relay, everyone turning in unison to the south.
That had been a convenient time and place for those cement trucks to crash. And leaving the doors to the missiles unlocked? Rookie move. Almost unbelievable. Despite the soldier’s refusal to call off the attack, sheer luck itself had seemed to be on their side today.
It was an incredible stroke of luck.
Almost too convenient.
Your mind skitters from thought to thought as to the source of the good fortune. Had the easily accessible missiles somehow been a trap? If so, surely it would have closed in around the group who’d destroyed the warheads. Wouldn’t they have been taken as they slipped inside the enemy’s base? Why would they be allowed to leave? You’d need to scan each warrior with your suit before letting them get back to any Talokonil stronghold. Make sure no ‘ticks’ had hitched a ride out of the base.
But if it wasn’t a trap, if events today did work out in favor of the Talokanil, had that just been luck? Random happenstance? Or had it been something else? Had someone tipped those cement trucks at just the right time and place to block the tank’s ability to get back to the missiles? Had someone purposely left the missile bay doors unlocked for the Talokanil?
Did they have hidden allies still free on the surface world, ready to join the fight?
You temper the spark of hope that tries to ignite in your chest. It was all speculation - there was no proof of any of your suspicions, good or ill. But you would like to get to the bottom of it one way or another.
The roads stay clear for you and the Talokanil as you retreat from Karachi, diving back into the ocean and swimming to more hospitable waters.
You longed to take the magical currents to the city you’d just saved - at least for now. To see the people there and tell them the missiles wouldn’t fall today, to give hope and whatever resources you could to those hunkering down in their homes, unable to evacuate. But there was still more work to do and the militaries of the surface world wouldn’t let this Talokanil victory go unanswered.
They’d try to bomb more Talokanil cities and you needed to be ready to thwart their plans again and again until a more permanent solution could be found.
So you let the sea embrace you as you swam to safety - then to your next mission.
---
a/n: I started this fic a year ago, wanting to bring to light the way oppressors and colonizers always seek to destroy and use entire populations for their own gain - then demonize the oppressed group when they fight back. Yet again, we’re seeing this play out in the real world. This story has a ‘happy’ ending. I don’t know what will become of Palestine and its people or if the public crying out for the end of ethnic cleansing and indiscriminate murder of an entire people group will force world governments (I’m looking at you, USA) to stop their unilateral support of oppressors. I can only hope the truth will be shared, understanding can be reached, and we can recognize when a genocide is happening and always choose to take action against it.
I will continue to use my voice out in the ‘real world’ to condemn the actions of oppressors like the Israeli Defense Forces, I will continue to put pressure on my elected officials, and seek to elevate the voices of Palestinians (and all oppressed) when they speak out on their own experiences. These stories I write always come from a place of an intense desire to continue interrogating what is happening in our world and hopefully be an outlet where good can triumph and those who would harm others are held accountable.
Freeing the Palestinian people from the oppressive rule of the ethno-state colony of Israel is only step one. Unfortunately, the story of the Palestinian people is not the first, nor only, time a group of people have decided the land/resources of another belonged to them and destroyed the indigenous population to get it. It will not be the last time, either. It is our duty to call it out when it happens and fight to aid those being harmed.
End the occupation of Palestine. End the oppression of the Palestinian people.
Do not be silent in the face of indiscriminate murder and genocide.
Tag List: @forevermoremagcon, @natalia-rmnva, @ethereal-athalia, @rhymingtree [Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!]
Chapter Summary: You and Namor cuddle in the after-sex haze and you have some lingering questions for him...
Warnings: mentions of genocide, slavery, and murder
Author's Note: Cuddle time. I can't begin to tell you how long parts of this chapter have been rattling around in my head - pretty much since I started writing this fic almost a year ago now
Soundtrack: “Church” - Fall Out Boy // "My Domain" - (feat. Svrcina) Produced by Tommee Profitt
Namor’s shoulder feels like the perfect pillow for your head as you try to fall asleep. You breathe in deeply his scent of sea water and a floral Lachina had told you was from the blooms of the Yaaxche tree - sacred to their ancestors for healing and connecting them to the Earth, Underworld, and the depths of space. She’d described the tree the blooms came from as one of overwhelming size, covering everything, but whose bark was littered with sharp spines to protect it from predators who might harm it before the first crop of buds had time to form. The tree had been instrumental in everything from fibers for clothing to medicines for the peoples of the Yucatan Peninsula.
You think her description of the tree perfectly sums up Namor and who he was: prickly and defensive of his people, but what he provided - invaluable. Though on the surface, the pink and white blooms would be pungent to the point of unpleasantness, in Talokan, the variant produced softer scents that became a hallmark of royalty.
Namor’s heartbeat is deep and steady beneath your head, his breathing even - you’d think he was asleep but for the gentle brush of his fingers through your hair.
Namor - that name he had given you to call him, yet none of his people did. It was only “K’uk’ulkan”. When he had told you his name, he said “you will call me Namor” - not “my name is Namor”. When you had met again in that aquarium in Harlem, you’d heard it again, though altered to chill the blood in your veins - him declaring to the scientists there “my enemies call me Namor”.
His enemies.
It’s what he’d told you to call him back when you didn’t know each other. When you recognized him for the threat he was. Powerful, vengeful, driven to protect his people not yours. You supposed you had been enemies then. But he’d never corrected that line of communication between the two of you. He’d never indicated you should call him anything else.
You worry your lip between your teeth, fingers tracing lazy circles into the king of Talokan’s chest. Though you try to speak, nothing but a croak comes out. You clear your throat and try again, the words making their way out, though softer than you’d want them to be. “Am I your enemy?”
Namor’s head jerks down and you see his eyebrows crease in confusion as you look up at him from beneath your lashes. His mouth works, though no sound comes out. Clearly, you’d stumped him with that question, especially after what had just occurred between the two of you.
