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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 6 months ago

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Reunion (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which your husband finally returns from his time in Númenor, and you make the most of the first moment you get him alone

Warnings: evil!reader, mentions of injury, hot and heavy make out, slight choking, heavily suggestive dialogue, mentions of exhibitionism

Note: same evil!reader as the others in the collection, but it should make sense on its own too.

He’s finally on his way to Eregion. And wounded. It’s been plain to see through your soulbond for days.

You can barely conceal your trepidation as you stand with Celebrimbor and Elrond, awaiting your husband’s arrival in Eregion. They do not know to expect it, of course—they believe Galadriel is long gone into Valinor, and they could never fathom that she is soon to ride through the gates with a man at her side, much less that he is the very darkness they seek to keep at bay. And that you, Celebrimbor’s trusted aid for so many years, are none other than Sauron’s beloved wife.

Had they known, they surely would not have asked you to assist in the task secretly entrusted to them by king Gil-galad—that of bringing into being some sort of creation that will save Elvendome from the dying of their light in Middle-Earth. That is what you are discussing now. Elrond laments that you have failed, and it is time to inform the High King of this. Celebrimbor looks at him, dismayed.

“We must not despair,” you intervene, working as much hopeful reassurance into your gaze as possible. “Surely, in another few days, the answers will come.”

And it’s not even a lie. Your husband shall bring all the inspiration needed and then some—but you must ensure the Elves do not leave this city before his arrival.

Elrond shakes his head. “I fear we’re out of time.” He places a hand on your shoulder, and you push down the urge to swat it away as he speaks very inconvenient words. “The Elves must prepare to abandon these shores. Forever.”

You return his sad smile with practiced ease.

Where are you? you reach out to your husband, sending the thought as far and quickly as you can manage—

A deep tiredness answers on his end. Swiftly and so very close.

The sound of hooves has never sounded sweeter than when Galadriel finally rides in through the gate. It serves you well that both Elrond and Celebrimbor are too stunned by her arrival to notice the slip in your mask when you see your husband following behind her, slumped against his own horse. Surely, the anguish written on your face is too great to be considered natural concern for a wounded stranger. You school your features quickly, but do rush to aid him in climbing off his horse—that much, any kind-hearted Elf would do.

For a short, beautiful moment, you are pressed against him as he staggers on his feet, and you manage to exchange the briefest of glances. His brow is slick with sweat, he is bleeding from his side, yet you feel through your bond how your touch fills him with elation. You would suffer the same wound as him, you think, if only it meant you could kiss him as you long to, then and there.

But a couple of guards are quick to intervene, taking what they must think is too heavy a burden off your shoulders. Pulling your husband from you, they sling his arms around themselves and all but drag him away when he fails to walk on his own, leaving you to strive not to follow as your heart slams against your ribcage.

“What has happened?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Enemy lance, six days ago,” Galadriel tells him. “We rode without rest.”

Galadriel. You take a moment to look at her. You’ve seen her before, of course, but not as a cog in your plans. That had happened quite accidentally—or perhaps by fate. Either way, your husband has returned. That is all that matters.

Well, that and getting him alone.

There is no plausible reason for you to stand at his side whilst your people’s artificers work to mend his wound. All you can do is sit and wait, gently nudging your husband’s mind through your bond to make your presence felt. A sense of content drifts back to you, though it is laced with the same impatience you feel.

If you were still loyal to the Valar, you would thank them for the haste with which Elvish remedies work, even if the hours they require to be applied feel like an eternity. Finally, the artificers leave your husband to rest his newly recovered body as you watch from the shadows of the corridor. It is past midnight, all too easy for you to slip into his room and shut the door behind you without anyone noticing.

Your husband, having sensed you were about to join him, awaits you in utter nonchalance, lying with his legs crossed and his arms beneath his head as if he truly were some graceless human man. He’s been given a new shirt, white and pristine. Pity. If you have your way, he’ll need a new one soon enough.

“The hour is inappropriate,” he greets you, and you don’t know whether you want to kiss or slap away his smug little smile.

For now, you answer with your own. “Good.”

You stride towards the bed with the determination of a demon chasing prey, and with swift, skillful movements, climb into it and straddle your husband’s hips.

“Gently, my love,” he warns, mischief dancing in his eyes as his hands fly to your waist, gripping your flesh greedily even as he keeps you at bay, “I am but a man recovering from his wounds.”

You give a slight, rueful chuckle. He is perfectly well now, and you both know it.

“I’m afraid you shall have to endure,” you threaten sweetly, and he abandons all feigned resistance as you dive in to finally claim his lips with yours.

The relief of being together again is instant, and you sigh into his mouth as you let his kiss consume you, sweet and slow. You surprise even yourself. You had expected a furious clash of teeth and tongues, the frenzy of swallowing each other whole after going too long without your beloved’s taste—like it was when you had finally nursed him from an amorphous black mass back into his form, and the two of you had been reduced to a tangle of thrashing limbs in the snow, as mindless and savage as animals mating in heat.

But that was after countless years of suffering in his absence. Compared to that, your time apart since the shipwreck separated you has been nothing at all—and what’s more, of your own choice, however it displeased you. Your husband had seen an opportunity in his meeting with Galadriel, one from which you could both benefit, and so he had entreated through your bond that rather than look for him, you must return to the false life you had built in Eregion in his absence, for he sensed you shall yet have use of it upon his return.

