#Do you think Aragorn felt this way too? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rivendell-poet · 7 months ago

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𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐄𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐡 « one-shot »

Pairing : Legolas X Reader

Wordcount : 2.3k

No TWs | Gender-neutral reader | Elf!reader | Read on Ao3

Summary : “I was,” You hesitated, not wanting to reveal you were slacking off, “Observing our immediate upward surroundings, to make sure a… bird, doesn’t attack us,” At the end of your speech, it honestly sounded more like a question than a statement, and Legolas let out a soft laugh accordingly.

“It is ok, I think the stars are very beautiful too,” He looked up, then back down at you, hesitating for a second, “They are pretty, meleth nîn.”

There had been a pause after he’d said that, and you made eye contact for a brief moment. He seemed to be searching for something, but you weren’t sure what. And it didn’t matter if you had a brief thought it might be a love confession (and you liked him back-) you were not misreading signs and acting on unrequited love.

- - - -

You and Legolas should really be together already, but neither of you will admit it, and neither of you will confess. Until someone does. But, as an elf, you really should know Elvish. Miscommunication/misunderstandings occur, but everything work out in the end.

You had never regretted not learning Elvish more in your life. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, you could think of a few other times it’d been worse, but this had to be up there. As an elf, people always expected you would know your mother-tongue, but you’d been brought up by humans and never learnt it for most of your life. And even when you moved to Rivendell, you still hadn’t learnt it - even though you’d been able to.

Technically you could understand a few words, those being; gresta (help), dagor (battle), baura (need, or require), mann (food), and pen-channas (stupid, or idiot). To be honest, that last word was probably the reason most elves thought you could understand Elvish, as you used it fairly frequently in your vocabulary, and it was one of the first things you’d said to Legolas.

When you had said that to him, he looked at you with these slightly hurt eyes, then realised you were joking, and said something back in elvish (fôf you were pretty sure), and you had simply rolled your eyes in response. Looking back at that moment, you really should have informed him you didn’t know Elvish, but oh well - he thought you did, and you were way too prideful to admit anything otherwise.

Besides, although Legolas (and very infrequently Aragorn) spoke to you in Elvish, whenever it was something important they’d speak in Common tongue, as to make sure the hobbits understood too.

But to the point. You were regretting never telling Legolas you didn’t speak Elvish, because he’d started talking in it to you. Quite a lot. Never full conversations, mainly just phrases sprinkled in - but you had no idea what it meant. And you desperately wanted to find out.

Afterall, at one point - you and Legolas had been on watch together, him peering into the trees that weren’t illuminated by the fire, and you leaning up against him and looking at the stars. You felt him shift slightly, and leaned back off him, realising he was looking at you.

“Sorry, should’ve… asked permission, I know.”

There was a soft spoken smile in his voice when he spoke back, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind it at all mellon . I was simply curious as to what you were doing.”

“I was,” you hesitated, not wanting to reveal you were slacking off, “Observing our immediate upward surroundings, to make sure a… bird, doesn’t attack us.” At the end of your speech, it honestly sounded more like a question than a statement, and Legolas let out a soft laugh accordingly.

“It is ok, I think the stars are very beautiful too,” he looked up, then back down at you, hesitating for a second, “They are pretty, meleth nîn .”

That incident had been two nights ago, and things had stayed awkward between the two of you. You had tried to approach him, going out to scout together, but he’d been reserved, and excused himself. All conversation was about what had just happened, and if you all had food. The only other thing you’d gotten out of him was a quiet muttering (that you weren’t sure if you should’ve heard), “ Im crumguru”

And being the Elvish genius you were, you had zero clue what that meant. But you could tell you’d done something wrong, you’d hurt Legolas. And that thought weighed you down, made even the supposedly limitless elf energy drain from you, being replaced by guilt.

Eventually you stopped walking for the day and set up camp, but despite all your companions around you, you still felt suffocated. Glancing up, you saw Aragorn and Legolas in hushed conversation, and conversation in Elvish for that matter. As you looked closer, although trying not to seem like you were staring, you saw a hint of sadness in Legolas’s eyes, before he turned away to Aragorn, who actually sent a brief look your way.

Frodo, bless his soul, saw your discomfort and gently sat down next to you, saying nothing but sitting in companionable silence. Before eventually something broke it, it was Sam, piping up, “Is anyone available to go get firewood, I want to start cookin’ before it gets too late.”

“I will.”

The exclamation went at the same time, from both you and Legolas. But before either of you could back out, Sam clasped his hands together, smiling, “Two is better than one I suppose, be back soon.” Stretching, the two of you got up - with you not missing the look that Legolas gave Aragorn. “Just be getting firewood, mind,” Gimli calls out, right as you begin to leave.

Normally, that would’ve elicited a dark blush from you (and sometimes a lighter one from Legolas), but tonight it just made your heart ache slightly. Normally, you made a light hearted reply at him, maybe nudge Legolas a bit, but this time you stayed silent. Instead Legolas responded, “Do not worry Gimli, it will just be collecting firewood.”

If it could, your heart would’ve sunk further into your chest, and you hurried along towards some of the trees, blindly stopping to see if any broken branches were lying about. You needed to apologise to him, or tell him the truth about why you’d responded the way you did. But instead you chose the cowards way, silently gathering fallen timber for a fire.

A few times, you could feel his blue eyes on you, not invasive, and more curious if anything - but you didn’t address or turn round and face them. It had only been a few minutes, and you’d gathered much more timber than you usually would with him, when you turned around, blurting out, “I think we have enough - do you want to head back?”

Great, that wasn’t at all what you wanted to say to him. But screw apologies, you know, why have them when you can ask your c̶r̶u̶s̶h̶ - Legolas, about how much wood he’d collected. “Wait, Legolas, I meant to-”

“Yes, I think we have plenty between us,” he cut across, his voice quiet but instantly making you silent. For a second your throat hurt, and you swallowed hard, turning sharply and your heel and beginning to make your way back to Frodo and the others, clutching the bundle of logs painfully tightly.

As you hurried back, you could hear Legolas say something, but you cut him off, dropping the logs in front of everyone, “We’re back. Is this enough?” As you interrupted what small chatter had been ongoing, you saw as they looked in confusion to only you, before they saw Legolas appear a bit away, also holding quite a few logs.

Dinner was quiet, to you and Legolas at least, as you both sat alone and off to the side, only speaking to mutter a quiet thanks as soup was served around. At one point, everyone had finished eating and was settling down. The matter of who would watch went on, and you volunteered, knowing you probably wouldn't be able to sleep.

There was a brief moment of silence as people waited for Legolas to volunteer, you two always did watches or scouts together, but when he remained silent Aragorn stepped up, volunteering with a brief hand up, and an almost chiding look at Legolas.

Everyone had settled down, as much as they could at least, and began to sleep.The first thirty minutes went by silently, with Aragorn giving you concerned glances every now and then. And the guilt was awful, consuming even. Every now and then your eyes would flicker to where Legolas was sleeping, and then to your bedroll - as far away as was possible. This wasn’t right. And, you’d never admitted this before, but it wasn’t right because you loved him.

Then, just as the hour mark approached, and you could see Aragorn beginning to speak, you blurted out, “I can’t speak Elvish.”

Simply silence, and genuine surprise on Aragorn’s features. You continued, “I know, I’m an elf - I should be able to. But I just never learnt, I know about five words - and one of them I called Legolas when I first met, so I think he thinks I can speak Elvish. But I really can’t, and I need you to translate for me.”

There was a chuckle, and a slow whistle from Aragorn, “That… was not what I was expecting. But of course, what do you need me to translate? And why?”

Without you thinking, blush began to spread around your face, and when you tried to whisper it out you couldn’t. There was something intimate, in that moment in the woods, and something that you almost didn’t want to share with Aragorn. Until, “Well, first… he called me mellon , but not like the fruit, I hope… it, sounded Elvish.”

“I imagine he meant the Elvish translation too,” Aragorn smiled, “And it means friend. But you said that was the first one?” There was a more reserved element to his prying, and you were grateful for that. And you were getting mixed messages. You had thought that night was romantic, but what if it hadn't been. What if he didn’t view you the same way?

But still, friendly or not, you felt a reluctance to share the second word, and Aragorn gave an understanding, yet knowing, smile. “You don’t have to tell me by any means, but if you want a full scale on the situation, you need to ask him.”

You nodded, looking over to near where Legolas was still sleeping. “I’ll ask him tonight,” you resolved, sitting up a little straighter, and looking at the stars.

Aragorn had gotten up by this point, rolling his shoulders back, “I may wake him now, and you can talk. And if you need any Elvish translations, please ask me,” there was a sudden sense of butterflies in your stomach, and constriction in your throat, so you just nodded.

There was just a short walk to where Legolas was lying, and Aragon picked up a stick on the way. With a slight grin, he gently tapped the sleeping body of the elf. No movement. Then he tried again, no movement. But the third time a hand shot out, grabbing it before taking a blind shot, and Legolas sat up, reaching for a bow.

Scowling, he looked around the starlight then at Aragorn, “I assume I’m taking over the watch?” He asked, a little stiffly, while getting out of the simple bedroll and putting on his quiver, bow grasped loosely in his hand.

Aragorn nodded, with a slight grin, before moving slightly out of the circle to sleep, like he always did. Wordlessly, Legolas completely stood up, silently moving to the opposite side of the fire and staring into it, face lit strangely by the dancing flames.

This was simple, this would be easy. You had just told Aragorn it after all, so really there should be nothing stopping you from saying the same to him. But your throat was constricting, and you could feel the smoke sting in your eyes a little bit more.

Instead of words, a small choked sound came out of your mouth, as though you were being strangled or a dying animal. Instantly you saw Legolas look up, eyes showing concern as you tried to speak. Before hardening again, as though he could decide. Then he began to look away, when you managed to speak up.

“I can’t speak Elvish.”

There was shock in his face, you could tell. Shock and confusion, as he stared at you, mind working to absorb the information so late at night. Before a quiet, timid almost, “So you could not understand me, when I was talking to you in the forest?”

You shook your head, another almost choking sob sounded out in your throat, “I know five words, the most useful one is food.”

