The funniest thing about Dorian Pavus is that he’s a very emotionally well rounded person with well placed empathy who knows when to apologize and look at things from a different angle, which makes him the straight man in most situations, despite the Time Travelling Alcoholic Necromancer Genius from Magic Racism Land part of his character.
And then everyone treats him like he's some unreasonable, obtuse and problematic princess. 😅😂
Like- let's put down the Tevinter prejudice, and look at Dorian objectively. He's the most well put together, grounded, and level headed person in Skyhold. He's not some silly little guy; he's having THE most reasonable reactions to every given situation.
And also giving the gay man the Straigt Man role will never not be comedic irony to me.
The funniest thing about Dorian Pavus is that he’s a very emotionally well rounded person with well placed empathy who knows when to apologize and look at things from a different angle, which makes him the straight man in most situations, despite the Time Travelling Alcoholic Necromancer Genius from Magic Racism Land part of his character.
And then everyone treats him like he's some unreasonable, obtuse and problematic princess. 😅😂
Like- let's put down the Tevinter prejudice, and look at Dorian objectively. He's the most well put together, grounded, and level headed person in Skyhold. He's not some silly little guy; he's having THE most reasonable reactions to every given situation.
And also giving the gay man the Straigt Man role will never not be comedic irony to me.
"I helped Roderick walk. He . . . talked about you quite a bit. He just needed to be sure you were Andraste's Chosen. He was terrified of what it meant if it were true. But in the end, he believed. He asked me to tell you he was sorry."
"You are powerful but are terminal in death" - Lord of the Rings x reader
Legolas
He first sees what you’re capable of in the heat of battle. You’re surrounded — too many orcs, not enough time — and you don’t hesitate. Your blade glows faintly with runes, but it’s not your weapon they’re afraid of. It’s you. You move like you’re part of the wind — faster than they can track, quieter than they expect. You burn through them like wildfire, controlled and furious. When it’s done, the ground is slick, and you're still standing, breath heavy, eyes glowing faintly like starlight trapped in mortal skin.
And it’s then that Legolas starts to look at you differently. Not just as an ally or a fighter, but as something rare. Something the world won’t get twice.
The others are talking after the fight, tending wounds, rationing supplies. You’re off to the side, leaning on a rock just slightly — not enough to be obvious, just enough for someone who’s watching closely to notice. He is.
The next time, it’s raining. A cold drizzle that makes even Aragorn frown. You stumble. It’s small — just a slip in the mud — but you catch yourself on a tree and don’t move after. Just breathe. Shallow. Tired. You think no one sees, but Legolas is already there.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just steps close, hands at the ready like he might catch you again. You avoid his eyes, and that’s when he knows. Really knows.
“How long?” he asks, voice soft.
You’re quiet for a while. Then: “It started before we left Rivendell. Got worse after Moria.”
It’s not fair. That’s what he thinks first. That the world could hold someone like you — sharp and brave and ancient-feeling — and still let you die. Still decide you’re dying.
From that point on, he doesn’t leave your side. It’s not suffocating. It’s just present. He’ll hold your pack before you can argue. Share his water even when you insist you’re fine. His hand hovers at your back on long climbs. Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he’ll just watch you breathe.
He doesn’t treat you like glass. But he does look at you like you’re a comet — here for a moment, bright enough to change the sky.
One night, you say, “I don’t want to be remembered for dying.”
He replies, “You won’t be. You’ll be remembered for what you survived long before it.”
--------
Aragorn
He notices it early. Not the illness — the strength. The way you walk like you’ve survived something you don’t talk about. He’s known enough warriors to recognize one who fights even when no one’s watching.
The Fellowship is still new when it happens. An ambush. A bad one. You’re surrounded, cornered. Aragorn is focused on protecting the hobbits when he hears it — that sound of magic cracking through the air like lightning through ice. He turns. You’re standing in the middle of it.
You don’t cast spells. You unleash them. It’s different. Older. There’s a heat to it that makes even Gandalf glance over with something like respect. The orcs don’t get close. They can’t. Not when the dirt is shifting beneath them and the sky above them trembles at your voice.
When it’s over, you don’t look proud. You just look tired.
He pulls you aside that night. Not as a leader — as a man who’s seen people burn themselves out for a war that never loved them back. “That power,” he says, “comes from somewhere. What does it cost you?”
You don’t answer. You just smile, slow and sad. “Everything. But it was never going to last anyway.”
It’s later, after Moria, when he understands.
You cough. Hard. It doesn’t stop for a while, and when it does, there’s blood on your sleeve. You try to hide it. Fold it away like it means nothing.
But Aragorn’s hands are already reaching for you. Not panicked — steady. Warm. He presses a hand to your back, feels the tremble in your spine. Your eyes are glassy.