And now, here you are—reunited once more, in body as well as mind. This time, you wish to savour it. You relish each and every slide of your husband’s tongue against yours, every scrape of his stubble against your cheek, every inch of hair caressed by your fingers as they sink into it, tugging longingly at the roots. Your hearts beat against each other as you press yourself flush to him, his arms wrapped around you to somehow pull you even closer, and the might of the sheer adoration shared between you is almost too painful to bear.

“Will you stay this time?” you whisper, nudging his nose with yours as your lips part from his and hover close. “Or will I be made to wait for you once more, my love?”

His hand cradles your face, coaxing you to retreat only enough for your gazes to meet.

“The road goes ever winding,” he tells you. “Not even I can see all its paths.”

“Yet it seems ours so often tend to drift apart,” you say, frustratedly. “As though they are forced to be. That sea creature who attacked the ship, and the immense wave that carried us at such great distance from each other—that was no coincidence, was it?”

Your husband shakes his head.

“It is for us that I wish to reshape this world. Without you, the end I have seen so clearly since I first awoke withers away before my eyes. They know this.” Hatred sparks in his eyes, but it is only a flicker against the love with which he beholds you. “The Valar themselves may have attempted to part us,” he says, “yet the tides of fate only brought me back to you all the more fruitful in our endeavours.”

“Hm, so I’ve heard.” Now animated by more pleasant thoughts, you sit up slowly, sure to drag your nails down your husband’s torso with just the right amount of pressure that it draws a low groan from him. “King of the Southlands,” you proclaim, equal parts pride and amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “An old man’s trinket and a word from a gullible Elf and an entire people bow at your feet.”

“She is not gullible,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. His eyes are fixed on some tantalizing spot on your neck as he sits up as well and covers it with his mouth. “She is desperate to believe whatever suits her purpose,” he murmurs between languid kisses to your skin. “I all but laid back and allowed Galadriel to bring me right where I most needed to be.”

You’d be a helpless puddle of desire—and to an extent, you are—if not for the fire his words ignite within you. You grab a fistful of his hair and pull him away, pushing against his chest to throw him right back down against the pillows. That earns you a grunt and a wicked chuckle from your husband.

“It is not wise to speak another’s name,” you say with eerie calmness, gaze locked with your husband’s as you lean down until you’re nose to nose, “whilst your wife is astride you.”

He hums as if in contemplation, taking hold of your chin as his eyes roam over your face.

“She is hailed as the most beautiful of Elven maidens,” he reminds you, and you know it satisfies him when your brow knits in indignation. But then he goes on, ever so adoringly, “Those who say such a thing either have never laid eyes upon my beloved, or they are blind as bats.”

See, now... now you melt.

You catch his hand as it moves from your chin, and give the tip of his thumb the slightest nip.

“Beguiler,” you purr, a honeyed reproach. “No wonder you have them eating from the palm of your hand.” And that is exactly where you lay a lingering kiss. He seems transfixed by the reverence of your gesture, and his slightly parted lips are too tempting for you not to kiss them once more.

Your blood is still heated from your husband’s teasing, from being pressed against him so close, and you hunger for so much more than the gentleness from before. Your kiss grows deeper, more desperate, and soon enough you’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to aid you in lifting it over his head. With a frustrated groan, he takes hold of your hands to make them cease.

“My love, I would like nothing more than to have you, repeatedly, for the remainder of the night,” he says in earnest, breath heavy. “But you’ve already lingered here too long. Should someone come and see—”

“I’ve locked the doors,” you dismiss, and chase his lips once more. He lets you catch them, claims yet another kiss, only to turn away from you again.

“And if someone should unlock the door to find you here,” he retorts as you grunt in protest, “how shall we maintain our pretence?”

“I do not care!” you all but whine, the longing you have endured in his absence swelling painfully within your chest. It turns your voice into a quiet plea. “I want my husband.” You press an impossibly sweet kiss to his cheek, then murmur in his ear, “Don’t you want your wife?”

His breath hitches. Suddenly, he turns his head, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Temptress,” he rasps begrudgingly. Then, softly and subdued, “Beloved.”

He is the one to capture your lips now, any thought of restraining his desire long gone. You smile in triumph against his mouth, then plant your hands against his shoulders, push away and—fisting your hands in his shirt, you pull.

Elven fabrics are by no means fragile, but with a bit of your powers put into it, the shirt tears apart at the middle, baring your husband’s chest to your ravenous gaze.

“Perhaps we might be able to explain this, after all,” he muses while your lips attack his neck, quickly moving downward. “I could tell them what a merciless creature you are...” His hand comes to cradle the back of your head as he admires how you pepper urgent kisses down his chest. “...taking advantage of a poor mortal man when he finds himself in such a vulnerable state.”

You halt abruptly, eyes snapping up to his. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” you gasp with perfectly feigned innocence, even as you lay your sinful mouth on him once more. “Here I am—a kind, virtuous Elven maiden such as myself,” you speak between kisses, nips and licks at his skin, “seeking to bring aid to a wounded man...” Your lips venture lower, down his abdomen. “...only to be seduced into his bed...” His eyes are aflame with desire as you gaze up at him through your lashes, working open his belt. “...with shameless words of temptation and ruinous caresses. Imagine the scandal.”

It happens in an instant—you gasp as you are grabbed and pulled and flipped onto your back, your husband’s frame pressing you down into the mattress as he pins your wrists to the pillow.