Something was filling his eyes, you could see. Something like relief, and possibly something more… but you couldn’t tell. And you didn’t want to make assumptions. There was a few seconds of silence between the two of you, before he stood up suddenly, and moved over to you. Not touching, but closer than you’d been in days.

“What… what did you call me? On that night,” you asked eventually, tearing your eyes away from the fire and into his.

“I- I’m not sure how you’d respond to it now,” he managed to get out stiffly, eyes not yet leaving yours.

“Legolas, the only reason I didn’t react is because I didn’t understand you, I promise. I was just uncertain about what you’d said, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Legolas stared back at you, almost warring emotions in his eyes, and almost subconsciously his hands went out, wrapping gently around yours. You could see him try to speak, when he gulped, nervous one - still looking, but with a hint of fear.

“I called you my love,” he whispered, almost as though he was afraid, “In the forest. Meleth nîn means my love, and I said it because…” At that his voice trailed off, and you grasped onto his hands to stop them slipping out from yours.

“As… as in partners?” You asked, gripping onto his hands again when you could feel them slipping away.

“Yes, meleth nîn , as in… I love you.”

(Story from Legolas' POV) Hope you enjoyed! Requests are open <3

thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ wish to be tagged?

#legolas x reader #legolas x you #legolas #legolas greenleaf #legolas x y/n #lotr x reader #lotr fanfic #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #x reader #lotr oneshot #oneshot

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mothmimic · 1 year ago

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Hazy Memories

‣ pairing: Legolas x reader

‣ words: 950+

‣ content: fluff, human reader, gn!reader

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summary: after the Fellowship settles down for the night, you find that the cold leaves you unable to fall asleep. A walk in the woods ends in a moment more touching than you could have imagined.

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The terrain you— along with the rest of the Fellowship— trekked along was undeniably a difficult route to take. The temperature had plummeted significantly before the group had even reached the mountain of Caradhras, which led to the decision to make camp before nightfall would bring even deadlier weather.

Now you tossed and turned in your sleeping bag, your thoughts constantly lingering on the persistent, icy wind that was currently nipping at your skin. Most of your companions had somehow already found their way to hazy dreams: the hobbits were huddled together and sharing each other’s warmth; Aragorn, Gimli, and Boromir had each found their own place to rest; and Gandalf was off meditating somewhere, you were sure. The only one who was wide awake was Legolas, who was currently on watch due to his lack of need for sleep.

But through the fog the cold had brought upon your mind, you could still make out the memories of the past evening. Although the long stories of the mountain that Gandalf had told the group were already lost to you, the interactions you had with the blond elf were clear as a sunny day. The thought of him brought an unexplainable warmth throughout your chest before you urged it away. Your feelings for him were based purely on admiration, that was all.

You had always worried about him, which was why you had immediately offered him your cloak once the temperature had began to lower. You felt bad for him, seeing him in simple layers compared to the others. He had given you a curious look at first before a small, warm smile made its way to his face.

“I am alright, thank you.”

“But aren’t you cold?” You continued, the crease in your expression making it seem as if the mere thought of him being cold horrified you.

He shook his head softly, pressing your cloak back towards you. “Not necessarily, although I do appreciate your offer.”

And before you could protest he was already in front of the group again. You watched him gingerly step upon the snowy ground each time he moved, his grace leaving barely a trace. You sighed, the warmth of your breath drifting from your lips. Only when one of the hobbits pushed you forward did you snap out of your trance.

Tonight you were in that same trance again, your restlessness guiding you from your sleeping bag and towards the dense woodland. You weren’t sure where you were headed, if you were headed anywhere, but hopefully your movement would be enough to grant you a bit of warmth. You found your way to a relatively clear path between the trees before your eyes caught sight of a light trail of footsteps. You followed them, wishing for the elf to still be there, yet the trail stopped at a deep decline in the ground. You looked past the cliffside and to the star-speckled sky as if you were waiting for something. After a moment you eventually sighed and intended to turn back around, yet something stirred from the leaves overhead.

With one swift movement you grabbed the pocket knife on your waistband, ready to fight whatever was there— or rather, whoever. When your eyes opened again you were met with ones of sapphire-blue, paired with an amused grin framed by strands of smooth, delicate hair.

“Y/N.”

“I- Legolas!” You stammer, quickly withdrawing the weapon you had faced him with.

He looks you up and down with one swift glance, clearly not affected. “You’re awake. Why?”

“I just can’t sleep. Too cold, I guess.” You answer, not mentioning the fact that you were too busy thinking of how graceful he is. Or that you purposefully followed his footsteps here. He nods.

“Your cheeks are horribly red.” His response makes your eyes widen before you try to relax again, hoping the action was subtle enough that he didn’t notice. He continues as his gaze travels along your face, almost as if he’s analyzing each feature. As he does so, the back of his hands lift to lightly stroke your cheek. Heat blooms under his touch. “You’re not familiar with the cold, are you?”

“And I’m guessing you’re so warm with your… what, only two layers?” You scoff, taking a small step back and turning your head nervously. He looks as if he’s about to respond somehow, yet he cuts himself short. His line of sight travels down to his feet as if he’s nervous.

“Well, I suppose I haven’t been thinking about it. I am very cold, to tell the truth. Freezing, even.” As he confesses this, he glances at you from the corner of his eye as if he’s expecting something.

“I was right!” You exclaim with victory before settling down and providing your care. You join hands with him to share your warmth. “Here, take my cloak. I can do without a layer.”

“No, no, I can’t have you be even colder—“

“I insist! I’m sure you’ve been barely surviving with those mere layers.” You quickly take off your outermost layer, settling it onto his shoulders. You don’t notice the shade of soft pink on his cheeks. “There we go.”

You both stand there for a moment, Legolas looking like he’s still missing something. “I don’t think it’s enough.”

You raise your eyebrow. “Really? Well, if you want another—“

Before you can finish your sentence, the cloak envelopes your upper body, the elf using his arm to support you as he pulls you towards him. You instinctively stiffen before his voice washes over you, calm and easy like a stream. “I think this is perfect.” The tension leaves you at once, instead replaced with the warmth of his body, nurturing like rays of sun. For a moment you believe you’re back home.

Huddled within your cloak, the two of you settle down at the foot of a tree. Your hands wrap around to warm his back as his fingers run gently through your hair, lulling you to sleep. As you fade into unconsciousness, he speaks to you of the old forest at his own home: the towering trees, the soothing melodies of birds, the vibrant green of flora. Your dreams consist of a realm you have never set foot on.

When Aragorn finds the two of you next morning, he doesn’t dare tell you that elves do not get cold.

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#Spotify #legolas x reader #legolas #lotr #lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #legolas x you #legolas x y/n #legolas greenleaf #lotr x reader

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shirefantasies · 8 months ago

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LoTR Characters Finding Out You Were in an Abusive Relationship

Sort of requested/mentioned by @autisticgenderworm and desired by yours truly, here is the other version of this reaction. I hope it brings comfort to anyone who needs it.

Warnings: mentions/implications of past abuse, but nothing graphic

Aragorn

Aragorn's pause sparks no concern. He is a pensive man and that is something you always loved about him, let alone any consideration the gravity of what you just shared. "And you gave your heart so freely, I have no doubt." He shakes his head. "That such a truly corrupt mind would try to take you. But that is just it: I see it in your eyes and I feel it in the way I am so lucky in your love. They can try, but they cannot break you. You are stronger than all the hate, all the avarice, in the world. You know this, do you not?" Eyes watering, you peer at him and blink. "Some days I feel so far from that." Aragorn nods. He reaches out and holds your cheek against his calloused palm and somehow it is the softest touch you've ever felt. "Our true strength is that we are never alone. You have so many who will fight for you. I will fight for you. You will be on no lead, your own person simply making our lives all the richer for it."

Legolas

Brows furrowing lightly, he tilts his head, fixing you with a look of deep sorrow. You see his hand raise, lower again hesitantly, so you reach out to take it. "I don't mean to frighten you," you tell him, "I'm sorry." “You have nothing to apologize for, my love. The burden rests solely on the one who took it upon themselves to hurt you. It was nothing you did. And I am not frightened. Rather I would have you feel safe.” “I do,” you tell him, “That is why I hoped you were not afraid. The last thing I would want is for you to see me differently. To be too much for you.” “Too much for me? No such thing,” Legolas teases with a little smile, “But truly I am just grateful you shared. If there is anything I do, anything I say, allow me to apologize now.” “That alone puts me at ease,” you reply, feeling yourself relax and breathe deeply once more as Legolas takes your hand.

Boromir

“Why?” “I- I don’t think there was a ‘why’,” you stuttered, “I could have done things differently, I suppose, but-” “No,” Boromir cuts you off, a hand reaching to gently caress your cheek, “Not you, my dear. Not you. Why would anyone seek to defile beauty? And kindness. Why indeed.” “I don’t know,” you answer helplessly, gaze falling from his, “I should have left sooner. I-I guess I was truly that lonely that I thought it was worth changing. It wasn’t.” A shaky, sardonic laugh escapes your lips. “Nobody should have to choose between lonely and pain,” Boromir laments, hands sliding down to take yours, “But we are here now, and I will give you everything you deserve.”

Gimli

“Where is the bastard? I have a selection of choice words for such a great blight upon this earth.” Gimli’s hands ball into fists at his sides as he speaks, his voice darkening a bit more with each passing word. You cannot help but smile at that even in spite of his tone. “I would be happy to introduce you if I knew,” you replied, “But I know not and care not.” “That’s my fire!” Gimli exclaims, pride coloring his tone and his very gaze upon you. “You don’t need me- my approval or my axe! But of course you have them both with equal enthusiasm. To look upon you is to see a flame most bright and most beautiful that nobody’s rain can extinguish.” It is you who steps forward first, pulling the dwarf into your arms, but it is Gimli who asks if he might kiss your beautiful lips. Just the asking is such a difference; of course you acquiesce.