“Umm, no.” He finally answers, though his tone indicates he’d like some clarification.
Now that you’ve gotten that bone between your teeth, you couldn’t stop. You prop yourself up on your elbow, hovering slightly over him, unwilling to fully break from the intense warmth of his skin beneath you. “When we first met, you told me to call you ‘Namor’. But your people never call you that.” You gaze fixedly at his face, searching for any flicker of emotion that would betray his inner thoughts. “When the events…transpired…at the aquarium in Harlem, you told the scientists - very specifically - that only your enemies called you Namor. So, if only your enemies call you Namor, and you’ve never told me another name to call you, you answer to me naming you ‘Namor’, then, it follows that you believe me to be your enemy.”
It sounded so silly saying it out loud. It was the name Shuri and the Wakandans called him - they weren’t enemies, exactly. But somehow the name had begun to feel cold and distant - formal, like a title, though you knew K’uk’ulkan - The Feathered Serpent God - was far more of a title than ‘Namor’ ever could be, right?
He sighs, fingers moving from your hair to gently stroke your jaw as he contemplates how to answer. “After returning to the surface world to bury my mother in the soil of her homeland, we found the humans had committed atrocities against my people, including enslaving them. I and my Talokanil cleansed the earth of them, but with his dying breath, a holy man of the Spanish church proclaimed me ‘el niño sin amor’ - the boy without love. I found it fitting as I truly did not have any love for the surface world, and so took ‘Namor’ as the name my enemies should know me by.” He shifts slightly, looking away from you now. “It is how I began to introduce myself to the few surface-dwellers I encountered such as Shuri and…”
“Shuri and her mother, Romanda, then queen of Wakanda.” You finish for him, knowing exactly what had stalled his tongue - the fact that it was he, himself, who had murdered the queen. A transgression he would never be able to take back or make right.
He whistles a sigh through his teeth and his eyes flick back to yours. “Yes. It is simply the name every surface-dweller now knows me by.”
Your brows scrunch as you shake your head. “But it’s not really your name, neither is K’uk’ulkan - the only thing I’ve ever heard any Talokanil call you by. Those are titles, not names. Surely you had another. Your mother must have given you a name when you were born, you couldn’t have always been called the K’uk’ulkan. Being called a god as a toddler would have caused irreparable damage to a child’s psyche.” You roll your eyes and give a small smile to soften that judgment, but really - there was no way little baby Namor had been truly treated as a god his entire life, right?
He returns your smile, eyebrows softening into a wistful expression. “My mother did name me, all those years ago. But few remember I ever even had a true name. I became what my people needed, and that is all I’ve been for so many years.”
“What was the name your mother gave you?” Your question is barely a whisper, sensing this is sensitive ground you’re treading on, wishing desperately to know but not wanting to overstep.
It’s several long moments before the man beneath you answers, his dark eyes gazing into yours, lost in thought before he finally relents. His answer is just as soft as your question, as though he’s afraid someone else might hear. “Ch’ah Toh Almehen. That’s the name my mother chose for me.”
“Ch’ah Toh Almehen.” You repeat, testing out the sound of that name on your lips. “It’s beautiful.” You lean down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth.
“Not many call me that - and never in public. It almost doesn’t even feel like mine anymore.” He cradles your head back into his chest, fingers returning to tangle in your hair. “I must be the K’uk’ulkan for them, always.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
He huffs a laugh. “For my people, I will endure any exhaustion. They are everything to me.”
You sigh into his skin, wrapping your arms tight around his chest. “I know.” You mumble. “Do you want me to begin calling you Ch’ah, or…”
He shrugs his shoulders and lets out a sigh. “I’m not certain. You’ve called me Namor for so long, I’ve begun to like the way it sounds on your tongue. Though if you call me Ch’ah, may I ask that you only do it in private?”
“Of course.” You press a quick kiss to his cheek. It was difficult enough to remember to exclusively call Matt ‘Daredevil’ while you were out in your suits, but if you could manage that, you could manage to keep Namor’s names distinct in your mind. It might take you awhile to fully warm to calling him his birth name even in private as he seemed to still have a deal of baggage surrounding it. You can’t imagine it had been easy to be stripped of your humanity at such a young age and thrust into godhood by everyone around you. You would let him set the pace for when - if - he wanted you to view him fully as Ch’ah rather than Namor.
“I’m sure you thought of me as an enemy back then, on the raft. But when you sent me to Wakanda, you gave a token of friendship - the vibranium pendant. Is that when you began to think of me as a potential ally?”
Namor’s hand stills in your hair and you feel his breath stutter in his chest. “Well, not quite then. Though I was hopeful.”
Your eyes narrow and you push up to lean over him again, peering into his face that had suddenly taken a very shifty expression. “Ch’ah Toh Almehen.” You try out his full name, imbuing it with all the stern no-nonsense authority you had used on Nicholas when you wanted him to be honest about any trouble he’d gotten up to and was trying to hide from you. “Was that pendant not a token of friendship?”
Suddenly, you remember the line of questioning from your months being held captive. About some sort of technology imbued in the jade necklace that you’d never delved deeper into. You inch your face closer to his, eyes narrowing even more as your suspicions heighten.
“Well,” He fidgets under your gaze for all the world just like Nicholas would have, trying to avoid eye contact, but unable to escape your judgmental glare that demanded answers. “I may have been a bit more than just a pendant of jade…”
Memories flash like a montage in your mind. The pendant pulsing when you first found Fairuza in that basement, Namor- Ch’ah - and his Talokanil showing up just after, him knowing exactly where you lived in the City, his shock at seeing you in the Harlem aquarium - the one time you’d seen him after taking off the necklace. As though he thought he had known exactly where you would be and was shocked to find out he was incorrect.
