kanafinwe-makalaure

[kanafinwe-makalaure]

Oh, the longing, the emotion, the tenderness! And the banter between them is just so funny and adorable! I can really feel the warmth and safety in this 🩷💕💕💕💕

Honor's Downfall

↳ Honor's Downfall, Boromir x Fem!Reader, Bodyguard AU ↳ Request: may I request a !bodyguard Boromir for our dear reader ?? I imagine something with mutual pining. Make it as yearning as you may like ! (requested by anon) TW: angst, mutual pining, hurt/comfort Word Count: 1.7k A/N: I had so much fun writing this! It felt like it took on a life of its own, so I apologise if this is not what you had imagined. I tried to portray pining but I'm afraid that it might have come out as angst in stead. I really do hope you like it, and let me know your thoughts!

“How many times do I have to tell you to address me by my name?” you asked, your tone expressing your annoyance ever so clearly as you watched your bodyguard straighten his back after the ridiculous bow he insisted on performing whenever he greeted you.

“At least one more time, Princess,” Boromir gave his usual answer while his fingers moved to adjust his suit. Impeccable as always, almost to a fault.

“This may come as a shock, but “Princess” isn’t exactly my name,” you frowned.

“How awkward. For almost a year I’ve gone around and thought it was your name,” he dared to mock you in the face of your misery.

Boromir chuckled quietly as you sighed in defeat and rolled your eyes at him. It was pointless to continue your mission of trying to persuade him to abandon his manners and spit in the face of protocol. He was too noble, too honorable to do so. While it was what you admired about him – his unwavering sense of duty – it was also what broke your heart. How could you possibly dream of feeling his hands on your body when even his lips refused to utter your name?

Countless nights you had laid in your bed, imagining how sweet it would sound – your name carried by his velvety voice. Fantasizing about those strong arms around you, holding you tight against his chest - the safest place you could ever be. What you wouldn’t give to have him love you the way he guarded you – fiercely and unapologetically.

It wasn’t unheard of – you naively had tried to reassure yourself on several occasions – to develop a crush on a bodyguard. Days and nights often spent in close proximity after escaping possible danger, practically living together more often than not, the sense of security he provided when tensions were high, the cool and confident calm he always exuded – how could you not fall for his promise of always keeping you safe?

It was during those private moments away from prying eyes that you would catch a glimpse of the man hidden behind the stern exterior. His boyish smile that lit up his face when it reached his eyes, his warm laughter – so contagious and carefree you couldn’t help but laugh yourself. In those precious moments, you almost felt normal.

At least one more time, Princess.

Little did he know that there was no more time. You could no longer wait for his honor to crack.

“Well, as someone so fond of our customs, you’ll love this one – we’re going on a date,” you announced in exaggerated cheer as you got up from the couch, throwing aside the magazine that had previously rested on your lap.

“I don’t follow,” Boromir’s face morphed into a question mark, his eyebrows furrowed together as he no doubt tried to decipher your vague statement while his eyes tracked your movement across the living room.

“Tradition dictates that the royal family members must marry to secure alliances and ensure prosperity and well-being of our country.”

Boromir froze. He hadn’t expected his body to betray him like this, not when he had ordered his thoughts and desires to the deepest darkest corner of his mind. A painful ringing in his ears resonated throughout the rest of his body, suspending and trapping him in this state of cold and paralyzing terror.

He hadn’t seen this coming. His job and sole responsibility had always been to foresee any possible threats, and he had failed to see this – the greatest threat of all. The possibility of losing his princess. It’s what you were and always had been, from that very first awkward meeting when you had averted your eyes with a timid smile on your lips when he had bowed before you. His princess. Boromir had always known that he would gladly die for you, in less than a heartbeat he would willingly and gratefully give his life for yours, never suspecting that a different sort of death awaited him.

All those moments spent together, his eyes tracking your every step, admiring the graceful way in which your body moved. Boromir had often wondered how it would feel to dance with you, to mold your body to his as you glided along the music – blissfully ignorant of the world around you, endlessly lost in each other. It almost felt wicked, pretending that he was doing his job when he knew that he would gladly follow you anywhere either way. You were his sun, warming his soul with your cheerful laughter, your sparkling eyes more beautiful than any precious gem. His princess. His everything.

Now slipping through his fingers.

Boromir blinked and noticed you studying him. He cleared his throat and gathered what little of his professional composure was left at his disposal.

“I wasn’t aware of this custom,” he admitted in earnest.

“Arranged marriages are quite common for royals,” you answered plainly while your gaze still lingered on him, making him wonder if you suspected his inner turmoil.

“I thought it was only for those first in line for the crown.”

