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marta-bee · 11 months ago

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@outofangband liked my zeroing in on Tolkien's comparing Erendis's beauty with Morwen's in the last post. I actually made a verbal slip and used the wrong name, so that post ended up seeming more focused on Morwen than I meant. But @outofangband's comment got me thinking more about Morwen's story, and that lens is turning out to be quite interesting. So let's dig in a bit more.

(Also: This, kiddos, is why you comment, on Tumblr and AO3 and everywhere else. It's the back and forth that really makes fandom worth the effort.)

It's been entirely too long since I've read the Quenta Silmarillion, and I've not read the Narn i Hîn Húrin at all, so doubtless there's people more familiar with their story than me. But briefly: Húrin was a lord in one of the Elf-friend Houses of Men. He was part of the Union of Maedhros (First Age political alliance between elves, men, and dwarves to resist Morgoth), fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad/Battle of Unnumbered Tears beside Fingon. Said battle earned its name, Fingon and countless others (including most of his household) is killed, and Húrin himself is captured and tortured for decades.

Morwen is his wife and the mother of Túrin and Nienor. She stayed behindi n Dor-lómin (Húrin's settlement), and after the Nirnaeth Easterlings allied with Morgoth sweep in and take over. They leave her alone, at least at first, thinking her some kind of a witch. If memory serves it was connected to her beauty, which they thought was preternatural and suspected her of having dealings with elves that made her dangerous. Túrin she sends off to Doriath so Thingol can raise him in safety; Nienor stays with her in Dor-lómin until Nienor is grown and the two women go searching for Túrin at last.

*******************

It's such a different situation in so many ways to Erendis's, so it's a bit fascinating how similar their lives are here.

After their marriage, Aldarion and Erendis lived together in Armenelos, and had a daughter. They planted the elven-tree in their garden, and the song-birds settled there. "

This got long, I'm afraid, but is a good read in its entirety. "In heart Erendis was glad [to have a daughter rather than a son], for she thought: "Surely now Aldarion will desire a son, to be his heir; and he will abide with me long yet." For in secret she still feared the Sea and its power upon his heart; and though she strove to hide it, and would talk with him of his old ventures and of his hopes and designs, she watched jealously if he went to his house-ship or was much with the Venturers."

It doesn't take a genius to understand how these stories work, and it shouldn't be surprising it didn't work out that way.

Erendis learned of these things, though Aldarion had not spoken to her of them, and she was unquiet. Therefore one day she said to him: "What is all this busyness with ships. Lord of the havens? Have we not enough? How many fair trees have been cut short of their lives in this year?" She spoke lightly, and smiled as she spoke. "A man must have work to do upon land," he answered, "even though he have a fair wife. Trees spring and trees fall. I plant more than are felled." He spoke also in a light tone, but he did not look her in the face; and they did not speak again of these matters. But when Ancalímë was close to four years old Aldarion at last declared openly to Erendis his desire to sail again from Númenor. She sat silent, for he said nothing that she did not already know; and words were in vain. He tarried until the birthday of Ancalimë, and made much of her that day. She laughed and was merry, though others in that house were not so; and as she went to her bed she said to her father: "Where will you take me this summer, tatanya? I would like to see the white house in the sheep-land that mamil tells of." Aldarion did not answer; and the next day he left the house, and was gone for some days. When all was ready he returned, and bade Erendis farewell. Then against her will tears were in her eyes. They grieved him, and yet irked him, for his mind was resolved, and he hardened her heart. "Come, Erondis!" he said. "Eight years I have stayed. You cannot bind for ever in soft bonds the son of the King, of the blood of Tuor and Eärendil! And I am not going to my death. I shall soon return." "Soon?" she said. "But the years are unrelenting, and you will not bring them back with you. And mine are briefer than yours. My youth runs away; and where are my children, and where is your heir? Too long and often of late is my bed cold." "Often of late I have thought that you preferred it so," said Aldarion. "But let us not be wroth, even if we are not of like mind. Look in your mirror, Erendis. You are beautiful, and no shadow of age is there yet. You have time to spare to my deep need. Two years! Two years is all that I ask!" But Erendis answered: "Say rather: 'Two years I shall take, whether you will or no.' Take two years, then! But no more. A King's son of the blood of Eärendil should also be a man of his word." Next morning Aldarion hastened away. He lifted up Ancalimë and kissed her, but though she clung to him he set her down quickly and rode off. Soon after the great ship set sail from Rómenna. Hirilondë he named it, Haven-finder; but it went from Númenor without the blessing of Tar-Meneldur; and Erendis was not at the harbour to set the green Bough of Return, nor did she send. Aldarion's face was dark and troubled as he stood at the prow of Hirilondë, where the wife of his captain had set a great branch of oiolairë, but he did not look back until the Meneltarma was far off in the twilight.

So: two women, left behind by their husbands to raise young daughters. Húrin's departure makes sense -- he's going off to fight Morgoth, to make Dor-lómin safe. Aldarion's seems much more voluntary and optional if not downright selfish. I'm trying to remember the almost physical compulsion he had before he married Erendis, to go adventuring again. I'm trying to be sympathetic. But it's not Erendis trying to "bind for ever in soft bonds." It's what Tar-Meneldur warned him about when he first became engaged to Erendis: that a man cannot have two wives. If these are soft bonds, it's just what Aldarion chose for himself.

But for the first time, Erendis doesn't exactly seem blameless.

All that day Erendis sat in her chamber alone, grieving; but deeper in her heart she felt a new pain of cold anger, and her love of Aldarion was wounded to the quick. She hated the Sea; and now even trees, that once she had loved, she desired to look upon no more, for they recalled to her the masts of great ships. Therefore ere long she left Armenelos, and went to Emerië in the midst of the Isle, where ever, far and near, the bleating of sheep was borne upon the wind. "Sweeter it is to my ears than the mewing of gulls," she said, as she stood at the doors of her white house, the gift of the King; and that was upon a downside, facing west, with great lawns all about that merged without wall or hedge into the pastures. Thither she took Ancalimë, and they were all the company that either had. For Erendis would have only servants in her household, and they were all women; and she sought ever to mould her daughter to her own mind, and to feed her upon her own bitterness against men. Ancalimë seldom indeed saw any man, for Erendis kept no state, and her few arm-servants and shepherds had a homestead at a distance. Other men did not come there, save rarely some messenger from the King; and he would ride away soon, for to men there seemed a chill in the house that put them to flight, and while there they felt constrained to speak nail in whisper. One morning soon after Erendis came to Emerië she awoke to the song of birds, and there on the sill of her window were the Elven-birds that long had dwelt in her garden in Armenelos, but which she had left behind forgotten. "Sweet fools, fly away!" she said. "This is no place for joy such as yours."

Erendis locks herself and Ancalimë away. When the two years passed, she shut down the house in Armenelos and isolated herself in the house "ordered the house in Armenelos be shut, and she went never more than a few hours' journey from her house in Emerië. "Such love as she had was all given to her daughter, and she clung to her, and would not have Ancalimë leave her side, not even to visit Núneth and her kin in the Westlands. [...] But the women were chary in their speech to the child, fearing their mistress; and there was little enough of laughter for Ancalimë in the white house of Emerië."

This... is not healthy. This is concerning, actually, and from the outside it seems avoidable. It's not, quite, because she's been abandoned by her husband, twice now in a way. And from Erendis's perspective there was nothing compelling Aldarion to leave. If anything, he turned it around on her and blamed her for trying to imprison him on land.

Compare them to Morwen and Nienor, whose husband and father did have a good reason to leave. I'm not entirely clear why they stayed in Dor-lómin rather than going to Doriath with Túrin, except that the story needed them to be separate. Maybe they thought Húrin would escape and come back to them there? Maybe it just seemed safer than traveling somewhere else, since the Easterlings left them alone? But her isolation comes from being surrounded by enemies, and she doesn't seem to isolate Nienor more than their security requires, at least not that I remember. Whereas Erendis bars all men from the main house, makes Ancalimë's whole life surround her in a smothering sort of "love," keeps Ancalimë separate even from her grandparents.

I keep thinking about the Hobbit narrator's line, that "things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway." This is a story, and stories require things to happen. Morgoth provides a convenient villain, whatever else he is, that drives Húrin and Morwen apart. But Númenor in these early days is a land of peace, this is the golden age, things are supposed to be happy, which is precisely what they can't be if there's to be a story worth telling. It almost seems the nature of Men that if there's not a conflict near at hand they'll invent one; or that something deep inside them, their striving nature will compel them to do just that.

Psychologically, I don't want to blame Erendis because I like her so much. She's become a kind of Blorbo for me. And I do think she's got a right to feel betrayed and abandoned, even as she's materially well taken care of. However unhealthy her actions are here, and however much she's hurting Ancalimë, it's clearly coming from some deep pain. But Morwen's isolation is so easy to understand, compared to Erendis's! It's rational in its way, whereas this just seems unnecessary. That's probably what makes the story so interesting, even if I do want to shake her a bit by the shoulders, and send Ancalimë off to Núneth's house for her own protection.

What can I say? God save us for ourselves when there's no baddie near at hand. It's all so depressingly human.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #aldarion and erendis #marta rereads the silmarillion

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whereserpentswalk · 1 year ago

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It is a lovely morning. You can feel the summer sun on your scales. Flying miles above the earth, you can see more of it than ever before. Something cleared the forests, and it has been a long time since you have seen wolves in this land, yet that can be forgiven. Especially on a day like this. You cannot help but notice the birds that fly by. The sun above you still shines, as do the fields below. For it seems that there is more wheat growing here than there was before.

You settle back in the closest you have to a home, though to your kind there is no true thing as a mortal home beside the sky. But this is the castle you rest in, you rested there first a thousand years ago, and you remember when it was build a thousand years before that. Now it is too ruined for humans to use, you’ve known for quite some time that humans discard what is broken, even each other. They are unlike the wyvern kind; your kind, the kind of the skies.

Wyverns were the second of the thinking beasts to come to this land. The first were the elvenkind, yet now they are gone, as are the dwarves and the griffons, and you are one of the few wyverns to still remain in this land. Humans have thrived though at least, as have the ghouls and the werewolves and other night things that live off of their lands. At least some thinking beasts have still made a home here, better than live than they die. You wonder where the others went, you did not think it polite to inquire when last you had a chance to. Perhaps now that is your regret. Yet still you are here, and you are strong, still alive, still with fire in your eyes and lungs, still with shining scales of gold and green, still with the sky surrounding you.

As you light a dim flame with your breath and prepare for the night, a human comes into your castle. You’ve remembered speaking to humans at a time only a few hundred years ago. Though short lived they are kind people. When their cities were larger, and they still knew the names of the gods, their children used to play on your tail, and your breath kept their homes warm within the winter. Though their children fear you now, they seem to think you’re some sort of devil, you don’t know why.

The human is wearing strange clothing, and holding something in his hands, he holds it like a weapon, but it looks like a wooden tube with a button at the end. Though still, the creature is small and cute, small like all humans are, perhaps it wants to rest for the night as humans did in days long past. You look down at the human and ask, “Hello? Should I know your name?”

The human looks up at you, though not with the admiring eyes of the humans of the past, “I am a soldier of the king, here to unify this nation. Dragon king, do you bow to his will?”

You laugh at the remark, “I am no king, and my kind knows no such rank. But please stay, it may be cold out tonight.” The human points the end of his wooden tube at you, and you look down and smile, “There is no need to fight, and I doubt you’ll get far with that if you try to do such a thing.” Suddenly you hear a sound like thunder, and see what looks like a flash of lightening coming from the tube. You feel a pain, there is something in your chest. It has been a long time since anything has hurt you, and never was it a human.

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middleearthpixie · 5 months ago

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I'll See You in My Dreams ~ Chapter Five

Summary: Noelle James knows soul mates exist, the trouble is, she just can’t seem to find hers. Especially since hers seemed to have existed only in the world of cinema and The Hobbit movies. No one believes she actually spent time in Tolkien’s Middle Earth and even fewer believe Thorin Oakenshield existed in her world, either.

So when she finds herself unexpectedly alone on yet another Christmas, she has no way of knowing exactly what the universe has in store for her this time.The trouble is, this man claiming to be Thorin can’t possibly be him, for he died at the hands of Azog the Defiler at Ravenhill. She saw him die with her own eyes.

So, it can’t be him.

Or can it?