The look you give him seems to open the floodgates of everything he’d been holding back from you. “When you were taken, they must have put it in a container to block the signal - it was only short bursts, I assume when they were examining it - that we were able to get a lock on your location. If I hadn’t given that to you, I would never had been certain, I might not have gotten to Fairuza in time…”
Your voice comes out in a growl as you loom over the king of Talokan. “You put a damn tracking device on me!”
“Umm, yes.” Namor’s guilty attempt at a smile that really turns to a grimace is enough to break your indignation at being tagged like a stray dog.
You groan and flop back onto the bed beside him. “And I never even suspected. I should have been more suspicious of your ‘gifts’.”
“You know,” He pouts, as if he has any right to be indignant himself at this exchange. “Not all the gifts had ulterior motives. The bracelet I brought you-”
“That was Fairuza’s gift to me.” You interject.
“Hmm, ok, well the second pendant - that one didn’t have a tracking device in it!” He grins as though he’s won any points in this interaction.
“Ohh goody for you - ONE of your gifts to me wasn’t tainted.”
He nestles his face into your hair, snuggling closer to you in apology. “At first, it was to make sure I knew where you were - that you weren’t an enemy, that you were keeping my secret. But-”
Your face heats as you interrupt him again, “It was just a tracking device, right? You couldn’t hear anything, could you?” All the times you’d had sex with Matt flash through your head, not to mention every second of your life - like when you went to the bathroom. That was just far too invasive to bear thinking about.
“No.” He quickly assures you. “No I couldn’t hear anything - it was only a tracking device.”
You relax back into the mattress and let him continue.
“After I decided you were no longer an enemy, after you rescued Fairuza, it was comforting to know where you were. To know that if you needed aid, I would be able to be there in an instant. When that was taken away - when you were presumed…well, when we didn’t know where you were - it was difficult. It was terrifying to not be able to help you.” He wraps his arms tighter around you, as if to reassure himself that you really were there, that he actually had finally found you and brought you to safety.
All your annoyance at him tracking you falls away as his desperate need to hold you. You supposed you’d do the same thing too - to someone who might be an enemy, someone you were feeling out their loyalties. You’d spied on many people, sent Jessica to keep tabs on others, hell before you were allies, Daredevil had followed you around in secret too. It just kind of came with the territory of your lifestyle.
You hum in contentment as you feel his breath warm your neck, his thick hair sliding between your fingers. “Why did I fight you for so long?” You finally ask. “You were begging me to join you, fight by your side - but I refused. I had to do things my own way.” You shake your head slightly. “Why?”
Namor presses gentle kisses to your ear, your jaw, your cheek, before answering. “Because it’s what you do.” He whispers - echoing your answer to him all that time ago on the raft. “You fight for what you believe to be right. You don’t just give in to what’s easy, follow where others lead just because they say so. We must prove ourselves to be worthy of you.” You can feel his smile against your skin and you can’t help but mirror it. “It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”
Your heart flutters at the admission, his vulnerability here just as intoxicating as his desire for you earlier. “Well, I’m here now.”
“Yes.” You can hear the sleep beginning to creep into Namor’s voice. “You’re here now.”
For the thousandth time, you can’t believe this is real - that you were indeed here, in Namor’s arms. You were safe, you were wanted, and now you had a mission before you and the tools to complete it. You were finally ready to leave the safety of these caves and join Namor on the battlefield. Find the children of the orphanage you thought long dead, take down the world leaders who would kill and subjugate the Talokanil, and destroy Wilson Fisk once and for all.
But for tonight, you would rest, warm in the arms of the king of Talokan - Namor, Ch’ah Toh Almehen, the K’uk’ulkan - and you would gather your strength for the war to come.
---
a/n: Namor's birth name I got from the Wakanda Forever script that was floating around - don't know if it was ever confirmed real or what, but I figured I'd use the name they gave Namor there
Tag List: @forevermoremagcon, @natalia-rmnva, @ethereal-athalia, @rhymingtree [Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!]
Pairings: Namor x Vigilante!Reader // Matt Murdock x Vigilante!Reader
New York City has forged you into a hooded vigilante that protects citizens from the looming threats the law can't handle. You have allies in the city that aid in your fight, and a very complicated relationship with Daredevil - your on-again off-again beau. When a mission on the docks goes sideways, you find yourself floating alone on the wreckage of your getaway ship in the middle of the Atlantic.
You’ve never bothered yourself with world powers before, but suddenly, you’re made aware of a lurking threat to not only New York City, but the entire surface-world. Hidden under the sea is a whole civilization ready for war, a war Wakanda is trying to stop. But with every new revelation about what those on the surface are doing, you begin to wonder: should you stop this K’uk’ulkan or should you burn the world down with him?
Intro & warnings // 💓= Explicit Sexual Content
Your "What the hell is going on with this Namor guy?" Era:
***So if the era titles feel like too much giving away of the story, let me know and I'll change them - I just figured since it's such a long fic people might like to know the trajectory/when certain titular characters will be back in the forefront***
Likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! Also, I'm posting it over on AO3 under Amethyst_Birch_Writes if you want to go over there to read it - but you don't get the nifty little pics with the post, so that's up to you!
Chapter Summary: The sexual tension between yourself and Namor finally breaks and the two of you have a passion-filled night
Warnings: smut, no plot just smut
Author's Note: finally the Namor smut chapter!! 🙈 It's been a long time coming (lol) but I hope you like it!
Soundtrack: “As Long as You’re Mine” - Wicked // “Don’t Blame Me” - Taylor Swift
**18+ only from this point on - Minors: Do Not Interact!**
Smut content: p n v sex, oral (f recieving), size kink, painful (in good way) sex, gaping, mirror sex, fingering (f recieving)
The dim lanterns cast long shadows across the royal suite as you grab Namor’s bare shoulders, still slightly damp from the depths, and pull him toward you, refusing to let any space come between your lips pressed to his. You’d waited for this for so long - it had never been the right time. Instead of betraying the surface world, you’d betrayed yourself by denying what you truly wanted: Namor.