“Not always.”

“I also thought that you weren’t one for tedious customs,” Boromir remarked, surprising himself by the bold choice of words that had spilled over his lips. If you hadn’t suspected it before, you certainly would now.

From the day you met, you had fought ferociously against the weight of your title and birthright. Countless battles had been fought inside the walls of your apartment where you would demand that he disregard your noble birth and address you by your given name. Boromir had never given in, not once, even when his heart had screamed at him to oblige you. Even as you had confided in him, after suffering yet another assault by the ruthless and entitled paparazzi, about never having wanted this life, this so-called privilege - his morals hadn’t faltered once. Boromir had witnessed your struggle but had never once offered you the reprieve and normalcy that you so desperately craved. His code of conduct would not permit him to make you happy. Only ever safe.

“What do you expect me to do? I can’t even convince you - my own bodyguard - to do as I say,” you snapped at him, compelled by your own frustration.

Boromir’s words had ignited your anger, your resentment of your title reaching a violent culmination. Bitter tears stung your eyes, blurring his immaculate frame from your vision. In the face of your outburst, he stood quiet, his silence telling you what you always had feared – he would not bend for you.

You closed your eyes, forced to admit your defeat. You had to accept the cold and harsh reality – he would not allow himself to love you.

“You’re dismissed,” your whispered words were barely audible. You couldn’t trust your voice not to betray your pain and reveal the heartbreak that was in the making. He had to leave, his once reassuring presence now becoming unbearable. A living reminder of the kind of life you would never have, the kind of love that would never be yours.

Boromir stood still, his body seemingly frozen solid. Only his heart pounded a punishing rhythm, each pump echoing your dismissal of him over and over, turning his blood to ice. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, the sudden surge of emotion threatening to suffocate him.

The sight of you pained him, the urge to close the distance between you and take you in his arms to hold and comfort growing stronger by every tear that rolled down your flushed cheek. His own aching heart battled and fought against the weight of his sworn oath. What good was honor when it prevented him from soothing your soul?

You’re dismissed.

“No,” Boromir heard himself growl, the sound startling you into opening your eyes. The grief and suffering that he saw in them was enough to break the last of his resolve and jerk his body into action. Within a heartbeat he was right in front of you, his arms going around you and pulling you in for an embrace.

“I’m not going anywhere, Princess,” he promised as he held your trembling body tightly against his own, your sobs reverberating through his soul. He held you through the worst of it, his silent patience allowing you to unburden your heart.

It was quiet now. Neither of you moved, save for the measured manner in which Boromir’s fingers trickled through your hair. You could hear the steady rhythm of his heart where your ear was pressed against his chest, the sound oddly comforting. You found peace in this moment, tucked away safely in his arms where you had yearned to be for so long. If only it would last.

“You really should go,” you whispered meekly, your heart not wanting to let go.

“It’s the one thing I can’t do,” his voice was equally quiet. “But by all means, you should fire me because I can no longer work for you,” he added before pulling away enough for his eyes to find yours.

“Truth be told, I should have been fired a long time ago. A decent man would have walked away but I don’t think I am that man.”

His eyes searched yours, for what – you couldn’t tell, but the fire that burned deep within his grey irises made you hold your breath in anticipation.

Your bodyguard cupped your face, causing a soft gasp to escape your slightly parted lips in surprise. Boromir closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against yours, a heavy breath leaving his chest.

“I cannot do my job when all I want to do is this.”

Just as soon as the words had been uttered, his lips claimed yours in a kiss filled with longing equal of your own. Warmth exploded and swept over your entire body, burning away any trace of the grief you had felt only moments before, making your heart flutter and swell in response.

The kiss felt like it lasted for hours, both of you lost in the other, trying to make up for the time that had been lost. And when you finally came up for air, Boromir whispered only one thing.

Your name.

General Tag → @heilith @kanafinwe-makalaure @eunoiaastralwings @snowtargaryen @aduialel

@a-contemplation-upon-flowers @fizzyxcustard @dawn-petrichor-world @fckmini

→ If anyone wishes to be either added or removed from my taglist, let me know! ♡ → Maeve's Taglist

Gif by @gifsofhubris-a

[kanafinwe-makalaure]

Maeve, you've done it again! This is so sweet, so tender and emotional and so beautifully written! 💕💕💕 My wife really is the most talented writer!