“Imagine that, indeed,” he rasps out, eyes so darkened by hunger his pupils turn to their primal slit shape. “Imagine if they were to burst through the door...” He releases one of your wrists to wrap an achingly tender hand around your throat, leaning into your ear. “...and saw us joined as one,” he whispers into it, making you shudder, “and knew at once that we’re forever bound.”

You grip at his wrist, eyes fluttering shut, chest heaving, ready to beg for him to give you more. But he isn’t done, and tightens his hold on your throat with just the right amount of pressure to draw a wanton whimper from it. “Imagine,” he says, “if they saw this kind, virtuous Elven maiden you have led them to believe you are for all these years, ruined with pleasure beneath her husband.” He lifts his head, his cruelty to ‘them’ mingling with his reverence for you in his gaze. “Imagine their betrayal, their horror. Their jealousy—for they would know, deep in their bones, that no love of theirs will ever compare to that which binds our souls as one. Would you like that?”

You would not like it—you need it, you crave it with a force so great it feels as though his skin is made of flame, burning yours in sweet agony with every inch it touches. And yet, even breathless and desperate as you are, you lift your chin in challenge and fix him with your gaze.

“I would like you,” you murmur defiantly, “to put that wicked tongue of yours to better use than talking.”

Your husband grins. “How I’ve missed you, my love.”

There is nothing teasing about the way he kisses you then. He tastes your mouth with abandon as his hips dig into yours, and you whine impatiently, writhing within his grip. Obeying your silent wish, his hands release your throat and wrist in favour of roaming over your body, caressing and kneading all the spots of your soft flesh he knows to be most sensitive. You coil your arms around him, wishing him even closer, as his lips drift from yours to your jaw, kissing their eager way down your neck, and you shudder as he tugs down the shoulder of your dress, exposing your heated skin only to set it further ablaze with his mouth. You can feel the fabric straining, sure enough to tear apart in the same way his shirt had, and you want it, you want your husband’s skin against yours with nothing in between—

Someone is trying to open the door.

You pray with all your might that you misheard, even as your husband freezes at the sound as well, and lifts his mouth from your shoulder to look in the direction of the sound. But then whoever is on the other side, realizing that the door had been locked, knocks on it instead.

You don’t even bother making your voice quiet. “Oh, for the love of—!”

Your husband puts a silencing finger to your lips—and gives you a scolding look when you lick it obscenely.

“Sir Halbrand?” one of the artificers calls from outside. “Are you well?”

“That should be ‘your majesty’,” your husband mumbles.

“I’ll kill them,” you deadpan.

“Shh,” he coos, slightly amused. “Not yet. We still have work to do here.” Infuriatingly composed, his eyes roam the room in search of a solution, and land on one. “Why don’t you step onto the balcony for a moment whilst I tell them I locked the door myself? A man needs his privacy, after all.” He looks back to you, and finds a tragic blend of ire and yearning on your face.

“Oh, my love,” he says sympathetically, brushing a tender knuckle down your cheek, “how beautiful you are when you crave me to despair.”

“Then I must always look splendid,” you quip, lifting your head to reach his lips with an alluring whisper, “I never not crave you to despair.”

He curses in Black Speech, the foul words muffled as he gives into your kiss once more. But then there is another rap at the door, more urgent than the last.

“Go,” he grunts. Before you can protest further, your husband pries himself off you and leaves the bed altogether. You allow yourself a moment to plop down on the pillows and curse at the ceiling before you will your body into moving. Your limbs are still weak with desire as you get on your feet.

You decide then and there that your first decree as Queen of all Middle-Earth shall be the execution of whoever is now standing beyond that door.

Your husband has hastily discarded his ruined shirt, tormenting you further with an unobstructed view of his lean torso. There must be something equally irresistible in your disheveled state, however, because the moment his eyes land upon you, his apparent composure slips away and he surges to you like a man possessed, planting yet another searing kiss onto your lips.

“Get rid of them,” you pant out as you break away.

Your husband takes your hand, kissing your knuckles quickly. “As my Queen commands.”

Your heart flutters, easing the frustration as, finally, you go your separate ways: he towards the door, you to conceal yourself. You take comfort in knowing that this parting, unlike the others, shall be extremely short—and the reunion all the more delectable.

Previous fic with same reader -> Tides of fate

Next fic with same reader -> As one

#halbrand x reader #sauron x reader #the rings of power

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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year ago

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Reepicheep could just walk into Mordor. Easy-peasy.

He could definitely get there, but he wouldn't be my first pick as Ringbearer. I definitely don't think he'd have it any easier than Frodo and Sam. If I had to send Narnians to do the Fellowship's jobs, here's who I'd send:

Reepicheep could kill the Witch King of Angmar

Puddleglum and Hwin could take the Ring to Mordor

Caspian could take the Paths of the Dead, with assorted Old Narnians (Trumpkin, Trufflehunter, etc.) as backup. Drinian is along to sail the ships.

