💝 all my stuff is here 💝 alrighty, since that link is fine via browser but only works approx 50% of the time on the app, fics are also findable via the tag #cerbia
and in case of (insanely appreciated) interest, vanilla content lives here (my sideblog)
---
So, in very brief, I spend a fair bit of time in a supernatural soap opera world I made up. But basically, as far as snzblr is concerned:
He’s a Demon and the most powerful resident the Underworld has ever seen, she’s a Vampire, a little kink adjacent, and they’re a mutually very devoted couple. ❤️
ETA: I've now also included everything that link above is supposed to take you to under the cut. Hopefully the app will be happier about it. 🤞💕
Listed chronologically with most recent at the top. Their chronology, that is, not the order I wrote the fics.
Above and Beyond - A bunch of stuff that happened, a fair bit in the rain.
Part One
contains: m/m romance (really sappy in this one); allusions to death; allusions to natural disaster; injury; caught-in-the-rain trope with the brightness, contrast, and saturation turned up as high as they can go
🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑
Ivan re-wrapped his forearm as he traipsed down the hall, tucking the loose ends under his leather vambrace just in time to bump the next door open with his hip.
The dim corridor burst open into a riot of glass and jewels and living things. He found himself standing on the low balcony of a vast, crystal atrium, hemmed by pillars of quartz thick as ancient trees and wreathed in climbing ivy. The smooth stone flooring of the palace proper gave way to an intricate mosaic underfoot; he followed its winding pattern all the way to the very edge of a mezzanine overlooking this grand cathedral to natural light. Far, far overhead hung a clear, faceted skylight, held aloft by soaring arches, high enough to kiss the cosmos (for all he could tell–puny, craning his neck to admire it from the first-and-a-half floor).
The hall was lit on all sides, sort of, by what passed for daylight here. Even cast in the cold pallor of a relentless drizzle just outside its semi-translucent walls, the geometry of this place glittered prismatic in Ivan’s periphery with every step he took, framing everything in a dreamlike opalescence that moved as he did. Every column, every tile, every image worked into the stone around him held every color he could imagine and some he may have never spared a single thought for until now. It was easy to envision this room dazzling in true daylight: flooded with rainbows, sun pouring in from all angles and igniting every smooth surface it could touch. Sunless as it was now, the hall did not fail to impress, but it was a hazy sort of wonder–a precious gem cocooned in cobwebs, weary in its beauty. Elegant, but asleep.
Ivan leaned over the railing.
Rooted at the center of the expanse sat a polished sundial of mottled stone, twice his height or more in diameter–inert, but brilliant. Its face was carved with orbits of elaborate glyphs and rich veins of malachite, etched in every mode of demarcating time or fortune that its architect could have possibly learned before their own ran out. With only the endless, unbroken grey overhead and all around, its stiff arm failed to cast any meaningful shadow. It could not tell him the time and, frankly, he could not blame it. It simply sat, portentous, pointing its static gnomon accusatorily at the heavens, holding the tension of an entire citadel in its burnished splendor.
Ivan heard the gentle rattle of a latch and watched one of many ornate doors swing open half a floor below. A hooded figure slipped through, closing the door carefully behind with a soft click before drifting across the room in the direction of the sleeping clock’s midnight. The soaked hem of a dark cloak trailed along the floor behind–rain-blackened in most places, gradienting to a deep violet at the shoulders where it had begun to dry just enough for little whorls of embroidered acanthus to stand out on the surface again.
Ivan felt a rush of sparks course through him.
The only sight he would have welcomed standing in a hall of precious stones.
He planted his boots between the rungs of the balustrade and stepped up, easily, onto the railing. Balanced there, he felt the world turn under his feet and forgot ever having been at-odds with its machinations. Rain began to pluck at the glass ceiling, and a well of sunlight filled the emptiness in his chest.
“Hail, sorcerer!” his voice rang out in the high arch of the hall. Light as a ghost, he drifted over the railing and dropped the short distance to the sunken tiles below. “Your reputation preceded me,” he said, straightening up with a crooked grin. “Else I’d’ve gotten here much sooner.”
Amaranth did not flinch, but turned to face him, slowly.
