#children best seller books

[noam-easter-bunny]

Moriah Hallow is the enchanting school for Easter bunnies and their forest friends. Led by Noam, the wise headmaster, this magical place prepares Easter bunnies for their most important day of the year.

Here’s a glimpse into Moriah Hallow:

Noam Moriah Hallow: Easter Bunny School:

In the delightful book “Noam Moriah Hallow: Easter Bunny School” by Emile B. Lacerte Jr., readers step into the heart of Moriah Hallow.

Noam shares his wisdom, instruction, and educational teachings with young Easter bunnies. They learn how to prepare for their special role in bringing joy to children and forest creatures.

When Noam’s blessed feet turn red, he can perform amazing feats: coloring eggs and transforming food into sweet treats for good children and forest friends.

A lucky rabbit’s foot symbolizes Noam’s connection to God’s love, making him a beloved figure in Moriah Hallow

Pascha Pumpkins:

These magical pumpkins play a significant role in Moriah Hallow. They hold secrets, blessings, and wonder. When Halloween arrives, Easter bunnies harvest Pascha pumpkins, adding to the enchantment of the season.

Imagine the joy of celebrating Halloween in a world where bunnies and magical creatures coexist!

So, whether you’re curious about Noam’s teachings, the Pascha Pumpkins, or the forest friends, Moriah Hallow invites you to explore its mystical realm

[uwmspeccoll]

Science Saturday

RACHEL CARSON

In 1951 Oxford University Press published American marine biologist and conservationist Rachel Carson‘s critically-acclaimed book, The Sea Around Us. It became one of the most successful books ever written about the natural world. Rachel Carson's rare ability to combine scientific insight with moving, poetic prose catapulted her book to first place on The New York Times best-seller list, where it enjoyed wide attention for thirty-one consecutive weeks. It remained on the list for more than a year and a half and ultimately sold well over a million copies, was translated into 28 languages, inspired an Academy Award-winning documentary, and won both the 1952 National Book Award and the John Burroughs Medal.

In 1958, Simon and Schuster published this special edition for young readers, adapted by Russian Empire-born American writer Anne Terry White, with illustrations by Rene Martin and maps by Emil Lowenstein. It also includes an additional chapter by Jeffrey Levinton, a leading expert in marine ecology, who incorporates the most recent thinking on continental drift, coral reefs, the spread of the ocean floor, the deterioration of the oceans, mass extinction of sea life, and many other topics. In addition, noted nature writer Ann Zwinger contributed a brief foreword. The last photographic image shown here is by American science photographer Fritz Goro.

View our 2021 Earth Day post on Rachel Carson’s most influential book, Silent Spring.

View more Science Saturday posts

[bookrabbit]

Halloween begins with this story book, 5 Star children book series./Challenge

[amisoma]

So a random ranpoe as parents hc i made

Poe would tell nighttime stories to their kids bcs ranpo convinced him to but he would make those stories up and somehow along the way it became an interconnected plot and goin to bed became like clicking next ep this lasted for like till the kids slept in the same bed as them ranpo somehow convinced poe to write it down and realise it the book became a best seller and it had one of those for my daughter and husband kinda second page uk u see in books aight i might delete this if i wake up tmrw mornin and realise this was cringe

[birthday-journey-posts]

The Pascha Pumpkin’s Gift

Once upon a moonlit night in Moriah Hallow, where enchanted forests whispered secrets and mystical creatures danced under silver leaves, Noam the Easter Bunny discovered a hidden path. It led to a cozy adobe house adorned with marigolds and flickering candles—a place where the veil between worlds was thin.

The Ximena family lived there, their hearts heavy with memories of loved ones who had crossed over. Día de los Muertos was approaching, and they prepared their ofrenda with care. But this year, something extraordinary awaited them.

Noam hopped up the stone steps, his fluffy tail twitching in anticipation. He carried a pumpkin—a pumpkin unlike any other. Its skin shimmered like moonstone, and when Noam touched it, he felt warmth and ancient magic.

