hello!! I absolutely adored your Caranthir ar feiniel fic from earlier in the year do you plan to post more of him? If not I'd love to request some hcs of him and the reader character you had! :)
Omg thank you so much!!♡♡ Imo Caranthir is so underrated! I have some ideas for another short fic about him but I’m not too sure how to go about that yet :P
I never really posted head-cannons before but I definitely like the idea so I’m totally down for it!
Also omg sorry this took so long and it’s a little rough but this definitely pulled me back to writing after a big ass writing block so thank youuuu!! ♡
Some headcannons based on the ⟡ Master’s Apprentice ⟡ fic feat. Caranthir x reader
✦ Content - Just lots of Caranthir struggling with emotions, some insights on the possible future after the fic - Warnings - not proofread
Caranthir, who had viewed your presence like a star on the horizon and then finds out you’re a lowly human. It didn’t even cross his mind that you could be anything but elven.
He had spent time teaching you from afar, through only a connection of minds. He knew of your strength but now that he had met you he wasn’t sure whether to put you down himself or to elevate you to a proper apprentice.
Carathir who now faces a greater struggle, that perhaps this one d’hoine might not be as useless as the others. That with the right teachings she could be perhaps be deemed talented, that in the right light she wasn’t entirely uncomely.
He would begrudgingly make sure you were treated well, most of all by the other soldiers of the Wild Hunt. A lousy master and teacher would not, he is not lousy. That is the only reason, he likes to tell himself.
Caranthir prefers to keep you nearby, for safety and to keep you in line. He himself was always under a watchful eye in his youth, the prodigy, the Golden Child. His every move disciplined and corrected. He finds that, so far, he has been easy on you in comparison.
To Caranthir this makes his feelings all the more confusing. He wants you to be disciplined but not as rigidly as he had experienced during his younger years. He wants you close but the sensations your closeness bring forth are unfamiliar to him. He wants to be your master but knows a master should not wish to hold their apprentice in the way he wishes to.
Caranthir has been an experiment all his life. Even when Avallac’h is no longer present he still feels like his every move is observed. That is how he has always lived, his every action still influenced by it. It is also the reason Caranthir does not know what to make of his feelings, whether they’re his own or mere projections of his former mentors.
Caranthir hates that you are human, not because you are as terrible as the rest but precisely because you are not. He hates that during sleepless nights he wishes to pull you under the furs with him. That during those vulnerable moments he yearns to know if your hair would be as soft as he imagines it to be if he were to run his fingers through it.
Caranthir would feel both disgusted and uncomfortably vulnerable with the way you’d make him feel. He would need time, courage and probably a gentle hand before he learns to face this peril with an opinion purely curated by himself alone.
⟡ Notes - AAAA once again sorry this took sooo long. I hope I did him some justice :) Caranthir as a character could really use more fan-made content in any form honestly
✦ Summary - After searching long and hard Caranthir finally meets the sorceress he had been teaching from across worlds
⟡ Caranthir x reader
✦ Content - apprentice/teacher dynamic - Warnings - reader is a human sorceress, master dynamic, power imbalance, elf/human hate, not proofread
The Skellige seas were dark, almost black apart from the white foam topping the rough waves. Cold winds whipped at your face as you stood on the shore, overlooking the raw beauty of it all. The skies above were nearly as dark, foreboding more downpour. It could be any moment now, you sensed it. The air crackled and the scent of ozone hit your nostrils first, then it came. Before your eyes space itself tore open like a fresh wound, cold pouring out and freezing even the unruly waves.
The black bough of ship breached the portal first, adorned with heavy, metal reinforcements. The Naglfar. It crashed through and dropped into the quickly growing patch of ice. The metal groaned as the ship pushed through the frozen growlers before it finally came to a halt close to shore.
The portal closed but the cold lingered, making you tug your fur-lined cloak tighter around you. By now the water around the ship had frozen over, allowing the armed soldiers of the Wild Hunt to walk to shore. They were following clear orders as they formed smaller groups to scout the island.
Before long a familiar figure appeared among them, beelining toward you with clear intent. You quickly bow your head respectfully and keep your gaze lowered. “Welcome, master.” You speak as the elf comes to stand before you, observing you with a clinical look. After an uncomfortable silence his armored hand takes hold of your chin. Your head titled up and to the sides as you’re inspected by your master.
Caranthir takes his time to examine every inch of you, his gaze lingering especially long on your rounded ears. Still wearing his helmet his expression was impossible to read. “You’re a dh’oine.” He eventually states with a rough voice, not bothering to hide his disappointment. You nod softly, not daring to look him in the face, letting your gaze linger on his intricate breastplate instead.
