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fantasies-fairytales-n-fics · 1 year ago

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Thranduil and Josie Pt. 162- Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

Summary: The Elvenking has spoken for all to hear. Did Josie hallucinate or did she have another prophetic vision? Boromir finally clues Josie in. Josie views a spit swapping moment. All of middle earth feels the wrath of the Elvenking. Garrett gets another visitor with disturbing information, but is it real? Ain't no rest for the wicked.

*Chapter Warnings* language, angst, mentions of murder

Chapter characters: Thranduil, Josie, Rosie, Lola, Legolas, Boromir, Leeanduil, Narcisse, Catherine, Haldir, Rumil, Orophin, Jareth, Garrett, Amara, Elrond, Arwen, Galadriel, Aragorn, Bard, Gimli, Gollum, Ravenna, Lestat, Marius, Maharet, Armand, Selene, Michael, Craven

Chapter word count: 5,949

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The Elvenking sat stiffened and still at the head of his dining table, peering down his turned up nose at the roasted wild beast, greens, fruits and breads before him, foods he had always savored but now found unpalatable, for his eyes were triggered with slitted annoyance at the empty seat belonging to Legolas.

The Prince still had 6 days left out of the 7 that the King had set in stone for his son to return you and Leeanduil to him, but Legolas was still not updating his father on the happenings in Dorwinion. Thranduil knew his first born was intentionally evading his telepathic inquiries and also concealing his thoughts. The Prince's insubordinate behavior would carry consequences of merited punishment. All knew that the King of the Mirkwood was a master of patience and could wait, but not this time, for due to the side effects, per se, of Jareth's bad blood tainting his own, the Elvenking now knew impatience and every inch of middle earth was about to know it too.

There were 13 days left leading up to the winter solstice of December 21st, the day the goblin king and his army of the dead would come and Thranduil wanted his daughter in the safety of his halls, not in the perilous perimeters of Lord Narcisse's lands where he knew bodies had been piling up, courtesy of the wicked warlock Jonathan Harker, the same male witch that had aided his brother Jareth in all of Thranduil's torturous suffering and mind alteration. It would be a winter war like no other, bringing many reanimated enemies and other foes as well, all with plans of painting the silvery snow crimson red.

Bard was also expected to return with extra supplies of Dorwinion wine and ale, per the King's orders, for a feastful party that was set to take place days before the solstice in celebration of the birth and return of the Princess of Mirkwood, but Bard, unknown to Thranduil, was off assisting Aragorn and Gimli in tracking down the Marchwarden Haldir that Narcisse evicted from his lands.

Thranduil could sit no longer, for he craved to breathe the evening air that reeked of the impending doom and gloom and he just wanted to to be alone in his thoughts. Thoughts that you still intruded after seeing you in his mirror, crying on your knees and he found himself wanting to comfort you, which the Elvenking quickly cursed Thranduil for once again.

Scoffing, he eagerly finished off his goblet of wicked wine and then rose to his feet, staff in hand and swiftly glided off without a word to Feren and Tauriel who both sprung from their chairs, as did other elves, to properly acknowledge his unexpected and abrupt exit. The ocean is where the elf lord would head to send a message that could not be denied.

As you strolled down the halls to the dining hall, grasping your aching, injured hand that was concealed inside of a black lace glove, you heard laughter. A child's giggles echoing in the near distance and the pitter patter of running footsteps. When you neared the turn of the hall, a lingering scent of roses filled the air and all the sound came to an abrupt halt, both startling you to a skidding stop.

Peeking around the corner, you saw a little girl sitting all alone on a bench appearing to be around ten years old. Softly, you announced yourself.

"H..hello there. Are you lost?"

The small girl in her plain black dress and matching headband through her long auburn hair, quickly stood to gaze at you and remained silent as you slowly approached her.

Once you had a good look at her face, your eyes grew as a slight gasp escaped your lips. Her eyes were familiar sapphires of a deep blue sea. The same eyes you saw months ago in a dream touching Garrett's face, but there was something more to them that you could not quite place.

"May I...ask...what your name is? M..mine is Josie." you asked as you clutched your chest in shock.

The little one smiled. A smile that was also extremely familiar.

"It's Rosie silly." the child of reddish brown hair giggled and then she ran away.

"Wait! Little girl!"

You ran right after her, but as you rounded the corner merely seconds after she did, the hall was completely empty and there were no doors that she could have slipped into.

"What the..fuck..." you whispered as you spun around and round, your eyes frantically searching for the child you swore was very real, but now you were left wondering if the hallucinations were beginning, the ones Bash told you would come from the panther's infection.

You sat and waited a few minutes to see if she would return, but you remained all alone. Had you been alone the entire time?

After you collected yourself, you hurried off to the dining hall, still searching every corner along the way for the mystery child who had literally vanished into thin air before your disbelieving eyes.

You found Lola, Legolas, Leean and Boromir on the patio adjoined to the dining hall, all enjoying some hors d'ouevres except for your sweet baby who was happily drinking her magical Mirkwood water and began kicking her feet in excitement when she saw you.

The weather was absolutely astonishing for December, for only a day ago, it had snowed and was quite chilly and now it felt like a Spring evening as the sun was slowly lowering to let the Moon have it's nightly reign. This only confirmed to you that the first day of Winter, that being the day of the Winter Solstice, the shortest day and longest and coldest night of the year, would tear through middle earth like a hurricane, just as the dead would do, some even before that with personal vendettas. How were any of you going to be prepared for this? You needed more help, for even with Narcisse's warlock guard and the magic most of them held, they would never be enough and you...you were of no help at all now with Rahl's poison inside of you. Could the dark warlock lord have done it on purpose? Did he know how powerful you actually were? Did you?

Boromir and Legolas both rose from their seats, each offering a head bow to politely greet you and then you smiled and went to Lola, scooping you precious angel into your arms and snuggling her tight. Leean was the closest thing you would ever have to holding your King and being able to feel him and if it weren't for all the eyes on you, you would have broke down crying again. Everything was falling apart and you couldn't even protect your own daughter. You knew she would be safest in Thranduil's halls and if it weren't for the unsafe travel of getting there, you would take her there in a heartbeat, even if it meant suffering all the pain of the memories you had been severely avoiding.

"Josie? Are..you alright my lady?" Legolas asked, as he could see right through your forced smiles. He always could read you like a book, even if he was not connected to your mind like Thranduil had been.

