#elrond of rivendell

[earthlybeam]

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Elves how would they react to their human s/o being so…human with their ‘odd quirks’ by elven standards

how would the elves react to this?

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Thranduil, Elrond, Gil-galad Versions are below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil, being the proud and poised Elven King of Mirkwood, would react to the human quirks

You Missing your mouth with a drink and pouring it down your shirt.

𐂂 You lifting a glass of wine to your lips, but in a moment of miscalculation, you miss entirely, spilling the liquid down the front of your shirt.

𐂂 Thranduil He’s seated across from you, the soft light of the fire casting shadows over his sharp features. His gaze sharpens instantly, watching in mild surprise as the wine drips down your shirt. For a brief moment, he is silent, lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. “I was under the impression that you were capable of holding a glass properly.” His voice is cool, but there’s an unmistakable trace of amusement hidden beneath his composed exterior.

𐂂 You blushing, quickly wiping at your shirt, feeling embarrassed “I… I don’t know what happened, it just slipped.” Thranduil’s eyes narrow slightly, taking in your flustered state. The image of your clumsy mishap almost seems foreign to him—how could such a simple thing go wrong? For a fleeting moment, his gaze softens with a touch of empathy, though he quickly suppresses it. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, “you should be more mindful of your coordination when handling something so precious.”

𐂂 You glance up, eyes wide, and his lips twitch into the smallest of smirks. “It’s not just any wine, after all,” he adds, lifting his own glass, “but my favorite—Dorwinion.” His tone is mockingly solemn, as though mourning the loss of the wine, and the corners of his mouth betray a faint, knowing smile.

𐂂 You laughing softly “Well, I’m sorry, your favorite wine didn’t make it.” Thranduil leans back in his seat, the elegance of his posture unchanged despite the rare, lighthearted exchange. “Precious Dorwinion… spoiled.” He mutters under his breath, as though the very fabric of his world has been shaken. Then, with a flicker of mischief, he adds, “Let this be a lesson in humility, though I doubt the lesson will be learned by those who tend to spill their own drinks.”

𐂂 As you clean yourself up, he watches you with a mix of amusement and affection, his usually composed demeanor slipping just enough to reveal the gentleness of a ruler who, perhaps, has seen too many lives slip away—though this moment, this simple mishap, still makes him smile.

Another version

𐂂 You lift your glass of wine, but in a moment of distraction, you miss entirely, spilling the wine down the front of your shirt

𐂂 Thranduil The moment the wine escapes the glass and splashes across your chest, his face hardens immediately. His gaze flickers from the ruined shirt to the spilt liquid, and for the briefest moment, time seems to slow. His usually composed demeanor falters, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. He does not immediately speak, but the atmosphere shifts.

𐂂 His fingers tighten around his own glass, his knuckles whitening, and his lips press into a thin, almost imperceptible line. His eyes linger on the Dorwinion wine pooling on the table, and there’s a flash of something akin to pain in his gaze, though it vanishes just as quickly. “That,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying a cold edge, “was Dorwinion.” His tone is sharp, like a blade cutting through the silence, and his gaze remains fixed on the ruined wine as though it were an affront to his very existence.

𐂂 You looking at him, sheepish and embarrassed “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He raises a hand, cutting you off before you can finish. His expression is unreadable, though the tension in his features tells a different story. “You are fortunate,” he murmurs, his voice low, “that it was you who spilled it, and not one of my people.” There’s a strange undercurrent to his words, as though he would not be so forgiving with anyone else.

𐂂 You awkwardly trying to clean the mess “I didn’t mean to…” Thranduil’s eyes flick back to the wine. “It is the finest vintage. Handcrafted, rare—each drop a testament to the artisans of Dorwinion.” His voice softens, and for a brief moment, his gaze becomes distant, lost in thought. “I have waited for years to enjoy that taste, and you—”

𐂂 He catches himself, straightening, masking the vulnerability that had briefly shown. “No matter. You should be more careful. The world does not take kindly to such careless waste.” His words are sharp, but there is a hint of sorrow there, as though he mourns the loss of something deeply precious to him. His gaze lingers on you, the initial anger replaced by a subtle, quieter frustration. “Perhaps next time, you might hold the glass with the same care as you would a jewel.”

𐂂 You offer an apologetic smile, but Thranduil doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he picks up the remaining wine in his glass, swirling it thoughtfully. “I will forgive this,” he says, the coolness creeping back into his voice, “but do not expect me to be so lenient next time.”

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You had stole elven horn used by herald king and warrior and You Blowing on a elven horn dramatically but passing out from trying too hard.

𐂂 You With a mischievous grin, you steal an Elven horn, its craftsmanship exquisite, used only by heralds of kings and warriors. Determined to make a grand show, you raise it to your lips and blow with all the drama you can muster. Your breath falters, cheeks puffing in exertion, but no majestic sound comes forth. Instead, you push harder, straining yourself, and with one last effort, you collapse in a faint, overwhelmed by the effort.

𐂂 Thranduil The moment you lift the horn, Thranduil’s eyes narrow, sensing something amiss. His gaze sharpens as you blow with reckless abandon, knowing full well the importance of the horn. His posture stiffens slightly, but he remains silent, watching with that calculating intensity of one who has witnessed countless histories unfold. The sound, however, never comes.

𐂂 As you collapse to the ground, he is already moving—silent and swift, his footsteps barely a whisper in the stillness of the moment. His expression is a mixture of disbelief and quiet fury, but it’s controlled, measured—like the calm before a storm.

He crouches by your side, the faintest twitch of his lips betraying his disapproval. His hand hovers above you for a moment, checking for injury, and his voice cuts through the silence, deep and cool “Foolishness. Only the worthy are meant to wield such a horn.”

The horn you had stolen still lies near you, its beauty stark against the earth. Thranduil picks it up with a delicate touch, as if handling something sacred, his fingers brushing the intricate carvings.

𐂂 The weight of its history seems to press down on him, and his eyes flick to you, then back to the horn, his expression unreadable. “This is not a toy, nor something to be flaunted for simple show,” he continues, his voice quiet but sharp, like a blade being drawn. “It has been passed down through generations of warriors and kings—those who have earned the right to summon its call.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something—perhaps regret, perhaps anger—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

𐂂 As you stir, regaining consciousness, his tone softens just enough to show the faintest trace of exasperation mixed with something else. “You have an admirable spirit, but no sense of restraint. I trust you’ve learned the cost of your… impetuousness.”