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She came to him when he least expected it. While searching for Cirilla and jumping through time and space again and again he had been at his limits. Then suddenly, while trying to set a course to Cirilla’s homeworld, he felt it. It was like a bright star in dark, endless void, almost calling to him. At first he could do nothing but assume it must’ve been a trace of Cirilla’s magic but when he allowed himself closer he felt it. Another consciousness, magic in nature like many who practiced sorcery. Though this one seemed to have strayed into the dark, away from their physical form, curious to a dangerous extent.
He had reached out in a trance, consciousnesses brushing past each other before he sunk in his talons. Leaving no escape he examined, instead of struggling she submitted like a dog eager to show its belly.
Useful, that’s what he had told himself it was. A sorceress usable as an anchor once they needed a quick return to Cirilla’s homeworld. So during the day they pursued the girl of the Elder Blood and when he slept his mind sought hers, teaching her, molding her. When the time came he’d use their growing bond to the hunt’s advantage.
She was eager to learn, eager to please her master and teacher. She must be lonely, he thought, yet strong. Clearly she must’ve been one of his kind, an elven sorceress with tremendous potential.
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So now, when faced with the truth he felt conflicted. You were what he had always hated, inferior and fragile. A round-eared, meek, pathetic little dh’oine. He had had such high hopes, this was a disappointment. Yet you could still be useful, in a way, he supposed. If only for your loyalty. You’d throw yourself into whatever hell he asked of you, he knew that.
“-your tent, lieutenant?” A voice shook him from his thoughts. Caranthir whipped his head towards the soldier addressing him. “…What-?” He asked with a low voice. The soldier repeats himself. “Will the dh’oine be staying in your tent, lieutenant?” Caranthir wanted to snap back that of course not, no filth would be sleeping in his tent. Though he holds his tongue and forces himself to think rationally. “Yes, make it so.” He replies after a moment of silence, his hand still holding your chin.
That is how you found yourself whispering spells under your breath, enchanting the lining of Caranthir’s tent on his behalf. Something to keep out the cold, some words to repel the downpour. Caranthir watches quietly, his eyes lingering on your lips. The way you whisper is so gentle, almost loving, like you’re performing some great miracle.
A camp bed awaited him. Peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. On the other side of the tent a less impressive bedroll was laid out on the floor for you. “That’s enough.” The tall elf commands and you finish casting the last spell. With a quiet sigh his shoulders relax a little for what feels like the first time in a decade. His helmet slides off his head and he sets it on the small table beside him. You couldn’t help but watch as the blond hair spilled past his shoulders. He has a handsome face that made you want to reminisce over every detail. To mourn the helmet that would hide such beauty from view.
“Help me with these.” He groans softly as his hands fidget with the straps of his armor. You are quick to take over for him, loosening them one by one and carefully taking away the pieces. Up close he looked more exhausted than you had initially realized so you tried to be quick about it. Carathir appreciated that, straight to the point, just as he liked. Once freed he sat down onto the bed with a small groan. It felt like the bed was still swaying slightly but for once his feet were planted on solid ground instead of aboard the Naglfar.
“Will you be able to sleep, master?” You asked him softly. The way you said it gave away how you truly did care, like you weren’t just asking because it was expected of you. The elf nods before gesturing at the bedroll. “You should get some sleep as well, tomorrow we’ll continue your teachings.”
Once the sun had set the weather outside had turned unforgiving, cold winds lashing at the encampment. The bed however was warm, yet Caranthir still had a hard time falling asleep, his mind not yet willing to be put to rest. At some point his gaze had come to rest on you, rolled up tightly in your cloak. It made no real difference, you were shivering still. Eyes pressed shut as if to will away the cold seeping into your body.
Caranthir had reluctantly come to realize that in certain lights you looked somewhat comely, despite being human. Even now, when his body yearned for rest but his thoughts were elsewhere, he could imagine you’d perhaps even be pretty. Had you been born as an elf maid of course, he quickly reminds himself. Truly it was his own fault, he had assumed a great many things while your minds had conversed over impossible distances. He would not make such a mistake again. Though you were sweet, if anything, and you meant every word of it too. Even while tapping into your mind he could find nothing but adoration and wonder. Naturally of course, he was something unique after all.
His aimless cogitating is cut short when he too feels the cold seep through the furs and blankets around him. For a moment he contemplates simply casting a quick incantation but he did not wish to exert himself more. Besides, however much he wished to deny it he yearned for a different warmth now, one that no quick spell could imitate. Not like Imlerith, he wouldn’t stoop so low, just… something to hold. He looks over again and with a reluctant sigh he throws back his covers.