“I’ve seen many wounds,” he says. “That is not one I can heal.”
You nod. “I know.”
And that’s when the quiet pact forms between you — unspoken but firm. He won’t try to fix it. But he will make sure you don’t carry it alone.
He stands a little closer after that. Keeps track of your breathing when you sleep. Adjusts the pace of the Fellowship’s travel without making it obvious. Never tells the others. Just holds the truth in his chest like a sacred thing.
You never asked him to care. But he does. Deeply.
One night by the fire, when everyone else is asleep, you admit, “I don’t want pity.”
“Good,” he replies. “You’ll never get it from me. Just loyalty.”
And you believe him.
--------
Boromir
Boromir doesn’t trust magic. Not really. It’s not that he’s afraid of it — it’s just never done anything for his people. Power, in his world, is something you earn with sword and grit. But then there’s you.
He doesn’t know what to make of you at first. You don’t boast. Don’t lecture. You just move — confident, quiet, and sharp as a blade no one sees coming. You speak when it counts. You act when it matters.
And then one day you snap.
Not in anger — in command. The enemy is gaining, arrows thick in the air, Frodo nearly taken. You raise your hands and the wind stops. Literally. Dead in the sky. Time feels wrong for a second. Then the ground cracks beneath the riders chasing you.
They fall. Horses scream. Your eyes shine like the first embers of war.
When it’s over, you don’t even look at anyone. You just walk away, slow, like your bones hurt.
Boromir catches up later. “That was… incredible,” he says, trying to find words. He’s not good with reverence, but he tries anyway.
You just smile faintly and say, “It takes more than you think.”
It’s not long after that he sees you collapse.
It’s nothing dramatic. You just sink down one afternoon while setting up camp, hand on your side like you’re holding yourself together. He’s the one who notices when you don’t get back up.
“You alright?”
“I will be,” you lie.
He doesn’t push. Just kneels next to you, offers you his canteen. You take it with shaking fingers. Try not to meet his eyes. But he sees it now — the blood in the corner of your mouth, the way you press your wrist like it’s keeping time that’s running out.
“How long have you known?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.
“A while.”
He doesn’t tell the others. Doesn’t treat you like glass, either. But he does start walking beside you more. Offers to carry your pack even when you refuse. He sharpens your blade for you when your hands tremble. Doesn’t say a word about it.
You catch him watching you, sometimes. Like he’s memorizing something. The way you move. The shape of your silhouette against the firelight.
“You’re not afraid of death,” he says one night, half to himself.
“I just don’t want to go quietly.”
He nods, almost proud. “You won’t. Not you.”
-----------
Thranduil
He knew before anyone told him. Before you stepped into his halls again. Before your cloak was off. He looked at you — really looked — and saw it in the corners of your eyes. In the way your magic curled close to your body now, protective instead of radiant.
“You’re dying,” he said.
You didn’t flinch. “I’m still standing.”
His hands curled around the edge of his throne. No fury, just something cold and shaking in his jaw. You had always unsettled him. And yet, he always made time for you. Even when kings did not kneel, he listened when you spoke.
And when you fought — gods, when you fought — there was no one like you.
He once watched you walk into battle without a word. The creatures were crawling over the stone like ants, too many, too fast. He was preparing his army, calculating losses. But you stepped in alone.
You didn’t raise a weapon. You raised your voice. Soft. Steady. And the forest answered. His forest.
The trees bent. Roots cracked stone. Vines turned to spears, and the sky grew dark with your fury. It was not a scream. It was a command. Ancient. Absolute.
He didn’t speak for hours afterward. Not because he feared you — because he grieved. That something so powerful could wear a mortal face.
Now, you could barely hold a wine glass.
“You should rest,” he said, when he found you by the window, overlooking his realm. Your fingers were trembling again, though you kept them folded in your lap like royalty.
“If I rest, I’ll stop,” you replied.
He stood in silence beside you for a long time. There was so much between you — words unsaid, years shared, no name for what you were to each other.
Finally, you looked up at him. “Will you remember me kindly?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he dropped to one knee in front of you — the Elvenking — and kissed your hand like you were a queen, a relic, a farewell.
“The world will not deserve what it’s losing,” he said.