Frodo

He says nothing at first, expression just softening and crumpling in pain. One fair hand extends and finds purchase upon your shoulder; Frodo’s touch melts you and he feels your relaxation beneath him. “Oh,” he speaks your name so softly, all but reverently, “For so long you have been my strength and yet you carried this.” “I didn’t know how to tell you,” you answer, “Didn’t want you to think badly of me.” “How could I? You asked for none of that. So often do these things happen against our will.” “Sometimes I wish I had never said yes when I did. So I would have never had to say no,” you tell him, crumpling into his arms. Frodo presses a kiss to the crown of your head. I often remember what Gandalf told me: ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us’. They may have chosen to use their time to hurt and to wrestle control, but no longer. Time can only do so much healing, I know, but I will be here for you. Here for it all.”

Sam

"You can't mean... They didn't!" Anger flashes in Sam's typically docile green eyes. "I know," you reply, "I shouldn't have-" "You shouldn't have? The only person who shouldn't have was that monster! Don't you dare apologize for something you didn't do, alright? I don't want that sort of thing running through your head." Sam's last sentence emerged quietly. Trembled with an uncertain sadness. It broke you and made you whole all over again. You gave a small nod. "You're right." Sam looked up and met your eyes once more, returning the gesture with a bit more vigor. "I see that now, and that is all thanks to you. You love me like I deserve. Fight for me in all you do. When I am with you, Sam, I have the love I always thought was just a dream.” Tears rose in his eyes then even as his lips smiled. “And when I met you I thought the same: this has to be a dream.”

Merry

“They didn’t.” “Unfortunately,” you nod, gaze locked upon your feet, “They did. Sometimes I wonder what might have been different if I had-” “Don’t do that to yourself!” Merry cut you off, pausing for a moment as a look of remorseful surprise came over him. “That is to say we can’t change the past. Just like we can’t see the future. I may not have been there for your past, but I do know nothing that happened came of what you did. People like that, they have no shame. You are far too kind for someone like that. They took advantage of you. Made you feel bad and that’s all them. All right?” It was still difficult to believe sometimes, but Merry’s voice was nothing but convicted, and you trusted him. Swallowing, you nodded. “All right.” The hobbit opened his arms. “Come here.” You fell right in.

Pippin

"No." Eyes wide, he shakes his head and reaches for your hands. "No. How could- How could anybody..." "I don't know," you sigh, relaxing slightly as his thumbs ran over the backs of your hands, "Perhaps I should never have-" Pippin cut you off there. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was. There isn't a thing you could do to make any of that alright. And I swear to you that I will never do anything of the like. After all, who could even think of putting a precious gem like yourself down, hm?" At those last words, the soothing touch of his hands, your tearful expression broke into a shaky smile. "What did I do to deserve you?" You asked. "Don't worry," he replied, "I ask myself the same thing every day. I love you, you know. And I want to treat you like it. If I ever don't, please help me." The longer he spoke, his words faded closer and closer to a whisper, those lovely green eyes focused solely, searchingly, upon your gaze. Tears returning alongside your smile, you nodded. "You already do, Pippin. You already do."

Faramir

Brows furrowed, Faramir takes your hands at once, blue eyes gazing deeply into yours. "There are no words to lift the weight of it all. Nothing I can say but that your pain is mine and that I know how difficult it is to speak of such things. Thank you, truly, for sharing this with me. I want to be worthy of this. Of you." Worthy of you? Him? "You are more than worthy, Faramir." "And I wish to continue to live up to that for the sake of your beautiful heart. I wish for you to never feel unworthy again." His voice breaks and your heart does the same, knowing how similar your experiences were- Faramir was made to feel lesser for years. "I want the same for you," you run your hands over his gently with a tentative smile, "And I think deep down I knew you would understand. That no one else would understand like you. We can love each other more every day." "I like the sound of that," Faramir replies, his eyes shining nothing but love into yours.

Eomer

Even as your words fade, you catch the way his hands tighten into fists, tense slightly at the sight. "Coward. That worm had no honor whatsoever. And you...here you stand triumphant." "It does not always feel so," you admit, gaze falling. Eomer places a hand upon your shoulder. "We all have our scars. To escape, to be free... Why, that is the greatest show of strength. Is it not what we all fight for? And fight you did! Believe me when I tell you I am nothing but proud of you." Eomer's normally stoic expression rises into a smile, his hand sliding from your shoulder gently down your arm and finally to grasp your hand and bring it to his lips. "Nobody has the right to treat you like property. They should feel ashamed trying to tame a heart like yours. I would have it tempered. Let me act as your bellows, then, to stoke your fire of resiliency." His words do indeed fuel the embers in your heart, coax fire to them as they bring a small smile to your lips. "I would like that." "And let that scoundrel hope to never come within a league of this place while I draw breath."

Eowyn

“So cruel this world can be!” Eowyn cries out. “How can they not see all you have to offer? This will hardly erase the hurt, but I will say this: the loss is theirs.” Leaning in, her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper at that last phrase, her lips raising in a tentative smile. “For your heart is strong and steadfast and your laugh is music to me. To have you by my side is naught but joy. So help me, I will never treat you as a belonging, put you in a cage. And if that is how you feel I would have you tell me." "Never," you answer her, "Nor would I do the same to you. I told you because I trust you to understand. Because I love you." She leans forward at this, connecting your foreheads; golden strands of hair tickle your cheek, but you mind not. "And I you," Eowyn breathes.

Haldir

Never have you seen Haldir's eyes darken such as they are now. A part of you wants to back away, but you know that his ire is not for you. Not when he shakes his head, looking at you with...not quite pity. Rather all that swims in his eyes as he turns back to you is a new understanding, something deep in the blue. His hands hover over you as if you are spun-glass, and with your eyelids fluttering shut you take them and rest them upon your hips. "I do not mean to trouble you with this news, I just..." "Trouble me? The only trouble I have is how badly I wish to punish anybody who hurts you." At that, he smirks a bit and you feel his hands grip you a bit tighter. A shiver runs down your spine at his words. "You know, I would hardly mind that at this point. Not exactly unearned. So this is no change to you?" "Only any changes you want me to make," Haldir answers.

Galadriel

Her face falls, but something in its look leads you to suspect she knew already. Galadriel's gifts lie far beyond your understanding. "Do not discount the light you bring to this world," her voice cuts through your thoughts, "For you remind me of its joys every day. There will always be those who seek to rob us of our light, but that is only to fill the darkness that is in their hearts. You are more than enough despite what they say. You need not trouble yourself with the words of lesser folk." Tears flood your eyes at her words and all you can do is nod, shakily smiling. You feel Galadriel's lips against one cheek, then the other, then upon the top of your head, and finally warmly and softly upon your lips. "I'm so lucky to have you," you tell her, and at that she shakes her head. "It is I who is the lucky one," she refutes with a mischievous but loving smile.

Elrond

For just a moment, his expression steels and you flinch back, but only for a moment before it’s softened like never before and falling. Pain. That is the only word to describe what crosses Elrond’s face. He feels your pain. Stepping closer, the Lord of Rivendell opens his arms, and with a tearful smile you fall into them, into the silken softness of his robe and the gentle warmth of his hold. “Healing takes time. I have time. And here I shall be to grant you peace as best I can. Please do not hesitate to ask it of me. If you ask it and it is within my power, I shall grant it.” “I’d like to stay like this,” you reply, words muffled by the cushion of your cheek to his chest, the sound of Elrond’s soothing heartbeat in your ear. “As would I,” he agrees softly.

Arwen

“Meleth nîn,” she addresses you softly, brows furrowed in concern, “You endured all that?” At her words, you just nod, gripping her hands a bit tighter. She gives yours a gentle squeeze in response. “Your strength knows no bounds. Fear not, for by my side you can take all the time you need. I can wait, you know.” At that, she giggles and you smile. You are, after all, in love with not only the fairest of beings but one immortal by nearly all accounts. Her smile alone brings you so much comfort. “You are the one I have chosen and I will not take that for granted. You are a gift and that anyone would cast that aside is folly.”

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friendship-ditch · 4 months ago

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Whumptober Day 31 - Asking for Help

Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: Aragorn hits his head and has no choice but to ask the nearest person for help.

Warnings/Notes: I'M DONE! WHUMPTOBER COMPLETED HELL YEAHHHH

Word Count: 1356

Aragorn had never been the best at taking care of himself. Ever. It was always ‘make sure everyone else is alright,’ then tend to his own wounds. More often than not this ended up with him in a worse situation than before; see: ignoring injuries until they get infected, nearly bleeding to death, and about 25 other accounts.

That was the case once more.

He didn’t remember hitting his head too hard in the skirmish in the woods… but apparently he had. He’d been flanked by orcs unexpectedly and upon realizing there was no way he could kill them all, took the risk and jumped into the river.

Perhaps it was there that he hit his head. The water was ferocious, fighting to keep him like quick sand and nearly drowning him in the rough rapids. He would’ve likely drowned had he not managed to kick off a rock and float to shore, but he was rather woozy at the time and still couldn’t recall the exact details.

All he knew was that he woke up, drenched and cold, on the shore of… somewhere he couldn’t quite recognize.

The rocks beneath his bleeding head were a foul pillow to his aching body. He felt frozen to the bone, limbs jolting with shivers. He tried to sit up but was overcome by a wave of dizziness so he lowered himself back onto the ground with a grunt. He must’ve hit his head harder than he thought.

It took a few moments of contemplation, and a lot of pain, but eventually Aragorn managed to sit up. His world spun even faster and he squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to his forehead. It came away slightly stained with blood.

Eventually Aragorn managed to stand. He was already not the most precise walker due to various wounds to his ankles and legs over the years, but now every step he took was uncalculated and clumsy. He’d be lucky if he made it a mile from the water before collapsing… but what other choice did he have?

It was either wander in search of shelter and help, or give in and die. The latter wasn’t the most enticing, so he forced himself to walk despite the pain and dizziness.

Beneath him the ground changed from gravel and rocks to rough dirt and roots. He had to step carefully. It was a struggle, though. If it were not for the thick woods he was walking through and the stumps he caught himself on, he would be face down once more.

After an hour or so of wandering Aragorn began to feel just… worse. The injury on his head was pounding as though someone was hammering a nail into his skull. It stopped bleeding long ago but during his trek he managed to stumble and bash it against a tree, starting the bleeding once more. His whole body felt warm, unnaturally warm against the chill of the coming night. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d caught a fever in his weakened state but he tried not to think about it because there was nothing he could do.