In the instant the sorcerer’s gaze fell upon him, Ivan caught a glimpse of something that forced his brazen gait to falter. He could feel the push of some unearthly veil between them, radiating in the residual gleam of uncanny light emanating from somewhere behind Amaranth’s eyes. They had been apart for days, but never more than in this moment. Something in the fathomless distance held in the tension around his eyes, the rain-slicked hair still clinging to his brow, or whatever burned inside of him now that Ivan was not supposed to see–even just for one suspended second, it hollowed him out with a terror unknown. How easy it was to imagine him like this, holding a storm in the palm of his hand, features hardened with fury and indifference, his attention lit from within by waves of boundless destruction that took more effort to restrain than to unleash. Ivan felt something he could not know settle between his lungs and squeeze. He had never had to stare it down like this, had never seen him this way, but knew, for a moment, that he was seeing through the eyes of all who had, and who had seen nothing more after that.
Worst of all, it wasn’t enough to stop him. This cruel engine drove him forward still, no glimpse of fear enough to unseal his fate.
Amaranth’s expression softened immediately. Recognition dawned, and the warm dark returned to his eyes. “Ivan…” he breathed, voice heavy with relief, awash with such devotion that it could have split Ivan in two. By the time he was within reach, his eyes reflected no afterimage of carnage, no window to any hellish magicks that he carried within him always–only the waning light from the hall and an utter adoration.
Wasting no more time, Ivan pulled him into an aching embrace–clapped him on the back and felt himself exhale. In spite of himself, his grip tightened, clutching a fistful of the back of Amaranth’s cloak, hard enough to make himself wince as the friction seared his hastily-bandaged hand. Still, he only sunk into it deeper, leaned against him, full-bodied, and was lost. Allowed himself to be held for just a moment. How long didn’t matter. Time wasn’t welcome in this doomed space.
Eventually, Ivan laid both hands on Amaranth’s chest and eased himself up so that they may speak face-to-face. He looked down to find his own chest now damp with rain and shook his head, making a show of brushing it off with a cheerful scoff.
“Where have you been?” he admonished teasingly, reaching back down to pinch the hem of Amaranth’s cloak, squeezing until water ran down the heel of his hand before he released.
He felt a quiet chuckle rumble through Amaranth’s chest more than he heard it. “Nowhere nice,” he replied with a coy half-grin. He pivoted a half-step away and pressed the back of his wrist to his nose, looking off absently for a moment, before he continued with a sniff. “Catastrophe can never seem to strike twice somewhere warm, can it?”
He committed to detaching and, in a half-shrug or less, a subtle shiver ran through him, scattering raindrops from the surface of his cloak in every direction, evaporating before they hit the floor. Ivan laid a hand on the damp patch transferred to his own clothes and found it dry, as well. Amaranth swept the cascade of dark hair out of his eyes with one hand. His gaze alighted on the sliver of white poking out from beneath Ivan’s dark leathers. He let his hand hover over it, without touching, looking it over with curious solemnity.
“What happened here?” he asked, softly.
Ivan felt a hot stinger of shame shoot through him. His jaw tightened defensively. “Nevermind,” he grumbled with an evasive smile. “I’ve gotten too used to fighting with you by my side is what happened. Sometimes it’s healthy for me to remember how to do it without the boost.”
Amaranth was quiet for a moment. Feeling pinned to a shadowbox by the look of amused skepticism on his face, Ivan decided to look anywhere else.
“A fight broke out on the ferry from Citrine,” Amaranth said calmly, as though delivering unrelated news, courtly and detached, but the corners of his eyes sharpened with oblique mischief. “--I heard.”
Eyes averted, Ivan still blinked a few times at the impact, glaring resentfully across the hall at the useless gnomon. “Oh, you heard that,” he mumbled, unable to smooth the wrinkle of defiant pride from his voice as his gaze flicked back to Amaranth, reverently looking him over.
It was unclear exactly what was off about him.
Something missing, or something weighing him down. There was nothing new in Amaranth’s posture, in the way he held himself, sharp and striking as ever. Unfair, Ivan thought, to stand before him after all these days in such unbearable, agonizing beauty. What, then? Ivan could study every contour of his face, find poetry in every muscle and bone, and never learn to read him in moments like this. But he could almost see the storm clouds that had followed him inside, watch them circling his head now. Even in all this warmth and attentiveness, he seemed somber. Worn out. Desaturated in a way that transcended the pervasive gloom of the cloud-covered hall. It was as if all these days spent standing in the rain had washed some of his colors out.
Ivan sighed, any rising mirth buttoned back up by confronting this. “Amaranth,” he said quietly, “I am not optimistic.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the formless swell of movement somewhere past the foggy, crystalline walls. Watching the shifting grey of the distant sea through this clouded prism didn’t help. It felt like standing on his toes and peeking out the windows of purgatory.