Puzzle could unwittingly contact Sauron via Palantir

Tumnus is my pick for improvising Boromir's funeral lament. We know he's musical and HHB shows that he thinks fast on his feet

On the flip side:

Faramir could stamp out the Green Lady's fire

Bilbo could joyously take the coracle over the edge of the world (unless it's the First Age, in which case it's definitely Eärendil)

Sam would do the Jill thing and rescue Puzzle from the stable, then immediately speed bond and refuse to let anyone hurt him

Any number of Middle Earth warriors could do single combat with Miraz, but I think Aragorn would come up with the plan on the spot the way Peter does. Very similar vibe to the attack on the Black Gate

Also:

Father Christmas could hand out gifts and cryptic advice in Lothlorien; Galadriel could arm the Pevensies and patch up the Beavers' dam

Lucy stands the best chance of anyone at finding the Entwives

Pippin and Cor would have a lot to discuss re: first experience in battle. Pippin and Corin would have a lot to discuss re: everything else

Ramandu and Coraikin have a biweekly book club with Tom Bombadil and Goldberry. Gandalf is also invited, but only pops by once in a great while

#you literally didn't ask but #these are my hot takes #i think Reepicheep is a little too proud for Ringbearer duty. remember the episode with his tail in PC?#i get where you're coming from though #i just think your humble and earthy characters like puddleglum and hwin ade better options #narnia #tolkien legendarium #ask me hard questions

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lesbiansforboromir · 1 year ago

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In a BoromirLives fanfic, Faramir must be forced to confront this line of his in particular; Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing. His face was more beautiful even than in life. It's vital to me that this is addressed. Because in Tolkien beauty is holy, they are intertwined inextricably, the holy will be beautiful.

Boromir did not live a beautiful holy life according to most, his life is not spoken of with uncomplicated worth by any but Denethor, Eomer, Theoden and Pippin (all either 'simple' or outwardly rebellious against god). But he did die a beautiful holy death, it is what most people praise him for and in Faramir's mystical dream where he sees Boromir's dead body floating down the river, this is his reaction. Boromir's corpse was more beautiful than his living body, because in death he was 'redeemed' and served his purpose in the great holy plan. He 'died well'.

This is horrifying right? It horrifies me when I read it. And I think it so concisely reveals how Faramir and many others viewed Boromir. I am essentially here to argue that this is all about piety, once again, yes I'm a one track record.

Gandalf, when hearing of Boromir's death from Aragorn, declares; It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake.

Now, what is Gandalf saying here? Boromir did not escape, he died. Does he mean he escaped corruption? Well, no, since apparently this 'escape' had something to do with Merry and Pippin and Boromir shook off the pull of the Ring long before he was sent to find them. What role did Merry and Pippin play in this 'escape'? Well, Boromir died for them, he had too, there was no other way out of that ambush. So by process of elimination the only thing the 'young hobbits' did that was 'for Boromir's sake' was... to be there so he could die for them, right?

And remember, his death did not actually save them or really help in any way, the hobbits are still taken and the Uruk-hai's downfall has nothing to do with Boromir. In fact Aragorn squandered any time Boromir might have given him to catch up to the Uruk-hai by spending hours on his funeral. So, the death alone is what is being called 'good' here, what is beautiful. Boromir dies and that is beautiful and something to be glad for, according to Gandalf and Faramir.

But why do they think this? Faramir has his 'alas for Boromir, whom I too loved' and Gandalf laments 'poor Boromir', so they have at least some pity for him. What was 'good' to them about Boromir dying? Well we all know this one don't we, it's the accepted narrative of it all, Boromir 'redeemed' himself with this deed. He tried to take the Ring, and for this crime he needed redemption that he gained through vainly giving up his life to try and save Merry and Pippin.

But, in fact, Boromir himself has a slightly different way of phrasing it. Boromir says, of his own death; ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ [-] ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’

He paid for it. To Boromir, in this cosmic exchange, he chose wrongly and paid for the offence with his death. This wasn't redemption, it was spiritual commerce, crime and punishment. Which is a perspective that once again demonstrates Boromir's enduring lack of 'faith' or spirituality. The powers of the west and Eru may exist, but they exist to him as forces of nature, some fact of the world we all must just live with, not something that fills him with hope or brings him nobility or meaning or a 'higher purpose'. Boromir does not want to be closer to divinity, he does not want to be beautiful or noble, he wants his people to be safe.

But of course, this is entirely opposite to Faramir's perspective, and if not downright heretical then at least unfaithful. So, when alive, Boromir cannot achieve 'beauty' in Faramir's mind, because he is unfaithful. It is only when he is dead, when 'fate' draws him into this spiritually good 'end' that sees him give up his life for a holy quest, when Boromir's life is no longer defined by him but by his death, that he can be beautiful.

And bringing this all the way back around, there are two ways you could do this in a boromirlives fic. Either, Boromir comes back but he does not look like he did in Faramir's dream. He did not pay, he is still alive to define who he is and Faramir finds himself slowly drawn into this terrible psychological horror as he realises he misses his brother's death more than he missed his actual brother.

Or Faramir needs to be confronted with a brother who looks dead to him. Boromir has come back and to Faramir's eyes he looks exactly as he did in the dream, but now this corpse moves and speaks and can no longer be confined to one perfect conceptual moment. And this also horrifies him. It is for authors to decide if this is just an aspect of Faramir's perspective, or if Boromir actually 'came back wrong' as it were, he did pay but somehow he came back anyway.

#text post #boromir #faramir #erran vs tolkien #boromir defense

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askereiniongilgalad · 1 month ago

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🧝🏻‍♀️🥺❓ ... 🤔

💨 A gasp. Loud. Too LOUD.

Heads turn. The entire court rushes in to see what has startled the High King.

A creature. Small. Furry. Impossibly round.

“This creature… it wears my face!! 😱👑 Is this a diplomatic request? 📜 A challenge? ⚔️ A plea for aid?? 🆘🔥”

Elrond: “My lord, it is just a...”

“Peredhel, please. Not now.” 😤

⚡ The air thickens. A strange presence looms. 👀 The cat’s pupils dilate. It knows.