Your feet stumble backward as you pull him along with you, the backs of your knees hitting the bed. His lips smile against yours, the incredible heat pouring from his body setting your skin ablaze. As always, he was wearing so little - just a small pair of green shorts and his regal necklaces of jade, vibranium, and shells, the rest of his body exposed in swaths of muscled dark skin.
His short beard prickles your face as your lips move against his, your mouth hungry and devouring, tongue darting to taste him. Finally. After all these months - over a year? Your fantasies of what Namor would feel like, taste like, couldn’t do justice to the real thing. It was like a dream - a fantasy - a figment of your imagination that couldn’t possibly be true. This couldn’t really be happening.
Namor, king of Talokan - no, not king, K’uk’ulkan - a god to his people, here with you. Wanting you.
You were nothing but an orphan from New York City - nameless, faceless, unwanted and abandoned by normal society - yet Namor was holding you with hands so strong and sure, pressing his lips to yours like you were the most precious thing in all the oceans of this world. Your lips were more accustomed to bruises than kisses, spitting words of rage than gentle caresses and whispers of affirmation.
“My warrior.” Namor murmurs into your lips in his native tongue. “I don’t want to overstep.” He finishes in English - as though to make sure there will be no confusion, no misinterpretation, his lips stilling and pulling away slightly.
“Namor.” Your fingers scratch through his short hair, gripping the dark tresses as your eyes flutter open to gaze into his. “I want this.” You’re gasping, breathless, heart pounding. “I’ve waited for this for so long. I know what I want.”
His eyes are unfocused, as though he’s trying to see through the heady buzz from kissing you. The sight sends heat flooding between your thighs and your legs almost give out from beneath you, a whimper escaping from your slightly parted lips as you see how he looks at you.
“Namor.” You whine.
Your name rips from his throat in a growl as his lip reclaim yours, his body pressing into you, pushing against you until the both of you fall back against the mattress, his body looming over yours as he gently lifts you so both of you are stretched out on the plush material. At a thought, the Wakandan suit retracts from your body and back into the necklace. Namor’s heat is intoxicating above you, your legs lifting and wrapping around his waist, ankles hooking to pull him closer to the heat burning and itching between your thighs until you think you can’t stand it.
You need him. Not just over you, but on you, in you.
Namor’s mouth leaves yours, only for his teeth to nip your neck, drawing yelps of pleasure from you as chills cascade down your spine. Your fingernails scratch against his hips as you claw at his shorts, pushing them off him as his own hands tear off your athletic pants and shirt.
There’s nothing that can prepare you for the slap of skin on skin as his hard cock is freed from the incredibly small amount of fabric that had been holding it in. The groan you let out blows his pupils to swallow his brown irises. Your hands fumble up to grasp his length and start to pump - not that he needs any help getting hard for you.
Wetness drips down from your heat as you stroke his girth, your fingers barely able to meet as you grip him, the hard length of him sending wild sparks to your brain, lighting you up from the inside. Your pussy clenches, desperate to be filled.
Though you try to guide him to your entrance, his hand get to your opening first. His large fingers press to your clit, rubbing in small circles as pathetic whimpers break from your throat at his slightest touch. A confident smirk flits across his lips as your face scrunches with the pleasure he teases. If just a few circles can send you into such a state, what more could he do?
As if he knows your thoughts, he trails one finger down your folds, sliding easily through the slick that had already accumulated there. You groan at his light touch, every nerve set alight, like miniature sparks of lighting were shooting from your pussy to spread all over your body.
His hand that isn’t teasing your pussy reaches up to pinch your nipple harshly and you let out a small scream at the sharp pain - a scream that turns to a wail of pleasure as he slides a finger into your vagina, pumping slowly and curling up as he pulls out, only to push back in again.
Even such a simple movement drives you mad, your pussy trembling around his finger, hips writhing and mouth hanging open, gasping for breath as one of his hands plays with your nipple while the other slowly pumps inside you. His movements are so sure, so commanding - he was a man who knew what he wanted and you were desperate to give it to him.
He adds another finger, squelching in the slickness that’s drooling from your pussy at his attention. Your vaginal walls stiffen as he pushes into you, his fingers twisting and spreading, trying to prepare you for him, but it was like your muscles wanted you to be tight for his cock rather than compliant and stretched for him. Open mouthed groans heave from you as he works, your hand still pumping his thick cock that somehow grows larger and harder at your ministrations. It seems unreal how large it had grown.
“Namor.” You groan, lips finding his again, the two of you groaning into each other’s mouths as you pleasure each other with your hands. “Fuck me.” You whimper. “Oh fuck, fuck me.”
Namor groans something in his own language that you’re too far gone to understand and he removes his fingers from your pussy. You feel his hand replace yours on his cock and you let him take control, your legs falling to the sides against the mattress to give him all the room to maneuver he needs.
His mouth drops to your neck. “Stop me if it hurts.” He whispers into your skin.
Then the head of his cock is against your opening and you tilt your hips up to give him more access to you. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders as he pushes against your pussy. His cock was so big, it wasn’t sliding in. His tip presses against your vagina and you reach down to spread your lips wider for him.
His grunt of frustration shivers through your body as he can’t enter you. It had been a long time since you’d had penetrative sex - maybe you’d gotten tighter in the meantime, and he was so big it was just too much. Your pussy burned with the need for him - it was a physical pain to not have him inside you - and you tilt your hips up even higher, pulling your knees to the mattress by your head. You grabbed his cock with one hand and his hips with the other and dug your nails into both.
“Fuck me, Namor.” You order. “Ram your cock inside me. I want to feel you. Do it.”
Something in your tone must have lit a fire inside him as his eyes snap to yours, burning and demanding - perhaps slightly affronted at you commanding him - but it’s like his body responds innately to you.