Oh, I really like your headcannons!!!! I would like to ask how do you think the members of the brotherhood (especially Gandalf) would react to the fact that the reader has wings and is also going on a journey (this was inspired by the valkyries, so I imagine how she would fight with these wings)
The fellowship x winged!reader
Aragorn:
-A huge weight is lifted from him knowing someone like you is on their side
-I also totally think he would be prone to motion sickness
-So if you ever have to fly him over a large gap or something he will need to sit down for a little
-“I’m never doing that again”
-He will help you preen your wings after battle to get the blood and dirt out of places you can’t reach
Legolas:
-He has absolutely heard about legends about your people
-He is so honored to get to meet you
-Watching you fight is so fascinating
-Will just take a moment to watch before almost getting beheaded in his distraction
-Calls you “birdie” in elvish
Gimli:
-You do literally anything with your wings and he is like “YEEESSSSS!”
-He’s such a cheerleader
-We also know he loves the powerful girl bosses
-So you are a top tier in his opinion
-I imagine that a winged being wouldn’t like being underground so he tries to keep you distracted with stories while in Moria
Boromir:
-My first thought was that Boromir would be like Thor when he met the Valkyrie
-He’s such a fangirl
-Ngl, after seeing you fight he’s a little timid
-I mean everyone else saw that right? You just decapitated that orc with your wing
-So badly wants to show you to his brother who would be awed
Frodo:
-He doesn’t know much about your people but he’s adamant to learn everything
-He is so thankful you will be helping him on this journey
-When he gets exhausted from lack of sleep because of the ring you carry him on your back and he can hold onto your wings
-Have him help preen your wings to get his mind off of his troubles for a little
Sam:
-Thinks you must be an angel when he first sees you
-He’s a little intimidated
-Ok, maybe a lot intimidated
-But that’s only because he thinks you must be one of the most beautiful creatures to walk middle earth
-He is concerned what you will eat if what was caught for dinner was a bird
-Would it be weird if you ate chicken? It feels unethical
-Actually probably gives a stern talking to whoever caught the bird because what if it was upsetting for you
Merry:
-Take this hobbit for a flight
-He will be so excited
-He would absentmindedly pet your wings (if you were ok with it)
-Maybe just give him a feather to play with
-He also makes so many bird jokes
Pippin:
-He doesn’t want you to think he is disrespectful
-So he doesn’t ask
-But he really wants to pet your wings
-They just look so soft and silky
-Until they are dirty from battle; but would help you pick twigs and dirt out of them
-“so…um…do you take dirt baths?*
Gandalf:
-He probably knew you before the council, and probably is the one who invited you
-You have been friends for a while
-He is vague but smug when someone asks about you
-He likes to see people’s reactions to you
-You’re like his party trick; he’s like ✨tada!✨*jazz hands to your wings*
-It gets old, but not to him
-He rides on an eagle and you fly next to them
-He refuses to let you fly him anywhere unless absolutely necessary
-But will be a backseat driver even though there is nothing to backseat drive about
———————————————————————
I love a winged reader and I have my own little oc in my head that I regularly have in this scenario. I’m a sucker for winged characters ngl. I don’t really know the Valkyrie so idk how accurate this will be to them
Also I may update this at some point cuz I don’t think I did a good job with it especially considering how much I think about this just in my own time; so sorry
Headcanons about being in a relationship with the Witch-king of Angmar? In the third movie The Return of the King. And with a male reader.
This was a fun one! Worth introducing a “dark” type tag. I hope the tone of this post matches what you were looking for, anon!
♰ You knowing the Witchking inside and out, his past, his desires – things that even Sauron himself might have forgotten over centuries, if he had ever cared for them in the first place. A privilege both terrible and beautiful!
♰ Him treating you as his dark prince, reading every wish from your eyes. He would grant you a title, either one you chose for yourself or one that he bestows upon you. No matter your decision: Your title will show that you are more than worthy of being by his side.
♰ Being showered in armour, cruel weapons, and ancient jewellery that may or may not be cursed… But who are you to say no to a black sword? The Witchking would stroke your cheek, murmuring, “A dark thorn to complete this rose of mine.”
♰ The sword is not just for show: You will ride with him into battle, side by side.
♰ You being allowed to reside with him in Minas Morgul, the twisted shadow that he himself created out of the Human city at the gates of Mordor.
♰ Roaming the glowing towers and streets of Minas Morgul together, never knowing what goes down in its moving shadows.
♰ Being protected from the other Nazgûl trying to court or kill you – it depends. But the Witchking knows how to play his power when it comes to keeping you for himself.
♰ Riding with him on his Black Horses across the plains, until he would eventually gift you your own Winged Creature to fly over the mountains of Mordor together.
♰ Hearing all kinds of stories of heroes from bygone ages, about Angmar, about Glorfindel and his prophecy: No man can kill the Witchking, mightiest of all the Ringwraiths.
♰ Gazing over Middle-Earth from the top of Minas Morgul, the Tower of Black Magic, sometimes even seeing stars through the dark clouds above. “For you, I would tear them all done, rip them from the skies to crown you with their shrouds, my love.”