“Come here.” He mutters softly. It takes a moment to register his words but with the way you’re slowly freezing up you don’t hesitate for long. Before long you’re under the covers with him, laying perfectly straight while staring at the canvas above you. You weren’t sure how to act, what to do nor what was expected of you. Luckily Caranthir doesn’t wait long to give instructions. “Turn over, back to me.” He murmurs, after which his arms soon curl around you and pull you back against his chest.
Your hair tickles his face as he buries his nose in the back of your neck. For now he’ll ignore how fast your heart beats in favor of the shared warmth. He’ll ignore how your scent is not totally repulsive. It’s something sweet with something floral that makes him want to breathe you in shamelessly. It’s because the hour is late, because he is exhausted and because he misses the comforts of home. He’s not himself, that is what he convinces himself.
So for now he will hold you close and relishes this simple comfort. Perhaps tomorrow he shall do the same and the day after that. It meant nothing after all, though it was getting harder to persuade himself of that.
⟡ Notes - This is lowkey ass but I really wanted to write for Caranthir and I’m having a creative block, womp womp
Hii, I checked out you works and just let me tell you you're so so talented. I have a little request if that's alright!
Caranthir+"Are you alright?"+fluff
Thank you so muchh
Thank you very much!! Caranthir is one of my favorites, I love this request! Hope you like it!
***
“Are you alright?” Caranthir asked in response to a yelp from the other side of the room.
“Yes! Everything is fine!” You called back to him.
Maybe it was the way your voice shot up an octave in response, or maybe it was the way you kept your back to him as if concealing something. Whatever it was, Caranthir knew it was definitely not fine.
He walked over to investigate, his steps quiet to hide his purpose. What he saw annoyed him to the point of making himself known.
“What is that thing doing in my halls?”
“What thing? Oh, this?” You question, cradling a small kitten to your chest. He could see the black fur clinging to your robes already.
“Yes, that! I can feel myself sneezing already. You have to get rid of it at once!”
“But he’s hurt! I can’t leave him out in the wild like this!” You hold the kitten out to him, letting him see the back leg stuck at a strange angle.
He frowned, knowing already that he wouldn’t win this argument.
“My dear, once the bone is set you will have to find another home for him,” he cautions, not wanting you to get too attached.
“It will take weeks to be set. I suppose we can revisit the conversation then,” you reason, turning back to continue your healing ministrations.
Caranthir watched as you worked, seeing you coo and whisper to the kitten to keep it calm. He couldn’t help but admire the way you cared for the animal. Though that didn’t change his mind about keeping it in his home.
Too soon his thoughts were interrupted by your task being complete. He thought to himself that the smile you wore after an accomplishment was your best.
“Here, hold him while I clean this up,” you said, pressing the kitten into his hands before he knew what was happening.
His protests were loud and incessant while you put away your things. Caranthir paused only when the kitten snuggled into him and closed his eyes to sleep.
Walking through the markets of Tirion is typically an experience you love. There is nothing better than mingling in the crowd, stopping every now and then to make a purchase from a vendor, and breathing in the fresh air of Valinor. Today, however, the journey is producing nothing but anxiety. For you are carrying a package of great importance, a dress you handmade for the feast taking place in a week's time.
You are on the way to the fabric shop in order to show your friend, the owner, your creation. You had spent the last month hand making the dress, and that included going back to the shop several times to get odds and ends to perfect the piece. Your friend got progress updates every visit, and at the last one she requested to see it when it was finished. Of course you were happy to oblige her.
“I can’t believe my eyes! I don’t know which is better, the dress itself or how you look in it!” Your friend gushes as you try on the dress for her. You smile at the compliment, appreciating her kind words..
“Thank you! You do not think the lace work is too much? I am afraid it overpowers the dress,” you confess, running your fingers over the folds of the skirt. The lace was a point of pride for you. Your family passed down the art of lace making, and it’s your first time incorporating it into a dress.
“Not at all! The white of the lace contrasts beautifully against the emerald fabric. The design is intricate, yes, but not overly so. I only know one other in the entire realm who can make something as beautiful as this!” She reassures you.
“Well, keep that information to yourself, or I may get jealous and have to start all over!” You joke back to her before twirling around one more time.
The bell on the door chime and three large elves walk in, signalling the end of the meeting with your friend. Two of them wander around the shop while the third walks up to the counter and requests some fabrics and thread to be packaged for him. You recognize them as proud princes of the Noldor, and leaving the shop suddenly becomes your top priority.