His hips buck and a guttural shout rips from your throat as his cock forces its way into your tight pussy. In that moment, you truly understand what people meant when they said they wanted someone to split them in half as Namor’s cock spreads you wide, pain exquisite as you’re forced to open for his girth. You look down in shock and realize he’s only slid his tip into you. The burning stretch of him filling you like you’d never felt before was only the smallest part of him barely breaching your entrance.
His eyes, solid black now with lust and need for you, are questioning. So clearly desperate to fully seat himself in you, but waiting for your permission. Your nipples harden and though it’s counter-intuitive to what’s needed, your pussy clenches around the fraction of Namor that’s inside of you. You don’t know how you can possibly hold more of him, but your eyes find the massive length of him waiting and you need it inside you. Without meaning to, your mouth begins to drool and you look back up at Namor.
Your head nods frantically, giving him permission to push farther. His lips crash into yours, tongue lapping against your own.
“Let’s make it easier for you.” He whispers into your lips.
You whimper with loss as he pulls out of you, your pussy incredibly empty without him, but he flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and pressing your back into a sharp arch, your face pressed to the mattress and legs spread. The tip of his cock slides against your pussy, the exposure to the air sending chills against the wetness there.
You were so tired of waiting. “FUCK ME!” You scream. Not caring who heard - if any of the serving people were still in the hut to hear. You needed him inside you, right now, no matter how bad it hurt at first. You wanted his massive cock inside you.
Namor’s hands wrap around your hips, sliding into the creases of your thighs, and he tightens his grasp - and slowly pulls you back into him.
A strangled scream is barely muffled by the sheets as Namor works the length of his cock into you from behind agonizingly slowly. He’s so much bigger than you had imagined. With gentle rocking motions, he presses deeper and deeper into you, working you along his cock, letting you adjust to each inch of him as he spreads your lips with his fingers.
Your scream turns to a low whine as you take deep breaths in an effort to loosen your muscles, let him enter more easily. It feels so good - too much and not enough all at once.
After what feels like forever, Namor is no longer working deeper into you. His tip has pressed right past the firm place inside you, deeper than you’d ever been fucked before. Your hum of approval sets him to moving again, thrusting in short bursts as his hands squeeze your ass. The pain is intoxicating, endorphins rushing through your body at the sensation of him, gently rocking, pushing disbelieving gasps from your mouth at how far inside of you he was.
Why had you waited so long for this? It was indescribable, unbelievable, yet it felt so right. Like you’d been waiting your whole life just for Namor’s cock to fill you up to bursting.
He stills his thrusting and rotates his hips there for a moment, your pussy splitting around him, burning and stretched, his tip so deep inside you, your stomach tingled at the sensation, then he begins pounding into you, a feral yell falling from his lips as he brutally slams your hips forward and back, your pussy riding his cock like he hadn’t fucked anyone in a millennium.
Surely he had, but you sure hadn’t - not in a very long time at least. The tension you’d felt with Namor from almost the first moment you’d seen him - dangerous as you knew he was - had finally broken. That fantasy so long ago as you pleasured yourself while imagining Namor over you was a pale mockery in comparison to the real thing. The glass dildo was small and cold in comparison to the scalding heat Namor’s massive cock filled you with.
You surrender yourself to him as his length stretches you and your legs give out. Groans of pleasure keen from you as Namor gathers your thighs in his hands and pulls them even wider, fully lifting them until they’re spread in the air before him as he pounds into you. Your face presses against the mattress, his cock ramming in and out of your tight pussy with sloppy squelching noises the entire hut had to have heard.
It feels like your heart is ripped from your chest as Namor’s cock leaves you and your head whips around, eyes glassy with unshed tears that had gathered at the incredible marriage of pleasure and pain at his fucking. His hands find your waist and you put up no resistance as he lifts you with ease and carries you to the small dining table, setting you on the edge, facing him, and spreading your already compliant legs. You lift them to hook over his arms as he braces himself against the wood, cock finding its way to your vagina once again.
“Beautiful. So beautiful.” He moans into your hair, nose nuzzling along the side of your face. “I want to see your face as I fuck you.”
All you can manage to vocalize at that heady desire is a whimpering ‘uh huh’ as chills spiderweb across your skin, nipples hardening to an almost painful degree. You know your own eyes must be pools of black pupils from your own lust as you look up at him from beneath your lashes. His dark eyebrows furrow with the sexiest look of need on his face as he watches you while his cock gently teases around your vagina, sliding through your juices in tantalizingly slow circles.
Like before, his cock presses against your opening, too large to fit inside easily. You had been loosened a bit by fucking doggy style before, but Namor is so large he still was having trouble fitting himself into you again.
The thought of him being too big turned you on so much more than you thought it ever could have. With your face pressed to the mattress, you couldn’t see his cock, pressed against your heat, unable to fit in. Something wild and deranged inside you heated at the idea that he would have to force his way into you, that he was so much larger than anyone you’d fucked on the surface-world and this cock was all for you.
You shift to the very edge of the table and bite your lip until you think you’ll bleed, pulling Namor’s hips toward you. “I want it.” You moan into his mouth.
“I want you.” He whispers back, voice husky and desperate. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I like that it hurts.” You whimper back. “Make me yours.”
Namor’s lips graze against yours and his cock pushes against you again. His tip enters you, spreading your vaginal lips. You press yourself up against him, chest to chest, all your skin touching as he slides deeper into you, inch by agonizing inch. At this angle, it feels so different from when you were on your knees. The sensation is focused more in the front of your body, Namor’s length dragging along the walls of your vagina all the way to that firm place that was usually the only time pain entered the sex equation. With how large Namor was, the pain started long before he reached that place, but it was such a pleasant pain, like the pain of growth and change that begged for more.