His stomach ached and his limbs felt almost too heavy to move. Every step was a struggle on his trembling legs.

Then, something came into view. A house of some sorts… a cabin or a cottage, tucked in a small clearing of the trees. Was he hallucinating? He had to have been. There was no way this sanctuary was so perfectly placed just at the end of his strength. A warm glow emanated from the windows, smoke billowing from the chimney. This had to have been a dream.

With no other option left Aragorn decided to take the chance.

You were sitting inside your home, tending the fireplace when there was a strange noise at the door. Some sort of a thumping sound, almost like a knock.

You’d had quite a few strange visitors during your time in the woods, but nothing could have prepared you for this. When you opened the door, you found a half dead, half conscious man slumped at your feet. For a second you wondered if this was a joke but when you bent beside him, he groaned.

“Help… please…” Aragorn whispered, voice raspy and hoarse. His eyes were closed and he was just barely hanging on.

You stared at him for a moment and in the split second he opened his eyes, he stared at you. And then he was gone, chest softly rising with breaths but whatever strength he had was utterly depleted.

Aragorn woke up on another hard surface. For a minute he wondered if he dreamt it all and was still lying upon the shore. But it wasn’t rocks under his back… it was solid and flat. He reached a hand to touch it. Wood?

His eyes weakly fluttered open, then winced at the light. He felt warm, but no longer excruciatingly warm. It was a comfortable temperature. He was inside, on top of a table.

There was a cold cloth draped over his forehead and a bandage overtop the deep gash. The smell of herbs was in the air, heavily. Where was he?

“Hey, easy there.” You watched as he tried to sit up, knowing it was no use to try and keep him down. You planted a hand upon his back and eased him into a sitting position. “You’re okay.”

Aragorn let out a weak groan as the world faintly spun around him, but it was nothing like before. He rubbed his eyes to clear the blurriness and they fell upon you. He could faintly remember your face. “Who are you?”

“Y/N.” You replied, taking the cloth from his head and dunking it into a cold bowl of water. Then you laid it across his brow once more, soaking up any escaping droplets with a towel. “Who are you?”

“I am… Aragorn.” He hesitated on whether to refer to himself as Strider or not, but decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

“Well, Aragorn, I’ll tell you now that I’ve never seen someone with a concussion fight so hard. You weren’t close to dying or anything, but you’re stubborn.”

He let out a weak laugh at that. “Stubborn? I suppose that’s right…”

“You were feverishly fighting me, not that you remember… that’s probably a good thing.” You tilted your head. “What happened to you? How in the world did you end up here?”

Aragorn told you what he could remember of his story of the orcs and the river. It hadn’t occurred to him that you were only getting him to talk to distract him from the horrible pain of removing the bandage from his head, but he cried out when you pulled it off. He stared at you like a dog who was rejected a treat, wary and uneasy, but then settled back down. “Ow…” He rubbed his forehead. It wasn’t bleeding.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You made a soft humming sound and stepped back, observing your work. The gash on his head had begun to heal pretty well for something so makeshift.

“How does it look?” Aragorn asked hesitantly, a little embarrassed he had to rely on the help of a stranger, but thankful either way.

You smiled. “Much better. You’ll be just fine with a little rest… as your medic, I cannot let you leave in this state, by the way. At least stay the night.”

Surprised, but not about to disagree, Aragorn returned your smile with one of his own. “If you wish.”

He had a hearty bowl of stew and then took some medicine to help ease the dizziness, which was almost gone anyway. Afterwards you settled him down on the couch beneath a blanket and ordered him to sleep, claiming it would help him heal faster.

Aragorn was in no position to argue, nor did he really want to. He was safe, warm, and had gotten the help he needed. It wasn’t often that he put his trust into strangers but you’d only given him reasons to do so, so he let himself drift off in your care.

#whumptober2024 #no.31 #asking for help #lotr #fic #x reader #lotr x reader #lotr x y/n #platonic aragorn x reader #aragorn x y/n #aragorn x reader #aragorn #whump

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thewulf · 1 day ago

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Return to You || Aragorn

Summary: Request - he reader and aragorn are in an established relationship before he leaves with the fellowship, and shortly after he's gone she finds out that she's pregnant. obviously she can't tell aragorn since she doesn't know where he is to send a letter or otherwise a message of some kind... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wow, I really love this one. It took me a while but I think it turned out really well. Let me know what you think :)

Pairing: Aragorn x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.1k +

TW: War, talks of war, pregnancy, general LOTR

The fire crackled low in the hearth casting long, flickering shadows across the small space you and Strider had called home. It wasn’t much. Just a small cottage nestled in the rolling hills not too far from the village of Bree. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill creeping into your bones. It wasn’t from the cold, no, but instead from the unspoken truth that lingers between you.

He’s leaving.

You knew the time was coming. You felt it in your bones. The way Middle Earth got darker through every day. And Strider was important in warding off whatever the hell was taking over your home. You knew that much by how often Gandalf had visited. You never asked how bad. He never told you the details other than you knew he’d be called to the front lines soon enough. And apparently that day was today.

Strider sat beside you. His rough, calloused fingers trailing along the back of your hand as if memorizing every ridge and line. He does that often, touching you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. Tonight, though there’s something different in his touch. A quiet desperation, a silent plea. Neither of you had spoken in a while. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been whispered in the dark, murmured against skin, carved into the sacred spaces between your heartbeats.

Gandalf’s call had finally come. The war is no longer a distant shadow on the horizon. It’s here, looming over the world, threatening to tear everything apart. And Strider, the man you love, the man whose name is laced with destiny, cannot turn away.

“I would stay if I could,” he murmured at last breaking the heavy silence. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, lingering, like he’s afraid to let go. Because he is. “You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were pleading.

You swallow the ache rising in your throat and nod. “Of course, I know.”

His breath shuddered as he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Gandalf needs me.” His voice is low, rough with regret. “The world needs me.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I know. Trust me… I know. But what of me? What am I to do?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and aching. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to let the fear show.

Strider exhales sharply, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. There’s something in his expression that steals the air from your lungs, something tender and fierce all at once. “You must stay hidden. You are my world,” he says softly. “And I will return to you no matter what it takes.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to smile. “You’re lucky I’m good at hiding. And that I’m patient.”

A low, breathless chuckle escapes him before he cups your face in his hands. His thumb brushing along your cheek as if to chase away the sorrow settling there. His lips find yours in a kiss that is both a promise and a plea, slow and lingering, desperate, and aching. You pour every unspoken word into it, every prayer, every ounce of love you have for him. When he finally pulled away his forehead rests against yours once more. “I will come back to you,” he vows. “I will always come back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

And in the morning as you stand at the edge of the village watching him disappear into the rising sun you clung to those words like a lifeline. Because no matter how far he goes, no matter how long you have to wait, you know one thing with absolute certainty. He will always find his way back to you.

The days stretch long and quiet in his absence. The mornings are the hardest, waking to an empty bed and reaching for the warmth of him only to find cold sheets and silence. You find yourself lingering in doorways staring out toward the horizon as if you might catch a glimpse of him in the distance riding home to you. But he is gone so far beyond your reach swallowed by the road that calls him ever forward.

At first you distract yourself with routine. Chores, errands, tending to the home you built together. You keep busy because you must. Because if you stop the ache in your chest becomes unbearable. But not long after he leaves something feels different. At first it was subtle. A wave of dizziness when you stood too quickly. A lingering nausea in the mornings that you chalk up to restless sleep. You tried brushing it off but not long after the fatigue creeps in. An exhaustion that weighs heavier than heartache alone. You press on though, pushing through until the realization becomes impossible to ignore.

The healer didn’t t need long to confirm what you already suspected. Her hands are gentle as they press against your abdomen with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You are with child.” She said softly with a saddened smile. She knew, the whole village knew, that the baby’s father was long off fighting for the preservation of Middle Earth. The words crash over you like a wave, sweeping your breath away. For a long moment you can only stare trying to process what she’s just said. A child. Strider’s child.

Your hands tremble as they settle over your stomach as if expecting to feel something different beneath your fingertips. A life, small and fragile, growing within you. A piece of him left behind. Joy, fear, and uncertainty twist together in your chest, tangling into something impossible to untangle. You should be happy, shouldn’t you? And you are, in some quiet, awestruck way. But beneath that joy, fear lingers. A fear of what the future holds. Of what may come. Because Strider is not here. And there is no way to tell him.

You think of sending a letter, of finding a messenger, but you have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere beyond the mountains, lost in the wilds, deep in the heart of danger. You could write a thousand letters and never know if one would reach him. So, you had to wait.

The weeks pass and the weight of your secret grows heavier. Your body begins to change. The once loose fabric of your dresses stretching tighter over your stomach. You stand before the mirror some mornings pressing your hands against your belly whispering words only the child can hear. Your love. Your father will return to us. He will.

But as time drags on the world darkens. Rumors trickle in from travelers, whispers of war and death and an enemy who grows stronger by the day. Villages burned, men slaughtered, hope slipping through the cracks like sand in an hourglass. And with every passing day, your fear deepens. What if he does not return? What if he never knows? What if this child, his baby, enters the world without ever knowing the sound of his father’s voice?

You press your hands against your stomach, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. “I will wait for you,” you whisper into the quiet. Even if the waiting breaks you.

The world feels too quiet without him. Without the steady warmth of his presence. Without the way he would murmur soft words in the dark when he thought you were asleep. Without the way his fingers would brush over yours in quiet moment promising things he never said aloud.

Now, there is only the crackle of the dying fire and the steady whisper of wind against the wooden walls. You lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling one hand resting over the growing curve of your stomach. The weight of the secret you carry grows heavier with each passing day. With each reminder that you are alone.

Fear lurks in the corners of your mind. Not just for yourself, but for him. Where is he? Is he safe? Does he think of you as often as you think of him? You don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that threatens to break you.

Then, one morning, the nausea hits harder than before. You barely make it outside in time, bracing yourself against the railing as your body trembles with the force of it. When the sickness passes you lean back against the post, breathless and exhausted. The sun is barely cresting over the horizon casting a golden glow across the fields and for a moment you let yourself pretend that Strider is still here. That he will step through the doorway and press a hand to your back, murmuring reassurances in that steady, quiet voice of his.