“Dear Ximena family,” Noam whispered, “I bring you the Pascha Pumpkin. It holds the essence of love, faith, remembrance, and connection.”  A connection between the living and the departed.

The family gathered around, eyes wide with wonder. They placed the Pascha Pumpkin on the ofrenda (alter) to honor their grandparents, its glow illuminating cherished photographs. It became the focal point for their Día de los Muertos celebrations. The ofrenda serves as a bridge between the living and the spirits. The Pascha Pumpkin radiant stories of departed grandparents, whispered secrets from the Otherworld, and sang songs that made the candles dance.

As midnight approached, the veil lifted. Spirits emerged—their laughter like wind chimes, their presence a balm for grieving hearts. Noam watched as the Ximena parents held hands, tears glistening. They felt their ancestors’ love, as tangible as the pumpkin’s warmth.

The Pascha Pumpkin pulsed, weaving memories into the night. It whispered forgotten lullabies, and the Ximena children giggled, feeling their grandparents’ kisses on their foreheads. And then, a miracle: the pumpkin split open, revealing tiny golden seeds. Each seed held a memory—a shared laugh, a stolen kiss, a favorite recipe. 

Día de los Muertos dawned, and the ofrenda glowed with Pascha Pumpkin miracle. The spirits danced, twirling with joy. Noam watched; his heart full. He knew that love transcended worlds, that even in grief, there was beauty.

And so, every year, the Ximena family planted the seed in their garden, and soon, marigolds bloomed, their petals echoing laughter, sharing stories and savoring pumpkin soup. Noam visited, leaving gifts—a feather, a moonbeam, a whispered promise.

The Pascha Pumpkin’s legacy lived on, reminding all who passed by: Love was the bridge between realms, and remembrance was a gift to be cherished.

And that, my dear reader, is how Noam the Easter Bunny and the Pascha Pumpkin wove magic into the tapestry of Moriah Hallow.

May your heart be as warm as a pumpkin’s glow, and may you find joy in the whispers of memories.

Learn more about The Pascha Pumpkin; in Noam Fall Garden adventure story book.

Hope you find One--- Hope you get One

[readingtrend]

Don't Let The Pigeon Drive The Sleigh! by Mo Willems

Find the #1 NYT Bestseller Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Sleigh! by Mo Willems from your local library. Click Check on Amazon to read book reviews on Amazon. Click Google Preview to read chapters from Google Books if available. Click Find in Library to check book availability at your local library. If the default library is not correct, follow Change Local Library to reset it. Don’t Let The…

[beu-ytr]

Resenha de "O Orfanato da Srta. Peregrine para Crianças Peculiares", primeiro livro da hexalogia de Ramson Riggs

*com spoilers

O Orfanato da Srta. Peregrine para Crianças Peculiares conta a história de Jacob, um garoto que tem a sua vida virada de ponta cabeça depois de presenciar o assassinato de seu avô por uma criatura sinistra que aparentemente só ele consegue ver

A partir dessa descoberta, Jacob se depara com um mundo completamente diferente do seu, onde crianças presas em fendas temporais possuem poderes peculiares, treinadas pela supervisora Srta. Peregrine

Esse livro tem uma narrativa super digerível, e na minha opinião é o melhor dessa saga, o autor tem um objetivo e ele o alcança completamente

De todos os livros de fantasia que eu já li, acho que esse é o mais consistente de todos. Tem uma narrativa super coesa, os personagens são muito bem construídos e no final, tudo se encaixa pra uma possível sequência

Outra coisa que me fascina muito nessa saga, são as fotografias que acompanham cada capítulo, ilustrando perfeitamente a estranheza que é a vida de um peculiar e ao mesmo tempo combinando perfeitamente com aquela sensação de desconforto que a gente sente quando vê uma foto antiga um pouco suspeita

Pelo o que eu li na internet, o autor dirigiu algumas das fotos ele mesmo e com o resto ele coletou algumas fotos antigas bem bizarras ou algo assim (algumas são reais!!!!)