Slowly, Namor works his way into you until he hits that firm place and you whimper. Immediately, Namor pauses, unwilling to give you anything other than incredible pleasure.
“Namor.” You reach up and grip his hair, pulling his head to the side to nip at his throat. “I fucking said claim me. Fuck me to make me yours.”
He nestles his face closer to yours, biting your lip as one of his hands tangle into your hair and force you to look down at your joined bodies. “Tell me what you want.” He orders.
Your heart stutters in your chest. He was as deep as he’d been when fucking you from behind and you’d just assumed he’d gotten his entire length into you then. But now that you could see him where he entered you, that though his tip is pressed past that firm place inside, inches of his cock were still outside. At the sight, your legs shake, lungs heave, and you can’t tear your eyes away. So that’s why Namor wanted you to really confirm what you wanted.
“Namor.” You rasp, brain fuzzing in unbelievable lust, still unable to look away from his cock deep inside you. “I can take it.” You assure him, “I want to feel all of you inside me.”
You finally glance up to his face and his expression of barely restrained desire is enough to make your pussy clench around him again. His fingers wrap around your jaw and hold your face up so that you’re forced to keep your eyes on his, so that he could watch your face, and his cock rams into you the rest of the way.
Your lips tremble as a high keen pushes from your chest at the movement, head forced to face Namor’s, his dark eyes scanning your expression - and clearly liking what he saw as your shocked ecstasy of finally feeling all of him inside you. Gasping breaths can’t seem to get enough oxygen into your lungs as he gives you no time to adjust to his size now, and his lips consume yours, teeth clacking, tongues writhing, and his cock pounds into you.
The massive tip breaks past that firm place inside you and you scream into his mouth, but as you ordered, he doesn’t stop. His entire length pulls back until only his tip is left in you, then he presses in again, every inch of him pumping into you faster and faster until you think you really will split in half. His scruff rubs against your clit with each thrust, drawing you closer and closer to orgasm.
In desperation, you press yourself to his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, gripping for all you were worth as your climax builds in your middle, Namor’s cock ruthlessly claiming you with each thrust. You think you whimper something about giving you more, harder, as your orgasm builds around Namor’s cock, and he obliges, his thrusts coming harsher, hips rocking more to give you extra stimulation on your clit with each pass.
That ball of live electricity grows inside you, lightning arcing through your body along with each pounding pass of Namor’s cock. Tears leak down your cheeks as the tension builds and builds, but you haven’t orgasmed in so long. You can’t hold it as long as you usually could, and the pleasure is too intense. The ball of electricity explodes and you clench around Namor, screaming and moaning with your climax, writhing with the ecstasy he brought you.
And he doesn’t stop.
Instead of slowing as you release the tension that had built inside you, the sounds that come from you seem to urge Namor on. He increases his speed, his cock so big inside you, demanding more, growing larger, each vein rubbing against the walls of your tightening vagina. It was as if at the narrowing of space it had, Namor’s cock grew in resistance to the smaller space it was granted.
Your wide eyes again draw down to his length pumping into you with disbelief. With a shaking hand, you gently wrap your fingers around him, moving in time with his thrusts. He was so much thicker than any toy you had used before.
“Namor.” You whimper.
His eyes meet yours, pupils blown and glowing with a fire you’d never seen. It was like fucking you was what he had been made for, the desire in his eyes eclipsed anything else.
You try to wrap you entire hand around his cock. Now, your fingers can’t meet.
A question flits across his brow and you look back to his cock and frantically nod.
“More.” You whimper.
He obliges.
His fingernails dig into your back as he pulls your closer, the wooden table beneath you beginning to crack with the intensity of Namor fucking you on it. Your cum pools beneath you, making your ass slide wildly until Namor fully lifts you up, fingers digging into your ass cheeks to bounce you on his cock.
You moan into his hair, gripping the dark locks and tugging his head to the side so you can nibble at his pointed ears, earning a whimpering moan from him. “Get on the bed.” You gasp out. “I want to ride you.”
Namor obeys instantly, backing up and throwing himself down on his back with you on top of him, cock still firmly seated inside you. Gazing down at this god-king beneath you, he’d never looked so beautiful - his eyes wide and so filled with lust as he scanned your body, wanting nothing more than to keep fucking you all night.
You rock on his pelvis, letting his scruff rub against your clit once more and you moan at the hyper sensitive bud’s pleasure. Bracing your hands on his sides, you begin to slide up and down his length, bouncing your hips in tantalizingly slow strokes. Your eyes flutter closed at the new sensation you were now in control of. Though his cock had only grown larger, your pussy was more used to the girth now and thrusting was becoming easier as you opened wider for him, your natural lubrication drenching the pair of you all the while.
There was barely any pain now, only the most pleasant stretch that you wanted to work deeper. Maybe Namor’s cock hadn’t gotten as large as it possibly could yet. The thought sent you spiraling into even more wild lust, your pussy begging for more. As if your body was working on it’s own accord, knowing what it wanted and not waiting for your fuzzed mind to catch up, you spin around to sit on Namor’s cock backward, leaning forward heavily onto his muscled thighs and your hips start to buck with a ferocity you hadn’t expected you’d be capable of after such a strenuous day.
You were going to be unimaginably sore tomorrow, but overwhelming desire to keep fucking Namor harder made you push that knowledge away.
Apparently, your ass bouncing in Namor’s face did it for him more than you thought it would and you gasp as he moans behind you. You let out a sharp yelp as he smacks your ass and begins to growl in his own language, alternating between massaging your bucking ass cheeks with a firm grip and slapping them.
Your suspicion about his cock turned out to be correct. Somehow, he was growing even larger inside of you, fraction by fraction as though he really didn’t have a limit to how big he could get.
“Namor.” You gasp, legs finally giving out, too exhausted to continue, hips now grinding into Namor’s pelvis to keep the friction working.