You walk back into the changing area and quickly switch back to your normal robes. The dress is gathered in your arms as you head up to the front to pick up the covering you discarded when you walked in. It’s important to cover it as soon as possible to hide it from any prying eyes in the store so you can have a proper debut at the feast. You look over your shoulder, back to the changing room as you exit to make sure you left nothing behind.
Suddenly you feel a body crash into yours. You look up and apologize, seeing the smirking face of the blonde prince looking down at you, apologizing himself. He looks absolutely wild, with leaves and twigs stuck in his hair. His look indicates he isn’t as sorry as he seems, and you see a streak of brown across his cheek. You look down at his torso in horror, noticing it is caked with mud.
Your eyes flash to your dress, and it too is now stained brown. The fabric of the dress itself as well as your handmade lace is covered in the substance. You tell yourself not to cry, but the tears still gather in the corner of your eyes. The month you spent on the dress flashes through your mind. All that time wasted in a second, and for what? What business does a feral prince have in a fabric shop?
“Oh Tyelko, must you wreak havoc everywhere you go? Look what you did to this dress! Please, allow my brother to commission a new one for you,” the second elf steps next to his fair brother, dark hair flowing in waves down his back. His smug face infuriates you, and the tears dry quickly.
“I did not commission the dress. I made it myself, with my own two hands,” you seethe back at him. To their credit, the brothers finally start to look remorseful.
“At least allow me to purchase some more fabric for you. We will even deliver it to you personally, mud free,” the fair one responds with a small bow.
“I thank you, but no. I would never be able to make another dress in time for the feast,” you reply. You feel numb as you look between the princes and the ruin in your arms.
“Tyelko! Curvo! Leave, now, before we are all banned from the shop forever!” The third prince at the counter with your friend yells to the other two. They hesitate, not appreciative of being admonished yet desiring a way out. Finally they take their leave with slight bows of their heads.
You throw your dress onto the counter, taking in the full extent of the damage. The entire front piece is smeared with mud, deep into the weave of the fabric, and lace is crumpled and stained beyond repair. You can’t picture any way to save the dress and stand there staring in shock as the third elf leaves, package in hand.
Your friend joins you, offering words of comfort and trying to help think of ways to fix the dress. You let the tears pour down your cheeks, trying hard not to completely lose your composure. You are so focused in your despair that you miss the door as it chimes again and your friend walks away to tend to the returning customer. She goes into the back of the store for some forgotten thread, and the elf wanders your direction.
“My brother did this?” A voice behind you breaks your trance.
“If your brother is the blonde with the tunic full of mud, then yes, he did,” you respond, wiping the tears from your cheeks.
“Who made this dress? It’s beautiful,” he says, stepping close to examine the piece. He runs his fingers over the stitches, making note of how the fabric is woven together. He even touches the mud splattered lace, noticing how it sits against the bodice. He makes no mention of your emotional state, for which you are thankful.
“It was beautiful,” you agree simply.
“It still can be. I have lace, finer than this, that would fit the composition. Please, let me bring it to you as an apology,” he says.
“I thank you, sir, but I have no interest in your lace. I want this lace, unspoiled, as I sewed it myself onto the dress. I spent weeks weaving the pattern! It was so perfect, and it has come to ruin before I could even wear it,” you choked out.
“Ruined? With a little bit of fabric it can be fixed in no time,” you can tell the elf is getting frustrated with your response, but you can’t help the feelings coming onto you.
“Prince Morifinwë? I have your thread ready to go!” Your friend calls out into the room. He turns towards her, and you use the opportunity to gather the dress once more in your arms and take your leave, abandoning the slip cover in your haste.
You rush out of the store, past Caranthir’s brothers lounging about as they wait for him to be finished. They call out for you, but you ignore them and run the other direction out of the market.
When you finally reach your home, you leave the dress outside, resolved to stay home during the feast.
You are so distracted you miss the dog following behind you, his giant paws gracefully hitting the earth. He sniffs around the dress before snapping it up in his jaws and running away to rejoin the three princes on their trek home.
***
All of your friends spent the next few days taking turns trying to convince you to go to the feast despite your ruined dress. They offered to wash out the stains, or help fashion a new dress, or let you borrow one of theirs. You declined all offers, too sad about your own work to be persuaded.
Finally, you are convinced that skipping the feast would only make you feel worse. You could still have fun, even if you couldn’t display your beautiful accomplishment. You look around for the dress, but don’t know exactly where it has gone. You assume one of your friends had taken it to try and wash out the stains and decide instead to wear an older dress.