Body and Soul

↳ Body and Soul, Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Dwarf!Reader, a drabble Written for @sotwk's writing challenge → here. First prompt → Bed, Second prompt → Hunger, Third prompt → Body and Soul, Fourth (Race) → Dwarf TW: Hurt/comfort A/N: Just a tiny drabble for Thorin, whom I have not written for in a hot minute, so bear with me. Enjoy! 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

The make-shift bed that you had constructed from moss and fallen leaves provided enough comfort to shield you from the hard and unforgiving ground. Littered with razor-sharp stones it would not hesitate to extract its toll in blood from any trespasser that ventured here where the mountains reigned.

You shifted beneath your furs, seeking out what little comfort and warmth you could find. The company had agreed it was best to spend the night in the cover of darkness lest you risked inviting the attention of the enemy that was never too far behind. With fire out of the question, you would have to huddle together to survive the bitter night.  

But it wasn’t the lack of light or warmth that kept sleep at bay. Nor was it the persisting feeling of danger whenever a wild animal howled or when leaves rustled and took to flight. You had even grown accustomed to wind constantly biting your face or rain peppering down on you and soaking your clothes. None of that bothered you.

It had settled in three nights ago and by the looks of it – it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The realization hadn’t been easy on the company, much less on your king and lover who felt it rested on his shoulders to provide for his loyal followers and kin. Hunger appeared to be just another thing on the long list of troubles that Thorin Oakenshield was meant to bear on his quest to reclaim his home and crown.

“Are you cold, my love?” Thorin’s voice was laden with worry, his arms moving to pull you closer to him. His warmth soon wrapping around you like a delicate shawl.

“I’m alright,” you reassured him and moved to nuzzle his features, his beard tickling your skin.

“I hate myself for subjecting you to this endless misery,” he growled in anger after your stomach had rumbled loud enough for the entire valley to hear.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, my love,” you whispered.

You moved to plant a gentle kiss on his brooding forehead, and another on his always aching temple. A tender kiss on the corner of his mouth that lifted slightly in response to your affection. A shared breath before his lips took yours and held them in his own desperate need for solace.

“If body and soul were enough, neither of us would ever starve,” Thorin murmured against the softness of your lips before reclaiming them in another effort to draw away your growing hunger.

“By my honor, after this is done – you shall want for naught,” he said with uttermost determination after your kiss broke. “Every night, Erebor shall feast, and none will know and suffer the cruelty of hunger and thirst. Fires will roar from dusk till dawn to keep you warm and lighthearted,” Thorin vowed before you and the moon and stars.

His promise – however unnecessary – made your heart swell, the feeling of it warming and nurturing your entire being. His devotion to you was what any maiden could ever dream of. His love and generosity knew no bounds when it came to you, or his people. He would sell the skin off his back if it meant ensuring the safety and wellbeing of those he cared about.

“I don’t need all of that, Thorin. As long as I have you, I’ll have more than I could possibly want,” your voice trembled as tears filled your eyes, your heart barely able to contain the love and admiration that you held for your lover and your King.

“I know that, my love, but you shall have it nonetheless,” Thorin said.

“You’ll spoil me rotten,” you pointed out in a playful manner.

“As is my right,” he reminded you and kissed your forehead.

As Thorin continued to list all the things that he would do for you, the hunger you felt gradually became distant and insignificant in the light of his promises and the future he had planned out for you.

General Tag → @heilith @kanafinwe-makalaure @eunoiaastralwings @snowtargaryen @aduialel @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @fizzyxcustard @dawn-petrichor-world @fckmini If anyone wishes to be either removed or added to my taglist, let me know ♡ → Maeve's Taglist Gif by @rattyoakenbitch

[kanafinwe-makalaure]

“I’m sorry, I messed up. I’ll work to do better next time.”

❌ vague

❌ cliche

❌ you probably will do it again

wandering the shores of middle-earth forever in shame and despair

✅ specific and actionable

✅ original

✅ conveys dedication to the cause

✅ cant do it again because you’re busy wandering the shores of middle earth forever in shame and despair

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just talked to my buddy celebrimbor. he said he hasn't decorated for halloween yet but that annatar guy says he has some totally awesome last-minute idea. yeah something about banners

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getting you getting you getting yu getting you getting yuo getting you getting u

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war never changes

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me as a writer: Oh no I can’t write that, somebody else already has

me as a reader: hell yes give me all the fics about this one scenario. The more the merrier

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The best thing about getting away with this is that you people have been calling me The Abhorred for like three thousand years and yet somehow the fact that I’m evil is a shock.

- Sauron “The Abhorred Terrible Dread” Gorthaur, telling it like it is, the Silmarillion, the Akallabêth

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your veins are empty of dust

Nerdanel stays behind and sculpts. Also on AO3. Title from The Amazing Devil's King.

1.

There is no need for statues to remember, in a world that doesn’t forget.