Não sei se essa informação realmente procede, mas supondo que ela seja verdadeira, é muito maneiro isso tudo porque meio que te dá uma visão do quão empenhado o autor estava e dá um tchan muito maior pra história

Enfim, esse livro de longe é o melhor da saga, é o que nos introduz a muita coisa, é aquele que nos faz querer ler o resto e cumpre perfeitamente o seu papel de best seller

Obrigado pela atenção e até a próxima resenha;)

[productionsbyfaith]

Thank you from my heart, Kindle Readers around the World, for your Support. I am humbled and honored. Thank you, GW Tolley

[nightingale-prompts]

Talents -DC X DP prompt

The public is aware that each of the Wayne children are creatively gifted. It was almost expected. Richard Grayson was the acrobatic of course and no one was surprised but highly praised. So many parents began putting their children in gymnastics after seeing Dick's performances.

Jason Todd took up writing and published his own books at the age of 13. Poetry, anthologies, and historical fiction were the genres he favored. His books still remain on the best-seller's list, especially after his death. His poetry book "Blackouts" is an emotional journey of everyday tragedies and miracles of life. People would often quote lines from his poems after tragic events.

Tim Drake was more elusive. No one knew what he did until his name came up under a national photography award. His album called "The Shades of Gotham" was a contract between parties of the wealthy and the impoverished citizens of Gotham.

Cassandra Cain kept to herself constantly. No one knew what she did for years. People assumed that Bruce Wayne stopped forcing his kids to perform and others argued that she just didn't have any talents to showcase. All wrong of course. Cassandra posted one of her recent projects online which proved she was very talented. It was a beautiful scarf she was making for the winter. Cassandra was gifted with a talent for textiles. She knitted, weaved, and sowed many of the clothes she was seen wearing. It was no secret that some of the clothes the Waynes wore could not be found anywhere else but people assumed they had a tailor to make custom designs but no one knew it was Cassandra.

Damian Wayne did not lag behind his siblings as she quickly showed off his artistic talents. He's still young so he hasn't gone as far as opening his first gallery but one of his paintings has already been put in a museum. Some call it nepotism but art is subjective. The other Waynes disagree since they have hung every art piece Damian makes in their offices and home right next to Tim's photos.

Duke Thomas isn't one to show off too much. But he does go all out in his hobbies. He secretly takes after Jason in writing poetry and has been inspired by "Blackout" since he first learned to read. Duck related to it deeply. But along the way, he learned a different way to express himself. Kids on the streets of Gotham learned a bit of breakdancing and Duke was no exception. Duke is an accomplished dancer and has gotten a few competitions under his belt now.

Now that there is a new member of the Wayne family the public is waiting to find out what Danny Nightingale's talent is. Everyone knew that Waynes were creative but honestly, no one expected this. A play was announced at Monarch Theater and none other then Danny's names was on the ticket as the star.

[5shortstories]

Thank you to Synergy Network Worldwide for editing the Spanish version of Barcos de batalla, huérfanos, gitanos, bodas, y una Con

[noam-easter-bunny]

The Pascha Pumpkin’s Gift

Once upon a moonlit night in Moriah Hallow, where enchanted forests whispered secrets and mystical creatures danced under silver leaves, Noam the Easter Bunny discovered a hidden path. It led to a cozy adobe house adorned with marigolds and flickering candles—a place where the veil between worlds was thin.

The Ximena family lived there, their hearts heavy with memories of loved ones who had crossed over. Día de los Muertos was approaching, and they prepared their ofrenda with care. But this year, something extraordinary awaited them.

Noam hopped up the stone steps, his fluffy tail twitching in anticipation. He carried a pumpkin—a pumpkin unlike any other. Its skin shimmered like moonstone, and when Noam touched it, he felt warmth and ancient magic.

“Dear Ximena family,” Noam whispered, “I bring you the Pascha Pumpkin. It holds the essence of love, faith, remembrance, and connection.”  A connection between the living and the departed.