♰ Feeling his icy touch on your skin, as he has taken a liking to your throat…
Tevinter headcanons: heraldry and the Imperial symbol
We've seen canon Tevinter heraldry with two serpentine shapes entwined.
I felt a need to break it down into components and simplify for the needs of a sigil script that could be, IDK, Old Tevene.
So, we've got a dragon and a serpent - a larger, winged shape with a leg standing out, and a wingless, limbless snake. The arrowhead, placed on the left figure's wings, might represent a connection with flight and The Fade.
Tangentially (but shedding light on a connection that might be of use here), this lore post by @wyrdsistersofthedas explores how the shape of the triangle/ arrowhead in concept art and DA frescoes usually stands for the Veil or spirit essence surrounding someone.
The bent shape of the wings also reminds us of a common lightning iconography. The thunderbolt symbol is present in Thedosian lore next to the constellation Fulmenos, attributed to The Old Gods' wrath, especially in the context of the destruction of Barindur. This detail seems meaningful, because Barindur was the fourth Northern tribe mentioned in WoT, that did not join the others (Neromenian, Qarinus, Tevinter) to form the Imperium. In fact, the legends of Barindur portray the city-state as antagonistic. Its downfall is attributed to what looks like the Thedosian equivalent of Vesuvius' eruption that destroyed Pompeii, rationalized as the Tevinter Old Gods' wrath (or, later, according to the Canticle of Silence, attributed to the Magisters Sidereal falling from the Black City, which looks like a reocurrence of the same theme).
With this in mind, I'm fairly confident the Serpent represents the founding of Tevinter: three tribes united under Darinius, and the less mentioned legacy of Thalsian the First Priest of Dumat, who was also allegedly the first Dreamer. From the ancient dreamers arose the Altus class, and in the end, The Dragon came to represent them as the main bulk of mages in Tevinter, while The Serpent came to represent the Soporati -- allegorically flightless, defenseless, and doomed to slither in dirt (if we want it to be that much in their face).
I imagine Old Tevene to be an elitarian sigillic script, that's only taught to aspiring Enchanters in the Circle of Magi. Old Tevene is used for spells, the more solemn of formal documents, and, as noted by Dorian Pavus, as an embellishment in the Altus social circles.
I chose to simplify Tevinter's canon serpentine heraldry this way:
The first symbol is The Dragon -- the Altus, the second is The Serpent or the Drake -- the Soporati. The combined Imperial sigil was used in seals and spell circles during the Old God ritual era.
In modern, Andrastian Tevinter, the "wings" of the Dragon symbol are officially removed, to deprive the original sigil of its spellcasting potential and to emphasize that we no longer do the Dreamer/ Old God stuff (officially).
This sigil in Old Tevene can be further simplified in Common Script, as an acronym used in more common documents and official signatures from The Publicanium (Common for the commoners, Tevene for the Altus):
The Dragon as X,
The Serpent as Ʒ (pronounced as z or IPA Ʒ),
The combined symbol XƷ.
Iterations of The Serpent removed from The Dragon, as well as decorated initial Ʒ and Z were often used by Soporati resistance movements. (It would be nice to have respective words in Ancient Tevene starting with these letters but I haven't touched the conlang).
Your cats are not "manipulating" you they are communicating with you. They do not understand why you're limiting their food supply or keeping them indoors or preventing them from ruining your furniture or whatever.
When they meyowl pathetically for more food, it's not because they're trying to "trick" you into feeding them again. They just want to be fed, and they're smart enough to notice the correlation between certain sounds they make and the responses they get from you.
They've figured out that if they want to communicate to you that they want more food, if they make those pathetic sounds, you're more likely to behave as if you've understood what they're trying to communicate.
When your cat waits for you to look away then yoinks food off of your plate, it's not because they love crime. It's because they're social colony creatures who instinctively share food with each other and they don't understand why you're not sharing the best foods with them.
Your cats are very intelligent, social creatures who see you as their Very Strange sibling.
They've learned how to make intricate sounds just to communicate with their humans. When the sounds they make elicit the responses they want, they learn that those sounds are the most effective way to communicate their desires.
Not because they're scheming about how to control you, but because they don't know how to communicate with you any other way.
My cat has a bad habit of headbutting your hand just as you're shaking food into his bowl, with the result that you spill more than you meant to and he gets more to eat.
Which sounds like the act of a scheming manipulator, but of course to cats a headbutt is a gesture of affection, and there's no proof that his mental process isn't "when I show [nochd] I love him, he feeds me more! win-win!"
In fact I think that is the more likely explanation, since if you happen to be feeding him wet food out of a tin with a spoon, he headbutts the hand with the tin, not the hand with the spoon.
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