𐂂 You’re met with his steady, piercing gaze, and for a moment, you see the depths of his age and wisdom, the weight of the Elven kingdom resting upon him. “Next time, you may leave such things to those who understand their true purpose,” he adds, his voice colder, the hint of a warning hanging in the air.

𐂂 He stands, allowing you space to recover, his figure towering above you like a shadow cast over the land. The stolen horn remains in his grasp, now a symbol of your impudence, its regal nature restored only in his hands.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Running into battle with a war cry but slipping in mud and faceplanting.

𐂂 You With fire in your eyes, you charge forward into battle, roaring a war cry that echoes across the battlefield. The ground is slick with mud, and in your fervor, you fail to notice the treacherous patch of earth beneath your feet. Before you can even register what’s happening, your feet slip, and you crash face-first into the muck with an embarrassing splat.

𐂂 Thranduil From his vantage point, high upon a hill or within the command post, Thranduil watches the chaos unfold. His piercing eyes are sharp, scanning the battlefield with a cold precision that has seen many wars. His gaze shifts from enemy lines to his own soldiers, but then, it lands on you.

𐂂 The sight of you charging forward with reckless abandon, your war cry echoing with such bravado, causes a flicker of curiosity—until you slip. There’s a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tightening of his jaw, but for a moment, he says nothing. His gaze locks onto your figure as you faceplant into the mud, your cry quickly turning into a startled, frustrated grunt.

𐂂 Thranduil doesn’t rush to your aid; that’s not his way. He’s a king, a strategist, and he knows the nature of battle well enough to understand that no warrior is free from the occasional misstep. But as he watches you, covered in the thick, brown muck, there’s a faint smirk—one that barely touches his lips but is clearly there.

𐂂 “Of all the ways to disgrace yourself in battle…” he mutters under his breath, his voice soft but filled with a knowing amusement. His soldiers, too, notice, and he can hear the whispers that ripple through the ranks. Some chuckle, others shake their heads, but he does not react outwardly.

𐂂 However, there’s a glimmer in his eyes—a flash of something almost affectionate beneath the kingly aloofness. Perhaps it’s the sheer determination in your eyes, the way you scramble to rise and continue fighting, even covered in mud. Thranduil’s eyes soften just a touch as he watches you. It’s an unusual trait among his people, the willingness to push forward despite such setbacks.

𐂂 Once you manage to regain your footing, grimacing at the state of yourself, Thranduil’s voice finally cuts through the air, low and sharp, but tinged with the faintest edge of amusement. “Next time, perhaps… do not announce your presence so dramatically, hmm?” He doesn’t move toward you, but his gaze remains locked onto yours, unwavering.

𐂂 The battlefield is a place for grace and strategy, and he’s not one to engage in hasty, impulsive actions. But in you, he sees a fire that both fascinates and frustrates him. Still, he allows you the space to regain your composure. After all, a fall in battle is no shame—so long as one rises again.

𐂂 “Wipe the mud from your face, and keep your focus. There is no glory in clumsiness, even if it’s… somewhat endearing,” he adds, his voice cutting through the air with an almost imperceptible warmth hiding beneath his usual cold edge. And though his words are laced with dry humor, his gaze lingers just a little longer than necessary, almost as if he is silently acknowledging your resolve to continue despite the setback.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Attempting to eat a snack and immediately dropping it on the floor, then deciding it’s “still good” and eating it anyway.

𐂂 You Sitting comfortably beside Thranduil in the quiet of the evening, you reach for a small snack—some dried fruit or perhaps a savory pastry. But as you bring it to your lips, your hand slips, and the snack tumbles from your grasp, landing with an audible thud on the stone floor. For a moment, you stare at it in disbelief, contemplating the fall.

𐂂 Without hesitation, you shrug and, with a nonchalant smile, scoop the fallen treat up from the floor, dusting it off lightly before popping it into your mouth. “Still good,” you murmur, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

𐂂 The Elven King is always watching—though not always in a way that makes his presence obvious. He’s seated across from you, enjoying the stillness of the evening, when the mishap unfolds. At first, his eyes widen in surprise, a fleeting reaction—he hadn’t expected you to simply disregard the fall and continue with the snack as if it had never touched the ground.

𐂂 His icy blue eyes narrow slightly, and his lips press into a thin line, clearly caught off guard by your casualness. For a moment, there’s a silence between you, thick with his assessment. He’s seen the elves in his court be elegant, graceful, and pristine in all things, and yet here you are, so unabashedly human in your approach. You eat the very thing that has touched the floor with a careless determination, as if the small blemish of dirt does not exist in your mind.

𐂂 “I… see,” he mutters, his voice laced with a combination of disbelief and mild amusement. His eyes flick down to the snack, then back up to meet your gaze. The corners of his lips curl upward just barely, betraying a fleeting hint of fondness. He says nothing more for a few moments, but you can feel his attention on you—his sharp gaze quietly observing.

𐂂 His mind drifts to the ways of elves—where cleanliness, grace, and order were paramount. But you, with your strange human habits, seem so unfazed by such things. Thranduil had spent centuries perfecting his self-control, his poised demeanor, and yet here you are, challenging that composed order in the simplest of ways.

𐂂 “You… simply eat it anyway,” he says with a soft chuckle, an edge of wonder in his voice as he watches you. “There is something strange about the way humans value such things. There are far more important matters to concern yourself with than a mere snack that has been… dropped.” But despite his words, there is something undeniably endearing in your casual disregard for perfection—an aspect of you that is so utterly human, so beautifully unpretentious.

𐂂 “Very well,” he sighs, though the playful glint in his eyes betrays his true feelings. “But next time, perhaps consider a second snack before you attempt to eat something from the floor.” As the soft light flickers from the hearth, Thranduil sits back, his gaze still lingering on you, intrigued by the quirks of your nature.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond, being the proud and poised Half-elven lord of Rivendell, would react to the human quirks

You Missing your mouth with a drink and pouring it down your shirt.