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Noelle James

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.8k

Thorin stared up through the darkness at the equally dark ceiling. Well, perhaps not quite equally dark, as it was painted white, which made it very visible despite the darkness. The fireplace was dark, but the room remained comfortably warm. Fascinating, how a building the size of this one could remain so warm, when no fires burned.

He didn't even attempt to hide how Noelle’s world confused him sometimes. At least, not from Noelle. She knew he was unfamiliar with just about everything in this modern, hectic world, and she had yet to really lose patience with him when he made a misstep. From the environment around him to the speech he heard, Noelle was quick to explain the things he didn't understand and when she couldn’t, she went and found experts, such as Science Man, who could. Perhaps that was why Mahal had sent him back to her. Mahal knew she would help him.

Three years had passed since he’d last been in Noelle’s world, and they might as well have been three lifetimes. When he’d first landed in Central Park, all he could think about was getting to Noelle, as he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until then.

Upon opening his eyes following the battle against Azog at Ravenhill, all Thorin could think about was pain. It wracked his body, as the battle with the pale orc resulted in his being run through not once, not twice, but three times, with two of his most serious wounds coming from a single, double-bladed weapon. His memory of it now was foggy, for he’d drifted in and out of consciousness for days in the only-barely-functioning infirmary at Erebor. He’d burned with fever, and more than once, had made his peace with Mahal and anticipated joining his father and grandfather, along with his other ancestors, in the Halls of Mandos.

But death spared him. Several weeks after the battle, when he was able to remain awake for more than a few minutes at a time, he’d asked about Noelle. He was worried for her. Although both the Gundabad orc and Dol Guldur orc armies took heavy casualties, but there were far more of them than there were of dwarves, elves, or Men and Thorin found himself nearly sick with worry over what had become of her.

But to his shock, no one knew who Noelle James was, not even his own nephews and they had spent more time with her than anyone else in his company had. When he’d described her, they looked at him as if he’d gone mad again. Even Dwalin, who at times seemed sweet on Noelle, didn't remember her at all.

He knew he wasn't mad. He bore the remnants of healing scratches along his back and had the fiery memory of being with her, of their bodies being joined to offer up equally fiery pleasure that threatened to devour him whole.

But no one else recalled her at all.

Within a week, he’d given up asking. Within two, thoughts of her faded from his mind. His concentration remained on his healing, which was a long, arduous process.

Yet, as this past summer drew to a close, he found flashes of memory had begun breaking through. A sound here. A smell there. A tingle across his back, quite often just below his shoulder blades.

Then came the dreams. They started out as snippets as well. A flash of red hair. A glint of unusual eyes that were a mix of blue and green. Hints of silvery laughter. The dreams came innocent at first, but then they grew steamier. He’d awaken the next morning with a dull ache swirling through him, his sheets damp with sweat, unspent desire twisting his insides until it almost hurt.

Little by little, the woman became clearer and the dreams grew more detailed. Noelle. Her body bare beneath him. The once-forgotten memories of making love to her came roaring back, sometimes at the most inopportune moments.

But, the Noelle he’d come back to was not the one who’d left him at Ravenhill. This Noelle was more serene, almost melancholy. Quiet, but not nearly as at peace as the woman he’d known three years prior.

Then again, she was not the only one who was changed. He no longer simmered with the same fire as he had when he’d fallen through the enchanted waters of Mirkwood to land just beyond Turtle Pond in New York City’s Central Park. Now, he yearned for tranquility and peace, both of which were, he felt, about to become scarce in Erebor.

But, as Noelle had said, they had found the one way guaranteed to send him back to Erebor, only she was quite unwilling to lay with him again. Her reason was more than valid, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn't more than a little disappointed.

He scowled into the darkness. No, that wasn't true. Not entirely, anyway. Since he realized she was the woman in his dreams, he’d ached to find her again. He’d loved her, and loved her madly and losing her had hurt until Mahal took the memory of her from him.

Now that he’d found her once more, all he wanted was to take her in his arms, to kiss her the way she’d kissed him in Science Man’s office. But he didn't wish to stop at kissing and therein lay the problem.

A low sigh rose to his lips. It had all been so much simpler when he’d forgotten Noelle. Thalia wasn't the love of his life, but she was a good woman and would make a fine queen and mother, and for whatever reason, he’d been fine with that. That was truly all that mattered. In time, he probably would have desired her the same way he did Noelle.

Now, however…

He closed his eyes, but sleep mocked him. There was no way of knowing how long he lay there, but eventually, he gave up trying to sleep and kicked off the quilt she’d given him. His footsteps came softly upon the carpeted floor as he padded from the living room, down the short corridor, to the bedroom he’d shared with her the last time he was in this world.

The door was ajar, the only light a soft golden glow from the room just beyond her bedroom. Unlike him, Noelle slept peacefully, her back to him, her glorious mane of dark red curls spilling behind her. He fairly ached to run his fingers through those curls, to feel their silky softness against his skin.

What would she do, if he slipped beneath her sheets alongside her? Would she even notice he’d gotten into bed with her? Or would she sleep peacefully on? Most importantly, how furious would she be if she did notice?

He frowned. He had no desire to risk her temper, or to have her feel as if he’d betrayed her trust in any way. That was the very last thing he would ever wish to do, make her feel he’d betrayed her.

Since he first caught sight of her in the entry of her apartment building, all he’d been able to think about was Noelle in his arms again. That she might not want the same left him at odds with himself. It hadn’t occurred to him until she angrily chased him from that same entry that she might no longer feel the same as she had when they were last together. He hadn’t realized just how much had changed. For both of them.

The trouble was now he didn't know what he was supposed to do. This was a complication he hadn’t expected.

With that, he turned and padded back to the sofa. Hopefully, Mahal would grace him with an answer sooner rather than later, for he wasn't at all certain he’d be able the resist the ever-present desire for Noelle that stirred within him and grew stronger with each beat of his heart.

When she opened her eyes, sunlight streamed into her bedroom and for a moment, Noelle stared up at the ceiling, wondering if perhaps she’d only dreamed the previous day. After all, her dreams centering on Thorin had certainly become far more vivid and way more realistic with each passing day. Besides it made far more sense to think she’d only dreamed yesterday than to believe it could have actually happened. So then, it stood to reason that none of it actually happened, right?

“Otherwise, maybe I am crazy,” she muttered.

But it certainly didn't sound as if anyone else was in her apartment and it certainly didn't sound like a fictional dwarf from one of the greatest fantasy series in literature was moving about at all, since quiet wasn't necessarily Thorin’s strong suit when it came to navigating her world, or her apartment, which was far more close-quartered than his kingdom, as she recalled.

A sense of sadness settled over her as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It had been a nice dream, to be sure. And that same dull ache that always accompanied one of those Thorin dreams slowly filled her. Of course, reality just had to intrude. And reality just had to suck when it did.

The floor was cold beneath her feet, her toes curling against it as she rose and shoved first one foot, then the other, into her slippers. Her warm, fuzzy fleece robe lay draped over the foot of her bed, and she wasted no time in drawing it on. She kept the heat low as she’d done since moving into her first apartment, when her budget was nearly non-existent and she had to watch every dime. Since those days, her firm had grown in size and stature, and her bank account had grown alongside it and now she didn't have to worry about those dimes nearly as much. But old habits died hard and so her apartment was always cold on winter mornings until the heat kicked on.

The remnants of her dream clung to her. The steamy kiss in Ian’s office that was far more realistic than any other kiss in any other dream she’d ever had still hummed through her. Who needed the apartment heat when her dream left her warmer than usual to begin with as she padded down the short hallway toward her kitchen?

It was the soft snore that had her stopping dead in her tracks and staring at the sofa, where Thorin slept peacefully, the colorful quilt she’d set out for him tucked around his shoulders, so all she could see was his head. The Orcrist lay across her coffee table. His heavy leather and fur coat lay draped over the back of the overstuffed armchair by the windows, his boots at the chair’s feet.

She stood there for a long moment. Part of her wanted to slip beneath the quilt, to stretch out alongside him, pressed tight against his solid body to keep from rolling right off the narrow sofa, and tuck her head against his chest. He would tighten his arms about her to hold her against him, and then his lips would find hers and—

“Stop it,” she whispered, forcing herself to continue on into the kitchen. “Nothing good will come of giving into some stupid lust, and you know it.”

Well, that wasn't exactly true. She knew from experience, the sex would be beyond good. It would be amazing, actually. For a man who claimed to have been a virgin the first time they slept together, Thorin had been anything but inept or clumsy. He didn't rush, but took his time exploring her as if utterly fascinated with her body and was determined that she experience the same pleasure he felt, which was a nice change of pace, really. No orgasm before or since him had been as powerful as the ones he gave and no pleasure scorched her the way the pleasure he gave did.

In short, sex with him was the stuff of the most erotic dreams in existence.

But it would also send him back to his realm and she wasn't stupid enough to believe he would ever find his way back to hers a third time. That he’d done so this time was an unexpected gift from the universe and she was not about to risk sending him back again, no matter how good it would feel.

She pushed the Keurig’s power button and then tugged open the drawer where she kept the coffee pods and pulled out a Cinnabon K-cup. Although she had a cabinet filled with coffee mugs, she used the same one—she’d bought at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a college trip, with a reproduction of Monet’s Haystacks on it—day after day and today was no exception as she set it on the Keurig’s tray.

The scent of fresh coffee, tinged with cinnamon, rose as the cup filled and she was doctoring it with sugar and half-and-half when Thorin came sniffing his way into the kitchen. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, even as her heart threatened to stop beating because of it, as he wore only what he called small clothes, which looked very similar to the boxer briefs most red-blooded women adorned on men. His hair was a silver-streaked tangle of black curls that spilled both over his shoulders and down his back, and also partway across his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded and he rubbed one as he said, “What is that?”

“So you still don’t have coffee in your world, huh?”

He offered up a sleepy smile that threatened to explode her ovaries even as he said, “We do not, no. I’d forgotten about it, to be honest.”

She passed him the mug. “Do you remember anything about being here?”

“A few things, but not much, no.”

“Do you remember shopping for clothes that won’t make me have to try convince everyone you’re a cosplayer and not about to run anyone through with Orcrist?”

His eyes clouded briefly but then a slow smile spread across his face and he nodded. “I remember zippers and the risk they posed to me.”

She couldn't help but chuckle. “If nothing else, that’s a good thing to remember. So, I guess that, like the first time you were here, we have to go shopping.”

“Is it a chore?”

“Well… yes and no. At least this time you won’t fight me on leaving Orcrist here.” As his eyes narrowed, she shook her head. “Because you won’t fight me on it. But at the same time, I don’t doubt women will drool over you every where we go.”

He grimaced. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“I know, right? But,” she couldn't hold back her sigh, “I have the feeling you won’t mind it nearly as much when you realize what I mean by it.”

He lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip. As he lowered it, he replied with all of the innocence of one who knew full he wouldn’t mind it at all, “I have the feeling you will mind it, though.”

She glared at him. “Not one bit. It just slows us down and I already hate shopping to begin with, so anything that slows the process is beyond annoying.”

“Oh, of course.”

Noelle rolled her eyes as she turned away to make herself another cup of coffee. “Anyway, we need to figure out how to get you home again.”

“I know one—”

“A way that doesn’t include my getting my heart smashed again, I mean.”

She pressed her lips tightly together. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out quite that way, and of course, once it was out there, she could neither take it back nor insist she meant it any other way. She’d shown him her hand, as the saying went, and made an ass of herself in the process.

Ceramic clinked against the granite counter and she stiffened as he slid an arm about her waist. “You are the last person I wish to hurt, Noelle. I’ve the feeling I’ve already done so and that doesn’t sit well. To knowingly do so is unthinkable.”

Her eyes closed as he drew her back against him. The warmth of his embrace was one she hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever, and for a moment, her resolve wavered. She didn't reply right away, didn't trust herself to speak for a few moments. But when she did, she whispered, “I know.”

Her eyes squeezed shut on their own as he pressed a gentle kiss into the top of her head, then said, “If memory serves, you have a wonderful shower here. I should make use of it before we leave.”

He didn't wait for her to answer, but set his half-drunk coffee down and left the kitchen. A few minutes later, and she heard the squeak of the shower taps opening and despite her gray mood, she smiled. He certainly did remember. She only hoped he remembered that he preferred cold showers over steamy ones because she most definitely did not want to be forced to take a cold shower because he used up all the hot water.