But he is not here. And he will not be, not for a long time. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath your palm. A life. His life. A part of him, still here, still with you. The thought steels your resolve. You cannot continue waiting in silence hoping for answers that may never come. Strider once spoke of Rivendell, of Lord Elrond’s wisdom, of the sanctuary it provided. If anyone knew where he was it would be him. If anyone could offer guidance it would be him.

And so, before doubt can creep in you pull yourself upright and move inside settling at the worn wooden desk in the corner of the room. The parchment feels fragile beneath your fingertips as you dip the quill into ink, hesitating only for a breath before pressing the tip to the page. You do not know how to begin. But you begin anyway.

To Lord Elrond of Rivendell,

My name is Y/N, and I write to you not as a stranger, but as the one Strider left behind. Or as you know him, Aragorn.

I do not send this letter lightly, nor do I wish to burden you with matters that may seem small in the face of the darkness that looms over Middle Earth. But I have nowhere else to turn.

Aragorn spoke of you often, with the deepest respect. He once told me that if I were ever in need I might look to Rivendell for guidance. Now, I find myself in need of both guidance and news of him.

I do not know where he is. I do not know if he is safe, or if he will return. And I do not know if this letter will reach you in time. But I pray that it does because I am carrying his child.

I had no way of telling him before he left. I do not even know if I will ever have the chance. But I had to try. If there is any way to get word to him. If there is any hope that you might know where he is… please, I beg of you, let me know.

If nothing else, I ask for your wisdom. The world is changing, growing darker with each passing day and I fear for the safety of this child.

I will wait for your word.

You let the ink dry then fold the letter carefully sealing it before pressing it into the hands of a trusted traveler. “Take this to Rivendell,” you whisper. “Please.”

The waiting is unbearable. Days turn into weeks. Each one stretching longer than the last. Your body changes with the passing time. A growing reminder of the life that will arrive whether Strider returns or not. You knew of his true lineage as Aragorn. He told you a long time ago but insisted on Strider. So, you’d always called him by what he wished.

Then, at last, a rider arrives at your doorstep, clad in elven robes. He does not speak at first but only presses a letter into your trembling hands. His expression solemn. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you break the seal, fingers tightening around the parchment as your eyes scan the elegant script.

Your letter reached me, but alas, not in time.

Aragorn has already departed from Rivendell. He travels now with the Fellowship, and I cannot say when or if he will return. He walks a path of great peril. His fate, like that of all free peoples, hangs in the balance.

I grieve that you must bear this burden alone. No lady should have to face such uncertainty without the comfort of her beloved by her side. And so, I offer you this: Come to Rivendell. You and the child will find sanctuary here. You will not be alone.

If you wish it come to Rivendell with the messenger who handed you this letter.

Elrond of Rivendell

Your vision blurred as you lower the letter, emotions warring within you. Relief that your words had not gone unheard, sorrow that your Strider is still lost to you, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the kindness offered in Elrond’s reply.

You press a hand to your stomach, exhaling a slow, steady breath. Strider may be gone. He may never know of the child you carry. But you will do whatever it takes to protect this life. To ensure that your child is safe even if it means leaving everything behind.

When the messenger asks what you will do, you lift your chin, heart heavy but resolute. “I will travel to Rivendell with you.”

The journey to Rivendell is long, stretching over days or weeks that bleed together in exhaustion and quiet reflection. You leave behind the familiar comforts of home. The place where Strider last stood before you and trade them for the uncertainty of the road ahead. The elves who guide you are patient, their presence a steady reassurance, but the solitude you carry remains unshaken. The nights now had become the hardest when the world is still and there is nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. You wonder where he is, if he is safe, if he is looking at the same stars you are.

By the time you reach Rivendell you are nearly at the end of this pregnancy. But you did have time to admire the elven lands. Rivendell is as beautiful as Strider had described. Untouched by war and time. A sanctuary wrapped in cascading waterfalls and golden trees. The very air feels different here, lighter, ancient, like a whisper of something beyond mortal comprehension. But for all its beauty it is not home. The ache in your chest does not fade nor does the silence in the space beside you. The absence of the man you love stretching wider with each passing day. The elves welcome you graciously, offering kindness without expectation, but their presence only reminds you that you are alone in a place meant for those with elven blood. You do not belong here.

At first you keep to yourself uncertain of what role you hold in this sanctuary. You spend the days walking through the stone corridors, the terraces that overlook the valley, your hands always finding their place over the growing curve of your stomach. The life inside you is the only tether you have to Strider now. The last piece of him you can hold onto when everything else is uncertain. You whisper to your baby, pressing soft words against your skin, hoping that somehow they can feel the love you already bear for them.

Elrond watches over you though you do not understand why at first. You know of his history with Strider. Of the weight he placed upon him for years, the expectations of a lineage long denied but never forgotten. There is an unspoken wariness when you first meet him. A quiet hesitation as you wonder if he sees you as a complication in Striders grand destiny. But Elrond never speaks of such things, nor does he treat you with anything less than patience and wisdom. He does not pry, does not press when he sees the lingering sorrow in your eyes. Instead, he offers quiet companionship. A presence steady enough to remind you that you do not have to bear this alone.

He is there on the mornings when the sickness leaves you pale and shaking, offering herbal remedies to ease the discomfort. He places books in your hands when the nights stretch too long knowing that distraction is sometimes the only way to keep the mind from spiraling. When you struggle beneath the weight of uncertainty he does not speak empty reassurances but instead reminds you of your own strength, of the resilience that has carried you this far.

"You are strong," he tells you one evening. His voice calm but firm. "Even when you do not feel it you are strong. And you will endure." You nod though you do not entirely believe it. Strength feels fleeting these days. A thing that wavers beneath the weight of the unknown. Some nights, you dream of Strider. Of his hands on yours, of the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth fighting for. You wake with tears on your cheeks more often than not, and though Elrond never mentions it you know he sees. He does not press but his presence lingers just long enough to remind you that you are not truly alone.

Time moves forward even as you feel frozen in place. Your body changes wholly. Your baby growing stronger with each passing day. You begin to feel the child’s movements, soft at first, then stronger. Small kicks, reminders that you are not just waiting for Strider but for the baby who will need you no matter what happens in the world beyond Rivendell. You let yourself imagine what it would be like if Strider were here. If his hand could rest over your stomach the way yours does. If he could see the life you created together. The thought brings equal parts joy and sorrow because you do not know if he will ever return to see it.

And then, on a night bathed in silver moonlight, the first sharp pain lances through you.

It begins slowly. A dull ache that you try to dismiss as exhaustion but as the hours stretch on the pain intensifies. You clutch the edge of the bed, breathing through it, but when the next wave comes, you know. It is time.

The next hours pass in a blur of whispered voices and steady hands. Of soft reassurances in Elvish and the warmth of a hand pressed against yours when the pain becomes unbearable. The room swims in and out of focus, exhaustion threatening to pull you under, but you fight against it, gripping onto the knowledge that soon, so soon, you will meet you baby.

And then after what feels like an eternity, the weight of it all breaks. A sharp cry fills the room, piercing through the exhaustion, the haze of pain and uncertainty. The sound crashes over you, and everything else fades into nothing. “A boy.” You hear in your haze.

Your son.

Elrond lifts him carefully. His expression unreadable for a moment before he steps closer, placing the small, wriggling body into your waiting arms. The moment his weight settles against you, the world stills.

He is perfect.

Your breath hitches as you take him in. Your hands shaking as you press your fingers against his impossibly soft skin. Dark hair, still damp from birth, clings to his forehead. And when his eyes flutter open, they are deep and grey, piercing in a way that makes your heart stop.

Strider.

It’s almost too much, the ache in your chest swelling until it feels unbearable. He is not here. He should be here. He should be the one holding his son. The one whispering reassurances. The one tracing the tiny fingers curled against your chest.

Tears spill over before you can stop them, dropping onto your son’s forehead as you press a trembling kiss there, inhaling the scent of him, of new life, of something so fragile yet so incredibly strong. You hold him closer, whispering words against his skin, words meant for him but also for Strider. For the man who does not yet know the love waiting for him here.

"You are loved," you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. "You are so, so loved."

Even if Strider never returns. Even if the world takes him from you before he can ever know, this child will never have to doubt the depth of the love he was born into. Because Strider is here. Not in body, not yet, but in this life, in this perfect, tiny boy who carries his strength.

And so, you hold your son close, rocking him gently as his cries soften into small breaths against your chest. You do not know what the future holds but in this moment you do not need to.

Because no matter what happens next you will keep your promise. You will wait for Strider. And when he returns, if he returns, you will place his son in his arms, and he will know. He will know that even through all the darkness something bright and beautiful was waiting for him to come home.

The days in Rivendell are quiet, your son growing stronger with each passing week. He is your anchor. The only thing tethering you to the present when your thoughts so often drift to the past. To Strider, to the uncertainty of his fate. You wake in the night sometimes clutching your child close wondering if somewhere across the world Strider is still fighting if he is still alive. You have no idea how long it had been since he left your home. A year maybe? Elrond confirms it had been nearly that amount of time.

Then, one morning, the world shifts. The halls of Rivendell buzz with murmurs. Excitement threading through voices that have remained steady and somber for so long. The news arrives that Sauron was defeated. The war is over.

You clutch your son tighter as the words sink in. Middle Earth is free. The darkness that once threatened to consume everything has been vanquished. Hope fills the valley, but you are afraid to let it settle in your heart. You do not ask the one question burning inside you, not yet, not until you hear Elrond’s voice, quiet but certain, as he delivers the final truth.

Aragorn lives. Your Strider is alive. Alive.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, shuddering gasp, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. Relief washed over you so violently that it leaves you dizzy. The weight of months of fear, of not knowing, crashing down all at once. He is alive. He is alive. He is coming back. Coming home!

But Elrond’s next words halt your thoughts in their tracks.

“He is to be crowned King of Gondor.”