Galadriel: “…There is something… evilly familiar about it.” 😐✨ Círdan: “It is older than it should be.” 🧓⚓ Celebrimbor: “The craftsmanship… is too perfect.” 🤔💍

Power thrums in the air. ✨ The cat lifts a single paw. 🐾 Knowing. Waiting. JUDGING!!

👑 Gil-galad FLINCHES. (📜 A scribe hurriedly begins composing his final words.)

Elrond: “High King… yield. We are not ready for this war.” 💀 . Then... . Galadriel: “…CELEBORN??” 😱🔥

👑 Gil-galad CHOKES. The guards exchange panicked glances. A soldier gasps. A maiden swoons. 💞

💀 Elrond COLLAPSES. Fully unconscious.

🍷 Círdan makes no comment.

📜 The scribe drops his quill. This is no longer a lament. This is prophecy.

🐱 The cat blinks again. It accepts its fate.

👑 Gil-galad stands “Ah. Of course. Why not? I’m going to bed” 😑

#rings of power #trop crack #TheCatKnows #GaladrielWhatDoYouMeanCeleborn #PeredhelFaceDownOnTheFloor #WhyIsThisHappening #lotr trop #the rings of power #trop #galadriel #elrond #elrond peredhel #gil galad #gil-galad #celeborn #throneitout

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polutrope · 2 months ago

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Daeron's Foresight

Instead of working on one of my myriad ideas and projects that might actually yield a Product, here's an unsolicited overview of why I headcanon that Daeron is foresighted, or at least a bit of an oddball seer-type.

His mentor is (not explicitly in canon but quite naturally) Melian, not only the most gifted of the Maiar in "songs of enchantment" (also like Daeron) but one known to foresee the future and cultivate this gift in her mentees (e.g., Galadriel)

Association with Music (and water: "made lament beside dark waters") in Tolkien lends itself to greater access to the Meaning of the Universe™ past/present/future, given it all began with a Song.

This passage in Lay of Leithian (Canto V). Thingol has just summoned Daeron to ask him why everything has fallen silent in Doriath (it's because Daeron cast a spell of silence upon seeing Luthien with Beren).

... Daeron coming no word spoke, silent amid the woodland folk. Then Thingol said: 'Oh Daeron fair, thou master of all musics rare, enchanted heart and wisdom wild, whose ear nor eye may be beguiled, who all that passes in this land dost ever heed and understand, what omen doth this silence bear? What horn afar upon the air, what summons do the woods await? Mayhap Lord Tavros from his gate and tree-propped halls, the forest-god, rides his great stallion golden-shod amid the trumpets' tempest loud, amid his green-clad hunters proud, leaving his deer and friths divine and emerald forests? [...] Would it were so! An age now hath gone by since Nahar trod this earth in days of our peace and ancient mirth, ere rebel lords of Eldamar pursuing Morgoth from afar brought war and ruin to the North. Doth Tavros to their aid come forth? But if not he, who comes, or what?' And Daeron said: 'He cometh not. No feet divine shall leave that shore where the Outer Seas' last surges roar, 'till many things be come to pass, and many evils wrought. Alas, the guest is here. The woods are still, but wait not; for a marvel chill them holds at the strange deeds they see, though king sees not - yet queen, maybe, can guess, and maiden doubtless knows who ever now beside her goes.'

First of all, there's Thingol's intriguing way of addressing him, "who all that passes in this land / dost ever heed and understand / what omen doth this silence bear?" which gives strong "you have above-average insight" vibes (don't ask me why he doesn't ask his wife -- we all know there's something Weird going on with the Melian/Thingol/Insight situation). The last part is straight-up asking him to read an omen.

Then Thingol goes off on this tangent about Orome (Tavros) returning, and the hooves of Nahar, and oh that the Valar would come deliver them from Morgoth! and Daeron has this unhinged response. "He cometh not." Can you just imagine that three-worder landing like a brick after Thingol's florid speech? And he goes on to explain himself in these cryptic terms, "'till many things be come to pass, / and many evils wrought." I mean, sure, this could be humorously dismissed with a "No shit, Daeron" but I think he knows a little more about those Things and Evils than he lets on. Then he follows this up with a riddle -- very oracular behaviour -- about Beren's presence in Doriath.

Anyway, I just think Daeron is neat. And even neater if he knew all along, like Melian, that Something was going to happen with Luthien. But, unlike Melian, he does not handle its actual happening with the calm (if grief-laden) acceptance of a god who sang the world into being. He spirals, because his worst predictions are coming true and that means all the rest of it is going to come true also and he just LOSES it and wanders off on "strange paths". That's all we get of him in Silm, but in Leithian there's more. His behaviour is erratic, first "haunting the gloom of tangled trees" and getting enraged when he sees Beren and Luthien together; but then when he's about to divulge to Thingol, he sees Luthien's eyes and won't; then Luthien confides her hope to flee to him, and Daeron spills those beans to Thingol; then he regrets that and actually facilitates her escape. Then he joins a search party to look for her and ... disappears.

His is not the mere despair of a jilted lover: it is the despair of someone who sees the full horror of the future rolling in and can do nothing to stop it; nothing to stop the destruction and death of all that is beautiful (embodied in Luthien, but existing in everything) in the world.