Groaning, Namor gently lifts you up, his cock sliding out of your sopping pussy with an obscene slurping sound that sent even more heat flooding into your core despite the loss of his cock inside you. You can feel your cum draining out of your gaping opening and suddenly have the desperate desire to see just how far Namor had stretched you, how wide your pussy was now opened.
“Mirror.” You mumble to Namor, trying to crawl to it yourself.
Like he knows exactly what you want, he jumps from the bed and drags the full length mirror to face you and comes back to nestle you on the edge, between his legs so you both could look into the mirror. He maneuvers your knees up to either side of his to spread you wide and you can clearly see your vaginal walls pulsing, held open by the massive girth that had stretched you for so long.
Namor smiles at the look on your face, leaning down to kiss your neck, hand reaching around to start sliding up and down your opening. His fingers twist along the outside of your vagina, lubing them up before trailing them from the top of your opening, down, and finally curling into your gaping pussy. You watch as his fingers slide in and out of you, taking time on each pass to circle around your clit with firm strokes and you feel your second orgasm begin to build.
In and out, his fingers delve deep into you, his two fingers spreading and twisting inside to keep your pussy gaping as he litters your neck with kisses. It was the hottest thing you think you’d ever seen - staring at your reflection while Namor fingers your stretched pussy. A moan rumbles from your chest as he adds a third finger, twisting them all wider as he pumps into you, moving his other hand to exclusively work your clit.
The pleasure is so intense, you don’t know if you can take his skillful hands for too long and your hips begin to writhe as though trying to get away while your mouth gasps out for more. Namor smirks at your reflection and adds a fourth finger into your pussy, almost able to cup his whole hand inside you now as his fingers on your clit pick up the pace.
Your head leans heavily against Namor’s as the ball of scalding electricity burrows into your middle, growing tighter and tighter at each thrust of Namor’s fingers into your pussy and swirl around your clit. Namor licks up the side of your neck and you cry out, hips beginning to buck more ferociously though his strong arms keep you in place, unable to escape the pleasure he was bringing to a climax in you for the second time tonight.
You can feel his hard cock pressed against your ass behind you, its girth a solid rod that begins to twitch in time to your gasps as the ball of pleasure inside you itches and burns, drawing higher and higher whimpering breaths from you that Namor relentlessly continues to build.
Finally, your muscles turn to water as your climax crashes into you, rushing like a lightning storm through every vein in your body as your collapse back against Namor, head lolling against his shoulder, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. All you can do is moan at the pleasure that continues to cascade through your body as Namor keeps fingering you through your orgasm until at last, you begin to come back to yourself.
Namor’s fingers leave you clit, but he continues to pump two fingers languidly into your creamy pussy that’s made a mess all over the bedsheets, soaking the fabric with your cum. His dark eyes are fixed on the reflection of your pussy and a slight rosy flush has begun to creep up his jaw and onto his cheeks. You notice his cock behind you begin to twitch again.
“You-” You mumble out through your haze, “You want to fuck my pussy again? Fuck my sopping wet pussy with your massive cock?”
Namor nods mutely, eyes still locked onto the sight of your still slightly pulsing vagina covered in thick white slick.
“You wanna come in my needy pussy, Namor?” You croon, the after-orgasm haze unlocking something inside you that wanted to tease him with your words, turn him on even more than the sight of your body alone could - maybe to see just how big his cock really could get.
Your words had the desired effect, Namor’s cheeks getting darker and breath hitching as you continue. “You want to stretch out my tight little pussy some more? Do you think you’ll fit now?” Your hand snakes behind you to grip his length and you can’t stop your eyes from widening as you feel it pulsing beneath you. Your hand didn’t come close to being able to fully reach around it now. You slide it over your ass, tantalizingly close to your asshole and Namor gently starts rocking his hips, almost trying to press inside.
“You think I’m going to let you fuck my ass on the first date, Namor?” You tease, swirling his tip around your tight hole.
You’re pleased to see his breath hitch and lust further darken his eyes, but he shakes his head slowly. “I want your pussy around my cock, beautiful warrior. I want you to watch me fuck your pussy until I come.”
All your bluster and commanding act melts away at that and you’re supple under his hands as he lifts you up, tilting your hips back for a better angle for him to enter you from behind. As he shifts your legs to kneel on either side of his thighs, you raise enough to see the reflection of him in the mirror, your hand still gripping what you could of it. You remember how big it had seemed when he first entered you, when your fingers could still wrap fully around it - if barely. Of how it had stretched you so much then, and now it had just grown even bigger. At this point, you weren’t even sure you’d seen a cock this large in any porno you’d watched. And it was all for you.
Yet again, your body burns with the need for it to be inside of you and Namor’s smile shows he knows exactly the effect it has on you. He places his hand next to yours on it and helps you guide it to your opening once more, the tip pressed to you as though it was the first time all over again, too big to enter. You can’t pull your eyes away from the mirror, at his cock slowly pushing against your pussy, trying to enter.
Namor’s hand leaves his cock to guide your hips, the other gripping your chin and tilting your head up. “I want you to look at your face as I enter you.” He orders, and you mutely obey, mouth hanging open, eyes widening with every millimeter Namor works into you.
You’d never fucked in front of a mirror before, never watched yourself being penetrated like you were now, and it turned you on even more than watching yourself being fingered. Inch by inch, Namor forces his way into you, your mouth opening wider and wider the deeper he went, your eyebrows scrunching with the pressure of his cock stretching your walls and finally pressing up against - then past - that firm part inside you. Namor’s grip on your chin is unrelenting as he keeps you watching your own face as he fully seats himself inside you, your ass pressing firmly into him now, clit rubbing against the skin just beneath his cock.