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#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #The Hobbit AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Modern Woman #Romance #Richard Armitage

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thotinshield · 1 year ago

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Frozen Heart

Is this entirely based off the first song in Frozen? ....Yes.

Something that Bilbo had gathered about Erebor within his first moments in the mountain was that it was cold. That wasn't unexpected. Gandalf had told him that Erebor was caught up in a state of eternal winter and that even if it were the height of summer in the lands that bordered the mountain, it did not matter. The peaks of the mountain touted a large amount of snow and there seemed to be, according to the wizard, a near constant gale storm. He had seen that when approaching the mountain, had felt the sudden change the land made when it shifted into winter, and as they had grown ever closer to the kingdom, the temperature had dropped.

It was much the same within.

Bilbo had expected to meet the king upon entering the mountain, but instead, he had been escorted towards what the dwarves called a lift. It was meant to bring them to the king, so he had been told by the strange dwarf, Bofur, that operated the lift for them. Well, for Bilbo and himself. Gandalf had reported when they had reached the mountain that he had business to tend to first, and that Bilbo would be able to meet with the king without Gandalf's presence being a necessity. Wonderful.

Had Bilbo not been dressed to fight off the cold, the chilling temperatures within the mountain might have gotten to him much quicker. Instead, as the lift moved he felt the air around them drop in temperature further. And... it seemed as though they were ascending, rather than descending, as Bilbo might have predicted.

In fact...

He felt it better to voice his thoughts. "Pardon me, but are we going up?"

"Aye," Bofur seemed to be working some sort of puller and level system, but that was where the extend of Bilbo's knowledge stymied. "The king... prefers it up here."

"Right..." Bilbo frowned, glancing upwards. The frigid air at least explained why the dwarves that moved across the upper floors were bundled up as they were. "Why do I need to meet with the king?"

Blast Gandalf and his apparent inability to provide Bilbo with all the facts.

"You want to investigate what's going on here, you have to be accepted into Erebor first. And the only person that can approve your presence here is the king. You just have to appeal to him." Bofur paused, and Bilbo did not miss the slight grimace upon his face. "Though I'll admit I'd be surprised if you do."

"And what happens if I don't?"

"Then you'll get to leave." Bofur said.

The lift made a metallic sound as it clicked into place at the top floor. Bilbo watched as the dwarf moved, fiddling with something before the gate that kept them from stepping onto the platform and floor swung open. Bofur helped him off and Bilbo glanced down the long, lonely hall. Up here, there were no dwarves meandering.

He could not blame them.

The frigid air up here almost hurt. When Bilbo breathed out, he watched as his breath puffed out in a cloud, spiraling upwards. It reminded him too much of the Fell Winter, the one time the Shire had faced a winter far too cold for their people or the land to handle. As he moved down the hall, Bilbo noted that the floor was just as cold. That wasn't surprising, as everything here seemed to be crafted from stone or metal - but the fact that he could feel it through his feet was concerning. Hobbits had thick skin on their feet and could walk through snow or over ice without much trouble or notice of the cold. Here, though... it felt sharp as he moved.

Bofur paused at a door, turning to Bilbo. "Just through here."

"Oh. Right." Bilbo drew in a breath, grimacing at the icy feeling before he pushed the doors open. They opened on another long hall - but Bilbo could tell this wasn't any hall. It had to be the throne room. He glanced back towards Bofur.

"I'll be right here," the dwarf supplied.

"You're not... coming with?"

Bofur was quiet for a moment before he smiled. "I'll be right here." His eyes were not unkind, nor was his smile, but the fact that he was not moving told Bilbo enough. He wasn't willing to tread into the throne room. That did not sit well with Bilbo, but if he wanted to do the task that Gandalf said Yavanna had recruited him for... then he had to meet with the king.

The throne room was very long, so perhaps throne hall was a more appropriate name. Regardless, Bilbo walked quietly down the long aisle towards the throne. He expected to find the king sitting there, just waiting, but the throne, as he came close enough to see it, was vacant. Bilbo's stomach flipped uncomfortably. He wondered if there were some vile trick at hand, if he was being made fun of, but as his eyes took in the rest of the throne room, he came to an awkward, sudden halt.

A dwarf stood off to the right of the throne, turned slightly away from Bilbo as he studied something. The hobbit could not see it from here, but that didn't really matter. His focus was on the dwarf before him. He was dressed in finery that could have only been for a king, dark black robes that flowed off of him in a poetic way. Most of the king was dark, except for his hair. That was stark white, cascading down his shoulders much like the snowfall that ravaged the mountain. He stood still, much like he was... frozen, himself. Almost as if he were a statue.

Bilbo might have believed that.

"Ah.. excuse me, your majesty?"

There came no response. Not even a twitch from the dwarf, like he had not heard Bilbo at all. Maybe he was a statue. Still, Bilbo plowed on.

"My name is Bilbo. Baggins. I'm a hobbit, from the Shire... and the lady Yavanna has requested my aid in... assisting your kingdom." There. That put it nice enough, didn't it? Bilbo would hate to imply that he could fix a kingdom's problem like that, much less that it had any issues, if the king were in some sort of denial.

It was then that the figure moved. But Bilbo would not have attributed his movements to something quite alive - the dwarf moved in a way that seemed almost as if he did not know how to move or... like he was moving joints and muscles that were half-frozen. Each movement was nearly mechanic as he turned towards Bilbo. His eyes startled Bilbo more than anything else, a bright color that almost hurt to look at, more like ice than any color Bilbo had seen. His eyes were slow as they searched over Bilbo's face and figure.

Bilbo half-expected him to speak just as slowly, but his gruff voice was silky smooth when it met the hobbit's ears. "Have you now?"

"Y-yes," Bilbo said, straightening up. "Gandalf, um, he's a wizard? Well, he brought me her because the Green Lady is worried about Erebor. About her husband's lands."

"Hm," the dwarf moved slowly towards the throne and Bilbo was quick to move out of his way. The air around the dwarf felt even colder, somehow, but Bilbo was more caught off guard by his appearance that he didn't notice it. "Tharkûn mettles where he needs not to, but if my Maker's lady-wife wishes to send one of her..." he paused, again his eyes passing over Bilbo. "...fae to help, I will not deny her."

Bilbo wasn't quite sure how to take being called fae but he could shoulder that, because what it sounded like to him was that the king had very simply approved his presence and his help within Erebor. This was a good start, even if he didn't feel quite like it.

He watched as the king sat in his throne. Then he was quick to bow before the king. "Then I will pledge my assistance to you, King Under the Mountain."

As he rose back to his feet, Bilbo caught sight of what the king had been looking at when he had entered the throne room. There was a small pedestal with a glass case set upon it, and within that, a brilliant stone, unlike any Bilbo had ever seen or even read about. It seemed to reflect the light and a myriad of colors, and he thought it might have been shimmering. That was what had caught his eye, when the light hit it just right and it shone and shimmered. Well, Bilbo couldn't blame the king for being distracted by whatever it was.

#bagginshield #danny writes shit #frozen heart au #lmk if y'all think i should write more of this one #i think this may be becoming a mix of frozen and beauty and the beast kinda LOL

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wordbunch · 2 years ago

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The Hobbit re-read: favorites, thoughts and honorable mentions

thank u to my tumblr besties for encouraging me to rant abt this book for a little while, and brace yourselves for a LOOONG post; aka We're Going On An Adventure!

this quote abt Gandalf: "tales and adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever he went, in the most extraordinary fashion" like. THIS exactly is Gandalf to me ✨✨✨

the whole good-morninged sequence (as if he was selling buttons at the door! can you imagine! By belladonna tooks SON of all people!!!) 😱

"a cake or 2 would do him good after this fright" me too bilbo

"he had a horrible thought that the cakes might run short" me too bilbo 🍰

Gandalf constantly selling Bilbo's skills to the company and just hyping him up and believing in him all the time!!!! most excellent and audacious hobbit!!! 😎

"this was thorin's style... if he had been allowed he would probably have gone like this until he was out of breath" aka he is Dramatic and Important

"bilbo was getting excited and interested again so that he forgot to keep his mouth shut" how many times will i write ME TOO BILBO in this post

"THE EXPLANATION DID NOT SEEM TO EXPLAIN" 💯💯💯

gandalf: i found him in the dungeons of the necromancer; thorin: girl what were YOU doing at the necromancer's??? 🧐🧐🧐 gandalf: finding things out as usual O M G like what else would he be doing there 😚

bilbo constantly wishing he was back home as soon as he left

"off bilbo had to go before he could explain that he could not hoot even once like any kind of owl" yall this book has so many funny moments but like in a very chill humor way

the fact that one of the TROLLS is called WILLIAM 😂😂😂

"i am a good cook myself, and cook better than i cook" okay bilbo rizz 😏🔥

"they had not at all enjoyed lying there listening to the trolls making plans for roasting them" you don't say. i love this deadpan humor SO MUCH jrrt snapped

that whole beautiful iconic description of kind as summer elrond

"their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their tempers, and their hopes" WHEN will i go to rivendell 😩

"there is nothing like looking if you want to find something" thorin life coach realness 👏🏼👏🏼

thoring gesturing at a miserable desolate land: these tRuLy hOspiTabLe moUnTaiNs 😍

then gandalf lit up his wand. oF coUrSe it wAs gaNdaLf, but they were too busy to ask how he got there. 4ever mood

he thought of himself frying bacon and eggs in his own kitchen ME TOO BIL- 🍳

"Gollum brought up memories of ages and ages and ages before, when he lived with his grandmother in a hole by a bank by a river" this kind of made me cry. it brings unexpected humanity to such an appalling character; kinda makes you want bilbo to spare him eventually

and the fact itself that bilbo felt so bad for him he decided to just leave him be

"you would have laughed (from a safe distance)" LOVE how JRRT puts random little comments addressed to the reader

gandalf just being like ok i gotta go do other things now. good luck besties. ✌🏼😚

beorn: what are you, a traveling circus? and he is actually right 🤪

"you have got to look after all these dwarves for me, gandalf laughed" and i cried

bilbo being like hmm how will i get down from this tree (except by falling)

bilbo's song while killing gigantic spiders "not very good...but you must remember he had to make it up himself in a very awkward moment"

the dwarves starting to respect him and bowing down until they FALL OVER is such a comical image to me

the whole alluring magic of the elvish feast in the forest which disappears when they get closer!! a whole fairytale mr tolkien!!! 😍

thranduil is a greedy b <3 and especially VERY fond of wine 🍷🍷🍷

"i will lock you all in again and you can sit there comfortably and think of a better plan" bilbo badass mode and we love to see it 💋

tolkien being like WELL u can laugh but you wouldn't have done any better if u were him. real.

when they're in dale i love the numerous references to "songs and stories of old" and all of them basically being a living legend and turning their stay in dale into a public holiday and spectacle

thorin is cocky af

/freeze frame/ "you are familiar with thorin's style on important occasions so i will not give you any more of it" its ok jrrt, let him be a drama queen 👑

bilbo when he takes some gold from smaug being like "this will show them!!!1!1" ��😠

sassy bilbo strikes again with "did you expect me to trot back with the whole hoard of thror on my back? if there's any grumbling to be done i think i might have a say" GO OFF KING 👏🏼

i just rly love him okay, he stole my heart in this book like a real legitimate professional burglar that he is

"i am the clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly" etc. basically this whole exchange btw bilbo and smaug is pure gold (pun not intended) 🤫

talking birds that eavesdrop. enough said.

the descriptions of the arkenstone which make you actually want to have it too. genius. there could be no two such gems, even in so marvellous a hoard, even in all the world." 💎💎💎

the harps (untouched by the dragon who had a small interest in music).. WHY is this so funny to me

bilbo putting on some elvish DRIP and being like ✨✨ i feel magnificent ✨✨ (but probably look dumb 😩)

"this is the great chamber of thror" ok thorin the tour guide king

BARD MY KING i love one (1) man 🎯

bilbo being absolutely against any wars or battles and just wanting to go home BUT also being a sneaky lil shit who takes the arkenstone to bard and thranduil BUT also still not wanting to leave his dwarf buddies

when he gives them the gem "not without a shudder, not without a glance of longing" AHHH i want it!

ambiguous gandalf returning. always love to see it

"if you don't like my burglar, please don't damage him" 🙄 ffs thorin chill

"you are not making a very splendid figure as king" yes gandalf call him out

defeat seems "very uncomfortable, not to say distressing" to bilbo. we love.

the fact that he was just knocked out cold during the battle so thur we know very little abt what really happened?? jrrt genius writing hack. might use this one 🤔

fili and kili deserved a better sendoff than just mentioning that they died. come on.

thorin's last words and reconciliation w bilbo... PLEASE I WILL CRY until i throw up. "it has been more than any baggins deserves." "no! there is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly west. some courage and some wisdom blended in measure. if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."

i might still be crying

"tea is at 4 but any of you are welcome at any time" my heart... ❤️😭 Guess he's no longer scared of running out of cake

bilbo gifting thrandy a necklace as an apology for eating and drinking his stuff secretly, king shit 😉

bilbo having the absolute NERVE to say to ELVES "your lullaby would wake a drunken goblin". wig wig

he deadass borrowed a handkercheif from freaking ELROND 😳

bilbo arriving home to being presumed dead and his stuff literally being auctioned off

"it was a long time before he was in fact admitted to being alive again…" and sackville-bagginses having sm beef with that HAHAHA

he lost his reputation but he lived his best life so who's the winner here 😌😌😌

the closing lines "you are a very fine person, mr baggins, and i am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all" "thank goodness! said bilbo laughing."

like. THIS. literally embodies everything. he is just a little guy. just some smol person. BUT STILL had a say in how BIG things happened. BUT he remains happy to be just a smol simple person.

overall an incredibly fun read and it was way more genuinely FUNNY than i anticipated. bilbo is a whole mood. thorin is a diva. gandalf is there to start shit and hype up bilbo. jrrt with random author's notes throughout the book gives me life.