“I haven’t been to this part of the world in awhile, so maybe the local folk have gotten a little cagier, a little less trusting of strangers…” Ivan raised his eyebrows at the grumble of distant thunder. “But I think this really did come out of nowhere for them, too. Either way, it must be serious if the best answer the council could come up with was collecting every wizard who fancies themselves the greatest who ever lived at a long table and expecting them to problem-solve.” He realized he was pressing his fingers into the palm of his hand until it burned anew and hastily uncurled them. “Of all the greatest-alives I saw on that ship, none of them had the answer. And they were all full of themselves enough that they wouldn't have kept it quiet if they did. They cannot work together. Cannot set aside their egos long enough to even try. So, what’s the point of all this? They will eat each other alive before any curse gets the chance–”
He cut himself off there, feeling a prickle of self-awareness, and glanced back to Amaranth with eyes wide and apologetic, sucking in an anxious breath to delay any further flogging of his peers.
Amaranth simply looked back at him, fondly, the ghost of a rueful smile flickering across his lips as he cleared the creak from his voice. “If this is the end, they have ensured an entertaining one.”
Ivan looked up at him.
“How are you feeling?”
Amaranth frowned, puzzled. “Why do you ask me this?”
“Because I am looking into your eyes and I can tell you don’t feel well at all.”
Amaranth stared back at him, steady, unmoved, then wilted with a guilty smile. “I have not slept quite the same without you."
A heavy door beside the one through which he'd entered swung open with a sudden groan. Both of them turned.
Standing on the threshold, an angular attendant–veiled to the eyes, a set of matte horns curling from the top of their head–peered in at them with empty curiosity. Still holding the door open with one hand, they addressed Amaranth in a sibilant tongue Ivan did not understand. They were brief about it–one steady string of syllables, followed by a practiced pause. Amaranth nodded politely in response. The visitor hovered in the doorway a moment longer, but seemed satisfied with this reply. They offered a few more words, loosely, over their shoulder, with more air and thought between, before they disappeared behind the door again, shutting it without a sound.
Amaranth turned back to Ivan and, finding himself unfreed from his scrutiny, lowered his voice to a hush. “... and I will be happier when this day is done and I can return to our room,” he confessed with a disarming flash of handsome canines. He reached into his cloak and produced a silver key whose bow was bent into a sigil for the sun and offered it to Ivan in an upturned palm.
Ivan barely looked at it as he stepped forward. He reached up to stroke his hair instead--overturned the little streak of silver at his temple, then let it fall back into place. “Go now,” he murmured, running his thumb along Amaranth’s cheekbone. “I can keep my eyes and ears open.”
Amaranth sighed and blinked slowly under the tender touch, as if the rejection both of them knew he was nocking was about to wound him, too. “O, to be invisible to everyone but you…” he said in a quiet, plaintive hum–one that anyone who had ever gotten close to getting close to him might still hear in the back of their minds on a still night. One that Ivan had not passed a single one of the last thirty without imagining in his ear as he drifted off to sleep.
His hand closed around the key, lingering for a moment when he felt the chill still clinging to the surface of Amaranth’s skin. “Have it your way,” Ivan said with a smirk, making quick work of tucking the key away into his pocket.
Amaranth laid both hands softly on the peaks of his shoulders, caught his gaze and held it. “I promise you, I will see you again much sooner than the last time."
The promise came with a smile so sweet and somber, it stripped Ivan of any insistence he’d been arming himself with since the moment he’d stepped close enough to read the weary shadows that had gathered under his lover’s eyes.
I love a good snzfic that has lore. Like yes give me your 10 chapter, 100k word fic about your favorite ship and riddle it with lore and sneezy sex. Yes write that fic that just so happens to be erotic care taking with nightmares and comfort and getting together and make it 100k words. I WILL READ IT.
Perennial fantasy of: two people who are wildly attracted to each other sharing the same bed while one of them is sick, recognizing that at least one of them really needs the rest, but incapable of concealing how badly they both want to disrupt it.
I've 𝚙̶𝚛̶𝚘̶𝚋̶𝚊̶𝚋̶𝚕̶𝚢̶ absolutely missed a bunch of stuff lately but due to being made redundant, I have intentions of spending at least some of this time of intense joblessness wisely, which obviously means consuming significantly more porny online content. And maybe even creating it, what the hell. Crazier things have happened.
Anyway you folks do you know what's hot? Hitches that catch. All sorts of marvellous hd-! and hhit...! and h'gh!! sounds. Like yes gasping and panting is choice already but just that extra extra audibly desperate edge telling you that someone is really really ready to explode.