✶ Elrond is seated beside you at the table, his posture impeccable, his expression calm and regal, as always. The room is dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the gentle murmur of Rivendell’s evening breeze slipping through the open windows. The two of you are sharing a quiet meal, surrounded by the ancient elegance of his home, where even the air feels heavy with the wisdom of ages.

✶ As you lift your glass to your lips, Elrond’s attention momentarily shifts from his thoughts to you. His gaze is steady and warm, a quiet affection hidden beneath the layers of his composed exterior. But then, in a split second, his sharp eyes widen slightly as you miss your mouth entirely, sending the drink cascading down your shirt. The sound of the liquid splashing softly on the fabric fills the otherwise tranquil room, and Elrond’s perfectly restrained features falter for just a moment. His brows furrow slightly—not out of disapproval, but from genuine concern.

✶ “Meleth nín,” he murmurs, his voice rich with both amusement and tenderness. His hands, long and graceful, instinctively move toward you, though they hesitate for just a moment, as if unsure of how best to assist. “You are… certain the drink was not too much for you?” There is no trace of mockery in his tone, only a deep fondness and perhaps a touch of disbelief at how endearing your human foibles can be. His lips twitch into a small, amused smile as he rises from his seat, his steps as silent as the shadows in Rivendell’s corridors.

✶ “Elves are accustomed to such refined movements,” he continues, his tone teasing but affectionate, “but I admit, your… particular grace is something beyond my understanding.” Elrond gently retrieves a cloth from the table, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every action has been carefully planned to avoid startling you further. He moves to dab at the spill on your shirt, his fingers brushing the fabric with the same care he would offer something far more fragile.

✶ “Do not fret,” he says softly, his gaze softening as he meets your eyes. “This is nothing to be embarrassed about. You are more precious to me than any shirt or spilled drink.” A quiet laugh escapes him, an unexpected sound, but it is genuine—your little mistakes only make him love you more. Elrond leans in just slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his voice turning quieter, more intimate.

✶ “I will ensure that the next time you drink, the glass will be steadier in your hands, or perhaps, I shall assist you. I believe I could manage such a task far more competently.” His lips curl into a soft smile as he finishes cleaning the spill, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head, a quiet acknowledgment of your humanity and his unwavering affection for it—and for you.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Running into battle with a war cry but slipping in mud and faceplanting.

✶ The clash of swords and the thunderous sound of hooves echoed across the battlefield as chaos reigned all around. Elrond stood poised, his elegant sword gleaming in the dim light as he surveyed the unfolding skirmish with a calm yet resolute expression. His keen elven senses honed in on every movement, every sound, ready to strike or defend as needed. He had seen countless battles in his lifetime, yet each one brought with it the familiar weight of duty and the pain of inevitable loss.

✶ Amid the cacophony, a sound caught his ear—a spirited and unmistakably human cry of, “For glory!” Turning his head, he caught sight of you, rushing valiantly toward the fray, weapon in hand, determination etched into every line of your face. For a moment, Elrond’s heart clenched—not with fear, but with a deep, abiding pride in your courage.

✶ And then it happened. Your boot landed squarely in a patch of wet mud, and instead of propelling you forward, the ground betrayed you. Your momentum carried you into an unceremonious tumble, legs flying out from under you as you slid face-first into the muck with a resounding splat. The valiant war cry was abruptly cut off, leaving only the mortified silence of the moment.

✶ Elrond’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a beat of stunned silence. For a second, he merely blinked, his expression unreadable as he processed what had just occurred. Around him, the battle raged on, but his focus remained entirely on you, sprawled in the mud, splattered from head to toe, your weapon lying a few feet away as if it, too, had given up.

✶ Finally, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though he quickly tempered it with a deep breath. Ever the composed and dignified Elf-lord, Elrond strode toward you with swift grace, dodging combatants and stepping carefully around the treacherous patch of mud that had claimed you. Reaching your side, he knelt down, his gaze warm yet gently amused as he assessed your rather muddy predicament.

✶ “You are, without question, the most valiant warrior I have ever encountered,” he said, his tone calm but laced with undeniable affection. “Few could charge into battle with such spirit… and leave such an impression—on both the enemy and the ground beneath them.”

✶ Your face burned as you attempted to wipe some of the mud from your cheeks, but your indignation was short-lived when you caught the faintest quirk of his lips. “It was a strategic fall,” you retorted, your voice muffled as you spat out a bit of dirt. “A distraction tactic.”

✶ “Ah,” Elrond replied, inclining his head as though deeply considering your explanation. “I see. A masterful maneuver indeed.” He extended a gloved hand toward you, his eyes softening. “Come, meleth nín. Let us restore you to your upright position before the mud decides to claim you entirely.”

✶ With his assistance, you managed to stand, though your dignity remained firmly planted in the muck. Elrond’s hand lingered on your arm as he steadied you, his touch steady and grounding. “You are fortunate I am here,” he murmured, his tone quieter now, tinged with both fondness and amusement. “For if the enemy had witnessed your… valiant strategy, they might have surrendered immediately out of sheer pity.”

✶ Despite his teasing words, there was nothing but love in his gaze as he brushed a bit of mud from your face with the edge of his sleeve, his own pristine attire now bearing a faint streak of dirt. “You have courage, meleth nín, even if the ground itself seems intent on thwarting your efforts. Let us ensure that your bravery does not go to waste.” As the two of you rejoined the fray—this time with you holding tightly to his arm for balance—Elrond’s quiet chuckle was lost amid the clamor of battle, but the memory of your faceplant would remain etched in his mind, a rare and cherished moment of lightness in the midst of war.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You had stole elven horn used by herald king and warrior and You Blowing on a elven horn dramatically but passing out from trying too hard.

✶ The evening had been filled with laughter and light-hearted moments, the air in Rivendell thick with the harmony of long-forgotten music and quiet joy. You had always been a curious soul, drawn to the relics of Elven history and the storied artifacts scattered throughout Elrond’s halls. One such item, an intricately carved Elven horn, had caught your eye. It was a symbol of power and authority, once wielded by Elrond himself and the heralds of his people.

✶ As the night grew late, your mischievous spirit took hold. Without much thought, you reached for the horn, its smooth surface cool against your skin, and, with a glance toward Elrond who was engrossed in a quiet conversation, you brought the instrument to your lips. The elegant craftsmanship of the horn gleamed in the flickering candlelight. You took a deep breath, preparing to blow.