#the hobbit #jrr tolkien #tolkien #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #lotr #Bagginshield #fili and kili #Gandalf #Lotr #Lord of the rings #Lotr meta #Lotr shitpost #from my pocketses

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gwen-ever · 6 months ago

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Chapter 2: Axe or Sword

Hello, my beloved hobbits! 💖 Another chapter is here, and oh boy, this one is something. But before you dive in, let’s stir the pot a little, shall we? 😏 What do you all think happened between Thorin and Geira in the past? I swear, Thorin is the king of emotional constipation, but Geira? She’s not exactly innocent here either! 😘 So, are we getting a heated argument, a moment of soft vulnerability, or both? Who knows, maybe something entirely unexpected will happen… 😏 Let me know your thoughts—I live for your wild guesses and theories! Now, go on, enjoy the chapter! 💕

Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived… whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin’s past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins’ house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC Rating: M Warnings: none. AO3 LINK: HERE

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Sunlight filtered through the treetops, forcing Geira to close her eyes. The day had turned out warmer than expected, and despite it being early spring, her shirt clung to her back with every step of Rosalie, her pony.

“You’re not too warm, are you, under all that fur?” Geira asked, stroking the pony’s grey mane with her fingertips.

In response, Rosalie let out a soft whinny and twitched her ears, signalling that the summer heat was Geira’s problem, not hers.

Rosalie was a very calm pony, her temperament so steady that for a moment, Geira could almost forget the heavy atmosphere still hanging over the Company. The pony’s serene nature helped keep her from glancing too often towards the head of the column.

From the rear, she could see every dwarf in the Company.

Occasionally, Balin would pull out a piece of parchment from his bag, examining it through his small golden monocle.

Just as the years had passed for Geira, they had passed for everyone else.

The only difference was that they had someone to remember them.

“My hobbit back isn’t exactly suited to long rides, and neither are my poor legs!”

Bilbo’s voice rose above the birdsong around them, snapping Geira out of her foolish, childish thoughts.

She cast a glance at the two horses trailing behind Gloin at the column’s forefront, her eyes landing on the hobbit, who was pressing one of his hands against his lower back.

“Oh, dear Bilbo, you have a long journey ahead of you. Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the wide horizon!” Gandalf sang, gesturing ahead with his staff.

“The very thought of standing is agony for my shoulders,” Bilbo shot back, craning his neck backwards. “I should have brought a cushion!”

“You’re right, Master Bilbo,” Dori agreed from directly behind him. “This saddle’s harder than the marble floors of the Emeralds’s Marketplace in Nogrod,” he grumbled, trying to shift into a better position.

“With this heat, brother, I’d much prefer a frosty golden ale from old Olaf’s tavern. Maybe two, if that thick-skulled dwarf would take copper coins for once!” Nori dreamily replied, leaning his neck back against the horse.

“ Kann barathgalt i’zuhu! ”

Bombur nodded, glancing over at his cousin seated just in front of him. “You’re right, cousin, that wouldn’t be half bad right about now!”

Despite the small talk, which briefly distracted her, Geira noticed Bilbo shifting and moving restlessly, still ignoring Gandalf’s advice. She barely managed to stifle a sour smile when she heard his neck crack yet again. And just as on the nights before, she felt a hidden side of herself ignite—one she hadn’t allowed to surface for years.

“Straighten up your back, Bilbo!” she called from the rear of the line, catching not only his attention but also that of several dwarves, shocked to hear her speak.

“W-what?” Bilbo asked, craning his neck to peer through three rows of dwarves to find her.

“Your back—keep it straight,” she repeated, tilting her head to the right so she could look him in the eye. “Otherwise, by the end of the day, you’ll feel like a pack mule if you keep hunching forward!”

Bilbo said nothing, merely furrowing his blonde brows as he turned around. Suddenly, he straightened his back, tilted his neck, and extended both arms forward in the most awkward posture imaginable.

Geira gave Rosalie a gentle nudge with her heels, urging the pony to pick up her trot. Quickening her pace, she wove past the dwarves until she reached Bilbo’s side.

“Like this—see?” she asked, keeping pace with him and demonstrating the correct posture by gesturing with her chin towards the alignment of her back. “Head and neck upright, arms in front of you,” she explained with a smile, ensuring her upper body was as straight as possible for him to mimic.

Bilbo gave her a confused look. “Well...” he began, examining his arms and locking his elbows slightly. Then, he straightened his back, lifting his chin high enough to see the sky but still low enough to look at the ground if needed.

“Like this?” he asked, holding the position.

She nodded approvingly. “Exactly.”

“Well, it’s not comfortable at all!”

“It’s not comfortable now,” she explained. “But you’ll thank me later, Master Baggins, when your bones aren’t cracking like broken branches.”

She swore she saw a faint blush form beneath his golden sideburns on his beardless cheeks. “Oh, well, I... thank you...” he stammered, embarrassed, but he maintained his posture.

She smiled again before turning her gaze back to the green hills just beginning to emerge beyond the dense oak grove that surrounded them.

“How much have you travelled? If I may ask?” Bilbo suddenly asked, his tone visibly curious.

The question made her lips part slightly.

How much had she travelled?

How long had she been making the same simple motions without even realising it? How many ponies that didn’t belong to her had she ridden? How long had she been wandering, not at the orders of a king, but simply because she couldn’t stay still? Too long.

The impulse to retreat to the rear of the line struck her again, as did the urge to leave Bilbo’s question unanswered. But she found a shred of strength when she saw the hope in the hobbit’s eyes.

“Enough to know how not to exhaust yourself after a day’s ride,” she answered quickly, unwilling to elaborate.

“With men, I suppose? I can smell them on you since last night,” growled Dwalin’s voice from behind, sending a chill down her spine and up, all the way to the tips of her hair.

She bit her tongue to keep from snapping back.

Turning her head slightly, she met the stern, shadowed face of the warrior dwarf. His dark brows were furrowed, a scar arching downward through one of them. His thick black beard barely hid his scowling mouth.

As the night before, she couldn’t help but want to rip that grimace off his face with her bare hands.

“Most of them, yes—men. They pay well,” she replied, shooting him a sharp look before turning forward again.

“They paid for that fine bow, I suppose, and that coat of yours as well,” Dwalin continued sarcastically, making her grip the pony’s reins tighter in her hands.

“They pay me well, Master Dwalin. Well enough to survive without asking too many questions about me,” she retorted, keeping her voice calm as her gaze drifted to the bow hanging at the pony’s side. Its pale wood made it clear it hadn’t been crafted by her kin.

And how could it have been? She hadn’t spoken to a dwarf in nearly a century and a half, and Dwalin knew it—he knew it all too well.

“Because if they asked, they’d know you’d turn your back on them the moment you got a better offer. That’s why you don’t want them knowing who you are?” he spat angrily. The dwarf quickened his trot to come alongside her. “Maybe it’s because they’d find out why a dwarf warrior roams the Wild Lands alone?” he taunted.

“When they start asking questions, I move to another settlement,” she replied quickly. “I trade my weapons for a roof over my head. Isn’t that what you do? The last time I saw you, you were escorting their caravans from east to west. I just get paid to fight for them,” she reminded him, throwing him a sharp glance.

“That’s not the same thing,” Dwalin growled.

“Oh, it’s not? So that coat wasn’t paid for with their gold, was it? Or those boots? And you didn’t pay the smith with their silver coins, did you?” she shot back, turning her head fully towards Dwalin.

Dwalin’s brows furrowed deeply, his eyes blazing with pure fury. Before she realised it, he surged forward and tugged on her pony’s reins, forcing her to stop and nearly crashing into him.

Bilbo flinched slightly beside her as Dwalin stopped them both in their tracks, glaring at her as if she were an orc with a mouthful of blood.

“We do it to help our people—you do it for yourself!” he spat in disgust. “You’ve always done everything for yourself! You’ve never cared about your people! You’ve no right to speak of us!” he shouted at her, his rage boiling over.

Each word struck through the iron armour Geira had built around her chest, around those memories.

She could feel her blood boiling in her veins and her hands tingling with the temptation to grab her sword and hold it to the dwarf’s neck, forcing him to take back every word.

He knew nothing. Nothing!

“Don’t you dare, Dwalin, speak of my life as though you know it, as though you’ve ever known it!” she hissed.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. The birds had stopped singing, and the warmth around her had been replaced by an icy chill. No one in the Company dared speak or even breathe.

Dwalin clenched his jaw, leaning in closer to her. “What I do know is that you’re a traitor, filth who can’t make amends even with her hair shorn short. You—filthy—”

“Did I ever tell ya I used to own a goat named Rind?”

Bofur’s voice broke through the ranks, interrupting Dwalin’s words. “She was all white with a black mark shaped like a crescent moon over her left eye,” he continued from the back of the line, chuckling softly.

Geira didn’t turn, but she heard the birdsong resume, the warmth return, and a series of grunts rising from the rear of the column.

It was as if the entire world had started breathing again, yet she still felt the world behind her burning.

She continued locking eyes with Dwalin, and in his green eyes, she saw unspoken words hanging heavy.

Can you ever make amends for what you’ve done to him?

And what did he do to me?

She wanted to answer him, but Bofur had decided this was a conversation that shouldn’t take place—and perhaps, for now, it was better that way.

The ponies resumed their trot, leaving only her and Dwalin in the middle of the path. Several seconds passed before Dwalin, with an irritated glance, tugged his horse around and rode ahead, leaving her behind.

When his gaze left hers, she exhaled a heavy sigh, trying to ignore the confused and worried look Bilbo cast her way as he passed.

“…She used to sleep under me bed, y’know. Did I ever tell ya about the time I came home and found half of me furniture covered in her slobber?” Bofur’s cheerful voice reached her ears again, along with the inevitable groans that followed.

“Oh, in Durin’s name, Bofur, not again...” Nori muttered.

“So one day I went to the workshop, like I do every day, and I bought some cheese and milk for the next day...”

Geira didn’t hear the rest of the story as she stood motionless, letting the entire caravan of dwarves pass by.

It wasn’t until Fili and Kili passed her that she raised her gaze again, and her breath caught in her throat.

Thorin remained as still as she was in the middle of the path, letting the rest of the Company move on while he stayed behind, watching her with an unreadable expression.

They both stood in silence, neither of them speaking, as though Thorin’s silence was shouting at her.

And yet, it was only at that moment, hidden from the eyes of all, that she finally took a proper look at him and noticed how much he had... aged.

Thorin’s black hair had lightened, streaked with silver strands. His once-soft profile had sharpened like a blade, a myriad of fine wrinkles adding to his regal bearing in a way that hadn’t been there 120 years ago.

Yet all she felt looking at him was unease and anger—too much anger.

Only when he turned and resumed riding, his back to her, did Geira force herself to remember why she was there. All she needed to do in this place was complete her mission.

She just had to not even look him in the face.