I'm probably the most boring person ever, but the simple, domestic fluff of having a person taking care of their SO who has a cold will always be so very dear to my heart. Just simple cuddles, and tea, and blankets, and bless yous while someone's doting on their partner 💕
I will always love, in snzfic or just media generally, the moment in dating where a character sees their partner sick for the first time. And there's that moment of 'oh, seeing you like this crystalizes something for me about the way I feel about you — I love you even wretched and pitiful like this. I love you MORE having now seen you wretched and pitiful like this'.
amongst the trees 🏔️🌙 || L/O/T/R || l/egolas x h/aldir. [1/2]
→ as a brief departure from my HR posting, i've decided to call amnesty on at least part 1 of this piece that's been burning a hole in my google docs for about 10 months now.
→ have some (kind of niche) sneezy, flirty, post-war of the ring, clandestine, centuries long inter-court elven situationship coda <3
→ part 1 of 2.
It has been altogether too long since he dared traverse the great golden woods of Lothlórien’s well-guarded northern border, Legolas concludes, the thought sharpening suddenly to as fine a point as the tip of the arrowhead pointed squarely between his eyes.
Finding himself unable to be anything but amused, if perhaps a little irked at not having made it deeper into the realm without being caught, Legolas slowly lowers his own bow, capitulating with an exaggeratedly agreeable grace.
The face of what must be the acting head warden of the Galadhrim faction that had stopped him appears from behind the group. Brittle apprehension in her eyes quickly crumbles into recognition as she steps forward, dropping her own weapon to her side even while those of her colleagues remain cool and unmoving in the air, trained directly on Legolas with deadly precision. Her fair, fine-boned face is familiar, but Legolas can’t quite recall her name if he has ever heard it.
Either way, her appearance gives him pause. He curiously scans the group in front of him once more before focusing on her again.
Huh.
“Prince Legolas Thranduilion of the Greenwood,” the warden says, exasperation edging out from under the practiced veneer of professional blankness, as she ducks down in a short, customary, bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure of having you sneaking around in our forest this day? Are you lost?”
Let it be known that Legolas’s favourite place in all the world to be was among the trees, surrounded by their wisdom, their dignity. Although no other lands would ever truly compare to the scarred, darkly imperfect beauty of the woods from which he’d been born, grown up in, Lothlórien’s own landscape, rich with hues of gold, silver and green, was one of unique and undeniable splendour. Regardless of his intentions today, or of any particular games he likes to play here at any time, it was truly a pleasure to take the longer, lesser-travelled way into the realm. If he was to be lost here, he would be happily so.
“To accuse your own kinsman and trusted ally of sneaking around! I come on official diplomatic business,” Legolas shoots back innocently, shaking his head. “Such defamation against my character. I am wounded.”
Not a lie, but perhaps misdirection by omission.
The warden’s placid gaze remains unphased as it quickly zeroes in on a stray leaf caught in Legolas’s hair, before flicking back up to meet his eye again. “Be assured I meant no offence, your highness. Only surprise that you should continue to take these perilous, uncharted routes into our lands when we have perfectly serviceable paths again now that winter has passed.”
Legolas simply cocks his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. “But where is the fun in that?” He endures a beat of pregnant silence, the forest guardians’ faces hard and inscrutable as they watch him, before it strikes him that he isn’t going to get anywhere on this current course.
He huffs out a sigh. “You have my deepest apologies for the disruption to your patrol, and I shall endeavour never to do it again,” pausing to look around at the faces around him, coloured in varying amounts of cynicism.
If he didn’t know any better, he would swear he heard an utterance of ‘likely tale…’ under someone’s breath. Though, perhaps it was just the wind.
The apology seems to unlock the warden’s rigid stance, her posture loosening, if reluctantly. She silently holds up her hand and the rest of the guards lower their bows. “Your business is with our Lord and Lady in Caras Galadhon?”
Legolas nods. “Caras Galadhon, yes.”
The head warden pauses to consider that answer for a second, before beckoning forward a rogue guard from the back of the pack, informing them that they’re to escort him the rest of the way through to the city. One thing Lothlórien did not need in already such tumultuous times, post-War of the Ring, was King Thranduil leading an army to their doorstep as he inevitably shall in the event of his son meeting his end by his own misadventure in their lands at the hands of a more trigger-happy guard patrol.
Legolas and his escort manage but a handful of paces away from the rest of the group, however, before he can no longer suppress the question that’s been sitting heavy in the back of his mind.
“Where is Haldir?” he asks, feigning nonchalance. “I presumed with the changing season and more people passing through, your great leader would be called to serve all the hours Elbereth brings.”
The guard’s eyes remain on the path ahead of them as they walk, tone irritatingly implacable, though they hesitate, as if unsure of just how much to divulge. “He is indisposed at present, and was recalled to the Great City to recover.”