"Nothing feels right. We shouldn't be partying at a time like this. Narcisse has literally lost his damn mind and now he's freed Catherine and my daughter is not safe here anymore. I want to take her home Legolas...but it's even more dangerous to do so. I should have went with you before. How could I have been so stupid? All to retrieve a book I will never find and even if I do, I only have one of the six runes needed in my possession to stop what's coming."

"You...wish to return to my father's kingdom??"

The Prince was stunned, for he knew that he was supposed to take you and Leean back there regardless and he was just as opposed as you were to the travel, but more so because of the new and badly improved Thranduil that you didn't even know was alive and he still believed you should not. Legolas also knew he had to contact his father very soon, he just didn't have the words Thranduil wanted to hear and he feared his reaction, which is why he had shut him out of his mind completely and Thranduil's anger for him doing so, Legolas feared even more.

"I do Leggy. I just don't see how it's possible. We cannot risk it. I won't."

Especially not now, you thought, considering you needed Delphine's antidote that you wouldn't receive anytime soon since Bash had to sneak off in the middle of the night after the party to find her, so now, you were useless power wise and just an added liability to travel and you didn't even know how to explain to Legolas or the others what had happened with Narcisse to cause it.

"I must agree with you. That is why I came back here. For you and my sister...and of course Boromir." Legolas responded in relief.

"Oh..yes. Boromir. I am so sorry. I know you have been waiting to speak with me. I suppose there is no time like the present yes?"

Boromir remained standing, not knowing where to begin. How was he to tell you that his brother, Faramir, was not truly his brother by blood, but actually yours and also your twin? The man of Gondor could see the turmoil you were in over all the happenings and to add this onto your heaping plate seemed so heartless, but...he knew he had no choice.

"I came here to tell you about my...brother Faramir. I have recently discovered something quite unsettling for me, but is of great importance and news for you..and even your father Julian, little one." Boromir explained as his towering form approached you.

"Oh? Well, my father, if he is even that. I don't even know what to believe because some fortune teller told me she feels Julian is my father but his brother Jareth told me that he himself is, that my mother lied. Sorry, long story on that part, but anyways, Julian is not even here to inform of anything. Jareth and Harker have messed with his mind and turned him dark."

"Yes. I am aware. Legolas has filled me in. Josie...Julian is your father. Caroline...she lied to you yet once again, to all of you." Boromir confessed with great sadness.

"How could you even possibly know that?"

"The fountain of fate has shown me. You, Julian and my br.....Faramir," he began to explain, but left out that he saw Thranduil with you in the vision, "were all together, happy...and you called him brother and he...called Julian father. Their eyes of blue skies. They were one and the same as well as their smiles and long noses. The only difference was their hair. Faramir...he shares strands of fire like you."

"Wait, what? My...brother? and...Julian is...both..our...I'm so lost here. Are you saying that my father has another child with someone?"

"Not just someone. Your mother, Caroline. Faramir is your twin."

A gulp traveled down your throat that you almost choked on. A twin?? And what about...Jace?

"Lola...please...take Leean. I..I'm having a bit of trouble breathing at the moment."

"Yes Miss. Shall I get you some water?"

"No!" you swiftly snapped, knowing that it burnt your skin, you could only imagine what it would do to your insides. "Sorry, Lola...I..I would just much rather have the hard stuff right now. Whiskey will be suffice and I will go get it myself. Please excuse me for a moment."

You rushed off, feeling as if you were going to be sick and it wasn't from the cat scratch, but from the overwhelming anger you felt towards your pathological lying dead mother. How was she even your mother??? The two of you were the exact opposite. Yin and Yan, just like Narcisse's alter ego and his damn ring. All your memories of her were from when you were a small child and you had never witnessed her evil side. Your memories of her were good ones. It was as if she had a split personality as well after learning long ago of all her horrific acts, but the only thing she had that was close enough to an alter was her own twin sister that you don't even remember, Cassie, whom she had killed. Caroline was just pure evil. No excuse. Even Maharet, her mother, your grandmother, would vouge for that.

As you knocked back your wicked whiskey with a grimacing cough, you caught a glimpse of Catherine in the dining hall doorway, walking down the hall and she appeared to quite angry and heading towards something...or someone...and of course, you had to sneak a peak.

There were multiple tables along the walls, filled with party goers and Catherine was bee-lining for Narcisse who was standing at one, speaking with two men.

She briefly stopped at the table to rudely call him a judas and spit right across the food and drinks into Stephane's face, then glared at him and walked off with two of Francis's men following her.

Narcisse wiped his face as he watched her exit in disgust, then he went to apologize to the men, but he sensed you, your gaze upon him and your scent. You froze as your eyes locked into his, trying to read them to see if it was him or...Darken Rahl you were once again paralyzed by.

For a moment, you thought you held the eyes of Stephane, the ones that always looked upon you with love and it appeared as if he were going to approach you, but instead, he forced his eyes from yours and continued on with his conversation as if nothing had even happened. You knew better though. Narcisse just didn't want to cause a scene and he would retaliate against Catherine's assault soon enough. The same for Francis. Whatever he held over Stephane's head to force his hand to release Catherine would only be temporary. Cat's always did like to play with their prey before devouring them.

You scoffed at his disregard of you, realizing he was very much still the dark warlock lord behind those beautiful blue eyes, then headed back to your table with another hefty sized goblet of throat burning whiskey.

"Does this Faramir know about me?" you asked Boromir as you sat back down.

"He only knows of the powers he possesses, but does not understand why, for our parents, the only ones he's ever known, are both simple humans. I told him I would find the answers and that is when I went off on my search for them and for you."

"But how Boromir?? How did your parents end up with my...brother and how did my mother ever conceal this from my father???"

"I will tell you exactly as I have told Legolas. According to my father's inebriated words one evening with my mother's midwife, my mother had went into early labor while my father and I were away. She had a boy, but sadly, the child did not survive. My mother was inconsolable and terrified for my father to know, feeling she failed him and that he would leave her, or even more so, that he would blame himself for not being there. A winter carnival had been passing through that very day and one of their travelers, your gypsy mother Caroline, had went into labor. Our people took her in and my mother's midwife delivered a boy and a girl, twins, both of red hair. Caroline demanded to hold the girl and wanted nothing to do with the boy. She ordered her to give "the little bastard" away and to never speak of it to anyone, or she would curse her. To prove her power, the witch gave her a little display of what she was capable of. The midwife watched her own breath forcefully flow out of her mouth as she choked on it. In terror, she agreed, took the boy and ran out and never saw your mother again. It was then that the child became Faramir and no one was to ever know the truth, but my father learned of it years later when my mother was dying, for she then confessed."