#daeron #headcanons #not projecting existential dread onto my blorbo absolutely not #who would do that #it's right there in the text see

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suzannahnatters · 19 days ago

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ROTK Re-read: Book 5, Chs 6-10: Still Not Normal About Eowyn

CH 6 - THE BATTLE OF THE PELENNOR FIELDS

*endless screaming *

I mean. imagine being a woman in nineteen fifty whenever reading this. you would go absolutely feral. diana wynne jones said of THE FAERIE QUEENE's Britomart that "a woman who was a proper hero...may be a commonplace now, but it certainly was not in the fifties"

but more than that the thing that strikes me most this time is, this is not just Tolkien airing his annoyance with MACBETH. it's him saying, yes, this story is the exaltation of the humble. the short. the weak. the lower class. and yep, that includes women. a woman, assisted by a Hobbit, gets the biggest battlefield moment of awesome in the whole book. like, so far the only other thing in the book THIS epic is Sam vs Shelob. and the Witch-King gets this oh-heck moment when he realises, wait, the prophecy didn't promise that he would meet his end at the hands of a great hero, an Elf or Wizard - it promised the opposite. it's beautiful, and it's Tolkien YET AGAIN addressing sexism.

never going to be over Eomer reacting to his uncle's death with dignified verse and then losing his ever loving mind when he realises his sister is here. and like yes, 100% I get what he's feeling here, he's suddenly had the whole floor yanked out from under him: he was happy to face death in battle so long as he could think of his sister safe and protected at home, and now he's got to face the horror of realising that no, she wasn't safe. like, I am sure Tolkien was glad that the women he cared about didn't have to be in the trenches; but there's also a heavy irony to all this, because Eowyn was so unsafe at home for so long, even before the war, that now she's run into the war to find death. and Éomer gets to cut loose and take out his outrage about this on the enemy, and he gets to ride around berserker style yelling "death", and Éowyn doesn't get that, Éowyn has never had that, she's had to bottle it up and stay so tightly controlled - gosh it's such a mood, everything about this character is Tolkien Seeing Women.

"only the lady Éowyn came to the battle" sez you buddy. some other ladies in armour on this very battlefield probably want to have a word with you about that (seriously we have multiple accounts of ladies fighting, as knights or archers, during the Third Crusade *alone* so scuse me if I don't believe Eowyn's the only woman here lol)

"his fury had betrayed him" lollll who could have seen this coming also bless you Tolkien for visiting realistic consequences upon Éomer's rash charge

gosh yes horses being unable to stand elephants is 100% accurate, they have to be accustomed to them from an early age, they can't stand kangaroos either

"out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising" another top 10 LOTR poetry moment CHILLS EVERY TIME

the sheer EUCATASTROPHE of Éomer preparing his last stand and the black ships turning out to be Aragorn all along, asjkagh. but in addition, is there an echo here of Theseus and his black sails? like, here are these black ships returning and striking terror into all hearts, but then unlike Theseus, Aragorn thinks to unfurl Arwen's banner. and this is when the eucatastrophe hits: it's her work that restores life and hope to the battle, in the same way that the star glass of Galadriel gives life and hope to the hobbits (did Arwen forsee the importance of this?). so that in a way, women have a hand in both the two most epic moments of this whole battle, Éowyn as the woman of war and Arwen as the woman of peace.

and Tolkien doesn't forget to end the chapter with a lament for the slain because even in victory there's a cost, and not even the most glorious battle described in literature can be allowed to pass without a lament for that cost.

Ch 7 - THE PYRE OF DENETHOR

"against the power that arises there is no victory" there truly is a fear that is indistinguishable from worship.

the sheer irony of this chapter!!!! like putting it after we know that the Witch King is dead and Aragorn is in the ships and the battle is won is a bold choice but BRILLIANT storytelling because none of the suspense is compromised, it's just heightened the irony!!!

gosh I have always remembered Denethor as one who succumbs to despair but he really does also succumb to power doesn't he? he is basically Saruman 2.0. and this is his important distinction from Éowyn - she wants death *but not power over others*. not even power for herself.

the moral of the story is that doomscrolling can kill you. like. everything Denethor saw was factually true. but he didn't see the full picture and he let it all steal his hope

Ch 8 - THE HOUSES OF HEALING

not me weeping all the way through this chapter. when I'm not laughing.

Ioreth! such a queen. no, she hasn't heard about the king coming back she's had too much to occupy her at the hospital. a legend

ok let's talk about Aragorn. he has not been sitting well with me all book because the older I get the less I like the idea of monarchy, and he spends the whole book absolutely determined to be king of Gondor. of course I spent years disliking Jackson's solution to this problem, to have Aragorn spend most of the trilogy vacillating over what he wants from his life, and I still think it's clumsy, but this time around I do sympathise with the wish to soften this part of Aragron's character. like, this is confronting stuff! but......it gets a lot better here in ROTK when we see the way he actually claims the kingship. the fact that he is SO CAREFUL to put his claim to the kingship AFTER the defence of Gondor (& Middle Earth) from Sauron, the way his kingship is evidenced not by his own demands and lineage but from his service on the battlefield and in the houses of healing, and by the acclamations and assent of the people of Gondor at all levels of society. like, if Aragorn ran for election, he would 100% get elected. (and Tolkien would have known that for much of the middle ages monarchies were, in practice at first and then in theory, elective).

anyway IORETH!!!! and Tolkien continues to drink respect women juice because turns out a literal old wife holds the key to the king's return and even Gandalf the Maia pays attention to her words.

will I be heading to a03 to find Gandalf/Ioreth rarepair fic? mmmm yes

ok but it makes me so happy that Eowyn gets a broken sword arm because this puts her in a VERY exclusive middle earth club of People Who've Suffered an Arm Injury Fighting the Dark Lord and they are Frodo the Nine-Fingered, Beren Erchamion, and Maedhros on Thangorodrim.