Nerdanel likes to carve birds and rabbits and flowers and leaves. Transitory wonders. When she is commissioned to sculpt people, she shapes new features, never before seen, or she captures the ever-changing fánas of barely-there Maiar.

She has hanged painted portraits and sketches of her children at various stages of growing all over the house, but no marble likeness.

They are right here to look at, after all.

2.

After Alqualondë, Nerdanel retreats from the world.

The darkness and the absence permeate everything. Elves discover the grief of impermanence. In Tirion, there is no court left to appear at, no councils to lead, no strolls to take at the end of the day to admire the Mingling. No news from the ones who have left.

Anairë finds her late one day in her workshop, surrounded by slabs of stone larger than her. She is hammering forcefully at one of them, the barest hints of an elven shape already taking form in the marble. Bitter, stinging tears run down her cheeks and into her collar, and her arms ache with exhaustion.

The body is only barely sketched, but the face is already chiselled, smooth curves and angular cheekbones.

Fëanáro emerges out of the marble, looking like he’s about to take life.

(Across the sea, her sons lead a funeral.)

3.

It’s Anairë again who comes to her, when Arien first sails across the sky. Nerdanel is rearranging her workshop to take advantage of the new light. The windows were designed for the glowing of the Trees.

Anairë nearly collapses as soon as she passes the door.

“Who?” Nerdanel asks her, supporting her to a chair. It’s covered in white stone dust, but neither of them cares.

Fëanáro’s finished statue looms in a corner of the workshop, just out of the light. He looks like he did when she first met him, young and passionate and determined, before the world shrunk around them and suffocated him.

“Arakáno,” her friend weeps.

“Oh, Anairë,” Nerdanel murmurs. “Your youngest.”

“Would you—”

Nerdanel had no intention of ever doing it again. “Of course,” she says.

It was overly optimistic of her, she supposes.

Arakáno looks painfully young and hopeful under her chisel’s tip.

4.

For centuries, there are no news. Nerdanel’s art escapes toward the abstract, great shapes of wind and water and fire coming out of the stone in ways they never had before. Arafinwë crowns himself king, and Anairë busies herself with the day-to-day workings of the court and the administration.

Nerdanel doesn’t think about her sons across the water. She doesn’t wonder how Maitimo looks with a crown on his head. She doesn’t wonder which new instrument Makalaurë has taken up. She doesn’t wonder what new animal languages Tyelkormo has learned. She doesn’t wonder if Carnistir still wants to write his book, or if Atarinke is coming close to the skill of his father, or what little Tyelpë has grown into. She doesn’t imagine Ambarussa running into danger with every new day, so far away from her.

(Except on the days when she can’t think about anything else.)

Somehow, against all of her instincts, life goes on.

There is no twinge from the bonds in her fëa, no sign of any change. She’s almost ready to think them safe, over there, maybe even thriving.

And then Anairë comes back.

5.

Little Irissë used to follow Tyelkormo around everywhere. Fëanáro would watch her childish infatuation with much more indulgence than he ever afforded Findekáno and his friendship with Maitimo, perhaps because neither of them were their fathers’ heirs.

Where is Tyelkormo now, with his little shadow gone? Is Maitimo free to live his love for all to see? Have any of her sons married? Atarinke’s wife didn’t go into exile either, though she wants nothing to do with Nerdanel. The others left unpledged to anyone but that oath they all took.

To the everlasting darkness.

What if they fail?

Nerdanel has never truly wondered what will happen then, too busy missing them and cursing Fëanáro for it all.

Irissë’s marble figure looks back at her accusingly. All the arrows in her quiver are fletched with Tyelkormo’s special technique.

6.

It’s fifty more years before she carves another face, but the question haunts her.

(Ñolofinwë looks grander and colder in stone than he ever did in life.)

7.

Eärwen didn’t come to her when she lost Angaráto and Aikanáro. Nerdanel heard it through Anairë and mourned, but she can’t blame her. Eärwen never forgave the murder of her brothers – how could she – and she avoids Nerdanel if she can help it. She has only recently moved back to Tirion and rejoined her husband.

Arafinwë doesn’t publicize the death of his sons. He could call for city-wide mourning, but he keeps their grief private and personal. Few can see the bags under his eyes as he holds court as normal in the wake of his loss.

But a few weeks after Findaráto’s death, Nerdanel finds Eärwen at the door of her workshop.

8.

The news come with rumours of a great battle, of spouses and parents and children all over Tirion feeling the loss. Anairë’s shoulders are hunched over with the weight of grief.

The white marble makes Findekáno’s skin seem almost transparent, compared to the warm brown of her memories.