Geira dropped her sword and stretched, raising her arms and glancing around the rocky outcrop where they had found shelter for the night. The site was surrounded by small hills covered in fir trees and evergreens.

The iron pot was already over the fire, and the typical pile of blankets and backpacks lay scattered nearby. In a few hours, they would be claimed by the luckiest among them, those who had managed to dismount their ponies and toss their belongings to the ground before the others.

The two brothers, Bombur and Bofur, were hunched over the copper pot from which a mouth-watering aroma emanated, instantly awakening her appetite; she hadn't eaten a thing since that morning.

She glanced around, searching for Gandalf, who was sitting by the fire, puffing on his pipe and listening to Dori. Dori, the eldest of Nori and Ori's brothers, was chatting idly, mostly complaining about Nori's inefficiency. Gloin and Oin were busy cleaning themselves up, while Fili and Kili were already chuckling quietly.

The only one excluded from that joy seemed to be her.

Her argument with Dwalin that morning appeared to have left no impression on anyone—and why should it? It was Dwalin’s problem, and more precisely, her problem. She certainly didn’t expect anyone to say a word; they hadn’t even looked her in the face, and she definitely wasn’t going to start a conversation.

Grumbling at the slight soreness in her thighs caused by hours of riding, she tried to follow the others' example. She knelt on the ground and pulled out her bedroll from her bag, unfurling it in front of her with a single motion.

"Pick a spot to sleep; Nori, gather the ponies while Bombur finishes cooking," Thorin ordered as he strode through the small campsite, his satchel slung over one shoulder and his sword firmly gripped in hand.

Nori nodded in approval before getting to his feet, brushing his hands against his jacket, ready to carry out his leader's command without question.

She caught Thorin in the corner of her eye as he arranged his things on the opposite side of the campfire from her. She knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

"Master Baggins, mind you don’t lean too far over," Thorin called sharply, addressing an unseen point behind her.

It was only then that she noticed Bilbo standing at the cliff’s edge, hands clasped behind his back, gazing downward. At the sound of Thorin’s voice, the hobbit’s pointed ears seemed to perk up, and with two slow steps, he moved away from the precipice, nodding at the dwarf as he did.

Oin was standing next to him, peering over the cliff with his ear trumpet in hand. "It’s quite the drop, my boy—are you sure you fancy tumbling off this cliff?" he asked dryly.

Bilbo began shaking his head, raising a finger to object, but before he could respond, Nori approached, leading two ponies by their reins.

"We could always send Bombur to fetch him," Nori said with a chuckle.

"And then who’ll fetch Bombur?" Gloin retorted, sparking a round of laughter in which even Bombur himself joined.

Bilbo remained silent, staring into the void, his small hands restlessly fidgeting.

She pushed herself off the ground and approached Bilbo, who still had his back to her. Passing the blazing fire, she ignored Dwalin's gaze as he rose from his bedroll to tend to the pot brimming with food.

"How’s your back?" she asked Bilbo, folding her arms across her chest.

The hobbit startled slightly, stammering nervously. "Ehmm, it’s—fine, really. I thought it would be much worse."

She nodded, moving to stand beside him near the ledge. "I told you, even the leg pain will ease over time," she said, referring to her own aches, which continued to cause mild spasms in her thighs.

Bilbo glanced around briefly before leaning closer, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Sleeping like this won’t help the pain at all," he said.

"Not at all, but it’s something you get used to," she replied with unvarnished honesty.

Just like the night before and the morning of that same day, she felt as light as a flower petal and as vulnerable as a child.

She knew what was going through his mind and envied Bilbo—deeply and shamefully, but she envied him.

That fear, that yearning to leap into the unknown and never look back.

It had been her dream, always her dream since she was young: to be free, to wander through the forests and valleys of Middle-earth, to gaze at the stars in the night while lying on the grass, to watch the snow falling and glistening in the twilight, and to feel the wind tousling her hair as she twirled her sword in the air. That had been her dream, until loyalty had triumphed over her desires and selfishness, until that same loyalty had taken everything away from her and condemned her to solitude.

Until her oaths, her devotion to what she loved and deemed right, had left her living as an outcast, accepting everything she once desired—but alone.

"It's so beautiful…" Bilbo exclaimed after a long pause, snapping her out of her dark and sorrowful thoughts. "But it's a beauty that fills me with a fear I've never felt before," he admitted, stammering with embarrassment while continuing to gaze at the horizon.

Geira nodded and looked at the mountain ridges, observing how they overlapped to form a small wall that blended with the wisps of clouds above them, tinged pink and lilac by the sunset's end. The evening breeze caressed her face, brushing strands of brown hair behind her ear and under the red shirt she was wearing.

She closed her eyes, savouring this brief moment of peace she hadn’t granted herself in ages.

"My aunt always used to say that the fear of the unknown is simply your body asking you to explore it," she murmured under her breath.

Bilbo drew a small breath, letting out a soft chuckle. "Your aunt sounds fascinating."

"She was… fascinating, I suppose you could say," she replied absentmindedly, unable to hide a thread of melancholy in her voice.

Bilbo’s green eyes widened slightly, and his mouth turned downwards at this realisation.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t…"

"Don’t be," she interrupted. "She left this world on her own terms, just as she always wanted. She gave her life for someone she cared deeply about."

"Your uncle?" he asked, curious.

Geira lowered her gaze slightly and glanced over her shoulder at the sword resting a short distance away from her, following its rigid lines, the black and golden engravings along the blade.

"Something like that, Master Hobbit," she replied curtly.

Before Bilbo could respond, two bowls entered their line of sight, interrupting their conversation: Bofur stood beside them, holding out the two dishes with an excited flourish and a huge grin peeking out from under his comical black moustache.

"And these last ones are for you two!" he exclaimed, extending his arms wider towards them.

Geira took the wooden bowl filled with hot stew and thanked him with a slight nod, to which the dwarf responded with a small tip of his hat before turning to Bilbo, who had taken the bowl in his hands, turning it around in his palms.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, gesturing to the stew.

"Venison stew with carrots and celery, the finest stew east of Eriador!" Bofur proclaimed confidently, planting his fists on his hips. "Go on, have a taste," he urged, gesturing at Bilbo’s bowl and spoon before shifting his gaze to her. "Ya too! Don’t be shy!"

She couldn’t help but hide her surprise at the gesture, flinching slightly and looking at the dwarf with a touch of confusion. But he was undeterred, repeatedly glancing from the bowl to her.

"Come on, I want to know what ya think!"

She smiled and grasped the spoon in her fingers, scooping a piece of stew and bringing it to her mouth. As soon as it touched her palate, it melted instantly and slid down her throat without needing to chew.

Oh yes, it was probably the finest stew she’d ever tasted in all of Eriador.

She might have let out a small moan, quickly stifled with her hand, but the dwarf noticed and laughed softly.

"Told ya," Bofur said cheerfully. "It would’ve been divine with potatoes and dark ale!"

Geira took another bite, savouring the warm meal, satisfying her stomach’s demands and her palate.

Yes, Bofur was right—if she had a good mug of ale, this stew would have been worthy of a royal banquet.

She could even picture it if she squinted: the coloured fabrics adorning the ceiling, the bonfire in the centre of the hall, the shouts, the music, the dances—all things she hadn’t seen or experienced in a long time.

Suddenly, a low growl distracted Bofur, who gestured towards the blazing fire and Bombur, who, with his plate still full, was heading back to the pot..

"In Durin’s name!" Bofur muttered under his breath before spinning on his heel and marching towards the fire. "Bombur, stop that! That’s for everyone, you daft lump!" he scolded, throwing his arms in the air.

Bilbo chuckled quietly beside her before resuming his meal, tearing his gaze away from the now starry horizon.

She, however, stayed and watched the scene unfold before her: Bombur darted back and forth, trying to dodge his brother’s grasp while attempting to dip his spoon into the pot. Meanwhile, Bofur, amidst a chorus of background laughter and genuine shouts betting on one of the two, chased him around the fire. What had just happened was strange—very strange—but she had to admit, it was pleasant. She never would have expected such a gesture under the eyes of everyone from a dwarf she barely knew. Twice in one day, Bofur had shown her the bare minimum of kindness due to any living being. And yet, she marvelled, as if a dwarf talking to her was a rare or even impossible event—although it was rare and impossible.

"Thank you, thank you so much," Bilbo's voice drew her attention.

Geira turned to look at him, noticing how he was gazing at her with a friendly, faint smile on his bearded lips.

Confused, she tilted her head slightly. "For what? There’s nothing you need to thank me for," she said.

The hobbit shook his head, raising a hand to stop her. "I thank you, Geira, daughter of Geiri, for helping me," he whispered.

Geira shivered slightly, doing her best to conceal what a simple thank you had stirred within her. She offered him a sweet smile, lowering her head to hide how much it was widening.

Perhaps kindness towards her was no longer such a rare and impossible occurrence.

Soon enough, more or less everyone had devoured every single morsel of stew from the pot. The echoes of laughter and the background chatter had faded completely, leaving only the howling wind through the trees and the faint crackle of the fire, interspersed with the light snores of the dwarves huddled around it.

The light chill in the air had intensified and sharpened, enough to make Geira curl up against the rocky wall and wrap the cloak she had loathed that morning tightly around her shoulders.

In Durin’s name, she absolutely needed a smoke! Perhaps it would clear her head enough to let her sleep, at least for a couple of hours.

She sat up, pulling the fur blanket along with her, and began rummaging through the bag next to her. She pulled out her pouch of tobacco and the pipe within it. Squinting, she leaned her back against the rock, feeling her leg muscles begging for mercy.

She opened the pouch, inspecting the finely shredded orange and brown leaves. She then searched her pack again, muttering in frustration. Damn!

She opened it wide but found nothing at all: her pipe cleaner was missing. She had used it the last time she smoked… on Bilbo’s bench.

She brought both hands to her face, shaking her head. Things were going from bad to worse. Her flint and steel were miles away, probably never to be seen again, and now she was stuck with a clogged pipe and stale tobacco from the entire journey.

She turned the pipe over in her hands before glancing toward Fili and Kili, who, thank Mahal, were still awake. Kili, in particular, was cleaning his pipe with a pipe cleaner—so they had one.

Even though the idea of talking to either of them was far from appealing, she had to ask for the favour. Her sanity depended on it.

"Kili?" she called softly, leaning toward the fire.

The young dwarf stopped cleaning his pipe and looked at her, tilting his head to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"Could you lend me your pipe cleaner, please? I… I don’t have one, unfortunately," she asked, holding up her pipe to show him.

Kili looked at the pipe, then at his brother seated beside him, giving him a small nudge on the shoulder to grab his attention, making the gold embroidery of his blue shirt catch the firelight. "My pipe cleaner, you say?" he asked, dangling the small wooden object teasingly in front of her face.

Children.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she nodded. "Yes, your pipe cleaner, Prince Kili."

Kili’s grin widened even more, and with a swift movement, he closed his hand around the pipe cleaner and hid it behind his back in mockery, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on her.

"Only if you come here and smoke with us!"

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes—after all, she had asked for it.

"Kili…" she muttered, sighing.

"Forget it then!" he cut her off, slowly raising himself to his feet and hiding the cleaner even further behind his back.

Reluctantly, she sighed heavily, placing the pipe stem in her mouth. Using both hands for support, she moved closer to the fire, taking a seat not far from Fili, who was watching her with satisfaction. Picking up her pipe again, she extended her other hand toward Kili, who still had the cleaner tucked behind him.

"May I borrow your pipe cleaner, Kili?" she asked, observing how the younger prince’s bright eyes lit up slightly.

He smiled at her and handed over the small wooden tool, but suddenly jerked it back at the last moment, making her flinch and start to lose her patience.

Now she was certain—they were the princess’s children. That insistent, mischievous character could only be inherited from her.

"How old are you?" Kili asked slyly, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her.

"You talk too much for my liking, young prince," she replied sharply.

"I’m curious as well, to be honest," Fili chimed in, exhaling a puff of white smoke from his pipe into the air as he watched her from above. "I’d like to know how old you are."

This was becoming blackmail, and she’d had enough of Durin’s sons mocking and teasing her all day. She was too tired—too tired even to be angry, or to stand up and snatch the cleaner from Kili’s hands.

"I don’t want to smoke anymore," she declared, raising both hands in surrender, preparing to return to her resting place.

"Oh, come on," Kili interrupted, raising his voice slightly and earning a glare from Fili. "Just answer the question, and I’ll give it to you!"