The family gathered around, eyes wide with wonder. They placed the Pascha Pumpkin on the ofrenda (alter) to honor their grandparents, its glow illuminating cherished photographs. It became the focal point for their Día de los Muertos celebrations. The ofrenda serves as a bridge between the living and the spirits. The Pascha Pumpkin radiant stories of departed grandparents, whispered secrets from the Otherworld, and sang songs that made the candles dance.

As midnight approached, the veil lifted. Spirits emerged—their laughter like wind chimes, their presence a balm for grieving hearts. Noam watched as the Ximena parents held hands, tears glistening. They felt their ancestors’ love, as tangible as the pumpkin’s warmth.

The Pascha Pumpkin pulsed, weaving memories into the night. It whispered forgotten lullabies, and the Ximena children giggled, feeling their grandparents’ kisses on their foreheads. And then, a miracle: the pumpkin split open, revealing tiny golden seeds. Each seed held a memory—a shared laugh, a stolen kiss, a favorite recipe. 

Día de los Muertos dawned, and the ofrenda glowed with the Pascha Pumpkin miracle. The spirits danced, twirling with joy. Noam watched; his heart full. He knew that love transcended worlds, that even in grief, there is beauty.

And so, every year, the Ximena family planted the Pascha Pumpkin seeds in their garden, and soon, marigolds bloomed, their petals echoing laughter, sharing stories. Seeds from a Pascha Pumpkin can only grow marigolds and not another pumpkin. Noam visited, leaving gifts—a feather, a moonbeam, a whispered promise.

The Pascha Pumpkin’s legacy lived on, reminding all who passed by: Love was the bridge between realms, and remembrance was a gift to be cherished.

And that, my dear reader, is how Noam the Easter Bunny and the Pascha Pumpkin wove miracles into the tapestry of Moriah Hallow.

May your heart be as warm as a pumpkin’s glow, and may you find joy in the whispers of memories.

Learn more about The Pascha Pumpkin; in Noam Fall Garden adventure story book.

Hope you find One--- Hope you get One

[nitewrighter]

As a children's librarian who basically has to keep up with HP stuff against my will, it is notable that most "Wizarding World" content being put out at this point is... creatively, pretty masturbatory. "Christmas at Hogwarts" has been on the NYT best seller list for 7 weeks now, and it's about, quote, "Harry Potter's first Christmas at Hogwarts," and if your reaction to that is "Wait, Nite, but we already know about Harry Potter's first Christmas at Hogwarts because it's literally in the first fucking book," then you understand where I'm coming from here. Like, we've seen attempts to expand this fictional universe, but they've pretty much immediately faded from public consciousness so it's all JKR can do to basically cannibalize her main body of work and re-adapt it for a younger audience in the hopes that HP adults will foist it on their children in the same way Star Wars parents do.

[bookrabbit]

Christmas Magic to share

[earthlybeam]

May I have a Elrond, Haldir and whoever else you'd like to add reacting to a reader who wrote a story about them in secret and published it in a bookstore or market of some sort and the book gets extremely popular?

Thank you so much!

how would the elves react to this?

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Elrond, haldir, thranduil (added) Versions are below.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ Elrond had spent centuries weaving through the vast expanse of his responsibilities—his duties as the Lord of Rivendell, his leadership in the wars, and the never-ending work of ensuring the safety and future of his people. He was well-versed in the ways of diplomacy, of understanding politics and the intricacies of elves and men. Yet there was one thing that even his sharp intellect could not have prepared him for: his own life, written and displayed for all to see. It had started innocuously enough. He had wandered into the market in Rivendell to gather a few rare herbs, a small task that usually didn’t occupy much of his time. The hustle and bustle of the elves, trading goods and exchanging knowledge, was a familiar comfort. But as he strolled past the array of books and scrolls in the corner of the marketplace, something caught his eye—a stack of freshly printed books, all with a strikingly familiar cover.