She grieves for Maitimo as much as she grieves for Anairë. Her son could never hide from her his devotion for Findekáno, the depth of his feelings. Did Findekáno ever forgive him for the burning of the ships? Did they find some happiness together?

She will never know.

9.

She tried, long ago, at Fëanáro’s bequest, to sculpt Míriel’s likeness from the body resting in the Garden of Lórien. She could never make her look alive.

Arafinwë waited years to commission a statue of Finwë. He put it in his throne room. Nerdanel hasn’t stepped foot in it since.

10.

She feels the bounds snap, snap, snap, only minutes apart. She collapses in the street, and the paint buckets in her hands spill around her, yellow and blue flowing into her red hair like a painting.

She comes back to herself on a couch in Anairë’s bower. For days, she only has the strength to weep until she makes herself sick.

Tyelkormo. Carnistir. Atarinke.

She locks herself inside her workshop. It is no refuge, only pain aggrandized, only grief carved into her soul. She can’t stand it. She keeps going.

When she finally emerges, after her father, worried, has come himself to find her, there are three new statues at the back of her atelier.

It doesn’t feel like it’s enough. It never has.

She doesn’t step inside the workshop again for several years.

11.

When she does, it’s for Anairë, who has now lost everything.

12.

She sculpts her twins together, in each other’s arms, inseparable even in eternal stillness.

(She can barely stand to look at them.)

13.

She knows now what her sons did over the sea. From the young Sinda girl and her strange husband, she has heard how they died. She has wept for their deeds as she wept for their deaths, and she weeps still for the two who live now on borrowed time, hunted and haunted by their own hand and the terrible Oath her husband had them swear.

Arafinwë has gone to war. Nerdanel wonders if Eärwen will come to her, when he doesn’t come back.

14.

Maitimo is beautiful, towering over her, his half-braided hair cascading down his shoulder. She can almost see the colours in the white marble veins, her own bright red reflected in his, the delicate tones of his skin.

Like her husband, he burned bright until the fire engulfed him entirely.

She falls to her knees at his feet. She has no tears left to weep.

15.

“He didn’t look like this, any more.”

Nerdanel turns sharply, to find Findaráto leaning against the door of the workshop.

He doesn’t look like he did under the light of the Trees, either. His face is a study of scars and new lines that didn’t fade in Mandos, and his gaze is heavy with pain. Nerdanel wonders what Eärwen did with his statue.

“He lost his right hand during his rescue from Angband,” Findaráto says, nodding at Maitimo’s likeness. “And he was heavily scarred.”

Nerdanel swallows around the lump in her throat, and runs a dusty hand through her hair. Does she want to keep her son unmarred in memory, as he no longer is?

She takes a breath and hold out her chisel. “Show me.”

16.

There are six statues at the back of her atelier. It is now clear of anything else, clean and aired and unused, her chisels and hammers put away in their racks.

Between the second and the third statue, there is an empty space. And in the middle of the workshop, a single slab of stone, waiting.

17.

It stays untouched.

18.

“Ammë,” her son murmurs as he collapses into her arms, fresh off the ship that brings him over the sea, after two ages of wandering.

He looks nothing like she remembers. He’s so thin that he hardly weighs in her embrace, half-faded, his face marked with age as no elf’s should be. He barely has a grip on where he is on a good day, and he is lost in time more often than not.

She doesn’t care.

And if she finds him in her workshop sometimes, talking to the statues of his father and his brothers as if they are alive, well. People have said that her likenesses look more real than real people.

(Makalaurë, standing still in the empty space that long awaited him, makes a better marble than live body.)

19.

One day, maybe, they will come back to her from Mandos, alive and safe. One day, maybe, Makalaurë will live again in the present more than he is in the past. One day, maybe, she will no longer be surrounded by faces of stones, and she will be able to stop grieving.

For now, she will bask in the presence of her last son and her grandsons – Tyelpë, all grown and only just re-embodied, and Elrond, who brought her Makalaurë back.

And she will wait.

[kanafinwe-makalaure]

I find it kind of stupid how 'half full' vs 'half empty' is framed as an optimist/pessimist thing. If it starts full and gets halfway drained, it's half empty. If it starts empty and gets halfway filled, it's half full. If you don't know the starting state it's both simultaneously.

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wish there was a washing machine type thing for humans... i too would like to gently whumbltmgrwhgbsvbsh and be cleaned

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Elf lords of middle-earth.

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Based on this wonderful post!

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one of my favourite bits of headcanon within the tolkien fandom is how Gil-galad is only maybe, possibly, dubiously, potentially actually the rightful king of the noldor and how Elrond is absolutely not questioning this nor letting anyone else question it because he's doing his very best to dodge the crown