"Oh my god...so my mother...she intentionally left to give birth so my father would be clueless. So...I have lost one brother and gained another. The Seelie Queen...she was right. I..I cannot even fathom any of this."

"The who?" Boromir asked in surprise.

"Amara, the faerie Queen of the Wander Woods. She told me I shared birth blood with two others. I..I assumed she meant Raven and Jace...but she said she didn't believe that to be true...and all knows she cannot lie."

The mention of Amara had Legolas cringing inside, knowing he was still bound to their contract of impending marriage.

"Remember though, she is not lying if she "believes" something to be true. It does not mean that is true. Raven is Caroline's daughter with Craven. Is that not birth blood?"

"I...I would think so Legolas. Oh god though, Jace. How..how am I going to tell him this? He will be devastated....just as I am."

"Josie...he is still your family by blood. It should change nothing. Just as it did not change anything when you believed Julian was not your birth father." Legolas sweetly added, trying to shed light on a dark situation as he always did with you.

"I..I know that you're right Leggy, but it still hurts just the same. My other has turned our lives upside down and I...I have a feeling she is not finished."

"How do you mean?" Boromir asked? "She...she is dead, is she not?"

"Well yes, but even that will not stop her. Surely you must know of Jareth's plan to raise the dead and you can bet your ass that she will be one of them. I am very certain he has already done it because all he needed were the three pages from Ashmole that contained the spell. My father...he had went to retrieve them from his special hiding place to reunite them with the book and take down Jareth, but Harker found him and captured him and now...Jareth has the pages and I know he has used them, for only hours ago, I have seen with my own eyes, one of the walking dead."

"So it is true." Boromir whispered in thought.

"The book...it truly has the power to resurrect the dead..." he continued in disbelief.

"Very much so, but they won't be who they used to be." you softly said, feeling your eyes burn of wetness as you began to space out in thoughts of your King while gazing up at the moon.

All the chatter around you faded to muffles as you remembered your time with him at his special place in Rivendell, a place he shared with only you that you longed for almost as much as you longed for him, to feel him and be close to him again. A place where the love that you shared and had made was real. A place that nobody dared to go, that echoed of long ago. A place called Moonlight.

You found yourself standing, almost trance like as you began to see him, on a beach and gazing up at the same moon you were locked into. Were you hallucinating again?? You didn't care. All that mattered was that you were seeing him again when you thought the visions were long gone.

"Josie? Are you alright?" Legolas asked in concern as he stood and took your hand.

Without so much of a glance at him, you freed your hand and walked across the patio, your eyes still frozen inside of the hypnotic moonstone glow above that resembled your King's eyes. It was almost as if you were looking right into them and they were pulling you to him, sucking you out of reality and into his world.

At that same moment, Thranduil had came to a standing rest at the Black Sea's northern inlet. The moon was almost in it's full phase and illuminated over him and the restless waves, for they were feeding off of Thranduil's emotions, as he too, was reliving the exact moments you were.

All the words in your letter to him that he had read under the twinkling multitude of stars in Moonlight, flooded his mind. His eyes began to sting of wetness too, just as they did then, for he could hear your voice reciting the words once more and not even the Elvenking could stop it. At least not before he then heard you singing.

"A million lights are dancing and there you are, a shooting star. An everlasting world and you're here with me, eternally."

Tears now streamed down your face as you randomly sang lyrics of a song that reminded you of Thranduil and his world of magic. Xanadu.

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You could feel many stunned eyes upon you as everyone's voices silenced to listen, and then you felt Legolas's hand on yours once again.

"Josie. Sweetheart. Let me take you back to your room. You seem...disoriented."

"NO!" you sobbed and jerked your hand away. "I...I see him...don't you see him????"

Legolas's moonstone orbs flowed up to the dusk ridden sky where yours were fixated.

"Who? I..I do not see anyone."

"Thranduil!! There, in the moonlight!! He...he is looking right at me!"

Thranduil did see you. He saw Legolas too and his emotions exploded as the Elvenking raged inside of him. He could feel Jareth's blood boiling in his veins as he began to erupt like a volcano.

"Legolas!!" he demonically roared as his sacred staff that he carried in his hand, slammed into the earth and projected a blinding light as bright as the great star.

The Elvenking stood unmoved with a lifeless expression as the strike sent a horrendous sound and jolting ripple effect into the ocean and all across middle earth, the massive tremor was felt and heard.

The skies darkened to an eerie hoary hue as the waves of the Rhun crashed like an avalanche of white powder upon the shorelines of Dorwinion.

You grabbed the railing for support, simultaneously trying to cover your ears while screaming as the ground shook like an earthquake of great magnitude and an ear bleeding diminished chord pounded through the air. Was it the rapture???

Everyone on the patio was shouting in panic and ran inside the castle for safety, except for Boromir and Legolas. Boromir, like you, had no clue what was happening as he looked upon the sky in terror, but Legolas...he knew.

His eyes rolled shut as he gulped down a breath, for it was the only sound that could ever deafen his ears and send shivers through his body besides one other sound that he solely heard. The Elvenking's magnified deep godly voice shouting his name as it internally hammered through the Prince's head, having the only power to make him feel ill.

An hours travel away by horse, the colossal city of Dorwinion was pummeled as well by the sizeable river that divided it and Narcisse's lands. Chunks of stone fell from structures as the inhabitants scrambled for cover with many trampling each other as Haldir stood with clamped lips and eyes alongside his two brothers, Rumil and Orophin, due to the sting they all felt. The blonde pair had made their way from Lorien to aid the Marchwarden in what was to come in the days ahead. Aragorn, Bard and Gimli also stood at the three elves side as all 6 pairs of gaping eyes looked to the North where Mirkwood lied, for each one of them knew what and who carried such intense power, including Haldir who had been previously informed by Aragorn of the Elvenking's survival and warned of what the beautiful giant had become. Haldir too, especially now, was also in agreement with the others that you should not know your King still breathes.

The Seelie Queen's court that was hidden deep in the Wander Woods, a suburb per se of the dark forest that held beauty but was quite deadly, shook something fierce, knocking hundreds of red apples from the trees, sending flocks of birds scattering to the sky and even the bugs scurrying into the cracks of the earth. Amara was never fearful of anything or anyone except for the giant of all elves that she had very stupidly crossed who could squash her like the bugs that she adored or like her kill trees could do to the strongest of vampires and werewolves. Thranduil certainly had a reason to do so when he would come to learn of her entrapment of his son.