"I don’t want to answer that question."

"And why not?" Fili asked this time, ignoring her refusal. He gripped his pipe tightly between his fingers. "Either you’re really old, or you’re really young and you’ve tricked us. Is your age such a big secret?"

That simple sentence silenced her and made her heart pound, confronting her with the truth: was she truly afraid of them knowing?

They weren’t fools. They had seen the engraving on her sword, and perhaps now all they needed was the final piece of the puzzle to confirm their suspicions. Then they, too, would view her as others had—a traitor, without knowing her side of the truth.

Fili remained silent for a long time, studying her face, illuminated by the interplay of orange light and shadow created by the fire. "How old are you?" he finally asked bluntly, removing the pipe from his mouth.

"One hundred and ninety-one," she replied just as swiftly, turning toward him and locking eyes with the piercing blue gaze so typical of his lineage, awaiting his reaction.

She waited in silence, bracing herself for judgment, a word, or even a glance toward her sword, still resting nearby against the rocky wall. But nothing came.

Fili and Kili exchanged sidelong glances, speaking to each other in a way she couldn’t hear. After a few looks and subtle nods, the dark-haired dwarf finally unclasped his hands.

"Seems fair to me!" Kili exclaimed, tossing the cleaner into her hand with a cheeky grin.

Geira took it with resignation and sighed, finally beginning to clean her pipe while leaning her back against the rough but warm stone of the small bay.

Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed through the darkness of the night, sending chills racing down her spine and raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Geira clenched her hands and quickly sat up straight, scanning the dark landscape before her and the thin veil of mist settling over the mountains.

"What was that?"

It was only when she heard Bilbo's voice that her focus shifted from the shadowy horizon to the hobbit, who was moving towards them, pointing nervously over his shoulder.

She was about to answer, setting the pipe and cleaner aside, but someone beat her to it.

"Orcs," Kili said, his expression serious and concerned.

"Orcs?!" Bilbo repeated, quickening his pace towards them.

"Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there," Fili added, puffing on his pipe and lowering his voice dramatically. "The Wilds are crawling with them."

Bilbo’s eyes widened.

"They strike in the dead of night, when everyone’s asleep. Swift and silent, no screams. Only blood," Kili concluded, lowering his voice even further while theatrically glancing around.

But Bilbo, evidently missing the irony, gaped in terror, glancing over his shoulder while the two brothers began to snicker, their gazes falling to the ground as they gave each other playful nudges.

If their goal was to terrify Bilbo for weeks, they had succeeded.

Geira let out a heavy sigh, fixing the two brothers with a piercing glare as they continued chuckling under their breath.

"Don’t you…" she began.

"Do you think this is funny?"

Geira stiffened when she recognised Thorin's voice, cutting through the air with anger. Rising from his seat to pose the question, he now towered over the two princes. Previously sitting apart, he now loomed over them not far from her. His sharp profile cut through the firelight as he advanced, still glaring at the princes.

"Do you think a night raid by orcs is a joke?" he asked again, his voice gravelly.

Kili lowered his gaze in guilt. "We didn’t mean anything by it," he murmured weakly.

"No you didn’t!" Thorin barked. "You know nothing of the world!"

Geira gripped her pipe tightly in her hand, her body tensing immediately upon hearing those words. But even just hearing his voice angered her so much that she continued to follow him with her eyes, watching as he turned his back and strode heavily towards the edge of the rock, which overlooked a steep drop.

"Don’t mind him, laddie," Balin interjected this time. Geira lifted her gaze slightly as she noticed the elder dwarf approaching the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He was addressing Kili directly. "Thorin has more reason than most to hate the orcs," he continued, leaning an arm against the stones behind him.

Geira noticed Bilbo watching the older dwarf in confusion, while she knew exactly what he was referring to.

"After the dragon claimed the Lonely Mountain, King Thror sought to reclaim the ancient kingdom of Moria…"

Upon hearing those words, Geira’s grip on the pipe tightened as memories came flooding back—stories told by travellers, passed from man to man, from merchant to merchant, over the years. Tales of death, despair, and everything that had afflicted her people, all of which she had only heard about second-hand because she hadn’t been allowed to take part. She had been forbidden to save her people or reclaim her ancestral home, where she would never set foot again.

In an instant, the meadow before her transformed into dust. Her hands no longer gripped a pipe but the hilt of a sword. Her face was not streaked with sweat but smeared with drops of enemy blood. In an instant, she was transported—thanks to Balin’s words—100 years into the past.

"But our enemy got there first."

"Moria had been overrun by legions of orcs, led by the most vile of their kind: Azog the Defiler."

From the mass of bodies and swords emerged a white orc. Swinging his mace rhythmically, he easily swept aside every warrior in front of his fur-covered eyes. Commands in the Black Speech spilled from his mouth like the darkest of curses as he slaughtered anyone in his path.

"For years, he prowled those corridors, turning those mines into his lair. He knew that if he wanted complete control, he needed to make one final move. The great orc of Gundabad had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin," Balin said.

Amidst the smoke and flames of the pyres emerged four figures, each close to the other, covering each other’s backs. King Thror, with his gleaming crown, advanced through the ranks of orcs. Prince Thrain blocked arrows or blows aimed at his father, covered in blood from head to toe. And behind him… Thorin. Sword in hand, shouting and protecting his younger brother from every danger, while the dark eyes of Frerin glistened with tears.

"It began… with the beheading of the king," Balin continued.

Geira clenched her teeth.

My aunt gave her life to protect someone she was deeply devoted to.

But she wasn’t there when she was needed once more.

Thror’s glittering crown fell to the ground, into the mud and filth, as his head was raised high in the orc’s fist—a grim trophy of victory over the dwarves.

"Prince Frerin charged the orc alone, but he was slaughtered before he could even reach him."

Geira felt a sharp pang in her chest as the scene playing in her mind dissolved. She raised her gaze to Balin, who continued speaking to Bilbo, his eyes veiled with grief.

Frerin… was… dead?

In a flash, she lowered her gaze in disbelief, then lifted her eyes back to Thorin, watching his silhouette bend forward against the night.

Frerin had died at Azanulbizar, and she hadn’t known. She had never known. For all these years, she had believed he was safe with his family—with his brother, his sister, his father—but he was gone.

"Driven by grief, Thrain, Thorin’s father, led a charge towards the Dimrill Gate. It was a slaughter."

A line of dwarves broke away from the rest of the army, raising their shields high to create a passage through the orcs. They ran relentlessly, cutting down every enemy in their path. But with every orc they killed, three more fell from their own ranks. By the time they reached the gate, less than half of them remained.

"Thrain was driven mad by his sorrow. He vanished—whether taken prisoner or slain, we did not know. We were leaderless."

At those words, Geira’s thoughts turned to one person and one alone. Her heart began to race in her chest. She could picture the figure clearly: a line of silver amulets and long blue cloaks, one darker than the others, streaked with black iron veins. A square circlet on the forehead held back a long, blonde braid.

No, it couldn’t be true.

"Herja?" she whispered, raising her gaze to Balin.

The old dwarf nodded silently, looking at her as one might look at a wounded animal.

She immediately cast her gaze downward, clutching her cloak tightly around her shoulders. In that moment, everything became clear: this was why Fili and Kili knew nothing. This was why Gandalf had called on her, and not someone else.

If Thrain had disappeared, Herja was dead. Her aunt was dead. She was… the last one left.

"Our defeat and deaths were inevitable, but it was then that I saw him—a young dwarven prince—facing the pale orc."

On his knees, Thorin rose from the ground, his teeth gritted. His black hair clung to his face, tears streaming down his cheeks. But in the depths of his blue eyes, there was no fear—only rage, honour, and vengeance. A vengeance that burned with pride, the spirit of his ancestors filling his body and taking over, making him stronger than any earthly calamity.

"He was alone, facing this terrible foe."

Through the mist, Thorin leapt at the massive orc, sword drawn, and began fighting with all his might, shouting from the depths of his chest. She could see him struggling to strike, limping, hunched under the orc’s powerful blows. Yet every time he was knocked to the ground, he rose again.

"His armour was torn, and he wielded only an oaken branch as a shield."

Thorin’s hand reached for the branch lying on the ground and seized it, shielding himself from the relentless force of the orc’s strikes. She could hear his cries and groans as the bones in his arm fractured.

"Ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for his people."

More real than ever, she saw Thorin kneeling, blood on his face and dripping from his mouth. Groaning in pain, he fought on, shielding the front lines behind him and allowing them to advance towards the main gate.

"Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be broken so easily."

Thorin let out a piercing battle cry, summoning the last of his strength to sever the pale orc’s arm completely. Black blood sprayed across his face as the orc collapsed in agony, falling to his knees before the triumphant dwarf prince.

"Our forces rallied and drove back the orcs. Our enemy was defeated."

The dwarves behind Thorin stared in awe, inspired by the final act of strength from the son of Durin, who stood tall, mighty, and legendary on the hill before their ancestral home. He shone like the Seventh Star, unstoppable as Mahal’s hammer on the anvil. He was the king of all dwarves, the lord of all the Children of Aulë.

Victory was theirs.

"But that night, there was no celebration, no songs, for our dead were beyond counting. We, the few, had survived."

And yet, amidst the joy, the bodies of the fallen remained fallen. The pyres continued to burn, and Frerin’s body lay lifeless on the ground, beside his grandfather’s shattered armour. Warriors clung to each other, foreheads pressed together, doubled over with grief. The bloodshed had given way to tears and the relentless awareness that the massacre of that day would echo through all the ages to come.

"And it was then that I thought: there is someone I could follow. There is someone I could call king," Balin declared, his tone filled with hope and love.

Only then did Geira raise her gaze and realise that the rest of the company had awakened. Now, they were staring at Thorin with wide eyes. Some placed a hand on their chest, while others simply remained silent, admiring their… king. She, however, felt an abyss open beneath her, swallowing her whole as Thorin turned, silently observing all his companions—except her.

Geira lowered her head, hiding her face as a storm of conflicting emotions rose in her chest: pain, anger, pride, and guilt, all consuming her like a fire.

"And what of the pale orc? What happened to him?" Bilbo asked curiously, drawing his knees to his chest.

"He crawled back into the hole he came from!" Thorin growled, striding back towards the fire, his heavy steps grinding into the dirt. "That filth died of his wounds long ago and he will not return," he said.

Dead.

Geira stiffened at the certainty with which Thorin had spoken. Among the villages of Men, in recent years, there were whispers of a massive white orc, of wargs and orcs pillaging every settlement they came across, leaving only bones and ashes in their wake.

In the silence, she glanced at Gandalf, who was watching Thorin with a frown. Thorin didn’t know. And no one had had the courage to tell him.

Another battle was raging within her: it was essential to tell him, it was only right that Thorin knew. But was it her place to do so? And why? Why should it fall to her? His companions ought to take care of him, just as he had taken care of them. She owed him nothing.

And besides, he wouldn’t believe her. He would shout at her, call her a liar.

Biting her trembling lip, she finally let the words escape, carried by something she couldn’t quite define.

"There are rumours in the East that say otherwise," she muttered, fixing her gaze on her black boots, avoiding meeting the dwarf's gaze, which now bore down on her again.

"No one asked for your input in this conversation or your opinion," Thorin replied coldly, turning towards her bed with a harsh glare that, if it could, would have set her aflame on the spot.

"I don’t need to be included in the conversation to dispel one of your certainties!" she retorted, the first stirrings of anger rising in her chest.

"My certainty?" he scoffed, stepping slowly towards the fire. "I watched it happen before my eyes. I was there while they massacred my people. I was there to see them die. And you... where were you?"

Geira remained silent, unwilling to answer, for whatever she said, she would always be seen as a liar. Always seen through his eyes as a traitor and a pawn of his kingdom. It was better to stay quiet and tend to her own affairs.

But her silence only enraged the king further.

"I asked you a question. Answer me!" Thorin barked, his voice rising.

"I wasn’t given the chance to be there. I wasn’t allowed. And you brought this fate upon me! If only I had known about the battle before it happened!" she shouted back.

She stood up quickly, and now only the fire separated them.

With some apprehension, she noticed the others were watching silently. Even Bilbo, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his knees drawn to his chest, stared at her, stunned.

Here, everyone would side with their sovereign, whether he was right or not.

"You were the architect of your fate, and yours alone! You chose your side. I did not make your choice for you!" he hissed, his voice filled with fury.