Recover.
Legolas’s eyebrows furrow, his stomach swooping uncomfortably. Had there been violence around Lórien’s borders of late that Haldir may have gotten caught up in; skirmishes that he himself had simply heard nothing about? In the wake of the war, rogue orc packs were not uncommon right across the kingdoms of Middle Earth and their outskirts – lost, lawless, and as hungry as ever for flesh, having been cut loose from the now-deserted cradles of Mordor and Isenguard.
He’s aware that his expression likely betrays him, unpleasant sense memories being beckoned back to life, curling in his stomach like a vine. Chaos under moonlight, the cacophony of thousands of swords clanging against each other, whirling around and catching sight of him already doubled over, and an axe swinging down–
Legolas swallows, schooling is expression. “Oh. Is he alright? What is wrong with him?” he asks, the questions coming out terser than he intended.
The guard casts him a sideways glance. “It would not be for me to know any more than what I have told you.”
Legolas bites back an irritated huff.
After spending the best part of the day on a steady, if relatively brisk, trek, during which the mid-morning spring sun darkened hour by hour into an inky blue-black sky peppered with glittering stars above their heads, they finally reach the perimeter of Caras Galadhon. The guard asks him if he needs assistance navigating his way to the ‘appropriate residence’. Legolas assures them it’s a well-trodden path for him at this point, and that he should have no trouble finding his way, before bidding them farewell.
Having at last shaken his security detail, Legolas turns from the northern path that would eventually lead to the Lord and Lady’s official residence. He’ll make his way there eventually, a revised draft of a much amended treaty proposal between Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm that he is to deliver and present on behalf of his father buried somewhere deep and half-forgotten in his rucksack. It’s an otherwise boring diplomatic endeavour that, honestly, is probably more a job for an envoy or advisor than a crown prince, but when an excuse to visit Lórien presents itself, the call is simply too great and Legolas just can’t help himself.
And having insisted upon granting his official royal entourage a couple of days’ respite in one of the last major townships they’d passed through on the way here, he reckons he’s bought himself at least a day or two before they show up and he’s expected to attend to his actual duties.
He makes decisively for the west of the city instead, his pace impatient as he weaves through streets upon streets of the realm’s famous great-trunked mallorn trees, lit up with lanterns and adorned with the talans they cradle from on high.
Eventually, Legolas reaches the base of the particular talan he was in search of, an unwelcome tremor of trepidation reverberating through him at what he may find. It is momentary, though, and does not delay his ascent of the ladder.
His guide had not seemed overly distressed or concerned about their Marchwarden’s well-being, but had they just not the information required to be? He supposed ‘indisposed’ could mean a great many things involving great variance in severity. The fact that he makes it to the balcony without having been noticed by the usually faultlessly observant resident doesn’t do anything to assuage such concerns.
The curtains on the main window panel are drawn, but the drape across the door remains pulled back. For a breath, Legolas is grateful simply to catch sight of Haldir on his feet, all limbs intact with no greatly evident injury; though he is clearly far from unafflicted. Rather than make himself known, an odd urge strikes Legolas to duck to the side of the frame and just watch the other elf exist for a minute in the soft candlelight, unaware he’s being observed.
Dispensed with his usual Marchwarden garb in favour of grey-blue bed-robes, high-quality but worn from age, Haldir somehow looks both unlike himself and infinitely more familiar to Legolas’s eyes, standing as he was at the counter, squinting over a mortar as his hand works the pestle, his complexion pallid and drawn. Legolas watches each step as he prepares the tea blend and sets it to brew. Eventually grasping the steaming cup, Haldir takes a cautious, but clearly pleasureful, sip.
His hair is loose and bedraggled, an unkempt, silvery-blond cascade down his back and around his shoulders, totally free from any kind of braiding. Noticing the latter aspect in particular, Legolas has to bite back a blush. The distinctly – almost taboo – intimacy of it. So singularly occupied by that observance, for a moment he fails to notice his gaze being met with that of icy steel; his being caught. Not for long enough, however, to miss the flash of shock that passes over Haldir’s face, before settling somewhere closer to exasperation.
Mug still in hand, Haldir paces to the door and opens it, but does not move aside from the frame as Legolas approaches.
“Do you intend to come in, or would you prefer to lurk on my doorstep but a while longer?” he asks, eyebrow raised along with his chin. The rich, silken melody of his voice has become thick and unusually blunted in his throat, encumbered with illness and made foreign-sounding to Legolas’s ear.
Ah. ‘Indisposed’.