Gollum cowered under a tree, shaking like a leaf as his avocado sized blue eyes darted about the dark forest he had taken refuge in. He knew the earth's aggressive movement was Thranduil's doing and that the mighty elf lord now had the precious citrine ring belonging to the goblin King that he stole from him and that Raven stole again. He also knew that gemstone could save him, restore him to what he once was if Jareth was truly dead, so he vowed he would side with the Elvenking when the time came.

In the Misty Mountains, Jareth smiled from ear to ear at the destruction unfolding as he bided his time, circling his crystal balls round and round in his hand, knowing his blood that coursed through the Elvenking's veins was evoking the beautiful disaster before him and that Thranduil was embracing his destiny as a dark elf lord, the true Elvenking and also that by the Winter's Solstice, which mother Jadis would inflict a winter storm like no other, Thranduil would be gone for good. "Your time is short King Thranduil."

At castle Corvinus, the vampires Selene, Maharet, Armand, Lestat, Marius and Lycan Michael all knew what was happening. The brat Prince and his maker Marius knew before most that Thranduil was alive and that Jareth had captured and tortured him and now all were paying for it. They too, knew what was to come, for the dead could sense the dead.

Maharet, she had been absent since the masquerade ball at Lestat's now chateau de ashes, but with good reason and soon, she would come to you with more disturbing news of her twin crimson haired daughters Caroline and Cassandra, your mother and "aunt."

Selene had missed you terribly, but after Harker's deadly attack upon her, her love Michael, knowing very well you saved her and very grateful for it, has wanted her to steer clear of the irrelevant danger, for he and she had lost too much time together as it was and had been lucky enough to receive a second chance. Soon enough, their happy reunion would take a hit though, for they knew that they would have to deal with Craven and Viktor once again. Selene, she knew what Thranduil was now and he most likely despised her even more than he already had, but even so, she would never abandon you.

Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel and Arwen had been enjoying evening drinks after a splendid family dinner on the Imladris patio when the thunderous boom shook their goblets right off the table and caused all the waterfalls to sway and spray. The elves were the most sensitive to the power of the sacred staff and all had a similar reaction to it like Legolas and Haldir did, especially Elrond, who silently shrieked in pain as he held his forehead.

Elrond and Galadriel would soon gather a small council to decide if they should intervene in the war of wrath just weeks away. Elrond knew and had seen first hand what his dear friend Thranduil had endured. He aided him then and he most likely would do it again, for he now could see the King needed saving more than ever.

Ravenna remained at her high rise desolate castle, for she had no desire to return to Jareth. When her sister-in-law Freya had returned just in the nick of time with the three children she needed to keep her of ageless beauty, Freya informed her of news she learned upon the way. News about Jareth's infidelity with the dhampir Raven and all he had done to the King of Mirkwood. In her jealous rage, she vowed to make them all pay and maybe take a little treat for herself, a delicious platinum haired evil Elvenking that was just her type and in doing so, she would punish you as well, for she was the fairest of them all, not you.

Ravenna took to her terrace to enjoy the gloomy night air with some wicked wine while she orchestrated her next moves, when the slick stone floor underneath her high heeled boots had a massive seizure. If she had been standing any closer to the edge, she would have plummeted to her death, for she was a witch that could not fly and the ground full of rubble was thousands of feet below. Lifting herself from the floor, the diabolical beauty Queen grinned and panted in delight after reaching a sinfully shuttering climax brought on by the hand of the vigorous spring himself. Another vow then escaped her lips as she licked them. "You Elvenking, will be mine."

Garrett, still chained by iron shackles to the musty bed in the murky basement, jerked about with sweating nightmares when he was startled awake after repeatably being struck in the face by dirt falling from the ceiling. Once he opened his eyes and his ears, he heard objects falling on the wood floor above him and soon realized his bed was shifting about and banging into the stone wall.

"Oh hell no. I can handle scary, but this exorcist shit is where I draw the line." he garbled through the tremors.

One thing you loved about the vampire Garrett Lee, was his undying wit in times of turmoil. You supposed it was his survival mode kicking in and that, you could understand, even if most of his jokes and jabs were cheesy as fuck.

"Hello Garrett." a man's familiar voice spoke from the dark stairwell, sending a gasping Garrett against the wall with blazing red eyes of defense.

"I..I know that voice. C...Craven??"

"Well you should since I created you." the tall dark and handsome re-vamped vamp spoke and turned around.

Garrett smashed his eyes shut and sprung them open wide to focus, for he hadn't eaten in 24 hours and the iron was draining him of all the energy he had left.

"No..no no...you're not real. I'm fucking hallucinating. It's all I have been doing."

"Was Kate a hallucination? Look around you G. Was the earth shattering about just now too subtle for you? Fee Fi Fo Fum. The Elvenking has spoken. All should know this, even you. In the words of Carol King, I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down. The time is near G. Judgement day."

"Then set me free already, for Christ's sake!"

"Ohhh....language babe. That word is a big no no. And sorry G, can't do that."

"What?? Why in the fuck not?? I'm dying man!"

"Always so dramatic aren't we? You see, you and I are not on the same team anymore and quite frankly, I...am not the same anymore....if I release you, you'll try to stop me, not that you even could, but I just don't have the time for all that nonsense. Besides, you will soon have your hands full with a few...reunions."

"Then why the hell are you here?? To shoot the shit??!!"

"Actually, yes. You see, I died before I ever got to tell you something quite important. To you anyways. I did it for you, even though you were against it and now, well...I guess I kind of wanted to rub it in. You know, for shits and giggles? I enjoy those things."

Garrett could feel it. It was something very very bad.

"What...did..you do???" Garrett snarled.

Craven chuckled as he neared the bed.

"Does the name...Ryan...ring a bell..Roman?"

All the energy Garrett had left, he used up in a fit of rage.

"You didn't!! I told you to leave him alone! To let him have the choice that you didn't give me!!! I will kill you, I swear it!!"

"Now is that any way to speak to the one who changed you?"

"I saved you from that dastardly life with that wife of his. The wife who turned your brother against you. Ryan was going to die. He was never going to wake from that coma and his wife was going to pull the plug! I wanted to give you back a part of your life that made you happy, so a thank you would be nice!"