✶ The title read: “The Life of Elrond: A Tale of the Half-Elven.” His breath caught in his throat, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually composed features. He reached out, unable to resist, and picked up the nearest copy. The weight of the book in his hands felt unreal—he had never approved of such a publication. He had never given permission, nor had he ever known anyone to capture his life in words. His heart quickened as he opened the pages. It wasn’t a typical recounting of battles, diplomacy, or governance. No. This was something different—something personal. The author had captured his essence in such intricate detail, the quiet sorrow in his eyes, the hidden burdens he carried, the moments of vulnerability he rarely shared with even his closest allies. The words felt as if they had reached deep into his soul and plucked out the parts he kept hidden, the parts only someone truly close to him could understand.

✶ His fingers trembled slightly as he read further, each word a testament to the person who had written it—the person who had observed him so intently, so intimately, that they had pieced together a portrait of his life. And there, among the passages, were references to moments he had long since buried—his childhood in Eriador, the pain of losing loved ones, and the complex emotions that accompanied his long reign as the Lord of Rivendell. But what struck him most was the sheer popularity of it. There, in the corner of the stall, the sign proudly declared: Best-Seller. The merchant standing beside the booth greeted him with an eager smile.

✶ “Ah, Lord Elrond! I see you’ve discovered the book. A remarkable piece of work, isn’t it? People can’t get enough of it. It’s been flying off the shelves since we got it in stock.” Elrond could barely process the words. The people of Rivendell, and even beyond, had found this story… important. His heart swelled with an unfamiliar emotion—pride? Or was it something else, something more uncomfortable? The knowledge that his life, his most intimate self, had been revealed to the world in such a way stirred something deep within him. “I… did not know of this,” Elrond said quietly, his voice betraying a rare hint of unease. “Who wrote this? Do you know who the author is?”

✶ The merchant shook his head, a bit puzzled. “No one knows! It was published anonymously. But there’s a lot of speculation. Some think it’s someone close to you—perhaps a companion or even one of your children. Whoever it is, they’ve captured you in a way no one else has. It’s as if they’ve seen the side of you that most don’t understand, and they’ve shared it with the world.” Elrond’s thoughts were in turmoil. The idea that someone had observed him so closely, understood his deepest fears, his internal conflicts, and the weight of his decisions, made him feel exposed. He had always prided himself on keeping his innermost thoughts hidden, not just from his people but from himself at times. Yet here it was, laid bare in a book that anyone could read. He glanced at the book again, this time seeing the way it had captivated the masses. How many elves, men, and even dwarves had read it? How many had come to see him in a new light because of it? It unsettled him to think that something so private was now in the public eye, so far removed from the quiet sanctuary of Rivendell.

✶ But amidst the shock, there was a strange feeling—gratitude, perhaps. The author had not painted him as a mere figure of myth or legend; they had captured his humanity, his flaws, his complexities. They had written a story that didn’t shy away from his darker moments, but instead, illuminated them, showing him as not just a ruler but as a person—one who bore the same struggles as any elf or man, no matter his title. His gaze shifted, and there you were, standing at the edge of the crowd, watching him with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. It took only a glance for him to know who had written the book. You. His heart skipped, and for a moment, Elrond felt a rare vulnerability—one he had not allowed himself in centuries. You, who had observed him with such care, had written his story with such depth. You had taken parts of his life that he had never shared and turned them into something beautiful—something that resonated with everyone who read it.

✶ He moved toward you, the book still in his hands. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, but there was an undeniable sincerity in it. “You wrote this,” he said softly, not needing you to confirm it. He already knew. Your face flushed with a mixture of guilt and relief, and you stepped closer. “I—yes. I didn’t mean for it to become so… public. I just… I wanted to honor you, to share your story in the way I’ve always seen you, not just as the Lord of Rivendell but as someone who has lived through so much.” Elrond looked down at the book in his hands again, his thoughts swirling. Part of him still felt exposed, unsure of how to reconcile the world’s perception of him with the quiet, reserved elf he saw in the mirror every day. Yet, as he met your gaze, something shifted within him.