In the midst of getting ready you hear a knock at the door, distracting you from your preparations. You wonder if one of your friends has come with a backup dress after all and make your way there. When it swings open, you find yourself at a loss for words.
Caranthir stands in front of you, box in hand, looking every bit of the prince he is. His dark hair flows over his shoulders, straight and shining. You notice the black fabric of his tunic is embroidered with an emerald green thread, bringing out the color of his eyes. He radiates a nervous energy you hadn’t picked up from him before.
“My Prince, I was not expecting you. I fear I am not prepared to receive you properly,” you confess, looking down at your sorry state of half readiness.
“I promise not to take up too much of your time,” he responds, gliding into your home and setting down the box on your table. He waits somewhat impatiently as you untie the ribbon and lift the lid.
You gasp, seeing the dress you made in perfect condition. You reach into the box, delicately running your hands over the lace. It looks exactly the same as the original, and you wonder how he was able to get the stain out.
You look up at him, swallowing your tears, and his expression softens. The impatience melts away, and nervousness takes him once again.
“I tried to keep the dress exactly as it was. I had to replace the front piece, but was able to use the same fabric. Your stitches are hard to replicate, but I think I managed well enough. And the lace...” He falters at the end of his statement, blushing faintly.
“What about the lace?” You ask.
“I was able to copy the pattern and remake it by my own hand,” he explains.
You look at him in amazement. The lace had taken you weeks to complete after years of practice, and he had done a perfect replica in a matter of days. It was nearly impossible, and you wrack your brain to think of how it could be done. You don’t know how you are ever going to repay him for it.
The tears will not be stopped, and they start to fall in big trails down your cheeks. You try to express yourself with words, but they will not come easily. Instead you end up a stuttering, choking mess. Not only are you impressed with his skill, but with his kindness towards you.
You are so overcome with feeling, you don’t notice Caranthir’s face scrunch up in confusion. He can’t imagine the reason for your reaction. He thought you'd be happy he was able to salvage the dress, maybe even grateful to him. Instead you are crying uncontrollably, more upset than you were in the fabric shop.
The natural conclusion to his thoughts leads him to anger. He assumes you are distraught at his gesture, disappointed that he had shown up at your door with his patch job. You couldn’t even pretend to appreciate his effort. To think he has spent the last few days with you consuming his thoughts, his hands working tirelessly to try to impress you, making up for the poor first impression of his brothers.
“I did not know the dress would be so repulsive to you after my hands have touched it. You are under no obligation to wear the offensive material,” Caranthir states plainly, doing everything he can to conceal his rage before turning and seeing himself out of your home.
You call after him, willing him to stop and listen to the explanation for your tears. He hesitates for only a moment before continuing on, storming off in a fit of temper. You can’t imagine the reason for his anger, and wish to explain away any offense and show your appreciation.
He doesn’t turn again, and you give up calling after him. The only thing you can do is finish preparing for the feast. You know you will find him there and have a chance to explain while proudly wearing the dress.
***
You feel many friendly eyes on you as you enter the feast with your head held high. You greet your friends and they gush over the dress, asking you how you were able to pull off such a fix. You are distracted by the sight of the prince, sulking alone while his brothers mingle among the crowd. You politely excuse yourself from your friends, promising to give them answers when you return.
You manage to keep your courage, even in the face of Caranthir’s dark scowl in your direction. He refuses to look at you as you stand in front of him, instead looking over your head as if you weren’t there. You are determined to thaw out his icy demeanor.
“I wanted to thank you for mending my dress, but you ran off before I got the chance,” you challenge the prince, feeling rather annoyed by his childish behavior.
“Spare me. I know you are only wearing it because you pity me,” he shoots back at you.
“I am wearing the dress because someone was kind enough to mend it for me when I did not have the heart to do it myself. It is a kindness I have never encountered in all my years. I was overcome by it before, and I am sorry for not expressing my appreciation properly. This is a gift I will cherish long after I retire the garment. Please, do not let any mistake by me ruin this beautiful feast for you.”
The monologue leaves you breathless, and you can’t help but notice the blush across Caranthir’s cheeks. The color suits him beautifully, though you have a feeling he doesn’t share that opinion. He remains silent, lost in thought, and you decide to bother him no longer and return to your friends.
The prince watches you go, admiring how the fabric clings to your frame. The dress really is a marvel, and he wonders what is more impressive. Your creation of the garment, or how well you wear it.