✶ Elrond, sensing something amiss, turned just in time to witness you giving a dramatic, almost theatrical blow to the horn. The sound was a garbled mess at first, nothing like the clear, commanding call it was designed for. You seemed determined, however, your cheeks puffing out as you tried again, even harder this time.

✶ Then, much to Elrond’s surprise—and perhaps his amusement—the effort seemed to overwhelm you. The strain of forcing air through the instrument, coupled with the exertion of your enthusiasm, proved too much. Your body swayed and, with a soft gasp, you collapsed in a faint, the horn slipping from your grasp as you slumped into the soft cushions nearby.

✶ For a moment, Elrond stood frozen, his brow furrowing as he processed the sight. His usually composed demeanor faltered, concern flickering in his eyes. As a lord of wisdom and an immortal elf, he had seen countless things, but this was a new one—his beloved in such an uncharacteristic state.

✶ “By the Valar,” Elrond muttered softly under his breath, his voice laced with both concern and disbelief. His long, graceful fingers moved to gently lift your limp form, bringing you back into his embrace, his lips pressing against your forehead in a silent, tender gesture of reassurance. “What on Arda possessed you to exert yourself so?”

✶ His usual composed demeanor remained, but there was no hiding the soft edge of concern in his voice. “Foolish, yet endearing,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. He shook his head slightly, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I shall never understand the impulsiveness of humans,” he said, but the affection in his words made it clear that he could never love you any less for it.

✶ As you slowly began to stir, Elrond gently supported you, making sure you were comfortable, before placing the horn carefully to the side. His fingers brushed through your hair as he spoke, his voice now tender. “Rest now, meleth nín. The horn is not meant to be blown with such vigor, nor by one who has not trained with it for centuries.”

✶ He could not help but smile, the sight of your unabashed enthusiasm warming his heart, despite the somewhat comical outcome. It was a moment that would stay with him, not for the folly, but for the affection it symbolized—the tenderness of being loved by someone so wonderfully imperfect. And so, Elrond held you close, waiting patiently for you to regain your strength. Despite the dramatic display, it was clear that he would always be there to catch you when your exuberance led you astray.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Attempting to eat a snack and immediately dropping it on the floor, then deciding it’s “still good” and eating it anyway.

✶ It was a peaceful afternoon in Rivendell, the sun casting soft, golden light through the towering trees and the sound of the waterfall cascading in the distance. You had spent the morning with Elrond, walking through the quiet paths of his sanctuary, and now, as you both settled in the study, you felt a moment of hunger stir within you. Elrond was immersed in his thoughts, flipping through the pages of an ancient tome, his presence as calming and composed as ever.

✶ You, however, were less focused on the weighty matters of history. Reaching for a small basket beside you, you picked up a crisp fruit, its golden skin glistening in the light. But as you were about to take a bite, your fingers slipped, and the fruit tumbled from your hand, falling with a soft thud to the floor. For a moment, you stared at it in surprise, eyes wide as you assessed the situation. The floor was clean, after all, and it was only a minor mishap.

✶ With a shrug, you bent down, picked up the fruit, and, in a lighthearted tone, murmured to yourself, “It’s still good,” before bringing it to your lips. Elrond, ever observant, glanced up from his book at the sound of your words. His sharp elven eyes caught the scene—your casual dismissal of the small disaster and your decision to continue eating.

✶ He blinked, his brow furrowing in mild surprise. “Is it truly wise to… consume that, meleth nín?” he asked, his voice soft but tinged with a hint of concern. The elves were, after all, creatures of elegance and perfection, and such casual disregard for cleanliness was not common among them. Yet there was no hint of judgment in his gaze—only curiosity and a quiet, affectionate amusement.

✶ You, undeterred, smiled brightly, as if to say that a little imperfection wouldn’t ruin the enjoyment. “It’s fine, Elrond. Just a little dirt. A bit of extra flavor,” you teased, as if you had just discovered a secret way to enjoy life’s small imperfections.

✶ Elrond sighed, though it was not a sound of disapproval. His lips quirked upward in a soft smile, a rare moment of humor breaking through his otherwise serene demeanor. “You are ever full of surprises,” he said, though there was a fondness in his voice. His hand gently reached for your own, brushing his fingers against yours in that reassuring touch that had become second nature. “I cannot say I would partake in such a… adventurous decision, but I suppose that is one of the joys of being human.”

✶ The moment was so simple, yet so perfect in its way. While Elrond would never have considered the same choice, he couldn’t help but be charmed by your carefree nature. Your willingness to laugh at life’s small mishaps, to find joy in the simplest of things, was something that spoke deeply to his heart. Even as a being of centuries, Elrond could not help but admire how you embraced the world in all its imperfections.

✶ As you took another bite, Elrond shook his head, but his smile widened, his affection for you only growing stronger. “I suppose,” he murmured softly, “there is something to be said for the strength of spirit that allows you to find joy in the smallest of moments, even when the world itself may seem too serious.”

✶ He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a mix of quiet adoration and amusement. There was no need for words beyond this; he could simply be with you in these quiet moments, finding joy in your company and the small, endearing quirks that made you so wonderfully human.

✶ With a soft chuckle, Elrond returned to his book, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, the warmth of his affection wrapped around you like a quiet, protective cloak. No, he would never understand the human disregard for cleanliness, but he could certainly appreciate the beauty in the way you lived.

👑𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad, being the proud and poised elven king of Lindon , would react to the human quirks

You Missing your mouth with a drink and pouring it down your shirt.

🜲 Gil-galad’s sharp eyes catch the moment almost before it happens. As you raise the cup to your lips, your aim falters, and the liquid splashes down your chin and onto your shirt. For a fleeting second, you freeze, perhaps embarrassed, but before you can react, a soft chuckle escapes the High King’s lips—a rare sound, warm and deeply amused. His regal composure remains intact, though there’s a flicker of mirth in his gaze as he steps closer to you.

🜲 “You appear to have missed the intended target,” he remarks, his voice calm but tinged with a teasing warmth. Despite his words, there’s no condescension—only the affectionate humor of someone who finds even your clumsiness endearing. Gil-galad’s long life has afforded him an appreciation for imperfection, especially in you, whose human quirks often surprise and delight him.