"And it was you who denied me the opportunity, who denied my father the opportunity to..." She bit her lip, cutting the sentence short.

No, she couldn’t say it—not aloud. It hurt too much. After all this time, it still hurt too much.

She took a deep breath, trying to hold herself together, trying to stop the trembling in her hands.

She decided to make one last attempt to prove her innocence. "I only ask..." she struggled to get the words out, "...that you trust me."

She realised how foolish she had been when she saw the icy look he gave her in response.

"I did trust you, if you remember. And I remember well where it got me—where it got all of us," he snarled.

He turned his back on her, walking with heavy, deliberate steps towards the edge of the rock, which opened onto a deep chasm, ignoring her completely.

It felt like a slap on her face. Geira felt a sudden urge to scream at the top of her lungs, to unleash her frustration and fury. Did he think he hated her more than she hated him? Oh, that cursed dwarf understood nothing—nothing at all.

"I remember too. I remember an exile that should never have happened! I remember a blind king, deaf to the truth, ignoring the pleas of one of his most trusted counsellors. I remember the despair and shame. I remember when you made me kneel and cut my hair, condemning me to exile. I remember wandering the Wilds, forbidden from speaking to anyone of my kin. And I remember the pain and death that followed—all of my world erased!" Her voice, strong and resolute at first, wavered, too much pain still lingering in her heart from those memories.

Breathing heavily, she spoke quickly, hoping no one would interrupt her. A long silence followed, none of the dwarves daring to make the slightest sound. Their eyes flicked between her enraged and distressed face and Thorin’s broad back.

Everyone, more or less, was aware of the deep divide and discord between them, and they knew better than to interfere. Even Dwalin kept silent; this wasn’t something for them to meddle in.

"Exile is a just punishment for those who betray their people. It was just for someone who turned their back and chose to consort with the enemy, conspiring behind their king's back, and watching their city burn!"

"That never happened! I came back! I came back, hoping that you, of all people, would understand and listen to me!"

"There was no reason to listen to more lies from your mouth! To hear your selfish excuses for why you weren’t there that day! For how you put yourself first above all else! For how your father conspired with the enemy!" Thorin roared, refusing to turn and face her, as if she were unworthy of his attention.

That was too much. He had no right to speak to her like that, to treat her as if she hadn’t tried to explain herself, as if all the pain and tears she had shed for him that day so long ago meant nothing.

"For once in my life, I put myself first. Yes, I lied. Yes, I betrayed. Yes, I put love above everything else. But I also put my love for Erebor above all else. I put my love for my family above all else! Just as you put everything else first—your pride and your blindness to what was happening in that mountain!" she snapped back, pointing a finger at him.

"Do not speak to me of love for Erebor. You know nothing of love!" Thorin bellowed, furious.

She flinched at the sharp pain that pierced her chest, as though his words were a dagger driven into her heart.

Her muscles tensed, like a predator preparing to pounce on its prey.

"You fled!" he spat, his voice laced with disdain. "You covered for a traitor, despite swearing before Mahal, and while you were gone, our people burned in their homes!"

Geira opened her mouth, stunned but trembling with rage. Unexpectedly, she laughed—a bitter, sorrowful laugh, utterly devoid of joy.

"You want me to say it’s all my fault, don’t you? That if not for me, our people would still be alive? That if not for me, everything that led to this moment would never have happened? That if not for me, Erebor would still be ours, you would be king, and everything would be perfect, wouldn’t it?" she whispered, though her tone carried like a scream in the frozen silence that hung between them.

Thorin didn’t move an inch.

"Answer me!" she snapped in anger, unable to control herself. She was too tired, far too tired for this. "Say it to my face, damn it!"

At an agonisingly slow pace, Thorin turned, his piercing gaze meeting hers.

She trembled, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her skin. She couldn’t calm herself, not now, not when the dam of her pent-up hatred had broken.

Thorin, in contrast, betrayed no emotion, as though the argument didn’t concern him at all. He remained silent, save for a furrowed brow and lips pressed thin, barely parted. Geira knew he would never be fooled by the sight of a few tears—tears he would never see her shed in his presence again.

Oh no, she swore in that moment, he would never see her cry.

"The love of Durin’s line for gold and wealth far exceeds your love for the people around you, leaving you blind. Your pride, your blindness, will lead you down the path of darkness, one way or another. And know this: I have no intention of giving my life for you just to see it wasted," she declared.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed off along the steep, rocky path they had taken to the cliff, disappearing into the forest’s dense shadows. She stumbled more than once over protruding roots, running clumsily in the oppressive but oddly comforting darkness.

Geira wished the darkness would swallow her whole—a prayer she had repeated for years.

She fell onto the uneven rocky surface, tearing her trousers and scraping her knees. The sting in her palms as they hit the hard ground reminded her that even this time, the darkness had not taken her. She picked herself up, limping a few more steps ahead before finding a fallen log. She collapsed onto it, exhausted from both her flight and the despair that overwhelmed her.

Sharp pain came from her palm, and as the darkness made it impossible to see, she felt around with her fingers. A small, pointed stone was embedded in her skin, likely lodged there during her fall. She held her breath, trying to steady herself. It was hard even to suppress her sobs, and her trembling wouldn’t stop. She pulled the stone out of her hand with a sharp tug, gasping, and flung it far into the trees. The dull sound of it landing among them joined the eerie, unsettling noises of the forest, where it always felt like something was watching from between the tall trunks. But truth be told, at that moment, the strange sounds weren’t Geira’s biggest concern.

Tearing a strip from her red shirt, long enough to wrap around her palm twice, she made a makeshift bandage. With no water to clean the shallow cut or the blood trickling from it, she tied the fabric tightly around her hand, knotting it despite the stinging pain.

Every attempt to hold back her tears had failed miserably the moment she hit the ground. She didn’t care about the blurry vision—she had no need of her eyes. The tears poured freely now, as though she hadn’t cried in years. And in truth, she hadn’t.

She vividly remembered the last time she cried, and why.

It was, after all, the same reason she was crying now. It was always the same reason. And yet, despite the years that had passed since that day—during which she hadn’t shed a single tear, hardening her heart—here she was, back where she had started. All it took were Thorin’s accusations and the hatred she had silently endured during her years of exile to resurface, consuming her mind and heart. No matter how hard she tried to forget the past, she could never escape it. It always came back, eventually.

All she wanted was to fulfil her oaths, to live her life in peace. But like this? It was impossible.

She didn’t know how much time had passed—maybe hours. But the moon was now high in the sky, and the pain in her hand had dulled. For the first time in ages, she wanted to be truly alone, with no one around. She wanted to drown in the darkness.

Alone.

Geira clenched her fists, ignoring the small silver bracelet that slipped out from beneath her sleeve. She had cried enough over the past that night, and she wanted it to stop.

After a few minutes of walking through branches and broken trunks, she was the first to return to the camp where the others were sleeping soundly, their snores and calm breaths steady. She quickly surveyed the scene, counting to twelve: one was missing. Geira didn’t need to think twice—she knew exactly who it was.

Returning to her spot as quietly as possible, she knelt before her blanket. On it, she found her pipe and a handkerchief—the handkerchief Bofur had given Bilbo. Her hand trembled as she touched it, and even more so as she glanced over at Bilbo, sleeping not far from her.

A small smile escaped her lips.

She lay down slowly. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was slow to come. Every sound pricked her ears, and many hours later, one finally caught her attention. Heavy footsteps were approaching from the opposite direction of where she had fled. They came closer, stepping into the perimeter of the firelight, then stopped.

With a jolt in her chest, Geira felt Thorin’s piercing gaze land on her back. She thanked the heavens she was turned away from him, so he couldn’t see she was struggling to feign sleep.

She felt his eyes on her for a long time, leaving her restless and uneasy. Finally, she heard him lie down in his place.

More time passed, and eventually, Geira felt the pull of sleep envelop her, her limbs heavy, her eyelids closing in the comforting embrace of oblivion. The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was a low, deep sigh.

#thorin oakenshield #richard armitage #the hobbit #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit fanfiction #thorin x y/n #thorin #middle earth #middle earth fic #thorin fanfiction

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prettyoddfever · 2 years ago

Photo

One of my favorite parts of following the Fever-era band was watching where they got inspiration, and how they’d build on an idea to make it their own.

Motley Crue did their Carnival of Sins tour shortly before Panic started touring. And P!ATD didn’t even pretend like that didn’t influence them when it came time to plan their national headlining tours. Some reviews for P!ATD’s summer tour (which was the Moulin-Rouge-inspired one) had said that the band pulled off what Motley Crue had been trying to do... and that was before the Nothing Rhymes With Circus tour even existed.

It became a well-known fact that the band had tried to borrow Motley Crue’s circus tent, so the Panic guys had to answer quite a few questions about that (here’s a random example from early October once the band already had their NRWC plans).

The pictures at the top of this post are from Panic’s Nothing Rhymes With Circus tour, which felt like the finale of the Fever era. And then the screenshots below are from Motley Crue’s Carnival of Sins tour:

They had acrobats, fire breathers, and other circus-type stuff:

Here’s Tommy Lee’s makeup:

In hindsight, it’s pretty funny to look at all of the things that P!ATD talked about wanting to do (that they weren’t allowed to do)... but Motley Crue had been able to do those things. Brendon and Spencer especially talked about wanting to get fire breathers, trapeze performers, and ANY type of pyrotechnics, get Brendon shot out of a cannon, etc.

It’s hard to tell in this screenshot, but Tommy Lee is flying across the stage on wires (he’s above the “T” in the name):

he landed on a platform and started playing while a pyrotechnic mess happened:

Spencer & Brendon would have loved to have this amount of fire...

and after grabbing those screenshots, I think I can spot some moments that answer why some people were claiming in late 2006 that their sister/friend/whatever went to P!ATD’s tour and saw the female performers doing some very specific sexual stuff... and the rest of us were like wtf show did they go to because that’s not what everyone else in the arena talked about seeing. So maybe those people legit thought that the two tours were the same thing. I also think that some journalists subconsciously lumped both tours together because they’d write about Panic having trapeze artists, fire-breathers, “dwarves,” and/or other things that were actually from Motley Crue’s tour.

I could ramble for a long time about how the two tours were very different, but I suppose that’s not the point of this post. Basically, the Panic guys were open about being inspired by some aspects of Motley Crue’s stage show.

The video was released during the season when Panic was planning their first national headlining tour. Here’s an ad from spring 2006:

update: sometimes I switch tracks in the middle of writing a thought and then go back and rearrange stuff because I have learned to roll with my ADHD buuuuut I totally failed in this post. So sorry. I just re-read this and the second paragraph was a hot mess that made it sound like the summer tour was in arenas (I could spot like 3 different approaches I had been trying to start with lol). I fixed it now!

I’m just going to leave this quote from Gerard Way to Kerrang:

#Nothingrhymeswithcircus

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stardeer-valley · 6 months ago

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Summer 27, Year 1

Two straps for the belly band, two straps for the chest band, two on each bag for four. That's eight straps. Must have some manner of fastening them.

It wasn't her usual day, but Abigail felt like going for her walk to the Wizard's Tower. On her way there, she spotted the Weird Ass Deer, or as everyone else started called him; Beep, settling into the grass near the locked sewer gate. There was no mistaking the glowing blue antlers, or the wings no normal deer should have.

Several hours later, on her way back home, Abigail saw Beep hadn't moved from the cliff. He didn't have antlers now, and seemed to be relaxing. The view of the water must be nice. That, or the wind since he had wings. Abigail started walking faster, slightly unnerved by the unnatural creature.

As Abigail hurried home, Beep once again repeated a word in his home tongue. Inside the shade of the sewer, Krobus replied with the same word, but in the language of the Shadow People. Despite only knowing each other for a few days, they were becoming fast friends. Monsters amongst people, happy to coexist. Beep learned Krobus meant "Bridge-crosser" in Shadow People language. Krobus learned how Beep came to be here, and his actual name. The secrets were safe with him. Krobus explained the war between the Dwarves and Shadow People over ancestral land. Beep shared a wild horseradish he had preserved since Spring. It might've been a little stale, but Krobus still loved it. Back and forth, sharing how to say different words in their different languages for fun, until the sun began to set, and Beep had to return to the farm.

———

Things different from canon; (AU???) Gramps never had an heir, or they never show/ed up. Special new farm map; Frontier Farm! Stardew Valley Expanded; new maps, new NPCs, new events, a LOT of new stuff. The new “Farmer” is just a Weird Ass Deer. NPCs will respond/react accordingly.