The statement rings in your ears, sending a different kind of tremor through you. The war is over. Strider is not just alive. He is victorious. He is stepping into the destiny he was always meant for, the one that has lingered over him like a shadow for as long as you have known him. He is no longer just the man who held you close and promised to return. He is to be king. King of Gondor.

Your heart clenches with a different fear taking root in your chest. What if everything has changed? What if he has changed? You had always known that this day would come. That Strider was never meant to remain in the wilds forever. But now, standing here with your son in your arms, the reality of it is suffocating.

Would he still want you? Would he still want this life that was built in his absence, a child he did not know existed? Or would his new station, his new responsibilities, demand something else entirely?

You press a trembling kiss to your son’s forehead, inhaling the scent of him, grounding yourself. You should be celebrating, rejoicing in the knowledge that the man you love is alive. And yet, all you can do is stare down at the small boy in your arms, the one who carries Striders features so clearly, and wonder. Will he still choose us?

The journey to Minas Tirith stretches endlessly before you. Every step closer filling you with both anticipation and fear. You clutch your son tightly pressing a soft kiss to his dark hair, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of him as if it will steady the rapid beating of your heart. You had spent so many nights fearing this moment would never come. That Strider would never return. Now, the truth is almost too much to bear. He is alive, he has won, and he is waiting for you. Or so you hope. But what if he is no longer your Strider? What if he is now Aragorn alone?

The towering gates of Minas Tirith rise ahead after a month of travel. The banners of Gondor snapping in the wind. The city is alive with the hum of celebration. The people reveling in their freedom, in their new king. But you are blind to it all. Your world has shrunk to the only thing that matters. The man waiting at the top of those white stone steps.

And then you see him.

Strider stands at the entrance of the citadel clothed in the robes of a king, a silver circlet resting upon his brow. But none of it matters. Not the title. Not the crown. He could be standing in rags, and he would still be him. His grey eyes find yours and everything stops.

For a moment he does not move. Does not breathe as if the sight of you has struck him so deeply he cannot comprehend it. His gaze flickers from your face to the child in your arms and then back to you, something breaking, something raw and unguarded slipping through the carefully placed armor he has worn for so long.

And then he moves. Not with the controlled grace of a king. Not with the measured composure of a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, he runs. He runs to you. To your son. To his home.

His legs nearly buckle as he reaches you. His breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as if he has forgotten how to breathe altogether. He stops just short. His entire body trembling. His hands reaching out but not quite touching as if he is afraid that if he does you might vanish like a cruel dream.

His voice when it comes is hoarse, cracked with emotion. “You…” His breath shudders. “You’re real?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod, your arms tightening around your son. “I’m here.”

Strider, Aragorn, exhales sharply and before you can take another breath he drops to his knees before you. A strangled sound escapes him as he presses his hands to your skirts. His forehead resting against your legs in a gesture so utterly broken that it sends a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. His fingers grip the fabric of your cloak as if anchoring himself to you, his shoulders shaking under the weight of emotions too strong to contain.

“You waited for me,” he whispers, the words a prayer, a reverence, a confession. His lips press against the fabric covering your knee, then your thigh, then lower, worshiping the very ground you stand on. “I thought—I feared—” His breath is ragged as he shakes his head, pressing another kiss against your legs before tilting his head back to look up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Then, his gaze drops widens as he sees him. The baby in your arms. Not so much a newborn anymore but not a toddler yet. The small, sleeping boy nestled in your arms, so peaceful, so unaware of the storm his father is weathering before him. Striders entire body goes still. His hands slowly releasing their grip on your skirts. His breath catches, his fingers trembling as he hesitantly reaches forward, stopping just short of touching the child.

He looks up at you. His expression unraveling into something utterly undone. “Is he…” His voice fails him, cracking beneath the weight of the question.

You nod, your own voice barely a whisper. “He is yours, Strider.”

Something inside him broke. A choked, breathless sob escapes him as he lifts shaking hands. His fingers barely grazing the soft blanket wrapped around his son before he pulls back afraid that he is unworthy of touching something so pure. “I didn’t know…” His voice fractures again and he looks back up at you with desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whisper before shifting closer, pressing the bundle into his waiting arms. “But you do now.” The moment his son was in his arms Strider let out a sound so raw, so full of everything that he has held back for so long that it steals the air right from your lungs.

His hands, scarred and calloused from war, cradle the small boy with infinite tenderness. His thumb brushes along his son’s cheek memorizing every inch of him. The curve of his tiny nose, the soft wisps of dark hair, the way his fingers twitch in sleep.

Strider swallowed hard, tears slipping down his face as he presses his forehead against his son’s. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. His voice trembling. “You are…” His breath shudders. “You are mine. The Prince of Gondor”

The boy stirs then, blinking up at him with eyes that mirror his own. Grey and stormy, deep as the rivers that run through the land. The first glimpse of recognition dawns in those tiny features, and Strider let out a soft, broken laugh. His grip tightening ever so slightly knowing will never let go. Your heart feels like it might truly shatter as you witness your son and his father meeting for the first time.

He looks back up at you then with the tears now spilling freely down his face. “What is his name?”

You hesitate. “I never truly named him,” you admit. Your voice thick with emotion. “I only ever called him Aragorn.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face. Then, suddenly, he laughs. A soft, breathless sound, full of wonder, full of disbelief. He looks down at his son with a teary smile tugging at his lips. “Then he has a name worthy of him.” He presses a reverent kiss to his son’s forehead before shifting his gaze back to you. And then before you can say anything else he reached for you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“I love you,” he murmurs as his lips pressed against your temple, your cheek, your lips. “I have always loved you.” His grip tightens as if he cannot bear to let go. “No war, no kingdom, nothing could ever change that.”

Tears rolled down your face as you clutch at him, pressing your forehead against his. “I was so afraid,” you whisper. “That you wouldn’t want us. That…”

Strider silences you with another kiss, deep and lingering, full of every promise he has ever made, full of everything he cannot put into words. When he pulls away his voice is fierce, unshaken. “Never,” he vows. “Never doubt that you are my heart. That he is my greatest joy.” He looks down at his son again, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over the boy’s tiny hands. “You waited for me,” he murmurs before pressing another kiss to his son’s head. “And now, I swear to you both, I will never leave again.” A quiet sob escapes you and you lean into him. Letting him hold both of you as if he can shield you from every sorrow you have ever known. You had waited. And now, finally you were home.

The White City gleams beneath the golden afternoon sun. Its towers stretching high into the heavens, banners of Gondor rippling in the wind. The throne room, once a place of war councils and endless worries, now holds something far greater. It holds peace, love, and a king who rules not just with wisdom but with a heart full of devotion.

And at the center of it all, Aragorn sits upon his throne, not just as the ruler of Gondor, but as a father, a husband, a man who has found his way back to the life he never dared to dream for himself.

His son sits in his lap with tiny fingers clutching at the silver detailing of his robes, wide grey eyes staring up at his father in open adoration. The boy is a mirror of him, with dark curls and a regal air that already hints at the leader he will one day become. Though for now he is simply his father’s son, wrapped in the safety of arms that would never let him go.

The court watches with quiet amusement as the toddler shifts in Aragorn’s hold whispering something in that sweet, curious voice of his. Without hesitation, the King of Gondor leans down, his expression softening completely as he murmurs a response, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead before turning back to the matters of the realm.

And standing at his side, watching the scene unfold, is you. You rest a hand over the gentle swell of your stomach, your heart full with the life growing inside you. Your second child, a symbol of everything that had once felt so uncertain, now made real in the warmth of your husband’s love. Your fingers trace over the fabric of your gown feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your touch. A quiet reminder that soon, your family would grow even more.

Aragorn’s eyes find yours, his gaze lingering, full of a love that still leaves you breathless, even now. His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile, and without a word, he shifts, adjusting his son in his arms before extending a hand toward you. You step forward, placing your hand in his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch, the strength in his fingers as he intertwines them with yours. He lifts your joined hands pressing a kiss to the back of yours, reverence in every movement.

“My Queen,” he murmurs. His voice thick with affection. The title spoken not as a formality, but as something sacred.

Your breath falters for a moment, and though you have been by his side for months now, the weight of it still fills you with awe. He does not say it as if it is an obligation. He does not say it as if it is a role you were forced to accept. He says it like a man who has chosen you in every lifetime, in every battle, in every moment since the first time he laid eyes on you.

The small boy in his arms reaches for you then, his chubby fingers patting against your growing belly, a bright, innocent giggle spilling from his lips as if he already knows that soon he will have a sibling to protect. Aragorn chuckles, shifting the child slightly so you can press a kiss to his soft curls. Your fingers brushing against Aragorn’s in the process. His hand tightens over yours, his thumb sweeping gently across your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of him.

There had been so much fear once. So much uncertainty. But now, there is only this. Him, your son, your growing family, the home you have built together within the walls of a kingdom that now thrives under his reign.

“You are happy?” he asks softly. His voice a quiet caress against your skin.

You smile, leaning in until your lips brush against his ear. Your voice warm with all the love you have ever held for him. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Aragorn exhales. His forehead pressing lightly against yours, the soft weight of your son nestled between you both. “Then I have fulfilled my greatest duty,” he murmurs, a quiet promise only for you to hear.

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him, the warmth of your son, the peace that now fills your life. You had waited. You had hoped. You had loved him even when the world tried to tear you apart. And now, standing at his side, with his hand in yours and his child in your arms, you know.

He had always, always, been coming home to you. He would always return to you.

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swanimagines · 2 months ago

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Hi, Can I get E32 with Aragorn, thanks!

Prompt: E32. Having a deep conversation

WHEN THE TIME COMES

You watched as Aragorn sat by the fire, sharpening his sword. It had been just a few days when the Ring took Boromir and Frodo had decided to run off from you, and you could see from Aragorn’s posture how it weighed on him. The future of his kingdom would depend on him, and you knew he felt like he had already failed with Boromir, so he also had even greater doubts on if he would be a good king.

You knew he would be the best thing that’s happened to this land in centuries, but you also knew he didn’t see it that way. He saw himself as a failure, and he was afraid the kingdom depending on him would end up as a disaster.

So, you carefully sat down by him, which made his eyes flicker up from his sword. He gave you a tired smile.