✶ “You have captured me more truly than I thought possible,” he said, his voice still soft but filled with an emotion that felt like something between gratitude and awe. “I see now why you did it. I… I may not have been ready for the world to know these things, but you have honored me in ways I never imagined.” For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the market noises fading into the background as Elrond processed the depth of your words, the weight of your gesture. His heart ached with a bittersweet emotion—pride in the story you had told, but also an awareness of how vulnerable he felt being laid bare before the world. And yet, despite the discomfort, Elrond felt something else. Perhaps this was the kind of legacy he could accept—not just as a leader or a warrior, but as someone who had lived, who had struggled, and who had loved deeply. And perhaps, just perhaps, this was the most genuine legacy of all.

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

➳ Haldir’s first inkling that something was amiss came when he overheard hushed whispers in the heart of Caras Galadhon. The market was bustling with activity, the air thick with the scent of fresh fruit and the melodic hum of Elven voices. But through it all, the topic of the day was unmistakable. “Have you read it?” a young elf asked, eyes wide with excitement. “I have!” another replied, voice tinged with awe. “It’s about him… Haldir. The Marchwarden. It’s incredible—capturing every nuance of his character, his devotion, his… heart.” Haldir’s footsteps faltered, but only for a moment. His instincts, honed from years of service on the borders, had him scanning the crowd, his gaze sharp. The conversation continued around him, like a ripple spreading through the market, and the name of the book—the one that had been spoken with reverence—seemed to hang in the air like a weight upon his chest.

➳ ”Of a Marchwarden’s Heart.” He had heard the title before, but hearing it again, in connection with his own name, set off a strange unease within him. Curiosity clawed at him, and without fully understanding why, he followed the conversation, drawn to a nearby stall where books and scrolls were spread out for display. The stallkeeper—an elderly elf who had seen many seasons pass—stood proudly behind the table, a wide grin on his face as he spoke to a few customers. In his hands, he cradled several copies of the book. One of them was open, lying face-up on the table. There, in the flowing script of the first page, Haldir’s eyes found his own name: Haldir of Lothlórien, Marchwarden of the Northern Borders. The words danced across the page, detailing his strength, his unwavering commitment to Lothlórien, and the responsibilities that weighed upon him like an unseen cloak. His hand hovered over the book, but something in his chest tightened, and he pulled it back before anyone could see his hesitation. It wasn’t fear that held him, but discomfort—the unease of seeing himself so publicly laid bare, even in words.

➳ The stallkeeper caught sight of him then, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Ah, Haldir,” he said warmly, though there was a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. “I see you’ve found the book. It’s quite popular these days. Everyone is speaking of it. In fact, they say it captures your heart—every aspect of it.” Haldir stood still for a moment, as the stallkeeper’s words seemed to echo in his mind. Captures your heart. He had never wanted his heart to be seen by so many. His heart was a private thing, hidden beneath layers of duty and tradition, a heart reserved only for those he trusted implicitly. And yet, here it was—laid bare for the world, and for the first time, he wondered what had driven the author to capture so much of him in such a way. With his brow furrowed, he stepped closer to the stall, his fingers brushing over the pages as he picked up one of the books. There was a strange sense of familiarity about it, a weight that suggested the author knew more about him than he was comfortable with. He flipped through a few pages, the words speaking of his devotion, his watchfulness, the quiet burden he carried every day. His guarded nature was painted with delicate strokes, and yet there was also something softer—a mention of the times he had risked vulnerability for those he cared about, the quiet moments of reflection he rarely allowed himself. The book described not just his actions, but his soul, in a way that felt both intimate and foreign to him.

➳ As he scanned further, Haldir’s eyes caught a passage that made his breath hitch “He walks the borders alone, keeping the peace, guarding against danger, but in the silence of the forest, a deeper longing stirs within him. A desire for something beyond duty. A connection. A companion. Yet he fears this is a weakness, and so he buries it beneath the weight of his responsibility.” Haldir’s heart skipped a beat. The author had seen it all, understood his deepest fears and desires. How had they known? No one in Lothlórien, perhaps not even his own brothers, would have seen these things so clearly. He had buried those parts of himself long ago. And then it hit him—like a bolt of lightning. It was you. The realization struck Haldir so suddenly that he almost dropped the book in his hand. He looked around the bustling market, eyes scanning the crowd, as if the very air around him could reveal the truth. The idea that you—the one who had been near him, always present, always kind—had written this, was both thrilling and terrifying.