"A thank you?? YOU caused that fucking accident!!"

"I did and I made up for it by saving Ryan."

"Jesus Christ! Where is he? It's been 20 years!"

"There you go again with that potty mouth. My ears have had enough. You'll figure it all out...if you survive."

"Whoa whoa whoa! Wait! You..you said...reunions...plural."

"Well now, you caught that huh King? Oh, wait...you're not King anymore, that would be me. Gotta run now. Got many others to see. Tell Sally hello for me."

Just like that...Craven was gone and Garrett sat silently stunned. It couldn't be true. Sally? His dead sister that was brutally beaten and murdered by her husband before Garrett became Garrett. He was Roman then and he tried to save her, but he was too late and he ended up doing time for beating the man to death with a hammer. If she was alive, that meant Jareth did it....all to torment him.

Was this real?? Any of it? Or was it another nightmare or hallucination?

Garrett fell back on the bed, gasping with tears in his eyes as he called out one word and then passed out.

"Josephine!"

Back in Mirkwood, the abominable arachnids of the Woodland Realm raced up to the treetops for refuge. Even the lurking queen spider Shelob cowered inside of her dark, wet cave. They were too close to the power of the sacred staff. The light physically hurt them, burning their crepey skin and black beady eyes.

Thranduil had now returned to his halls with the dark elf lord appearance due to the vengeful rage that had consumed him. He stood in his chambers and gazed out the window, up at the moon once more as it reflected in his golden eyes...and then he spoke.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked."

@redeemer46

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16 notes · View notes

tathrin · 2 years ago

Note

🎤—Describe the opening scene

Hmm, I have several stories in progress right now, so let's see which one to pick for this...I think And His Hands Ran With Gold And Shadow, because I think that's the one I have going right now that would need the most changes from the way the opening scene is written to how it would best be filmed.

We would start the scene sort of the way The Two Towers does, with a long pan-in across Middle-earth, perhaps starting on the Anduin and then scanning across the dark trees of Mirkwood, over Dale, slowly closing in on the Lonely Mountain.

There would be faint voice-overs from some of the familiar lines we all know and remember, sometimes mingling together half-heard and sometimes crisp and clear, slowly getting louder as we get closer to the Mountain and to the moment of divergence, until at last we reach new lines, a changed scene that we do not see, but we can hear, and infer, and shudder at...

Galadriel: I amar prestar aen...

Elrond: I was there, Gandalf. I was there the day the strength of Man failed...

Frodo: I will do it. I will take the Ring.

Boromir: It is a gift...a gift to the foes of Mordor.

Galadriel: But they were all of them deceived...

Aragorn: Boromir. Give the Ring to Frodo.

Boromir: Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.

Gandalf: All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to us...

Elrond: Evil was allowed to endure.

Boromir: Why do you recoil? I am no thief.

Frodo: You are not yourself.

Boromir: What chance do you think you have? They will find you. They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end!

Elrond: The line of kings is broken. There is no strength left in the world of Men.

Boromir: I see your mind! You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us!

Galadriel: And into this Ring he poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life.

Boromir: It is not yours, save by unhappy chance. It could have been mine. It should be mine! Give it to me!

Frodo: No! Let go! Let me go! Noooo!

(sounds of a scuffle; a scream in Frodo's voice; panting breaths; frantic footsteps on crackling underbrush; silence)

Aragorn: Frodo? Frodo!

Samwise: Mister Frodo, no! Look, Strider, he's still breathing! Oh, hurry, he's still breathing...

Aragorn: But Boromir, where is Boromir?

Samwise: Strider, please! (sounds of someone dropping to the ground; rustling cloth; a moan.) Frodo: The Ring...Aragorn, he has taken the Ring. Forgive me, I could not stop him. Boromir has taken the Ring...

Denethor: And so my son returns to the White City at last!

Boromir: Father, I bring you a mighty gift.

Denethor: Can this be? The One Ring—Sauron's Master Ring?

Boromir: Yes, father. Isildur's Ring, returned to Gondor at last.

Denethor: And Gondor will make good use of such a gift, my son...

Galadriel: One Ring to rule them all...

And on Galadriel's last words, the camera swoops down through the enormous double-doors of the Lonely Mountain and inside to the great hall, tall and shadowed and lit by crystal lamps that are not quite numerous enough to drive away the gloom that hangs in the corners of the tall ceiling and around the wide pillars that hold up the weight of the mountain.

On the throne in the center of the hall sits Gimli, dressed so regally that we can barely recognize him, with heavy beads of gold and gems braided in his beard but, crucially, no crown upon his bare head. A few other dwarves mill around, some by the throne and others lining the walls; it is clear that court is being held, but that it is an ordinary day of no especial significance. Perhaps a few proposals or orders are issued as we pan in for some establishing flavor; their specific content does not matter, because the focus of the scene will be on the slight scuffle by the door as the dwarven guards step aside to admit a handful of ragged, filthy, half-starved looking Men from Dale who drag in four struggling, bloody, wounded elves draped in heavy chains. The Men shove the elves to their knees before the throne, a line of dwarven guards in front of them with others gathered close behind; there will be trouble, and no escape, from either the prisoners or their captors.

Gimli looks bored—a cover for his misery—barely interested, until...he sits up a little in his chair, a look of horror growing behind his beard as the camera draws in closer to him. Then we switch to see the elves he is staring at, three of them with dark hair and one of the two in the middle a pale golden-blonde. Cut back to Gimli, who is gripping the arm of his throne with one white-knuckled hand, on which rests a heavy golden Ring adorned with a thick gem that catches the light and glimmers brighter even than the crystal lamps.

Gimli whispers so quietly that the audience can believe that none of the dwarves are standing near enough to hear him: Not like this. He closes his eyes, swallowing hard as though to fight back tears.

All the elves kneel, some struggling slightly and some staying stoically still, and their heads are bowed, but as Gimli stares and as the camera of his eyeline pans in closer, focusing in on the blonde one, his head comes up and the audience can see Legolas's face, streaked with blood. There is no recognition in his cold eyes as he stares back at the dwarf on the throne.

"A fine tribute," Gimli says, his voice ringing out strong but hollow in the echoing hall. "Tell the Men of Dale that they have earned their people four months of triple rations in addition to the gold-price on the heads of these elves."