“My love,” he murmured, taking your hand. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, but shouldn’t you be sleeping too? Sun is rising in a few hours.”

He hummed, retreating his hand and putting his sword back into its sheath. He stared into the fire for a moment, and you saw the flames dancing in his eyes. You searched his face, as if hoping you’d somehow see or hear his thoughts, but on the other hand you believed you already knew what he was thinking.

So, you shifted closer to him, looping your arm around his. “Boromir believed in you until his last breath, he wouldn’t want you to sit here, brooding and wondering if you’ll make a good king after all.”

“The Ring…” he paused, exhaling shakily before he continued, “it preyed on him like it preys on all who come near it. I know Boromir died a hero. I know he had redemption before he got corrupted, but I still cannot stop thinking I failed, as a friend and a leader.”

You shook your head. “Boromir knew what he was doing in the end. He was corrupted by the Ring for a moment, yes, but he protected Merry and Pippin once he saw they’re in danger, he chose them over the Ring. He was a good man and died as a true hero.”

Aragorn was quiet for a long moment, just staring into the fire, before he finally sighed. “You are right. He died a hero, and if he heard me now, he would tell me to pull myself together.”

You snorted. “That he would. I can almost see it.”

He glanced around to see everyone else sleeping, and then glanced towards your own sleeping spot. “It’s late. We should go to sleep, it is going to be a long day tomorrow.”

You nodded, standing up and dusting off your robe. “Grumpy, tired you is the last thing we need right now.”

He smirked slightly, before he stood up as well and you made your way to your little shelter together before lying down.

As you laid there, he took your hand and interlaced your fingers as you turned to look at him. “Thank you for listening and giving advice, my love. One day, you will make me a strong leader whenever I doubt myself.”

You smiled faintly, scooting closer to his body and closing your eyes, murmuring, “You will be the best thing this land will get, Aragorn.”

You fell asleep then, with his arms around you, and the doubts Aragorn had about himself were put to rest — at least for now. You would honor Boromir and his sacrifice when the time would come, but for now, you all needed to rest and help with dealing with Sauron gathering an army.

A war would be coming, and there Aragorn would show his people his skills as a leader, and after that no one would doubt whether he’d make a good king.

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

#aragorn #aragorn x reader #aragorn imagine #lotr #lotr x reader #the lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings #reader insert #my works #gn reader #romantic

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councilofsue · 11 days ago

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The Scouring of the Shire

(this might be overdone/completely wrong interpretation but I just read lotr for the first time and wanted to put this in my goodreads but they have a character limit, so its going here)

The penultimate chapter of this story sees our four hobbits return home to find that their precious Shire has not escaped unscathed, a continuation of Tolkien’s overarching theme that war affects everyone, even those not directly involved in conflict. I understand why this section was cut from the films. Structurally and narratively, it would make very little sense.

Structurally, this section would not have worked in the Peter Jackson films based on choices made from the very beginning. While they do represent the Shire beautifully in the films, it is a more aesthetic and emotional understanding of it. Conversely, Tolkien opens the book with a 20-page prologue, entitled ‘Concerning Hobbits’ which details everything from traditional hobbit fashion to the Shire's political structure. (The man is insane). The Shire as represented in the films has no clear political structure with which one could even make a political commentary of. (Also, PJ kills Saruman so there’s that too I guess).

Narratively, the movies tell the story of the War of the Ring, having Aragorn play a far more central role (which I get, king has way too much main character energy for someone who is not the main character). The book tells the effects of the war on four soldiers who are drafted into it. I’d argue that in the films, the One Ring functions as the main character, which then makes the climax of the trilogy its destruction. Every subsequent scene then seems ‘tacked on’ and prolonging this section makes the film feel as though it has several endings.

Though, I do believe removing this chapter does change Tolkien’s messaging. He himself claimed that this section of the story was “An essential part of the plot”. Through our hobbits organizing a revolutionary effort, this chapter is an extremely effective illustration of each of our hobbit’s character arcs. Additionally, it doesn’t shy away from the fact that a lot of the character development that has occurred is quite ugly. The hobbits which started out on this journey would never consider killing someone as a method of conflict resolution.

Yes, our heroes are now brave and noble warriors, possessing the skills needed to fight evil abroad and at home, but these harsher traits and propensity for violence others them from the mild-mannered shire-folk. These four men are forever changed by the war and are now alienated from their community who will never be able to relate to their plights, giving us Tolkien’s final claim: You can never go home. This is both in the sense that the home you left behind no longer exists, but also that the version of yourself that left in the first place no longer exists. This ending is one likely intimately familiar for Tolkien, who was a trench soldier drafted into WW1, and is the ultimate informant to Frodo's departure to the Grey Havens.

Initially, I was very upset with this ending. It felt antithetical to the previously established ideas about the importance of messaging about the importance of friendship and leaning on others in times of great need, but after sitting on it a bit I think I was applying a modern lens to a book written in 1930s-50s. I, living in the twenty-first century, can recognize that Frodo’s experience as described by Tolkien is that of someone deeply struggling with depression and PTSD. While these conditions have been around forever, the medical understanding and treatment for them are quite new. PTSD was formally defined 1980, seven years after Tolkien’s death.

(This understanding now makes me moderately upset about it, instead of very upset. Great book tho. 9.6/10)

#lotr #lord of the rings #once again this is my understanding of tolkien/his themes having only just finished reading #also ive never seen the extended edition of fellowship so maybe he does establish the shire more idk #jrr tolkien #frodo baggins #yo if someone wants to explain their interpretation of the ending to me i would love to hear it

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oneinathousand · 3 months ago

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I've assembled some lesser-known quotes about Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee, I hope there's at least one in here that most of you have never seen before, though the super-fans among you have likely seen them all ;)

Lee fancies himself playing Aragorn, the archetypal heroic figure of the piece - he would probably be cast as Sauron, the Satanic figure in Tolkien's Middle Earth - but he feels that only a Walt Disney feature cartoon could possibly do justice to the work.

-"Cinemafantastique" Vol 3 No 1 (Fall 1973)

I knew that Lee wanted to play Gandalf when he jumped on board the LOTR movie trilogy, but I didn't know he apparently originally wanted to play Aragorn! My guess is that once he got older, he figured he would be better as Gandalf, though of course he didn't get it. But Lee as Aragorn... if he played the part in the late 50's, 60's or early 70's, I could see him pulling it off, what with his swordfighting abilities. Did he ever comment on the Ralph Bakshi adaptation?

After the liberation of Germany, he [Lee] visited a number of the concentration camps, including Dachau, a deeply disturbing experience which, he says, provided him with such a close-up view of the charnel house side of real life that he is unaffected by anything he sees or does on the screen.

-The Dracula Scrapbook, Peter Haining

I have decided now to tell a tale a bit "out of school" regarding the relationship between Peter and Helen Cushing, especially since this is a lady who remains a bit of a mystery to most Cushing fans - like a figure out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale, considering the way Peter lionized her as if she was indeed his "lost Lenore." During the latter part of 1977, I saw quite a bit of Christopher Lee as he and his family were living in Los Angeles where he played golf (and made the occasional film or television movie of the week.) One afternoon, we were at lunch, and the subject of Peter and his wife came up in conversation; Christopher leaned over to me and said, "You know David, Helen Cushing was a bit of a psychic vampire in life; she kept Peter very close. It was as if she could read his very thoughts before he had them. They really were soulmates of the first order; make no mistake about that! I don't think Helen ever really trusted me where Peter was concerned - even after he and I had made several films together. In fact, Helen used to say to me, "I know you think you are now bigger than my husband don't you?" Well, I just looked at her, smiled and said, "Well Helen, I am taller than Peter you know." Christopher felt that Peter had such guilt - imagined or not - about anything he might have done when they were married; if for example he ever found himself attracted to any of the Hammer glamour girls; whom he worked opposite, it all was now too much to bear. On the other hand, Vincent Price responded to Peter's intense mourning with his usual brand of humor. During the filming of Madhouse, he observed Peter discussing ways of communication from beyond the grave by perhaps installing a phone in the crypt; Vincent listened to all this and then replied with that unmistakably deadpan voice, "Well Peter, what if she's out?"

-David Del Valle, "Diabolique" #16

A few of you may recall seeing a quote posted here from Lee calling Helen a psychic vampire. I tried to find the source for that, but I couldn't. Instead I found this other version, possibly by the same person, which seems to give more insight about what Lee actually thought of Helen, and it comes off as much less harsh on his part than the other one.

A while back, I looked up interviews about the making of The Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires, and I swore I saw a magazine or something where Roy Ward Baker, the co-director of the movie along with the Shaw Brothers, said something about Cushing during the making of it to the effect of: “He was absolutely miserable, poor bugger.” But I forgot to take a screenshot of it then and for the life of me I couldn’t remember where it came from, I tried to look through my search history but couldn’t find it. I swear that I saw it, though!

Oh well. Next up is a quote about Lee and Cushing watching Looney Tunes together for the last time, get your tissues out...

In the early 90s I worked for Hammer Films and was asked to organise a voiceover recording for a Hammer Films documentary. Both Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee had agreed to work together one last time. Christopher Lee had asked me to organise one thing: a television and a VHS player in a private room and to have some alone time with Peter. After the recording, I cleared the studio and left Peter and Christopher alone with the TV. They hadn’t noticed that I was still at the mixing desk so I waited to see what they were going to be watching. I saw Count Dooku and Grand Moff Tarkin sit watching Looney Tunes cartoons – each doing perfect impersonations of Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Pie – all line perfect! I can’t remember exactly – but I think Christopher Lee was Tweety Pie and Peter Cushing was Sylvester.

-"Popbitch" 2015 Annual, the quote is just credited to a "JH", but IMDB lists a Jane Hughes as having worked as an assistant director in the Canterbury studio where Lee and Cushing recorded their voiceover, so this is most likely her. I personally would like to believe that Lee was playing Sylvester and Cushing was Tweety because Lee said he was always Sylvester to Cushing, and come on, Cushing MUST have been Tweety, that character would fit him like a glove!