cannot believe that Tolkien spends half this chapter making me cry and the other half on a running joke about Aragorn trying to get his hands on some athelas

so Gandalf gives this assessment of Eowyn's character and predicament and I love it so much? like I know he's acting as Tolkien's mouthpiece here but it's still so, so nice to read a book where a male authority figure has such a perceptive and compassionate view of a female character, and lectures the other male characters on the ways they've failed her.

and again: feeling so healed and encouraged by the way all these men discuss Eowyn's unrequited feelings for Aragorn - nobody is even slightly mocking or disrespectful towards her.

anyway if proving that women can fight was important to Eowyn then killing the witch king would have fixed her, but it doesn't. her problem is depression, my case rests.

Ch 9 - THE LAST DEBATE

augh this bit with Legolas and the gulls - I never quite got it before. but even he takes a wound. for him, too, home will never really be home again after the war. and it's so, so poignant because he is immortal and so few mortal sorrows touch him.

so Aragorn, Gandalf, and Frodo are all messianic figures - king, prophet, priest - and I particularly love that Aragorn's claim to kingship is verified, as Christ's was, by signs and wonders. and somehow this is working for me? like, he could have become a king through the imposition of his will, but he's becoming king through the blessing of the Valar and the service of his people.

so Gandalf now advises our boys not to sit behind their nice walls, but to ride out on a suicidal feint to draw Sauron's attention away from Frodo. as our resident siege fancier I want to note that this is watertight military strategy. one of the few times you do abandon your siege is when you have no realistic hope of relief from other allies, which is where the forces of light are at present. if they just sit passively waiting to be besieged, without hope of reinforcements, they'll just be accepting defeat. so they ride out, but not without an ace up their sleeve in Frodo. they aren't REALLY going to ride up and knock on the front door of Mordor without any deception, which puts them ahead of most fictional armies lol.

still!!! gosh yikes it is a DESPERATE, DESPERATE measure, and Gandalf is so right - better to die seeing in a new age than by clinging to life ensure that the new age shall never come.

Ch 10 - THE BLACK GATE OPENS

wow Aragorn not again with the "yeah we're leaving you behind but chin up! you might get a chance to be slaughtered if it all goes wrong!" it was not a good pep talk the first time and it is not a good pep talk this time either

military tactics win: it's risky leaving Minas Morgul intact in their rear but at least the garrison is defeated and they break the bridge to complicate the crossing of the stream, besides leaving archers to watch for surprises

so Aragorn giving the terrified young men leave to depart is straight out of old testament law, which I love. it's another thing that's winning me over regarding his claim to the throne.

screaming because I just noticed the Mouth addresses Gandalf with the familiar "thou" oh the DISRESPECT!!!! if this is who TROP's Kemen turns out to be it will be the perfect backstory (tho I'm not sure the Mouth is old enough to be from pre-fall Numenor)

my goodness the Mouth's talking points are the same as Vladimir Putin's

it is fascinating me all the way through this book how Tolkien's prose regularly becomes purple and a bit tropey - like yes, on one hand he was definitely inventing a lot of these tropes, but on the other hand there's regularly something very very Conan the Barbarian about the style. which kind of cracks me up when I consider how it compares to, say, the Silmarillion, which is all exquisitely tasteful? idek where I'm going with this.

"the Eagles are coming!" screaming, crying etc

#the lord of the rings #jrrt #jrr tolkien #middle earth #jrrtandme2025

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ringsofpowerconfessions · 11 hours ago

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"Did anyone else got “Galadriel's Lament” vibes in Gil-galad’s “Golden Leaves” song, in s2e1? Also kudos to Benjamin Walker, he truly captured the living memory of the elves. It’s a gorgeous song and a beautiful performance."

#gil galad #benjamin walker #rings of power #the rings of power #trop #lotr #lotr trop #lotr on prime #trop thoughts #trop confession #confession

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eri-pl · 11 months ago

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So, the Doom of the Noldor

Isn't very strict, to put it politely.

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.

...except that one time when Manwe sends an eagle to Fingon to save Maedhros (both kinslayers) precisely because of Fingon's lamentations prayer...

On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue.

...except that one time M&M actually get the Silmarils. Yes, it's kind of ambiguous with this wording, because they do lose them eventually. But still, this 'prophecy' seems a little misleading here.

To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.

...except Galadriel's woodland realm, which, sure, fades but doesn't end up evil. Also, Celebrimbor technically wasn't betrayed by his kin, and definitely in was not fear of treason what killed him...

The rest is ok, but even three mistakes— Even one mistake would prove that it wasn't Namo speaking those words. Namo makes no mistakes, doesn't lie, doesn't joke and doesn't use hyperboles. (Yes, that's headcanon.)

Namo is too omniscient to not be literal.

Many of you will say I'm being picky, and the eagle doesn't count or the words meant something else, and Galadriel wasn't with the Noldor but went separately (per later writings) or something.

Anyway, I'm pretty strict-minded when it comes to prophecies and I really don't think Namo would be that imprecise. Must have been one of his Maiar or whatever.