The bedraggled Men lift their heads, grinning with joy and relief. Dwarven guards step forwards to take charge of the prisoners and the Dale Men back away, murmuring gratitude to the Lord of the Mountain for his generosity. Some of the dwarves stare at the elves through narrowed eyes; others eye the Dalemen with either pity or distaste. Some confer quietly among themselves, so used to these sort of things that they aren't even worth watching any longer. A few (one of whom we will later meet as Mólin; it is important that he be seen to be part of this scene, although he should not have too much focus put on him yet, to telegraph ahead of time that he is a Notable Character) watch Gimli closely, curiosity or suspicion glittering sharply in their eyes.

"Have the elves taken to the cages," Gimli announces, in his bold and hollow ruler's voice. Then his regal tones break a little, and he says, "Except — except for the golden-haired one."

Legolas's head snaps up, but there is still no recognition in his expression; just a sort of sad, smoldering anger and resignation. The other elves glance at him, then away again, the same grim looks on their bloody faces. One of them snarls at a dwarf who holds her arm, but can do no more than that with the heavy chains around her wrists and ankles and solid dwarven hands holding her tight.

"Take that one to my chambers," Gimli commands, his head thrown back and his voice ringing out boldly across the stone. He curls his lips into a cruel smile that does not reach his eyes. "I will see to his breaking personally."

The elves are dragged away, some struggling and some stoic, by their dwarven captors; Legolas is separated from the others. He holds his head high, his face blank, and does not look back, although two of them turn with miserable frowns to stare at him as they are pulled through different doors.

The Ring on Gimli's hand glitters in a close-up. His fingers are curled into a tight fist.

"Oh," Gimli says, making his voice light, "and heat water for a bath as well; the elf is all-over filthy with blood, and I will not have him defiling my rooms any more than can be helped."

Several dwarves chuckle with varying degrees of sincerity (Mólin is not one of them). Gimli holds his smile long enough for all the elves to be pulled away through the doors that lead deeper into the Mountain.

Then his smile fades to a bleak look of horror and he sinks down heavily into his throne.

We close-up on the Ring again, and see blood dripping from his hand from where he has gripped it so hard that the band has bitten through his skin and broken it.

Then we end with a long-shot of Gimli on the throne in the shadows, the other dwarves at a bit of a distance now and out of focus and looking to their own conversations, leaving him looking very very alone.

End Scene.

Technically I suppose it still opens the same, after the opening...but because we're doing a canon-divergent AU, I think it works best to establish what the divergence actually is, in broad-strokes at least, before the story itself starts. And since TTT has already established this style of opening with voice-over exposition/reminders, it seems the best way to go about it here too I think.

Granted, we could ostensibly actually cut in to show some of those scenes here too, the way they do with Gandalf battling the balrog...but I think it's stronger if we don't actually show anything in this case. Also because we don't want to then segue into Gimli having a dream or flashback, so the cut would be somewhat awkward — but also I just think it's got more weight, in this case, without actually being able to see what happened.

Just make everyone listen to some familiar lines, and then gradually realize that that part isn't the same, oh no...

#wips adaptation ask meme #gimli dark lord of erebor au #gimli #legoglas #lotr fanfiction #boromir #lotr adaptation #lotr movies #lotr #my writing #my stuff #ask meme

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airavatarakan · 3 years ago

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WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! 2

Once again pissed. Why? Let's fucking see.

Galadriel

I actually didn't pay attention to this detail the first time, but why does Galadriel have a Seven pointed star on her breastplate? That's symbol of her Uncle Fëanor.

A little lore. While still in Valinor, Fëanor asked Galadriel for a strand of her hair, which is said to shine as brilliantly as the light of the Two Trees - Laurelin and Telperion. She refused him again and again. That's why her giving three of her hairs to Gimli is such a powerful gesture.

Fast to the leaving of Valinor, Galadriel never swore and oath like Fëanor and his seven sons did, but she went with them anyway, because she desired a land to call her own and rule by her own design.

That went wrong when Fëanor arrived at Alqualondë. Galadriel is daughter of Finarfin who is son of Finwë and Indis, but Fëanor is son of Finwë and Míriel (Her spirit departed her body when Fëanor was born and she passed all of her strenght to him) and Indis was a Vanya (fair, blonde race of elves that basked in the light of the Two Trees while they still stood), Finwë was a Noldo (fair but dark haired) and Finarfin (Unlike his brother Fingolfin(brown hair) and half brother Fëanor (black hair), was a blonde. He married a Teleri (sailors with the best ships in Arda) and so Galadriel was half Teleri and half Vanya.

So Fëanor arrived ať Alqualondë and declared, that the Teleri should surrender their ships to him. They didn't and so the First Kinslaying took place. Fëanor fought the Teleri while Galadriel fought FOR the Teleri, since they were kin. Aka. AGAINS FËANOR.

That's not all. Fëanor defeated them and took the ship and first used them to get HIS kin - Noldor. Galadriel and the rest of Vanyar were left in Valinor, while Fëanor promised he will send the ship back to get them. He didn't.

And only after was the rest forced to cross the Ice plain-Helcaraxë.

Many of them died, including her aunt-Fingolfins wife, and of Galadriel didn't hate Fëanor before, she certainly did now.

She doesn't have ONE single reason to wear Fëanors star.

She never got the chance to kill him, by the time they crossed Helcaraxë, Fëanor was already dead. Killed by Balrogs.

The very same applies to Gil-Galad.

And now for the second issue.

Please tell me this isn't Finrod Felagund.

It can't be. Finrod Felagund, the King of Nargothrond, the fairest of all of his kin, the best singer (sorry Maglor), the one who challenged Sauron to singing duel. The one who sacrificed himslef for his friend by tearing apart a WEREWOLF by his BARE HANDS!

"Thus befell the contest of Sauron and Felagund which is renowed. For Felagund strove with Sauron in songs of power, ad the power of the King was great, but Sauron had the mastery. As is told in the Lay of Leithian:

Lay of Leithian:

He chanted a song of wizardry,

Of piercing, opening, of treachery,

Revealing, uncovering, betraying.

Then sudden Felagund there swaying

Sang in answer a song of staying,

Resisting, battling against power,

Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,

And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;

Of changing and of shifting shape,

Of snares eluded, broken traps,

The prison opening, the chain that snaps.

Backwards and forwards swayed their song.

Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong

The chanting swelled, Felagund fought,

And all the magic and miht he brought

Of Elvenesse into his words.

Softly in the gloom they heard the birds

Singing afar in Nargothrond,

The sighing of the sea beyond,

Beyond the western world, on sand,

On sand of pearls in Elvenland.

Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing

In Valinor, the red blood flowing

Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew

The Foamriders, and stealing drew

Their white ships with their white sails

From lamplit havens. The wind wails,

The wolf howls. The ravens flee.

The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea.

The captives sad in Angband mourn.

Thunder rumbles, the fires burn –

And Finrod fell before the throne.

Then Sauron stripped from them their disguise, and they stood before him naked and afraid. But though their kinds were revealed, Sauron could not discover their names or their purposes.”

...

"But when the wolf came for Beren, Felagund put forth all his power, and burst his bonds. And he wrestled with the werewolf and slew it with his hands and teeth, yet he himslef was wounded to death. ... He died then in the dark, in Tol-In-Gaurhoth, fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwë, redeemed his oath, but Beren mourned beside him in despair."

Leave this absolute badass rest in peace, please.

And if Felagund is there, Sauron will be as well. Fuck!

Third issue!

Númenor!

Is that really the Golden city of Númenor, the Golden City which even Sauron envied?

"And Sauron passed over the sea and looked upon the land of Númenor and the city of Armenelos and he was astounded, but his heart within was filled the more with envy and hate."

I wouldn't have a problem with it if it were Romména, but the Golden city of Armenelos with Meneltarma?

Try a little less, why don't you Amazon.

I really pity the actors. Knowning they didn't get chosen for their talent, but for their body.

And at the same time not. Anyone who disregards Tolkiens work like this doesn't really deserve any pity.

#silmarillion #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #fuck amazon #blackwashing #fuck rings of power

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years ago

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March 15th - A Day of Miracles

This sis something that occurred to me when I was writing today’s instalment of “Today in Tolkien”, but I didn’t have space to discuss it there, so I’m making a separate post. The day of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields is characterized by muraculous events and sudden turns of good fortune, in a way that didn’t become fully clear to me until I looked at the day as a whole. In the style of The Lord of the Rings, many of these are not obviously supernatural, but are understood as miraculous by those who experience them.

Wind

One of the most prominent of the miracles of the day is the change in the wind at precisely the right time, driving back the darkness of Mordor, giving hope to the Rohirrim and to Frodo and Sam, and carrying Aragorn’s fleet up the river. Readers of The Silmarillion will inow that wind is most of all associated with Manwë, the king of the Valar.

The first mentions of the change in the wind are from Ghân-buri-Ghân and the Rohirrim:

But suddenly [Ghân-buri-Ghân] stood looking up like so e startled woodland animal snuffling a strange air. A light came into his eyes. “Wind is changing!” he cried, and with that, in a twinkling as it seemed, he and his fellows had vanished into the glooms, never to be seen by any Rider of Rohan again.

And later, as the Rohirrim draw near to the Pelennor Fields:

“Do you remember the Wild Man’s words, lord?” said another. “I live upon the open Wold in days of peace; Wídfara is my name, and to me also the air brings messages. Already the wind is turning. There comes a breath out of the South; there is a sea-tang in it, faint though it be. The morning will bring new things. Above the reek it will be dawn when you pass the wall.”

As the Rohirrim arrive at the battlefield:

Then suddenly Merry felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in his face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting; morning lay beyond them.

And in the charge of the Rohirrim:

For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts or Mordor wailed, and terrror took them...

The wind and the change it bring is also anticipated by Legolas aboard the ships of the Corsairs, as Gimli later tells:

“Heavy would my heart have been, for all our victory at the havens, if Legolas had not laughed suddenly. ‘Up with your beard, Durin’s son!’ he said. ‘For thus it is spoken: Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn.’ But what hope he saw from afar he would not tell...At midnight hope was indeed born anew, Sea-crafty men of the Ethir gazing southward spoke of a change coming with a fresh wind from the Sea. Long ere day the masted ships hoisted sail, and our speed grew, until dawn whitened the foam at our prows.

Frodo and Sam, too, see the change:

Light was growing behind them. Slowly it crept towards the North. There was battle far anove in the high spaces of the air. The billowing clouds of Mordor were being driven back, their edges tattering as a wind out of the living world came up and swept the fumes and smokes towards the dark land of their home. Under the lifting skirts of the dreary canopy dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through the grimed window of a prison. “Look at it, Mr Frodo!” said Sam. “Look at it! The wind’s changed. Something’s happening. He’s not having it all his own way. His darkness is breaking up in the world there.”

Victory

Eowyn and Merry’s defeat of the Witch-king, though accomplished by thmselves and a great feat, is also percieved as miraculous by many who hear its effects. These two things are not contradictory - the presence of two such unlikely people on the battlefield, in the right time and right place, with the right weapons, in answer to prophecy, does have the air if the miraculous, a miracle accomplished through the intersections of providence with the actions of ordinary people (even as with the later destruction of the Ring; or, earlier, Bilbo’s finding of the Ring, which would not have been posdible if he had not go e with the dwarves in the first place).

Then tottering, struggling up, with her last strength [Éowyn] drove her sword between criwn and mantle, as the great shoulder bowed before her. The sword broke sparkling into many shards. The crown rolled away with a clang. Éowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe.

But lo! the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of the world.

The death of the Nazgûl-lord is heard also in Minas Tirith, and brings hope:

But even as Gandalf and his companions came carrying the bier to the main door of the Houses [of Healing], they heard a great cry that went up from the field before the Gate and rusing shrill and piercing into the sky passed, and died away on the wind. So terrible was the cry that for a moment all stood still, and yet when it had passed, suddenly their hearts were lifted up in such a hope as they had not known since the darkness came out of the East; and it seemed to them that the light grew clear and the sun broke through the clouds.

And it is heard by Frodo and Sam as well, and gives heart and hope to Sam:

As Frodo and Sam stood and gazed, the rim of light spread all along the line of the Ephel Dúath, and then they saw a shape, moving at great speed out of the West, at first only a black speck against the glimmering strip above the mountain-tops, but growing, until it plunged like a bolt into the dark canopy and passed high above them. As it went it sent out a long shrill cry, the voice of a Nazgûl; but this cry no longer held any terror for them: it was a cry of woe and dismay, ill tidings for the Dark Tower. The Lord of the Ringwraiths had met his doom.

Light and Water

For Frodo and Sam, the breaking of the darkness is part of another miraculous sequence of events. In the early hours, when they have escaped from the Tower of Cirith Ungol but are entirely out of water, Sam says:

“If only the Lady could see or hear us, I’d say to her: ‘Your Ladyship, all we want is light and water: just clean water and plain daylight, better than any jewels, begging your pardon.’ But it’s a long way to Lórien.”