This is my first time playing Stardew Valley Expanded, so I’m learning as I go. (Please no spoilers if you play SVE)

#stardew valley #stardew valley expanded #stardew valley au #stardeer valley #conlang #peryton

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rei-ha · 6 months ago

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Kurant and Meri

In this currently untitled world there are four races

- Shapeshifters: Kurant and Meri are part of the current Bontu population which had been banished from the main continent over 100yrs ago after tension between them and the Asari snapped when the Asari king was assasinated and the Bontu were blamed. They were cast out into unfamiliar lands and ended up forced to war among each other to attempt to make a suitable home in vast grasslands and savannahs. Though, they did benefit from the groups still living in their native homeland, but, the massive influx of banished people was a little too much for anyone to handle. They’re the biggest of all four races, standing at about 6-7 feet tall at the shoulder. They can take the form of any person or animal they see but will only be able to remember the form for about 4 months. Though, if they consume the brain of their prey they can permanently steal its form, its memories, and can perfectly copy its mannerisms and instincts. This ability is often targeted in propaganda against the Bontu.

- Harpies: The smallest race that’s humanoid with bird features such as feathers on their cheeks, heads, necks, and backs along with bird like feet, and talons on their fingers. They also have large, bird like wings on their backs that are large variety of colors with many different patterns, such as speckling, bars, spots, etc. Currently there are two distinct populations in the Asari and the Farha, the latter being a group that had split off to accompany the Bontu in their banishment. They’ve helped the Bontu set up new cities and towns in their new lands but the Asari keep interfering with their efforts, scared the Bontu might retaliate for what they’ve done to them. Kurant harbors a strong anger towards them and despite his young age he’s positioned himself as their leader.

- Dwarves: a race that dwells beneath the ground and around volcanoes, very heat resistant and the second largest race. They’re a knuckle walking species covered in thick, rocky armor, massive claws meant for digging, and a second pair of arms that are much more slender and flexible to the first, meant for grabbing and manipulating objects. They like to keep to themselves but will occasionally trade with the Asari.

- Sirens: These people are great mimickers who can also compose the sounds and words they learn into something new, a song that’s unique to them. They face a similar prejudice as the Bontu but the Asari still trade with them. They’re usually greys and blues but during the summer in breeding season they’ll turn vivid colors and take on stunning patterns. The Sirens have a culture centered around traveling due to their lives in the oceans.

Kurant - Very serious looking but sensible and kind, his expression just doesn’t change much. He adores his mate and is only housing Het, an Asari scout who was caught by the wrong band of young, rogue Bontu and had his wings ripped off, because Meri cares for Het. He’s loyal to his people and ready to do something drastic to get the Asari off their backs. Was orphaned at a very young age after the cult his family was in all killed themselves. He stands at 8’2” and is unusually dark in color for a male, which tend more towards Meri’s color.

Meri - He has piebaldism and dwarfism as those with the former condition are 5 times more likely to developed the second. He was raised by the Farha and has a much softer temperament than most Bontu. He stands at only 5’11”. He loves to sew and is sometimes a bit saddened that Kurant doesn’t like wearing a lot of clothing. Him and Het are very close and Meri helps the Asari when his scars are hurting him.

#original worlds #worldbuilding #original character #original species #digital art #Couple #Backstory #Bontu

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wareagleofthemountain · 1 year ago

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Long Story…

Summary: Orophin and Caladwen have a little adventure.

Caladwen leapt from tree branch to tree branch, sharp green eyes fixed on the ellon beneath her who was currently plodding along the muddy path pulling a cart behind him. The chilly air nipped at her fingers and the earth was left dampened by the recent rainfall. The rivers of Lorien were at their most productive, flowing fast and running deep. It had been Orophin’s idea to set off towards the creek bed and try to pan for gold as all the recent activity would have no doubt stirred up the sediment which lay below the water.

“Could use a little help here.” Her brother in law grumbled, the wheels of the cart having gotten caught in the mud for what must have been the fiftieth time that day.

Caladwen grinned, swinging upside down on a Mallorn limb by her ankles. “What’s wrong? The big, strong Marchwarden Orophin having a hard time?”

“I’ll show you a hard time, you elfling!” He smirked, muttering a hushed command to the tree she was hanging from, a vine promptly slithering out to fling her off.

“Oof!” She sat up from the bush she’d landed in, scowling at the smug face staring back at her. “Real mature.”

“You had it coming.” His eyes sparkled with mirth and he extended a hand to help her up. “Alright, let’s get the shovels. Again.”

Caladwen chuckled. “I love how you bought these with the intention of digging up rocks in the creek, but all we’ve done with them so far is excavate our cart from the mud.” She reached out and retrieved the two items in question, both Warden-grade shovels struggling not to bend under the thickness of the mud and already caked in grime.

“I’m just glad Rumil reminded me to grab them when I was headed out the door this morning. Nearly forgot.” Orophin panted, chucking away his third scoop of debris into the tree line.

“Eru forbid ‘tis one of us who should get caught in this stuff. It’s like quicksand.” It was now Caladwen’s turn to take up pulling the cart loaded with mining supplies, the elleth noticing the fatigue in Orophin’s arms.

“If the bounty in that river is half as plentiful as the dwarves say, the mud will be worth it.” Orophin was known to frequent bars run by dwarves, as he claimed they lead to more interesting stories to tell at the end of the night. Though his brothers certainly stopped finding this habit of his amusing after the time Orophin had come scrambling home in the early hours of the morning, hurrying to lock the door and constantly looking over his shoulder. As it turns out, the young fool had been so caught up in his cups that he’d spent all of his gambling money at the bar. And dwarves, especially the very greedy miner Orophin had played cards with that night, do not take kindly to not receiving their winnings. The dwarf spent two hours banging on their Tallen door and shouting curses at the ellon inside about what he was going to do if Orophin didn’t pay up. Haldir ended up having to foot the bill that night, and in turn Orophin earned a very long lecture about responsibility the next day as well as being put on paperwork filing duty for the following week to teach him a lesson.

But did that experience deter the willful ellon from returning to such establishments? Of course not!

“Haldir thinks we’re mad carrying on out here in the cold like this.” Caladwen’s heart clenched, already missing her husband. She thought back to Haldir’s soft blue eyes gazing up at her as he knelt to tie her boots this morning, draping his rainproof cloak over her shoulders as she walked out of the door. Even now she could feel his warm breath ghosting over her pointed ear, and hear his voice making her promise to stay safe in its usual gruffness. It made her long to be in his embrace once more, Caladwen focusing her attention on her fea to connect with the ever present reassurance of their soul bond. It was like having her skin kissed by the thin reys of the sun on a warm summer day; not overpowering, but just enough to feel its comforting presence.

“I’m sure he’ll warm up to the idea when we bring home the gold!” Orophin puffed his chest out confidently, and Caladwen could see that he had no intention of leaving the creek without his treasure.

Both elves stopped and turned to each other when they saw the steep slope that lay before them, terrain dotted with boulders and trees. It was the only way to get down to the water they realized with a shared sigh. Now, had it only been the two of them, this hike would have been no trouble. But unfortunately, there was no way they could make it down while pulling the cart.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Orophin gave her a sly wink.

“No. Come on. No! Orophin!” Caladwen was now seated in the cart, Orophin standing behind it with his feet ready to give him a running start.

“It’ll be fine.” He assured her.

“Famous last words!” The elleth protested. “How are we even going to get it back up here when we’re done?”

“Meh, that’s our future selves’ problem.” Was the last phrase Caladwen heard before her world became a blur of colors zipping by as they rolled down the cliff, Orophin having pushed off and now sitting behind her. “Lean left!” He commanded between gritted teeth, struggling to throw his weight around enough to guide the direction of the cart.

“Look out!” Caladwen’s eyes went wide, seeing a huge tree only a few feet in front of them. “Need a plan here pilot!” Her voice was panicked, but also agitated by his lack of response.

They held their breaths and leaned in the opposite direction, just barely grazing the tree. Orophin was the first to burst out laughing when the shock wore off, Caladwen joining in with shaken hands.

“Woooo! Take that! We rule this mountain!” Orophin threw his head back, howling their victory.

“Uh… Orophin?” Caladwen’s shaking again.

“Oh no…” His eyes fall on the ledge in their path, approaching too fast to react. “Brace for impact!”

Instinctively, Orophin moved to cover Caladwen’s body with his own, wrapping around her to break her fall as the two were ejected from the cart. The wood splintered as it hit the ground below.

Orophin landed on his feet, carefully lowering her to the soil. “You okay Cali?”

“Yeah, I think so…” She panted.

“Haha! See? Told you we’d make it.” He patted her shoulder as he walked off to scavenge for their mining supplies which were now strewn about all over the bank. Eventually, everything was retrieved, and the wide array of tools Orophin managed to procure for their trip was truly impressive; old kitchen pans with holes poked into the bottom of them to act as sifters, a pick to scrape mud and moss off of potentially valuable rocks, and the aforementioned shovels. Lastly, each elf brought a pack filled with food, fresh water, and plenty of space to take home any treasures they might find. They eagerly leapt into the cold water, standing about waist deep as they began digging for handfuls of rock to sift through.

Caladwen stifled her laughter as Orophin nearly face planted trying to walk in the stream, his boots so close to getting sucked off of his feet by the mud. “You good?”

He immediately picked up on the sarcasm in her tone, gathering a clump of slimy moss from the end of his shovel and holding it in front of his face with a wrinkled nose. “Ewww… think fast!”

The elleth yelped as it landed in her already messed hair, overbalancing and landing in the stream. Sputtering, she scrambled to her feet.

“You look like the creature from the Black Lagoon.” Orophin chuckled.

“Who eats troublesome lads like you!” She couldn’t help but splash him to even the score.

Not having any luck in their current position, Caladwen decided to branch off and sift in a shallower section of the creak by the bank, perching atop a rock outcropping. Her eyes lit up when they caught sight of something interesting in the bottom of her pan.

“What is it?” Orophin’s ears pirked up.

“Not gold, but look at this beautiful wild clay!” She exclaimed, holding the chunk of clay, a marbled combination of orange and purple, up to him. “This would be perfect for making jewelry beads!” She set about collecting as much as she could, even happening upon a few patches of yellow clay, and wrapping the material in damp cloth before placing it in her bag. Orophin, for his part, was not able to locate any gold but collected a few unique small fossils embedded in rocks.

He was the first to notice the darkening skies, having learned through all his years as a warden that it would be unwise to travel given how intense the rainstorms have been in case of mudslides. “Let’s tuck in for the evening. I saw a cave about half a mile upstream.”

XXX

Caladwen and Orophin were eager to put their supplies down once they reached the mouth of the cave. The cart had been broken in the crash, leaving them to carry their tools along with the heavy packs. Caladwen built a fire and they left their cloaks and boots to dry by it, nibbling on lembas and relaxing in a soft patch of moss by the warmth.

“I’m bored.” Orophin groaned, apparently unable to withstand the lack of activity in the last five minutes.

“Hmm…” Caladwen tapped her chin thoughtfully, eyes wandering over the stalactites on the roof of the cave. “Want to play a game?”

“I’m listening.” He rolled over to face her.

She picked up two sticks from the surrounding area, dipping them into the charcoal and water mixture that had collected in puddles in the darker regions of the cave, creating a quill of sorts. “It’s called three line. You draw three arbitrary lines and the other person has to create a picture out of them.” She demonstrated by scribbling three lines on the cave wall, Orophin quick to follow. They switched places and proceeded to begin to craft an image using the abstract lines they were given.

“There. A masterpiece!” Orophin said ostentatiously as he unveiled his work.

Caladwen squinted. “What is it?”

He swats her playfully, his face a mask of mock offense. “A slice of cake!” As if it was obvious.

“Did it get run over by a horse?” She quipped.

He laughed. “Don’t blame me, they were your lines.” He leans over, looking at her drawing. “A sun?”

“You got it!”

Their night was filled with laughter, paining the walls with round after round of three line until they drifted off to sleep.

XXX

They must have been quite the sight, coming over the hill caked in mud and carrying supplies that were even dirtier.

“What… happened to you two?” Was all Haldir could muster as he leapt down from his watch tower to meet them.

“Long story…”

#Haldir #lotr #Haldir’s wife #Haldir of Lorien #Orophin #Haldir x ofc

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