#Namo said this Namo said that #allegedly #he allegedly said that #he speaks in short sentences not prophecies #Namo #mandos #tolkien #silmarillion #tolkien legendarium #silm #feanor #Noldor #doom of the Noldor #don't even get me started on other things he allegedly said

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backhurtyy · 1 month ago

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hi my most beloved can i request “we’ll never get to sleep if you keep fidgeting like that.” or “no, don’t stop. i like the sound of your voice.” with either zukka or legolas and gimli <3

anything for you! mwah! i once again fell victim to the can't shut up disease, so have some gigolas beneath the cut <3

The Galadhrim's lament for Gandalf fills the forest, a haunting melody that floats through the trees and sits heavy upon Legolas' heart, but he cannot bring himself to join in.

Not because of his own grief, not because he is reluctant to sing it and acknowledge that Gandalf, a seemingly invincible force in the world, is gone. Rather, it's because he can't stop thinking about another loss, one that will not be mourned or acknowledged by the elves but is no less great. Because he can't stop thinking about the devastation on Gimli's face as he beheld Balin's tomb, about the hollow thud of his helm against the stone, about how Gimli had to be ripped away from the memorial lest they lose him too. About how the entire city was full of Gimli's lost kin.

About how he has lost more than just Gandalf, and his grief has gone seemingly unnoticed.

He casts his eyes around their campsite, finding Aragorn and Boromir in quiet conference and the hobbits resting in a pile, but no Gimli. He frowns, rising to his feet swiftly and setting out to find him.

He won't come to physical harm in Lothlórien now that he's been granted permission to roam the forests, but that doesn't stop Legolas from worrying. After all, heartache can cause as much harm as an enemy can.

He trods through the forest on light feet, straining his ears for any sound besides the Galadhrim's song or the rustling of leaves in the wind. He is just beginning to wonder if he'll ever find Gimli - it is, after all, a large forest - when he catches the briefest hint of another melody, carried to him by a particularly strong breeze. It's not the soft, haunting melody of the elves, but rather something gruff and painful and raw.

It's still beautiful, though, and he knows without a doubt that it is Gimli, singing a mourning song for his lost kin in the rough-rock language of the dwarves. After only a moment of hesitation, debating whether he should give Gimli the privacy he took such great pains to seek out or trust his gut and go to him, he begins following the song.

He finally finds Gimli at the edge of the river, a lit fire before him and his face turned down to the rocks beneath his boots. He is still singing, a hand pressed to his heart, and Legolas can just barely see the glimmer of tears on his cheeks before they disappear into his beard.

Gimli's voice isn't necessarily beautiful - not like Legolas finds the lilting voices of the elves or the joyous voices of the hobbits or even the softness of Aragorn's - but it's strong and sad and it fills Legolas' heart all the same, entrancing him and making it so that he couldn't turn away, even if he wanted to. It draws him in, and he barely thinks before taking another step towards Gimli.

Gimli's voice cuts off when he hears the rocks crunch beneath Legolas' foot, and he turns to face him. "Master Elf," he says, somewhat awkwardly, though he makes no effort to wipe away the tears or pretend he'd been doing anything other than mourning.

"I'm sorry," Legolas says, equally as awkward. He'd been so sure of his convictions when he set out to find Gimli, so determined that the dwarf shouldn't be alone in his mourning, but now that they're looking at each other, he finds he doesn't know what to say. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just... Worried. I suppose."

"Worried that I'm causing trouble, eh? Well, I'll just remind you that the Lady Galadriel gave me permission to roam these forests, and I-" he says haughtily, before Legolas cuts him off.

"Not at all, Master Dwarf. I was worried that you were alone in your sorrow, and thought you might like company. But if I was wrong then say the word and I shall leave you without another word."

Gimli blinks at him once, twice, before his great beard twitches with a small smile. "Ah. Well. I suppose I'd be a fool to say no to the opportunity for an elf to mourn dwarves. Join me, Master Elf."

Legolas smiles and goes to join Gimli before the fire. "I am sorry you couldn't spend more time with them in Moria."

Gimli sighs and turns his face back to the rocks. "'Tis probably for the best. With the mines overrun by goblins, and that devilish creature of fire and ash... At least I can now carry the news back to Erebor. To their families." He's silent for a long time, before he says dryly, "You must think me a fool for even having hope they were alive. It seems everyone but me knew Khazad-dûm's fate."

"I don't think it's ever foolish to have hope," Legolas says quietly. "After all, hope may be all that helps us complete this quest."

Gimli looks at him again, studying Legolas with his dark eyes, and smiles again. "I am glad you sought me out, Master Elf. It is good to have company."

"Legolas," he says without thinking. "Just... Legolas. I would have us be friends, as Gandalf wished."

Gimli's eyes twinkle. "Well I can't be outdone by an elf. You shall call me Gimli, then... Legolas. My friend."

Legolas' heart feels refreshingly light, then, and it is that which gives him the courage to ask, "Your song... It was a mourning song?"

"Ah. Yes. This isn't quite the proper funeral for dwarves, especially not for a Dwarf Lord such as Balin, but it'll do until I return home. I don't have to finish it, though, I'm sure my voice is grating for such delicate ears as yours."

Legolas' hand flies out to gently grasp Gimli's shoulder. "No. No, don't stop. I enjoyed the sound of your voice. It was... It felt... Real. Please, finish it. I will listen."

Gimli smiles again, broader then Legolas has seen him smile the entire time they've been on this journey, and shakes his head. "You are not as expected, Ma- Legolas. But as you wish. I will continue my song."

He resumes singing, his strong voice drowning out the elves, and Legolas closes his eyes and lets the words carry him away.

#TEE FUCKING HEE! <- girl who feels crazy over them #gigolas #lotr #nellie.fic

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