🜲 Without hesitation, he retrieves a clean cloth from nearby with the smooth efficiency of someone who’s used to anticipating the needs of others. Gently, he extends it toward you, his movements graceful, as though even this mundane act were part of some royal ritual. “Here,” he says softly, his tone kind and unhurried. “Though I must admit, you wear even the signs of your mishap with a certain charm.”

🜲 As you take the cloth and begin dabbing at the spill, his eyes remain fixed on you, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I did not think I would find such amusement this evening,” he continues, his words light but tinged with affection. “It seems even the mightiest of beings—whether elf or mortal—can falter in the simple act of drinking.” His smile deepens, a rare and genuine expression of his adoration for you.

🜲 Once the moment passes, he steps back with his usual elegance, though the warmth in his gaze lingers. “Next time, perhaps I shall hold the cup for you,” he adds, his voice carrying a playful undertone that’s rare from him. Gil-galad treasures these small, imperfect moments, for they remind him of the humanity he loves so deeply in you, grounding him in a way few things can.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You had stole elven horn used by herald king and warrior and You Blowing on a elven horn dramatically but passing out from trying too hard.

🜲 Gil-galad stood by the window of his chambers, calmly reviewing a scroll, when a sudden, blaring—and utterly ungraceful—sound erupted from elsewhere in the hall. His sharp elven ears recognized the unmistakable tone of the ancient herald’s horn, but its call was off, almost comically strained. His brows furrowed, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He set down the scroll, a mix of curiosity and concern guiding his steps as he followed the sound.

🜲 When he entered the grand hall, the sight before him was enough to stop even the High King in his tracks. There you were, slumped dramatically on the floor, the great elven horn tilted at an awkward angle in your lap. Your face was flushed, and you looked as though you had just waged battle with the horn itself—and lost. Gil-galad’s gaze flicked between you and the horn, his expression carefully composed though the faintest twitch of amusement threatened to surface.

🜲 He strode forward, his movements measured, as though trying to assess the situation without laughing outright. “I see you have discovered one of Lindon’s most sacred relics,” he said, his voice calm but laced with gentle humor. “Though it appears you have underestimated its power… or overestimated your own lungs.”

🜲 Kneeling beside you, his keen eyes swept over you to ensure you were unharmed, his hand lightly brushing your shoulder. “Are you well, my little herald?” he asked, a rare playfulness in his tone as he referred to your ill-fated attempt at ceremonial grandeur. His touch was steady, grounding, though his lips quirked into a small, amused smile as he glanced at the horn. “Few have dared to attempt such a feat untrained. Fewer still have lived to boast of it without collapsing.”

🜲 You muttered something about “wanting to see what all the fuss was about,” and Gil-galad chuckled softly, a rich, low sound that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. “It is no small task to wield the herald’s horn,” he said, his tone shifting into one of lighthearted mockery that only you would be privileged to hear. “Its call is meant to rally armies, not… entertain curious mortals.”

🜲 With practiced ease, he helped you to your feet, his hands firm but gentle as he steadied you. “I shall forgive your theft, though I may need to assign a guard to the relics chamber,” he teased, his voice calm yet brimming with affection. As you stood, he lifted the horn and gave it an appraising look. “Perhaps I should teach you how to properly use it—after you’ve recovered from this valiant, if misguided, attempt.”

🜲 Guiding you toward a seat, Gil-galad allowed himself one final glance at the horn, shaking his head lightly. “Only you could turn a herald’s call into an adventure,” he said softly, the warmth in his tone making it clear that, despite everything, he treasured the moments of spontaneity you brought to his life.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Running into battle with a war cry but slipping in mud and faceplanting.

🜲 The battlefield was grim and chaotic, with the clamor of war echoing across the field. Gil-galad stood poised, his golden armor gleaming under the faint light that broke through the smoky haze. His presence alone was a rallying cry to the elven soldiers, his commanding aura steadying even the most doubtful hearts. But then, over the din of battle, he heard it: your war cry—a ferocious, spirited sound that echoed with determination, bold enough to rival the horns of Valar themselves. He turned just in time to see you charging forward, weapon raised high, fire in your eyes.

🜲 And then… disaster. Your foot met the treacherous slick of churned mud, and, with almost comical inevitability, you lost your balance. Arms flailing, you tumbled forward in a spectacularly graceless arc, landing face-first in the mire with a resounding splat. The sound was loud enough to cut through even the noise of the battle, and for a moment, time seemed to still as everyone—including Gil-galad—turned to witness your unfortunate display.

🜲 For a long, agonizing moment, Gil-galad simply stared, his impassive expression betraying nothing. Then, slowly, a faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. He immediately suppressed it, his regal composure reasserting itself, though a glimmer of humor danced in his eyes. Striding forward with the grace of an elf who had never once tripped in his life, he reached your side, offering a hand to pull you from the mud.

🜲 “You have the spirit of a warrior,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with a warmth that betrayed his affection. As he helped you to your feet, his hand remained firm, steadying you while you wiped the mud from your face. “Though it seems the ground of Middle-earth wishes to claim you as its champion instead.”

🜲 His words carried no mockery, only gentle teasing, a quiet effort to ease the sting of your embarrassment. He brushed a smear of mud from your shoulder, his gaze briefly flickering toward the battlefield where the enemy still advanced. Then, with a quiet sigh of resignation and a slight, mischievous smile, he reached down to retrieve your fallen weapon, handing it back to you with a raised brow.

🜲 “Shall we try again? This time, perhaps with less zeal and more footing,” he said, his tone light yet encouraging. The twinkle in his eyes softened as he added in a quieter voice meant only for you, “Remember, bravery lies not in perfection but in rising after the fall. And you… you rise well.”

🜲 With that, he turned back toward the fray, his confidence in you unwavering despite your earlier mishap. And as he strode forward, leading his forces with the grace and nobility of a High King, he allowed himself the smallest chuckle under his breath—a fleeting indulgence in the chaos of war, brought about by you, his endlessly endearing companion.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You Attempting to eat a snack and immediately dropping it on the floor, then deciding it’s “still good” and eating it anyway.