He replays your words in his mind, willing his cheeks to cool so he can join in the festivities. Could he have been too hasty with his judgement before? He could tell from the strength of your voice and the honesty in your eyes that you only spoke the truth to him.
He isn’t sure he did anything so special. He only wanted to see the smile you wore when he first walked into the fabric shop return. As his hands joined fabric together he saw only your face in his head, and found himself having to redo many of the stitches due to this distraction. If this was truly worthy of praise, he was glad to have heard it from your lips.
Always an introvert, he sticks close to his brothers throughout the night. Though he says little, he often looks to where you sit with your friends. If his brothers notice his distraction they keep it to themselves.
It’s Caranthir’s turn to cross the room as the tables are cleared and everyone makes room for a dance. He isn’t one to dance himself, can’t even remember when the last time he stood up at a gathering like this. But how can he resist, when you look so beautiful in your lace?
He manages to keep the blush off his face as he asks you to dance, but can’t help how his cheeks flush when you place your hand in his. It’s a feeling he wants to remember, the softness in your skin and the admiration in your eyes. He knows the hours he spent stitching were well worth this pleasure.
Prompt: Okay so, as a fan of you XIX The Sun, I was wondering if I could ask for a modern girl in middle earth, because I got elves in earth. So Id be content with a little switch. And, I would love the character to fall in love with Caranthir. It would be super funny for her to fall in love with the grumpy elf, and him to fall in love with an skincare obssesed girl that puts on overly dramatic eyeshadow. THANK YOU <333
Requested by: @burnetteofgold
A/n: Hi! Thank you for requesting. It was my first time writing for Caranthir so please excuse some of the characteristics. I hope you like it! ☺️
Warnings: (almost) drowning
It was a beautiful spring day, and you had set out to go on a picnic to a nearby meadow. The park was too busy these days with all the couples, parents and not to mention the little kids screeching at the top of their lungs. You wanted something quiet. Somewhere pretty, quiet and lovely for your picnic.
It didn't take you as long to prepare your basket as it had taken you to decide which eyeshadow look would be the best for the occasion. Green and pink? Yellow with sunflower theme? Baby blue? And the list went on as you sat at your vanity and stared at your reflection. Thinking long and hard about what would be the best combo for today. It was a well know fact to everyone who knew you that you loved colors and everything pretty. A magpie of sorts, attracted to shiny and beautiful things. And there was nothing wrong with that. Though perhaps your extensive collection of skincare would have liked to protest, if it had a voice to do so. Because skincare was another love in your life. Meticulous routines, extensive research on active ingredients and what was the best one for which skinconcern....you knew a lot. A walking skincare encyclopedia.
That same morning you had done everything as usual. Your morning skincare, haircare and all the little odds and ends you enjoyed before starting your day. Your day would however turn out very far from your comfortable routine. You were going to be in for a Rollercoaster and you weren't even remotely aware of it as you grabbed your bike keys and picnic basket. You didn't notice the slightly charged buzz in the atmosphere nor the way everything seemed to be so....on edge. Like something was about to burst, like a can of fruit preserves that's got too much pressure.
You took one last look in the hallway mirror, you had your comfy jeans on and a favorite t-shirt that gave you joy every time you looked at it. The makeup you wore was a pastel pink and green look inspired by the pretty tulips you had seen at the store yesterday. It brought out your eye color and gave you a boost of confidence to tackle the day.
You arrived at the meadow in no time. The sun was already high in the sky, making it pleasantly warm. The flowers of the field bloomed and lifted their fragrance in to the air, making it smell sweet. You had found your spot quickly and sat down. Enjoying your picnic for a long while.
The enjoyment of sitting down didn't last long however. Soon enough your mind began to itch for a little adventure. Getting up from your spot you ventured out further in to the meadow. On the hunt for pretty trinkets. You often found colorful rocks and small trinkets here. There was a river nearby as well. Since it was warm enough today, you decided to venture out to the river. Maybe read a little by the riverbank.
Standing by the riverbank you didn't get any time to recollect your bearings as in a split second the ground beneath you fell away in to the river. Throwing you in to the waters. You had no idea what was happening and panic started to set in. Flailing wildly against a current that you were certain was not so strong just a moment ago. You were dragged under the water roughly and struggled against the current. The temperature of the water suddenly became multiple degrees colder. As if you had jumped in to an icy lake instead of a warm spring stream.