“First I am accused of ’sneaking around’ in the forests, and now I am ‘lurking’ on your doorstep. What a reputation I seem to have in these parts,” Legolas attempts to tease, face alight with a fledgling smirk as he moves closer into Haldir’s space, drifting towards him as if being pulled, enough so for their knees to just about touch.
“One that is entirely unearned, of course…” Haldir says wryly.
Legolas pointedly ignores him, looking him up and down. “Managing to catch Lórien’s great Marchwarden off his guard, though? I must say, I am impressed with myself.”
Haldir rolls his eyes, but at the same time lets his own knee brush against Legolas’s in return, before surrendering and granting him entry. “I dare say that’s currently not such a difficult feat.”
The residence echoes with familiar warmth as soon as Legolas steps inside. Many an excursion to Lórien has he spent holed up in here, and his eyes flit now between the weapons hung on the wall - some polished and ceremonial, others weathered from everyday use - and the array of books that lay scattered on the kitchen table with affectionate recognition. The bed is rumpled and unmade, he notes, strewn with crumpled handkerchiefs in much the fashion of a sickbed.
When Legolas turns back to face the warden, the facade of Haldir’s neutral Elven expression has cracked, nostrils flaring as his face twitches with impatient irritation, and he reaches into the inner pocket of his robes, yanking out a handkerchief. “hhuH’EHsschhh’uh!”
The sneeze is not obnoxiously loud, but intense and full-bodied, utterly commanding in its implied misery. It’s, admittedly, the first time Legolas has ever actually heard him sneeze. It feels appropriate, in a way; characteristic. In another, rather strange, thought it occurs to him that he would rather like to see him do it again. Then, perhaps one more time. Before he can ponder it more, Legolas’s wish is quickly granted.
“huh’IH’TSsshh’ih!”
When he speaks, his voice softens. “You are unwell?”
Haldir stalls him a moment with a raised finger, his eyes once again glazing over as he turns away.
“ehH’TCHhh’oo! Sdnfff. Evidently…” he’s eventually able to grind out, dabbing his tortured nose dry “Your powers of observation are truly renowned.”
There’s no true bite in it though, his annoyance with the inconvenience of his own condition clear, seemingly somewhat allayed in the face of the sincerity in Legolas’s genuine concern.
In a sense, Haldir understands his unease. Famously, elves are not nearly so susceptible to the minor ailments that seem to plague mortals so terribly frequently, to the extent that they’re mistakenly thought to be completely immune by those who merely observe their kind from afar and only throughout the course of their much more truncated lifespans. Such illnesses are known to occur on occasion, but are generally thought to come about as a by-product of greater emotional turmoil, dysregulation, or inner despair that’s been allowed to fester, sometimes even as a precursor to the fading of their spirits as they so dread.
An elf with what looked to be nothing more than a common cold to a man often implied hidden depths of emotional unwellness, and tended to give others of their own kind worthy pause.
Sometimes, however, the years just simply catch up with them.
Rather than respond, Legolas simply looks at him, waiting.
Haldir visibly concedes to the unspoken question. “I do not think I’m destined for the Halls of Mandos quite yet,” answering it as cryptically as it’d been asked.
Part of Legolas wants to press further, can feel something simmering there beneath the surface, but in the end he stays his tongue. Ultimately, one need not look any further than recent events for a reason to despair. It had been around two decades now since the War of the Ring, and Men had done as Men do, seeming simply to move on, full of that boundless ambition of their kind, up against the punishing hands of an endlessly ticking inner clock. However, Elvenkind, in all their immortality, felt the passage of time so differently.
In Legolas’s mind, he could’ve been standing outside Mordor’s Gates but yesterday it felt so recent. Lothlórien had not been spared from the assault of Sauron’s armies, and it had been defended fiercely and without mercy from those who would seek to brutalise her. The Galadhrim in general, but particularly Haldir, he knew held such deep connection to the land they stood suspended above, it would not surprise Legolas if such trauma proved to help manifest his current ailment.
Legolas nods, changing tact as he gestures outside. “To think, though. I could have been any manner of villain. What would you have done?”
“I stand in good stead with my neighbours, and they are trustworthy people.”
“Nosy people, you mean?”
“Forgive me, is that not what I said?”
Legolas just scoffs, volleying “None of which sounded an alarm when there was a shadowy figure lurking outside your door in the dark.”
Haldir huffs out a sigh, bringing the handkerchief back up to swipe at his nose as it starts to run, biting against the urge to flinch at how sore the skin has become. As if his neighbours did not know exactly who Legolas was. “What is it that brings you here?”
The yearning for a change of scenery. A different realm’s earth under my feet. To get out from under my father’s watchful eye.