🜲 The serene halls of Lindon echoed with a faint crunch as you bit into the snack you had been eagerly anticipating. Gil-galad, seated nearby, was immersed in reviewing a map of strategic importance, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. However, his sharp elven senses picked up the muffled gasp that escaped your lips as your fingers fumbled, and the snack tumbled to the floor. The sound of it hitting the ground seemed louder than it had any right to be, and he glanced up, his gaze calm but mildly curious.

🜲 You froze, staring at the fallen snack as though weighing the consequences of your next move. Gil-galad’s piercing eyes softened with subtle amusement as he watched you quickly glance around—perhaps checking if anyone had seen your mishap. Your resolve visibly hardened, and before he could say a word, you bent down, retrieved the fallen food, and dusted it off with the exaggerated confidence of someone who refused to let misfortune win. Without hesitation, you popped it into your mouth, declaring under your breath, “Still good.”

🜲 The High King of the Noldor said nothing at first, his expression impeccably composed, though there was a distinct flicker of incredulity in his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he set aside the map and folded his hands on the table, regarding you with an air that was both regal and deeply amused. “Did you just…” he began, his voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of suppressed laughter, “consume food that has—how shall I put this—touched the earth of Lindon?”

🜲 You chewed nonchalantly, refusing to meet his gaze as if that would somehow erase the evidence. “Five-second rule,” you muttered, as though this were an immutable law of the universe.

🜲 Gil-galad leaned back in his chair, regarding you with the bemusement of one who had witnessed many baffling human behaviors but had not, until this moment, encountered this particular quirk. “Ah, yes,” he said with mock gravitas, his tone tinged with teasing. “A mortal custom I have often heard of but never seen demonstrated so boldly. Truly, your resilience in the face of… questionable hygiene is unmatched.”

🜲 He rose from his seat, his long strides carrying him to where you sat. With the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips, he bent slightly, as though examining the now-empty spot on the floor. “If it were possible, I believe you might make even Sauron hesitate. Few have the audacity to flout propriety so fearlessly.” His words carried no malice, only the quiet warmth of someone utterly charmed by your idiosyncrasies.

🜲 As he straightened, his sharp gaze lingered on you for a moment, full of a kind of affection he rarely displayed. Then, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, he returned to his seat. “Just try not to make this a habit,” he said, his tone light but playful. “I may be brave enough to face the Enemy, but watching you tempt fate with such culinary recklessness may test even my resolve.” Though his focus returned to the map before him, the occasional amused glance in your direction betrayed his ongoing struggle to suppress the grin that your antics had stirred. Even amidst the weight of kingship, it seemed, you had a knack for reminding him of the simpler, if occasionally baffling, joys of life.

[thestormthatrises]

Elrond!

Before voting, spin the wheel and get a Lord of the Rings character.

Not sure who your character is? You can look them up on this Tolkien Gateway character list, or just vote based on vibes.

For the purposes of the game, assume your vote is not "LaCE compliant." (That is, fucking an elf does not instantly mean marriage or death for that elf.)

Poll concept from @pollsnatural.

[thesummerestsolstice]

See one of my favorite Rivendell headcanons is that even though it's a wonderful, peaceful sanctuary, pretty much everyone there could be incredibly dangerous if they wanted to be. Like, let's think about who lives in that valley.

Elrond Peredhel, resident healer and eldritch crime against nature, self-explanatory

Glorfindel, slayer of balrogs, self-explanatory

Erestor, probably Feanorian, definitely dangerous

Old Feanorian diehards, all of whom are probably looking for an excuse to commit morally justified violence

Old Gondolindrim/Iathrim, who, despite what they might tell you, are exactly as dangerous as the Feanorians

Garthaglir the Library Orc, who absolutely remembers how to use the giant battleaxe he keeps behind his desk

A strange, shadowy figure roaming the valley who I'm *sure* isn't Maglor Feanorian, but who is nonetheless a terrifying singer

Elladan and Elrohir, who have spent the last several centuries becoming nightmare fuel for Sauron's forces

Arwen, eldritch, bites

Bilbo Baggins, not to be underestimated, can defeat a grown man with nothing more than his scathingly polite commentary

Dunedain visitors, vaguely feral, highly trained

Aragorn, very feral, highly trained

Lindir, not actually dangerous, but if you upset him you are going to have problems with everyone else on this list

I actually really like the idea that a lot of the people who live in Rivendell are inherently kind of dangerous, because it means that they're actively choosing peace and kindness for themselves and I love that.

[corndog-patrol]

elrond being middle earth's therapist

[balrogballs]

Did I spend my commute doodling away to illustrate my silly little Elrond-raising-Aragorn headcanons? You bet I did?

Illustrations own, text from my writings on AO3/headcanons on Tumblr.

[twelfthadept-fics]

Watching LOTR yet again and while I lovelovelove the way Rivendell is designed, it's gorgeous and harmonious with nature and undeniably *Elvish*, one thing has always bothered me. There are no doors. Anywhere. At all.

What are you supposed to do if you need to have a pee? Or jerk it? Or hell, what if it's just hella windy outside? Or what about the wildlife? Is Elrond's dwelling just like infested with possums or what?

[luzriels]

🍂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✧˚.💚⋆ Season 2 of The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power

[unavidas]

A sketchy Elrond & Cel from the drafts 🍂🌸

[cheesy-cryptid]

Elrond and Celebrían

[elven-sisters]

Elwing with her boys!

Aren't they cute little smols?

[sakasakiii]

imladris lads :D it started off as a few doodles of gildor bc of a great prompt i received from an anon a few weeks ago, and then spiralled into something else entirely bc i havent really taken the time to explore much of anything imladris-related? i really like the lindir-is-maglor concept so heres my take on how it couldve happened haha

as always, credit to Cartoon Network for the sparkly pink BG

thanks so much for the ask!! here's my take on gildor :DD i really like the way anon asked the question and it was what inspired me to draw finrod in the mix too strangely enough?? the vibes are similar 🤭

[earthlybeam]

How would Thranduil, Elrond, and other elves react to a daring surprise kiss while drunk on wine at a festival?

elves react to a daring surprise kiss from reader/you while drunk on wine at a festival

how would the elves react to this?