➳ His breath caught in his throat. He remembered the moments you had spent together, the quiet conversations, the stolen glances. All the times you had listened to him, noticed the things others missed. He had been so careful to guard his thoughts, his heart—but somehow, through the pages of this book, you had seen into him with a depth he had never allowed anyone to see. His eyes fell once more to the book, to the words that painted him in a light so raw, so vulnerable, that it made him feel exposed in ways he couldn’t explain. He had always prided himself on his control, his composure, yet here was a part of himself he had never given anyone permission to see. At that moment, he knew. He knew who had written it. And despite the fear that gripped him—fear of being misunderstood, of being seen as weak—he felt a strange warmth settle in his chest. A connection that went beyond the written word, one that tied him to you in a way he had never anticipated. He didn’t speak right away. The world around him continued, as if time itself hadn’t slowed for him. The book in his hands felt like an anchor, a reminder of the truth he had been unwilling to face. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. You knew him. And now, the whole world would know him, too. The stallkeeper’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Would you like a copy, Haldir? It seems you’ve already seen how well it captures your heart.”

➳ Haldir stood still, his gaze fixed on the pages in front of him. He took a deep breath, his voice low and measured, yet with an undeniable hint of vulnerability that even he couldn’t mask. “No,” he said softly, “I do not need a copy. But I would like to know who wrote it.” The stallkeeper, ever observant, gave him a knowing smile. “Ah, that is a question only the author can answer, I think.” Haldir nodded, his resolve hardening. He would find you. He would seek out the author, the one who had dared to see him so clearly. There were questions he needed answers to, but more than that, there was a part of him—a part that had long been buried—that wondered if he could allow himself to be understood like this. For the first time in a long while, Haldir felt a deep, lingering uncertainty. And it was in that moment, as the weight of the book still pressed against his palm, that he realized something. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t as alone as he had always believed. And the search for you—the writer of his heart—would begin.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

𐂂 The sun had long since dipped behind the trees of Mirkwood, casting the forest in soft twilight. The rhythmic sounds of life in the kingdom continued, a harmonious lull that usually soothed the king’s mind after a long day. Thranduil sat in his grand hall, his golden crown perched with its usual grace upon his brow, yet something stirred in the air—something out of place. The moment was interrupted when a messenger arrived, breathless from his journey. The elf handed Thranduil a small scroll, its seal unmistakably pressed with the mark of a well-known merchant town just beyond the borders of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, unfurling the scroll with the practiced grace that had become second nature over centuries.

𐂂 A story. About him. “Beneath the crown” The words on the parchment were simple, yet what followed within the pages, written by a mysterious author, was far from ordinary. The story spoke of the great King of Mirkwood—Thranduil—his triumphs, his sorrows, his wisdom, and even the more intimate, vulnerable moments of his reign. It painted him as both a fierce and noble ruler, a creature of beauty and power. But beyond that, the story delved into aspects of him that even he would hesitate to voice aloud—the emotions he kept hidden, the struggles of his heart that even the halls of his mighty kingdom could not shelter. The book had become wildly popular. It was being sold in the market at such a rapid pace that copies were flying off the shelves. The people who had read it, both elves and men, spoke of it with awe, captivated by the portrayal of the elven king. It was being praised far and wide, with many speculating about the identity of the author. But to Thranduil’s growing concern, there was one thing the story did not lack—an intimacy that left him feeling exposed, vulnerable, and for the first time in centuries, unsettled.