Too many years have been permitted to slip by without having visited.
I missed you.
I wanted to see you.
Take your pick.
“I come on diplomatic business, and am to meet with Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. I bring the newest draft of the Resettlement Treaty from my father’s council.”
Haldir’s interest momentarily piques by mention of the proposed legislation. With fervent rumours spreading relentlessly over the last number of years that their Lady intended to sail for Valinor in the very near future, there had been much discussion, and subsequent worry, about the future of their kingdom and what that meant for its inhabitants. From his own position within the court and through his contacts among the Lord and Lady’s advisors, he’d managed to glean that one such possibility was, with the newly restored Greenwood’s growing strength and prosperity in the wake of the war, the incorporation of Lórien into the Kingdom of Greenwood and placed under King Thranduil’s protection.
Interesting. Different, but interesting.
However, the flame of curiosity quickly flickered out, extinguished in the sea of exhaustion roiling in his eyes. “Your business with our Lord and Lady brings you across the city to my quarters?” he prods, with a hint of amusement.
Legolas shrugs, refusing to take the bait. “Can I not have multiple matters of business to address? Do we not all have the capacity for such multitudes within us?” He has to fight the urge to smirk when Haldir rolls his eyes at such a trite retort. “You did not get to apprehend me on my way in, for example - I wished to raise that as a matter of grave concern.”
Haldir stiffens, struck suddenly with concern despite the other elf’s flirtation. “You were apprehended, though, weren’t you?”
Legolas tries so hard not to laugh at how horrified he looks. He would consider carrying on the accidental ruse, letting on he actually had managed to give the other Galadhrim the slip, if the other elf did not look so inclined to grab his weapons and rush out to reassume his command at just the thought of it.
“One of these days I will succeed,” he teases, deliberately pausing before continuing, “...but today was not that day. Be assured there is no need to go rushing off into the night only to sicken yourself further, and make yourself unpopular with your men for the scolding I can see already forming on your tongue.”
Haldir visibly relaxes, equal measures of relief and vexation in the sigh that escapes him as he shakes his head. “Hm. I’m beginning to think I am sending the wrong impression, rewarding you for your repeated refusal to abide by our customs.”
Playful mischief dances in Legolas’s expression as he saunters around the table, closer to where the warden stands on the other side of it, like a game of cat and mouse. “And yet I got no such reward today.”
It succeeds in alighting something of a similar, if subdued, kind in the Haldir’s own as his careful eyes follow the prince’s movements, moulding his tired features in such a way that gives the distinct impression it’s a lightness that has not been familiar to him in recent days.
Haldir holds Legolas’s gaze as he draws in to meet him, his eyes firm and powerful despite how clearly they’re afflicted. He reaches around Legolas’s shoulder as if he moves to pull him into an embrace, to pull him closer, and Legolas easily gives in to the seduction – the cat becoming the mouse.
Only, in one fluid motion, as swift as it is practiced, the spell is broken and Legolas stutters as Haldir whips a broadsword from the wall behind him, hand unshaking as he levels the tip just over the middle of his chest in warning. With his other hand, and in no particular hurry, he methodically unloads the bow and quiver from Legolas’s shoulders, setting them down on the table.
“Should this suffice?”
Not particularly used to being caught unaware, Legolas blinks hard against the surprise and the tide of heat that swells within him. He’s about to attempt an answer, but just as quick as it had been brandished, the broadsword is gone, pulled safely out of the way and back down by Haldir’s side as he turns away, once more losing the battle against his own constitution.
“hh’aehdzsssch’uh!.... hih’ehdzsss’huh!”
The sneezes are harsh and scraping, and succeed in sapping yet more of his waning energy from him, leaving him all the more congested in the aftermath, sniffling like his head was full of wet clay fresh from the riverbank. Closing his eyes against the worsening pressure, he presses a hand to the now damp underside of his nose.
“Goheno nin,” Haldir breathes out, eyes rimmed with tears. He exchanges the sword for a handkerchief, setting the former down on the table alongside Legolas’s weapons. “.....h’IH’dtsssch’ue!”
“Ble-”
Haldir holds up a hand, before pitching away again. “huH’IHT’tchsss’huh!”
“Melethron…” Legolas utters in sympathy, finding himself admittedly a little bit entranced by the striking vulnerability in the action, the usually elegant lines of Haldir’s body hunched and folded over. He’s about to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder when-
“h’IHTCH’oo!” That last, wrenching sneeze seems to culminate the fit, the expulsion practically barking out of him, compacted by the heinous congestion audible even in only his breathing at this point. Haldir sniffles, the sound echoing with pure suffering.