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↓

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Thranduil, Elrond Versions below. Link to Gil-galad and Celebrimbor here.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

𐂂 The Starlight Festival had reached its peak, and the Woodland Realm was alive with a rare kind of energy. The air was filled with music, laughter, and the sweet scent of wine that had been generously poured into silver goblets. The scent of blooming flowers and fresh earth mixed with the sweet tang of Dorwinion wine, a drink that flowed freely tonight in honor of the rare celebration. Elves in flowing garments danced in the moonlight beneath the shimmering canopy of stars, their movements graceful, as if the very forest was celebrating with them. Thranduil, as always, presided over the festivities from his lofty seat—a throne carved of intertwined roots, where he observed the revelry with an aloof yet intrigued air. His golden crown of autumn leaves glowed faintly in the soft light, his sharp, calculating gaze following the festivities below.

𐂂 You, however, were not watching from a distance. You had already indulged a little too much in the wine, the smooth, rich liquid emboldening you as it slipped through your veins. It was easy to forget the usual careful restraint you maintained around the Elvenking when the mood was this jubilant, and the warmth of the evening wrapped around you like a cloak. You knew Thranduil well, perhaps even better than most of the elves present at the festival. There had always been an unspoken bond between the two of you, one built on mutual respect and an understanding that transcended mere formality. Still, there was something about the way he held himself tonight—distant yet softened by the warmth of the wine—that made you feel a surge of daring.

𐂂 Your friends had long since dispersed, lost in the crowd, but your eyes never left Thranduil. His poised, regal demeanor contrasted so sharply with the carefree atmosphere around him. A thought stirred within you, bold and impulsive—a sudden desire to break the boundary of formality and see if the Elvenking could be caught off guard. And with that thought, the idea bloomed fully in your mind. With a wry grin to yourself, you made your way toward him. As always, he noticed you before you could reach him, his silver eyes catching yours with a knowing flicker. Thranduil had been watching you, or perhaps simply waiting for your next move. His lips curved in a faint but curious smile, but he said nothing as you approached him. “Careful,” he warned softly, his voice rich and smooth, tinged with amusement, as he regarded you with an amused tilt of his head. “You’ve had enough wine, I see.”

𐂂 You smiled back, half-laughing, the wine thickening your tongue and your courage. “Enough for a little mischief,” you replied, your voice teasing yet warm, familiar. He raised an eyebrow, an amused glint in his gaze. “Misguided mischief, I suspect.” Before he could say anything more, before either of you could retreat into your usual roles—he, the dignified King, and you, the long-time companion—you leaned in. The crowd and the festivities faded into the background as you reached up, with only a moment’s hesitation, and pressed a soft, daring kiss to his lips. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the feel of his cool lips against yours and the steady beat of your own heart, which now seemed far too loud. His reaction was immediate and telling. Thranduil froze, his tall, graceful frame still as stone beneath your touch. The light from the lanterns around the clearing cast shadows across his face, and his piercing gaze opened wide, though it softened, just slightly, with a flicker of surprise. His lips parted from yours, but he did not push you away.

𐂂 The moment stretched, his fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he slowly pulled back, his breath still steady, though his expression had shifted from surprise to something darker, more guarded—like a king who had just been tested. His eyes, sharp and calculating, searched your face, almost as if he were trying to read your intentions.“You are bold tonight,” he said, his voice low, rich with something that wasn’t quite approval, but far from anger. “I never imagined you’d be so reckless.” You swallowed, feeling a twinge of vulnerability now that the boldness had worn off. You had never crossed this line with him before, and despite the warmth of the wine, the risk of the gesture suddenly felt very real. “I—apologies, Thranduil. I did not mean to—”

𐂂 “Mean to what?” His voice softened, the faintest glint of amusement breaking through his sternness. “To kiss your king?” His words, though still wrapped in an air of authority, were not unkind. But his eyes remained intensely focused on you. He was studying you, measuring you with the care of someone who had lived through countless years and seen many different faces, but whose trust was not easily won. Yet, to your surprise, he did not pull away. His hand, so careful and gentle, rested against your cheek for a moment longer than expected. There was a pause before he added with a wry smile, “Perhaps this wine has made you more daring than I thought.” You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and relief. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve simply had enough of watching from the sidelines.” For a moment, it seemed as though he would respond in kind, but instead, his gaze softened just slightly. “I see,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. His hand fell away from your face, but not without a lingering warmth. “Let us see how long your courage lasts, then. I wonder… what else you might dare now?”

𐂂 You held his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you—something that suggested, despite his regal authority, despite his cool demeanor, he was intrigued by you in a way that went beyond mere courtesy. The moment was electric, charged with possibilities. The festival around you continued, the elves unaware of the quiet tension that lingered between you and their king, but as Thranduil’s eyes met yours once more, you knew this was a night neither of you would soon forget.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ The night in Rivendell was alive with the magic of the Celebration of the Moon and Stars, a festival woven into the very fabric of the Elves’ connection to the night sky. The stars shone bright above the gathered revelers, their silver light cascading down upon the crowd like a blessing. The air was fragrant with the sweetness of wine, the murmur of laughter, and the distant hum of elven music, soft and ethereal. Elves in rich, shimmering garments danced and sang beneath the heavens, their movements fluid, their faces alight with joy. Among them stood Elrond, ever dignified and composed, his presence commanding yet serene. He was in the midst of a conversation with a circle of Rivendell’s noblest, the words flowing between them with the careful deliberation that was typical of their genteel society. His robes, dark and regal, billowed slightly in the evening breeze, and his hair caught the glint of starlight, giving him an almost otherworldly glow. His voice, deep and steady, resonated as he spoke with his companions, yet there was something in his eyes that reflected the awe of the night—the very essence of the celebration.

✶ You, on the other hand, had been swept up in the intoxicating atmosphere of the festival. The sweet, earthy wine had worked its magic, and you felt a playful, daring energy rise within you. The melodies of the Elves’ songs, the dance of the stars, the laughter of your friends—it was all too much to resist. You had known Elrond for some time now, though your bond had always been one of quiet companionship, and not of passionate or romantic entanglements. Still, the wine had emboldened you tonight. As Elrond continued his conversation with the nobles, his back turned toward you, you found yourself quietly approaching him. Your feet seemed light as you weaved through the crowd, your eyes focused on the back of his elegant form. You’d often admired him from afar, but this night felt different—spurred by the heat of the wine and the boldness that came with it, you decided that tonight would be the night you would act on your impulse.