You managed to come up for air and screamed as loud as you could for help. Through bleary eyes you could just about vaguely make out something or someone speeding towards you on what seemed to be a horse? You heard a deep masculine voice call out to you in a language you couldn't possibly understand even if you tried. But the urgency in his voice was universal. Withing moments your freezing, soaked body was hauled out of the waters on to dry land. You were shaking from both the cold and the adrenaline that was still coursing through you. When your eyes finally adjusted you saw to your great horror that you were not in the meadow anymore. But in some vast plains that resembled a winter landscape with an even larger river that was deep and dark. And you were sorely underdressed for the frigid temperatures.
You would later find out that you had nearly drowned in the river Gelion. Close to the border of Thargelion, kingdom of Caranthir the dark. You finally lifted your gaze and were met with a sight that made you freeze up. You were being held up by what looked to be a man who could put models to shame from back home. A long thick mane of unruly pitch black curls cascaded down his back and shoulders. His eyes reminded you of the blueish frost on the windows during a snowstorm. And his skin was soft and even. Aside from one large port wine stain birthmark, marring his beautiful features. But even that, to your half delirious state from nearly drowning, looked more like a peony than an ugly mark.
Caranthir spoke to you in a language you didn't understand. Which did not make any of this easier as he was after all the harshest of his brothers and the quickest to anger. And this man's patience....it grew thin. To Caranthir's great relief you could understand common. Which gave you some leeway in to calming him down. But he was not going to let you off easy. You had nearly drowned on his lands, were severely underdressed for the season and looked completely out of your mind. At least to him.
"Who are you and what ails you? Why were you in the river Gelion in this time of year?" Caranthir spoke through gritted teeth. He had to try his best not to kickstart his temper as it was already starting to smolder under the surface. Who in their right mind, dressed as such, would venture out in to an icy river? In the dead of winter! Caranthir was exasperated with you already, but he still had kindness in him. So after you spent 10 minutes explaining your situation he wordlessly hoisted you up and on to his horse. Wrapping his cloak around you to protect you from hypothermia.
The ride to Thargelion was not too long, but it was agonizing in more ways than one. First of all you were still soaked through and freezing. Secondly you were pressed up against what to you was possibly the most handsome man you could imagine. You were definitely not okay. It was unfortunate that this handsome man was also a cactus personified. The whole ride through he kept pestering you with questions and occasional barbs that made you think that perhaps he was entirely made out of poison. Caranthir wasn't too good at holding his tongue.
In the healing wing of Thargelion you were soon warmly accommodated and cared for. A healer was always close by to check on you and a maid kept you company for as long as her schedule allowed. Soon you had learned her name; Lanyarë, and became friends. Though for the most part of your friendship you'd end up calling her Lanya.
After your first encounter with Caranthir you had not expected him to be so generous. He had ordered a room to be prepared for you and for all your needs to be perfectly met. By nightfall you had cozied up in some pajamas after a warm bath and a filling meal. Any wounds you had gotten were treated and were healing quickly.
"What a day...I think I'm slowly going mad." You muttered under your breath. You by some sick twisted fate nearly drowned and ended up in Middle earth. "It might be best if I just go to sleep. Hopefully this is just one really realistic hallucination..." you mumbled before drifting off to sleep, surrounded by the many smells and sounds unfamiliar to you.
Come morning you awoke with the sorest limbs you'd ever had in your life. Not so unexpected after the events of the previous day. The day went by in an uneventful fashion; mostly staying in bed and being treated by healers. And the occasional interrogation from the elf you now knew was Caranthir. "He should have a plaque on his forehead; beware, barbed tongue & volatile." You'd grumble time and time again.
The next few weeks passed by speedily. Much to your surprise you'd come to like your grumpy host more than you'd dare to admit out loud. And after 2 months, it looked a lot like it was mutual. You'd find random flowers on your bedside table at ungodly hours of the morning. Which at first was admittedly creepy, but he was perhaps more emotionally constipated than you had thought. You frequently found yourself lavished with favors and privileges some other guest weren't getting. And the small embroidered squares of fabric here and there with sweets in them were puzzling. Until you one day had come to ask Caranthir for help, finding him in his office. Handling a needle and square of fabric with impressive precision. The silence in his office felt heavy, stifling, almost. He had all but sunk in to the floor. All it had to do was open up beneath him and Caranthir would've jumped straight in. This was by far the most red you'd ever seen the face of the lord of Thargelion. A cherry would be ashamed if it had to compete with him. The needle clattered on to the floor. A sound that was now much louder than it should've been. And a slight tremor could be seen in his hands as he rather abruptly stuffed the embroidered fabric into a pocket of his robes.