You reach down and begin to stroke his balls, eliciting a low moan from Namor as you gently squeeze and rub them, all the while still staring fixedly at your own face. Namor begins to rock his hips and your eyes flit down, unable to keep from watching what he was doing. You moan as his cock presses into you so deep, the place below your stomach bulges slightly with each thrust. Fully in his hands, you let Namor work you along his cock, his brown skin quickly becoming slicked with your white cum as he works faster and faster, no longer taking the languishing time he had before when making you orgasm.
He wanted his own climax and he wasn’t going to wait any longer. He rams you onto his cock over and over, unable to go as fast as you imagine he wants to due to how thick he was and how tight you pussy still remained. Your stomach flutters at the thought that it would take several rounds of sex in order for you to become loosened enough for him to rut into you at this size. The thought of training your pussy to take him sends another cracking of lightning working its way to your middle and you start to pleasure your clit with the hand that’s not working Namor’s balls.
Your whimpers grow louder as he forces you to ride his cock faster and his breath becomes labored behind you, moaning as he watches you in the mirror. You feel like his thick cock is trying to split you in half and suddenly, you want his cock in your mouth too. The thought snaps the ball of electricity inside you immediately and you cry out at how quickly the orgasm had built and climaxed, your pussy seizing around Namor’s cock that doesn’t slow.
“Tell me what you were just thinking of.” He orders in a voice hoarse with his efforts to keep it together.
You babble out your fantasy to him. “I was thinking about your cock pounding my pussy while I suck your cock, too.” You whimper through your orgasm, “Being spit roasted by your two huge cocks on either side - in all my holes. Get me a dildo that’s as big as you so I can, Namor.”
Namor’s head falls heavily to your shoulder as he moans at your admission, his hands grasping your body desperately, slamming you down onto his cock faster and faster.
“Namor, I want you to fuck my throat and fuck my ass.” You ramble through shuddering gasps, black spots dotting your vision as your orgasm doesn’t stop. “I want you to claim every part of me. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.” You whimper.
“You’re mine. And I’m yours.” Namor growls from behind you, bucking his hips into the thick spread of white cum drenching where your bodies joined.
The sight of him so lost in you, so desperate for your pleasure builds in waves through your body. If you hadn’t already been cumming, you surely would have started then. “Just like that.” You gasp as his eyes find yours in the mirror, dark under his brows arched in a ferocious expression as he drew closer to his own climax.
His groan fills the room as he finally releases himself into you, hips bucking with a frantic energy until he’s entirely spent. All you can do is try to catch your breath, the pair of you leaning your sweaty bodies against each other in exhaustion, his cock still firmly planted in your trembling pussy.
Namor gently lifts you off him and a soft moan escapes your lips as you watch his cock side out, his thick ropes of cum dripping from your vagina to add to the mess already covering the bedsheets.
Namor echoes your moan at the sight, gently kissing your arms and side as he rubs your sore muscles, soothing the ache the workout had left there. He holds you up, on your knees, but not having to support any of your own weight, until his cum stops draining from you. Neither of you can tear your eyes away from the sight in the mirror - of the pair of you drenched in sweat, slicked with cum, pressed against each other like you never wanted to be parted again.
The creaking of the mattress seems too loud as Namor stands, lifting you with him to carry you to the bathroom to set you on the counter. He gently wipes your body with dampened sponges, taking his time around your sore and aching pussy. On his knees, his eyes drink in the sight of you, staring at you spread open in front of him like he was more than ready to eat you out right here and now.
You bite your lip and grip his hair, tilting his face up to yours. “You can taste it if you want.” Your voice comes out husky and soft and Namor’s eyes darken yet again.
He leans forward, nestling his face between your thighs and gingerly laps at your folds. His tongue is delicate and soft, soothing your stretched vagina rather than working it further, his gentle ministrations feeling so much better than the cleansing sponge. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers trail through Namor’s hair, scratching lightly along his scalp.
You could sit here like this for hours, letting Namor drink you in, pamper your sore pussy with the gentle lapping of his tongue. He seems more than content to stay like this as well, never pausing his work as you breathe deeply above him, humming your satisfaction.
The clock in the bathroom notes that it’s midnight. You’d probably finished dinner around eleven - did that mean you’d fucked Namor for a whole hour? You don’t fight the smile that spreads across your face as you let your eyes close again, drifting away to the sensations of Namor eating you out. The heartbeat that had just been thundering is even and steady now, the gasping breaths have turned to deep sighs, and the scalding heat has turned to a cozy warmth spreading from Namor’s tongue to coat your body in comfort.
Your eyes jerk open at Namor’s moan of pleasure vibrating your clit, his beard brushing against the sensitive bud and you look back at the clock. It was thirty-past midnight. Namor had contentedly eaten your pussy for a half and hour with nary a complaint - had continued pleasuring you even as you were pretty sure you’d taken a light nap. You could get used to that, Namor licking you to sleep, continuing to taste you as you fully relaxed under his touch. The thought is enough to spark up yet another ball of desire in your middle and Namor senses your change in mood.
His eyes flick up to yours and though his tongue remains gentle and soothing, he runs it up and over your clit, the feather-light pressure building your climax at impossible speeds as his gorgeous eyes watch you fall apart yet again for him. Your orgasm sighs from you now, a languid pleasure at his gently lapping tongue, his after care turning you on in it’s own unique way - a softer manner of desire.
As your orgasm slowly fades, Namor finally lifts himself from his knees before you and you pull him in for another kiss. You don’t think you’ll ever tire of kissing him. The taste of you on his tongue draws a moan from your lips and his breath hitches at the sound.
“I think it’s time for bed.” He whispers into your mouth, but something in his voice says that’s the last thing he wants to do.
You look down and see his hardened cock pressed against the table between your legs, pre-cum glistening over his tip. Without thinking, you make to get on your knees for him, but Namor’s hands gently keep you where you are.
“I’ll be fine.” He whispers. “You’ve had a long day.” Then a wicked smirk plays on his lips. “And there’s always tomorrow.”
Yes, you could definitely get used to this.
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