✶ Without warning, you leaned in, closing the space between you and Elrond. Your lips brushed against his cheek, then, driven by the wine’s warmth and the flickering excitement in your chest, you pressed a quick, daring kiss to his lips. The world around you seemed to pause. Elrond’s noble face, usually so calm and composed, went still in the surprise of it. His eyes widened as he slowly pulled away from you, his gaze searching yours with a mix of surprise and curiosity. The nobles who had been speaking with him fell silent, their attention shifting to the unexpected exchange. Elrond’s hand, which had been resting by his side, stiffened slightly, and his lips parted as if to speak. For a moment, he seemed to have lost his voice. The stars above, those ancient and knowing witnesses, twinkled brightly as if watching this bold moment unfold. Elrond’s gaze softened as he studied you, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. He leaned back slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You are most bold this evening, my friend,” he said, his voice low but warm, with the faintest teasing note threading through it.

✶ You felt a blush creep across your face, the wine making your heart beat faster, yet the nerves in your stomach were calmed by the softness in his eyes. “I suppose the night, the wine, and the stars all made me do it,” you said, your voice a little breathless from the unexpectedness of it all. Elrond’s smile grew ever so slightly, and his eyes, which were typically full of ancient wisdom and restraint, glinted with something else—something gentler, more open than you’d seen before. “The stars may indeed have their influence, but I doubt even they could have pulled you to such an action without your own heart in the matter,” he mused, his tone more thoughtful now, as if considering what had just occurred between you.

✶ The nobles, who had been silent until now, exchanged quiet glances, unsure whether to resume their conversation or acknowledge what had just transpired. One of them, an older Elf with a well-groomed beard and silver hair, gave a quiet laugh, his eyes glimmering with humor. “It seems we have witnessed something rare tonight,” he said softly, more to the others than to Elrond. Elrond, ever the composed leader, gave a small, knowing nod to the group, though his gaze never left you. “Indeed,” he said, his voice holding a deeper tone now, as though weighing the moment with more thought. “But this moment, like the stars above us, will pass into the tapestry of the night. I do not mind its place within it.”

✶ The music in the distance swirled around you both, the soft melodies of Elven harps and flutes mingling with the night air. For a moment, there was silence between you and Elrond, a quietness that hung heavy in the air, filled with unspoken things—things that neither of you could put into words just yet. Elrond took a step closer, his presence commanding yet gentle, his eyes searching yours once again. “I confess,” he said, his voice quiet and intimate now, “I did not expect this… tonight. But I do not find it unwelcome.”

✶ Your heart fluttered at his words, the warmth of the wine and the weight of the moment mingling together in a way that left you breathless. The stars above, ancient and timeless, bore witness to this quiet shift between you and the Lord of Rivendell. And though the night would continue, with its music and dancing, there was a new layer to the festival now—a subtle yet undeniable connection that had blossomed in the warmth of the evening. The kiss had been bold, unplanned, but in the quiet after, there was something deeper—something that neither of you could have expected, and yet, it was exactly what the stars had hinted at.

[grondds-and-roses]

You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty-fourth btw. If you even care

[thesummerestsolstice]

I feel like between the Feanorians, the Gondolindrim, and the Iathrim, Elrond must've been like, one of the best guarded people in Middle-Earth. There's always some 8000+ year old elf (who probably committed multiple crimes in the First Age, and who would have faded several centuries ago except for sheer stubbornness) looming over his shoulder. Are they armed? Probably. Are they willing to shank someone for threatening Elrond? Absolutely.

He's told them, multiple times, that Rivendell is a peaceful realm, and that them standing around menacingly and making vaguely threatening gestures is kind of messing with the vibes. They always smile, and nod, and then go back to exactly what they were doing before.

(Emotionally, most of them still see Elrond as the determined, plucky War-of-Wrath era teenager he hasn't been for millennia now, so while they respect him and care about him, they don't always actually listen to him)

(Elrod sics Bilbo on them)

[leucisticpuffin]

Elrond in the flower garden at Imladris, for @imladrisweek.

Some notes:

The garden has its own odd ecosystem: plants bloom at odd times, summer flowers linger long after the world without has turned to autumn, and certain plants thrive there that would not ordinarily survive the cold winters of northern Eriador. Hence hollyhocks, globe thistle, lavender, clematis, and (most peculiarly) wisteria are all in bloom in early autumn.

As the house and gardens are built into the sides of the valley, terraced gardens suited the landscape best. The terraces are accessed by sloping walkways rather than steps, ensuring they are accessible to Imladris' disabled inhabitants and those who come to Elrond for healing.

The oak-tree fountain is (irl) inspired by the work of sculptor Mehrdad Tafreshi. In-universe, similar fountains existed in Menegroth and Nargothrond, the work of a Sindarin coppersmith who was later well-known in Eregion for crafting complex, increasingly fantastical representations of plants and animals (both real and imagined). He called them 'imperishable forests'. Much of his work decorated the squares and buildings of Ost-in-Edhil. He was killed in the sacking of that city; the tree in Elrond's garden was made by one of his pupils.

If you zoom in on the top terrace, you will find statues of Luthien dancing and Elwing with a seabird.

Elrond's outfit was inspired by a 1910 House of Worth tea gown.

It took Elrond several centuries to admit that he needed reading-glasses (quirks of being a Peredhel). The arms of his glasses don't hook over the ear, so they're tied in place with cord.

This is possibly the most time-consuming piece of art I've ever done, clocking in at seventy-two and a half hours; I just barely finished it in time! Please please enlarge to look at all the tiny details :)

[balrogballs]

Or would they squeeze her into a perfunctory line in a thousand-page story, as a throwaway reference to the tragic life of Elrond Peredhel? When they write the histories of the Third Age, would they take her long, loving, beloved life, and shove it into three weeks in a cave on Caradhras?

Would that be her fate?

Four-thousand-year-old Celebrìan, the earwig-squasher, the snort-laugher, the breadcrumb-leaver, the beating heart of the valley, who lived as well as she could, until she couldn't. Brave, kind, beloved. A single footnote long.

A South Asian inspired take on the wonderful Celebrìan, gorgeous scars and all, who has a very special place in my heart and frankly is someone I Can Never Be Normal About. Art my own, words from my fic.