“Blessings.” His expression pinched, Legolas brushes the other elf’s tangled hair away from his face, before finally letting his hand connect where he’d intended it to, and Haldir relaxes into it.
“When I came upon your men earlier today and they told me you were ‘indisposed’ to the extent of having to be recalled to the city, I admit, knowing you, I feared the worst; missing limbs, broken bones, and the like. But even so, Haldir, you sound awful.”
A chuckle rips its way out of Haldir’s throat before he can even think about it, charmed as he often was by the younger elf’s unflinching candor, even if his breath catches on the laugh and it sends him spluttering into the now-spent cloth balled in his hand. He’s a proud being down to his core, that was no secret, but even he cannot stand to take himself seriously like this.
“I have sdeezed mbore in the last three days than in the sabe ndumber of decades past. Believe mbe, mbissing limbs are starting to sound preferable.”
A strange look passes over Haldir’s face as he seems to briefly ponder something, something distinctly distasteful, and a shutter comes down across his expression a little further with each beat. Eventually, he takes Legolas’s hand in his own, lifting it off his own shoulder, and brings it to his lips, pressing a fleeting, featherlight kiss to his knuckles, before stepping away, disengaging completely from his touch.
“It is ndot yet too late in the evening for you to be received at the Lord and Lady’s residence and given board there for the ndight,” he says, tight and controlled, his back suddenly stiffer. “I have ndo doubt it will prove entirely mbore agreeable than staying here in these circumstances.”
If he knew the warden even slightly less well than he did, had spent slightly less time over the centuries becoming acquainted with the miniscule quirks of his personality and all the nuances of his manner of speaking, having done so almost by accident - by osmosis - then Legolas might have taken offence; perceived it as a slight on the quality of his company. Or take it to mean Haldir did not want him there.
Instead, unperturbed, he narrows his eyes. “I think I have a better idea.”
AGGRESSIVE hitching….that last, sudden violent intake of air that sounds like a desperate final gasp of resistance before sneezing harder than you expected…
my mind is in the gutter lately thinking about that cute little eye-roll that sometimes happens right before a sneeze. that moment when it becomes all-encompassing, all-consuming, entirely taking over and impossible to fight or resist. when the eyes just roll back against the sneezer's will when the tickle just simply becomes too much.
and also the same little eye-roll when they've been sneezing a ton, over and over and over, yet they're still not done and when they feel yet another one it's kind of a 'ffs not again' type of action.
The warm dim lighting of the bedroom is delicious, a soothing break away from white fluorescents. He’s emptying his pockets, shedding his jacket, throwing a handful of crumpled sodden Kleenex into the trash. She’s up before he can take three shaky steps into the room.
Pain sparks like pop rocks as he makes a murky attempt at clearing his throat. He turns his chin, eyes aching, vision blurring as he exhales some assuring words. He feels her hand on his shoulder, then her cool fingers against his temple. She says something, and he opens his mouth to disagree. Before he can, he’s consumed with the urge to sneeze again. And again.
A dizziness hits him, and the room starts to move on an axis. Turning, before a hand steadies him by the shoulder.
Next door, there’s faint bass. While she gets him to sit, his attention shifts to focus on the fuzzy sound, similar but separate from the pounding in his feverish head. It’s too fast to keep up with.
Blinking from a fog, he sees she’s placed a clean, comfy shirt next to him on the bed. She’s still there, by the closet, rooting around. Going on about having put away the winter things just for the temperature to drop again. He recalls the gaping holes he’d avoided on the road - too many to count. She comes back over and sets down a pair of flannel pyjama pants next to the shirt. Pausing to watch as he stares at the clothes, zoning out. He feels her hand on the back of his head and her lips press to his forehead. The next words she murmurs to him, he doesn’t contest.
The fact that hot toddies exist is honestly so sexy. Like, exCUSE me? A hot, comforting drink specifically designed to ease the discomfort of the common cold and chase away chills? As a real thing that actually exists in the world, not just some kind of fantasy sickfic invention? Scandalous. Downright pornographic.
Thinking about someone recovering from a cold being super pumped at how good they’re feeling and then 4 pm hits and their fever’s back and they feel like shit again and they are GRUMPY
mini disclaimer/apology - I've been very irregular on here lately, and when I HAVE been here it's been for short bursts and at weird (ie, Australian) hours, so sorry for any delays and misses and late replies and other whatnots; I'm sure there's been more than a few. Also sorry for possible mass reblogs and the like when I DO have the time et al. Of course, timeliness has never really been my best point here so...uh...