For this final quote, I'm gonna do something different and copy-paste a whole interview done with Lee by a guy named John Exshaw about Cushing a year before the latter died for the magazine Cinema Retro, the interview being put up on their website. The formatting on the interview is all messed up, so I fixed the apostrophes and em-dashes and will put the whole thing here for your enjoyment.

I find this interview fascinating not so much for what Lee says about Cushing, but for how it implied he saw himself compared to Peter:

I didn’t meet him until we did the first Hammer movie. I’d seen him. Of course the thing which I’d seen which impressed me most, understandably, was 1984, which was remarkable. He was wonderful in that… Live TV! [shudders]

Total dedication; and this is the answer to why Peter Cushing is an actor. Total dedication. Total! The most professional actor I have ever worked with. And I’m not going to say underrated, because he isn’t underrated. He’s highly regarded all over the world as a brilliant actor, and deservedly so. The record shows that… Also, one thing that we do share, I think, more than anything, which is more important than anything else - I think we share the same dedication, I think we share professionalism, I think we share the same feelings about doing the best we can - one thing we certainly share is the same sense of humor, which of course the general public is totally unaware of. If they knew what we got up to on the set in every film we’ve made… the imitations that I used to do… Oh, we used to dance together in the rushes, yes; me made up as the Frankenstein creature, a sort of, a sort of, what do you call it - buck-and-wing dance, you know. And in years and years and years he and I have shared this idolatrous love of the Warner Brothers cartoons, you see, and Sylvester, and Tweetie Pie, and Yosemite Sam. And I’ve always imitated them, you see, and he’s done the same. And we used to do that on a set; people used to think we’d gone out of our minds, and we’d make each other laugh. Sometimes it’s so important - in a way, it’s absolutely essential - but we’re both of us ice-cold when it comes to doing it, even if we’ve been been laughing a few moments before. And that’s a thing we also share, total concentration.

And what can I say about Peter Cushing that I haven’t said before? I mean, consummate actor, brilliant technician, and a marvellous human being. I’ve always said, you know - I’m sure you’re aware of this - that he should have been a priest… Because there is a great love for his fellow man. There’s an almost superhuman loving kindness in Peter, and it’s always been in there. I’ve never heard him say anything harsh about anyone. He’s also a deeply religious man. Those are the two things we don’t have in common. I’m afraid I do say what I think. I’m not tactless but I am a more direct person than he is. I don’t have his tolerance. I don’t have his gentleness. I don’t have his faith; I wish I did…

He is not an easy person to get to know, believe you me. There’s a lot about Peter that I don’t know… But of course, as you know, Helen died in the 1970’s and that is his only desire left in life. And it’s genuine. He has stayed alive because he’s a man who would never take his own life because that would be a great sin, and he has stayed alive through some pretty terrible experiences, you know. He’s had cancer, and problems with his legs, his hips, breathing, and all sorts of medical problems, but the spirit is unquenchable and the speed of thinking and the mind haven’t changed at all. I mean, it’s another cliche - the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. The same thing with Vincent [Price]; mind like a rapier, both of them. Only the physical disabilities of getting old…

But he’s certainly one of a kind, and of course this business of staying alive, simply existing, which is how he looks at his life - existence. He’s only waiting for that moment; only waiting for it. And he’s been waiting now for twenty-three years. It must be terrible to be so admired and so loved and so respected but to impose, I feel, on yourself, deliberately, a sort of monastic seclusion which he seems to prefer. He seems to; I mean, you wouldn’t think of it if you saw him with a group of people but I think he prefers to be alone. I don’t think the house is full of people. I don’t think there’s many very, very close, intimate friends - but nor have I, and nor have many people.

Acquaintances, yes; admirers, yes - scores of thousands all over the world, people who feel they know him, people who feel that he’s a friend - all that. That’s on a professional basis; I think on a personal basis, I get the impression that he’s a person who keeps his life and his relationship with his wife very much to himself. It’s locked up in a cupboard of which he has the key. He doesn’t open that cupboard and release anything unless he chooses to. But I don’t either.

#christopher lee #peter cushing #hammer horror #vincent price

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starsofarda · 3 months ago

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Ok, I am following after this brainrot.

Have a ficlet - it's probably what I am gonna do about this whole thing, unfortunately it's the time where I don't have many energies.

And yes, I know that I have other things, but again, low energy. ADHD is being a bitch to me.

I hope you will enjoy my offer <3

PS: I know, language barriers, pls do not ask me to write in actual Elvish. Here's a small legendarium for different languages:

Normal font: Westron

Typed: Legolas specifically with his horrendous Sylvan dialect

Italic: Sindarin

Bold: Khuzdul (underlined if ANCIENT Khuzdul)

Cursive: Quenya

At first it felt like a light trickling of dust and pebbles over him - he didn't bother opening his eyes yet.

He was still grappling with the fact that he was breathing again and that he was not in the peaceful Halls of Mandos anymore.

And then he heard drums.

Drums and hurried footsteps and the skittering of orcs - no, not orcs, goblins.

That was when he decided to open his eyes and free himself from the wall he had been apparently staying.

It took him a short while to get back some of his movement, enough to start walking towards the source of that noise, hoping that once he got there he would have enough strength to just give a hand to whoever was in there - no pun intended, he thought, as he slowly directed himself whilst leaning against the stony walls.

It seemed that he was in a mine - a Dwarven mine, to be exact.

That was when he heard it - the horrible noise of a Balrog - and he knew those fiendish creatures quite well.

He needed to hurry, whoever was in there did not deserve to face any Balrogs of Morgoth.

It took a while for him to catch up.

When he finally did arrive, he was just in time to see as what looked like a Wizard was facing off with the Balrog.

The Wizard was speaking a language unknown to him.

"You cannot pass! I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

Alas he was way too far yet, as he hurried as best he could towards the group - he could see a Dwarf, an Elf, two men and four halflings - or children, he really could not distinguish them in such darkness.

As the Wizard was caught by the whip of the Balrog and shouted "Fly, you fools!", he jumped straight next to one of the men, helping him hold the little ones.

Aragorn suddenly saw the presence of probably the tallest Elf he had ever met and with fiery red hair - something he himself had never seen. "What?!" He exclaimed confused.

The red haired Elf just shook his head.

"Let's talk later, once we are out of here."

Aragorn nodded and lead the Fellowship out of Moria, as per plans. There would be time to grieve later on.

Once outside the situation looked grim. The Hobbits were stricken by grief, the Fellowship was lost, and on top of that not onl was Gandalf dead at the hands of a Balrog, but they acquired one more Elf - and what kind of Elf.

Tall, fiery red hair, missing right hand and scarred left hand. Aragorn talked to him.

"We will talk once we are out of orcs' sight."

"Fine by me, Elros."

"... My name is Aragorn. I think you have me confused."

"Oh, sorry. My name is Nelyo."

Aragorn definitely had heard that name before, although he could not pinpoint exactly when, or where. Somehow he was thinking of Elrond, but he would know for certain if Elrond had mentioned that name. In any case, that definitely wasn't the time to linger on issues and thoughts - he would have time to do so once the Fellowship reached Lothlorien.

"Boromir, get the Hobbits up, we need to go!"

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!"

"By nighttime this place will be crawling with orcs."

Legolas was looking uneasy, something Aragorn picked up immediately. "Yes, we are taking the Elf with us."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Aragorn."

The man stopped. "And why not? He helped us."

"He is a kinslayer."

"As far as I am concerned, this one just came out of the rocks of Moria, if anything I will let the lady of the Galadhrim decide."

Nelyo understood only about half of the conversation - damn, the language did evolve a lot during the time he was in Mandos. He would have to ask someone what had happened in the meantime, but for the moment he stood upand wobbled a little towards two of the halflings, gently patting them and signaling themm it was time to go.

The two latched onto him, as the rest followed the man who introduced himself

By the time they stopped by the river Nimrodel, they finally shifted the attention to "Nelyo", as Aragorn had relayed his name to the rest of the Fellowship.

In the meantime Nelyo had understood that probably speaking Sindarin instead of Quenya would be a better shot. It was Aragorn, once again, that talked to him.

"We are about to enter Lady Galadriel's realm. We are on a secret errand. What can you tell us?"

Nelyo considered his options. Also, the fact that Galadriel had been mentioned meant a 99% of certain death - that would suck, but at least he'd say sorry.

"I think it's probably easier if I speak Sindarin."

"Indeed."

Nelyo braced himself. "My Sinda name is Maedhros. I died... Well, I am not sure, but I died. Somehow I was re-embodied here."

Now, Aragorn definitely had heard the name "Maedhros".

"That's why Legolas here said that you were a kinslayer." He pointed at the blond Elf next to him.

"Indeed. It is probably not a good idea making me go anywhere near Galadriel."

"Agreed." Legolas interjected. "My father and grandfather have told me about ancient Doriath."

Now things started to click for Aragorn. Boromir was looking at everyone with eyes wide open - as much as he understood Sindarin, he was nowhere near fluent, so he would need to ask about the ordeal later on, swallowing at least a bit of his pride.

Maedhros sighed. "I will take my punishment whatever that will be."

That kind of settled things down.

At that point Sam interjected. "Hey, Mr. Nelyo did help us and has been nothing but mindful! Why are you all being mean?!"

"I am afraid, Master Gamgee, that the issue runs deeper than ever. But it is indeed true, maybe the Lady of the Galadhrim will be merciful, given the more pressing matters."

Maedhros was tired, however. Whatever would be his destiny, at least he'd get to see the stars once more - so he thought as Legolas seemed to tell a story and sing.

He kind of went back memory lane, when Maglor used to sing, now only just a memory.

The halflings suddenly latched onto him once again. "See, Merry? Mr. Nelyo Elf was feeling grief too, that's not hard to see!"

"He doesn't look as scary now, Pippin!"

"I never said he was!"

And Maedhros was not understanding a single word of that language, but he surely understood warmth. These halflings truly were like children to him. He made a half smile.

"See? He smiled! Frodo, Sam, he smiled!"

Boromir intervened. "Yes, and now we are all very tired. And orcs are still about. Leave him be.

That pretty much concluded the night. Every problem that still lingered would be resolved by morning.

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #pls be nice #maedhros joins the fellowship #maedhros #mae joins the fellowship

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