"What business do you have in my office at this time mortal? Have you no sense whatsoever?" He barked out. But it lacked conviction. He stubbornly held your gaze, unwilling to show weakness even in the face of being discovered.
"So...you are the one who's been sending me those pretty embroideries? Not Lanyarë?" You asked quietly. A little confused, you hadn't expected it to be him. Of all people.
"Yes. Yes it was me! What of it? Who did you think it was you obtuse creature-" His usual snide remarks started to resurface. It seems like he can't hold his tongue even with those he loves. Perhaps even more so with those he loves. He doesn't like deceit after all.
"I thought it was Lanyarë...you know, her name means weaver in your language, right? So I thought-" you were cut off soon after by an exasperated caranthir.
"No! By illuvatar you obtuse, dense, senseless mouse! It was not my maid. It was ME. How do you not recognize the handiwork of the lord of Thargelion? I sought counsel from my brothers, and asked countless elven ladies!-" Caranthir ranted for five minutes straight about you being denser than celegorm after too much elvish liquor. And you'd be tempted to believe him considering you had almost glossed over the fact that he had just confessed his feelings to you.
"Well at least it's mutual then." Was all you managed to mutter before slamming the office door behind you and walking back to your room with a heart beating faster than that of a mouse. He liked you too. That's all that mattered right now. The rest? You'd figure that out later. Your stay in Middle earth suddenly got a whole lot more fun.
Hello, hope you’re having a lovely day! I absolutely love your Silm reactions, so how do you think the elves would react to getting in a brawl with someone and you, in panicked protection/defence of your elf, step in front and take a blow that was meant for them?
They see red the moment you take the hit, knocking down the person without hesitation. Their rage is swift, and they don’t stop until the threat is battered. Afterwards, they turn to you, demanding to know why you did such a reckless thing, they are shaking between anger and worry.
They finish the fight quickly, making sure no one else lays a hand on you. Once the fight is over, they kneel beside you, masking the deep worry beneath. They don’t scold you—not yet. That will come later.
Their first reaction isn’t to retaliate, but to catch you before you fall. The fight fades into the background as they press a hand to your injury, seeking to sedate the pain. Their desperation is clear in their touch, their voice, their eyes—because seeing you hurt is not an option.
Author’s note: I’m a big fan of the Cara embroidery trope!
-
The air is dry and warm in front of the fireplace when you lean over his shoulder to watch Carnistir‘s fingers intently.
“See how I stitched it right here? It has to be symmetrical,“ he muses, showing you the collar of the tunic laying in his lap. The embroidery slowly begins to look like a tendril holding flowers the more stitches he places on the fabric. His hands are calm and controlled, not trembling one bit.
“Do you want to try it? It is your tunic, after all,“ he looks at you expectantly, a small smile playing on his mouth. You hesitate, trying to remember the patterns he taught you moments before. “Alright, but be patient with me.“ He chuckles, reaching over to place the tunic in your lap instead and handing you the needle and thread after. You begin to pierce the fabric carefully, looking up at him every once in a while to make sure you are doing it correctly, to which he nods his head in encouragement.
“Very good. Now poke it right here and pull the thread through to there. Remember to keep it symmetrical.“ his voice is soft and patient, something you greatly appreciate. Turns out, your hotheaded husband has a hidden talent for teaching. You remember when you found him in front of the fireplace, in his silky lounge wear, finding out he spends his evenings embroidering fabrics for himself and his brothers. You think it adds yet another fascinating facet to his character. All the more grateful are you now, having him teach you his techniques. It‘s oddly fitting, this pastime of his. You slowly continue to weave small flowers into the ends of the tendril on the fabric, until it reaches the edge of the fabric. Carnistir‘s hand comes up to take the needle from your uncertain fingers. “Excellent. Let me do the finishing touches. Do you wish for me to add some beadwork, as well?“
Nodding enthusiastically, you clasp your hands together to watch as he pierces the needle through the spots you missed in your inexperience, before threading dark blue beads onto the centers of the flowers you just embroidered. A quick peck is planted on your temple by the prince, as he works away to the sound of the fire crackling in front of you. And before you know it, he holds up the tunic triumphantly.
“There, all done!“ A big smile graces his usually so serious features and you jump up excitedly, grabbing it out of his hands before stepping up to the nearest mirror in the room to admire the finished product. Behind you, Carnistir‘s gaze is proud and supportive. “We should do this more often,“ you feel his arms snake around your frame from behind, pulling you into his chest protectively. Another kiss is being planted on the top of your head, to which you agree wholeheartedly. Anything you get to learn from him, you consider a precious gift.