𐂂 He had read enough to know that the author had captured him in a way that no one had before. The words seemed to dance in front of his mind, unraveling things about himself that even he had refused to acknowledge. Yet, it was not the content of the story that left him uneasy, but the fact that someone—someone—had dared to write about him without his permission. His hand clenched the scroll tighter, his usually poised and composed demeanor faltering for a split second. The thought of someone peering into the private corners of his soul without his consent, weaving together his vulnerabilities into such a public display, caused a surge of conflicting emotions within him. “Who is this author?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

𐂂 The messenger’s voice was hesitant, unsure whether to even broach the topic. “It is… unknown, my lord. No name is attached to the book. It simply appeared in the market, and before we could even inquire about it, it had already captured the attention of many.” Thranduil’s lips pressed together in a thin line, the soft glow of the torchlight flickering against his features. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood, pacing slowly across the room. He knew the world had changed, but the thought of his private life being laid bare without his permission—without any sense of respect or boundary—struck him with an unexpected sting. His pride, so carefully nurtured over centuries, was at war with something else. A strange feeling he could not name, one that lingered like a shadow in his mind. He had seen countless people come and go, but this—this audacity—was different. Was it betrayal? Was it admiration? Or perhaps something in between?

𐂂 But then, as he recalled the words written within those pages, the thought struck him again: the author had captured a truth about him, one he had never allowed to be spoken aloud. Something buried deep within his heart. And despite the discomfort, a part of him could not ignore the curiosity that rose within him. They had written about him as if they had been there beside him, understanding him in ways even he had failed to. Thranduil stood at the window now, looking out over the expanse of his kingdom, the forest stretching into the distance. The book, now circulating through the markets, painted him as a ruler of strength, yes—but also as someone deeply burdened by loss, by the weight of responsibility. It was raw, unflinching, and honest in ways he had never allowed anyone to see. And though he despised the idea of being exposed in such a public manner, there was a subtle tug inside him—a pull toward the unknown author, someone who had, with their words, seen him in a way he rarely allowed. Who had written this? Thranduil wondered again. Why? A small part of him, the part that had long been buried beneath layers of rule and resolve, felt something he hadn’t in centuries: intrigue.

𐂂 The king, ever calm and composed, turned to the messenger with a quiet, controlled fury in his eyes. “Find this author,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous, “and bring them to me. I would speak with them.” The following days were filled with tension, a palpable unease settling over the kingdom as the book continued to spread. Word had already reached Thranduil that the mysterious author had yet to reveal themselves, their identity as elusive as a whisper in the night. Yet, there was something about their words that had already taken root in his mind. Something about the way they saw him, not just as a king, but as a man with complexities, with desires and regrets.

𐂂 Finally, the author was found. When you arrived before him, Thranduil’s gaze was piercing, his regal presence overwhelming. Yet, beneath his anger and frustration, there was a flicker of something else—something unspoken, something deeper. His eyes locked onto the author, you who stood before him, unsure but unwavering. Thranduil’s lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, though it barely reached his eyes. “You’ve written about me,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge that could cut through stone. “You’ve seen things about me that no one else has. Tell me, what drove you to write about me?”

𐂂 There was a long pause, the tension in the air so thick it could have been sliced with a blade. And then, the author answered, your voice quiet but full of conviction. “Because I see you,” you said simply, your words soft but filled with an undeniable truth. “I see what you hide, what you refuse to show. I wanted to share your story, the story that I believe the world should know.” Thranduil’s heart stilled at their words, and for a moment, he said nothing. The weight of the truth you had written about him, the vulnerability you had so delicately exposed, hung between them like a thread. It was a strange feeling, one that he couldn’t quite name—yet, in that silence, Thranduil realized something unexpected.

𐂂 This author had seen him. In ways no one else ever had. The king’s gaze softened, ever so slightly, as his next words were more quiet, more intimate than he intended. “You are bold,” he murmured, his voice tinged with something that bordered on admiration. “But do not mistake this for approval, author. You have exposed parts of me I would have preferred kept hidden.” The author merely nodded, accepting his words with quiet grace. “I understand, my king. But your story—your truth—it was too important to keep in the shadows.” Thranduil’s eyes flickered to the ground for just a moment, the weight of your words lingering. He did not know where this path would lead, but in the quiet of his heart, something shifted. “Then perhaps it is time for me to face it,” he whispered, almost to himself. And thus, Thranduil—who had once ruled from a distance, aloof from the rest of the world—felt the stirrings of something new. Something more than a king’s pride.

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