Not long after that the darkness breaks, as quoted above, and light comes into the sky, and they hear the death-cry of the Nazgûl-lord. And only an little later:

They had trudged for more than an hour when they heard a sound that grought them to a halt. Unbelievable, but unmistakeable. Water trickling. Out of a gully on the left, so sharp and narrow that it looked as if the black cliff had been cloven by some huge axe, water came dripping down: the last remains, maybe, of some sweet rain gathered from sunlit seas...Here it came out of the rock in a little falling streamlet, and flowed across the path...

Sam sprang towards it. “If I ever see the Lady again, I will tell her!” he cried. “Light and now water!”

I don’t think either of these things are within Galadriel’s abilities, but that is not the point. The hobbits think of her as the closest encounter they have had with great and high beings, and think of her in place of greater things that they are less aware of or less sensible of being able to seek help from; and someone is watching out for them.

Healing

The last miracle of the day comes with Aragorn’s first entry into Minas Tirith, as healer rather than ruler; and the final description of it is highly evocative of many of Jesus’ miracles of healing in the New Testament:

At the doors of the Houses [of Healing] many were already gathered to see Aragorn, and they followed after him; and when at last he had supped, men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow. And Aragorn arose and went out, and he sent for the sons of Elrond, and together they laboured far into the night. And word went through the city: ‘The King is come again indeed.’ ...And when he could labour no more, he cast his cloak about him, and slipped out of the City, and went to his tent just ere dawn and slept for a little.

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #today in tolkien #rohirrim #legolas #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #eowyn #aragorn #galadriel #christianity

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trashy-goblin · 4 years ago

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type: one-shot

title: Geordie

fandom: Lord of the Rings

summary: Aragorn and Gimli find amusement in singing to the hobbits of a tale about a time Geordie found herself in the cells of Erebor due to a misunderstanding that had Arwen come all the way from Rivendell to rescue her lover.

characters: oc; arwen; aragorn; gimli; frodo; sam; merry; pippin; gandalf (mentioned); legolas (mentioned); boromir (mentioned);

pairings: arwen/oc;

a/n: i wrote this in like... a day?? so that's my excuse for it to be so short.

wordcount: 1119

As soon as the sun began to set, the fellowhip prepared to set camp for the night.

Although the day had been tiring, the warm dinner Geordie had prepared gave them comfort and rejuvenated the remains of energy inside them. And so, what Pippin started with a story about stolen vegetables soon excalated to songs and tales.

Boromir told them of great battles Gondor fought and Gimli of the challenges dwarves had faced and conquered. Aragorn told tales of his and Geordie's adventures, while Legolas of the elves and spoke of their culture, just as the hobbits sang the wonders of the Shire.

"And what of you, Miss Geordie?" asked Sam, "Do you have any story or song to share?... If I may ask, of course?"

She smiled at the hobbit and his last question.

"My most interest adventures are shared with Aragorn," Geordie told him as she tended to the fire, "and I'm afraid he's already ran out of tales to tell."

"Oh I wouldn't say that, lass."

Gimli's enormous grin gained the other's attention more than his unexpected intrevention. A more discrete version of the amused grin soon was seen on Aragorn's face.

"There is one tale of yours which does not involve me" Aragorn rose his eyebrows in amusement as he spoke in a smile.

"But which involves my kin!" Gimli's voice vibrated with pride and laughter.

Gandalf too grinned at the sigh that left Geordie beside him, but noticed she didn't seem upset, just rather tired.

"Tell me, dear hobbits," said Gimli, "Have you ever heard a song called, precisely, Geordie?"

The hobbits looked at each other curiously although they all knew the answer.

"No, can't say that we have" Frodo answered.

"Well, from today on you can say you have," the dwarf told them, a grin still visible on his expression, "for I will tell you of the tale of Geordie, the dunedain who once found herself in the cells of Erebor..."

Gandalf chuckled at the amazement and curiosity found in the hobbits' eyes as soon as Gimli said those words. They looked at Geordie, who rose her eyebrows as she tiredly closed her eyes in a sight, but soon their attention was captured by Gimli's singing voice.

There was a battle in the North

And nobles there were many

They tried to kill Dáin son of Náin

And laid the blame on Geordie.

O she has written a long letter

And sent it to her lady Arwen:

"You must come up to Erebor town

To see what news of Geordie."

When first she looked the letter on

Geordie's heart gloome at the name of her lover, and a smile grew on her lips as Aragorn continued to sing.

She was both red and rosy

She had not read a word but two

When she grew pale as a lily.

Gimli chuckled as Aragorn gestured for him to continue the song, and so, gladly, he did.

"Go fetch to me my good grey steed

My men shall all go with me

For I shall neither eat nor drink

Till Erebor town shall see me."

Geordie couldn't help but feel her cheeks warm as her chest. Although her mind knew Arwen's love was powerful enough to lead all the elf soldiers there were to Erebor, her mind always fluttered with grace and melted in devotion at the memory, as if it was unknown to her.

Then she has mounted her good grey steed

Her men they all went with er

And she did neither et or drink

Till Erebor town did see her.

Her mind was brought back to the song by Gimli.

And first appeared the fatal block

And then the axe to head her

And Geordie coming down the stair

With bands of iron upon her.

Geordie chuckled as the dwarf bowed to her to compliment her between lines, and Aragorn sang.

Though she was chained in fetters strong

Of iron and steel so heavy

O not a one in all the court

Was so fine a woman as Geordie.

Gmili then continued; singing the first line with an impression of Dáin that made Gandalf choke on pipeweed smoke trying to hold a laugh.

O Arwen down on her bended knee

I'm sure she's pale and weary

"O pardon, pardon noble king,

And give me back my dearie."

Geordie remembered the contrast between the ardent feeling in Arwen's eyes - barely pleading - and the diplomacy of her words as if it was yesterday. To think of her lover kneeling before the King of Erebor and asking such thing made her heart feel guilty, but nevertheless warm.

"Go tell the heading man make haste"

Our king replies full lordly

"O noble king take all that's mine

But give me back my Geordie."

The Gordons came and the Gordons ran

And they were stark and ready

And aye the word among them all

Was Gordons keep you ready.

An aged lord, Balin is his name

Says "Noble king, but hear me

Let her count out five thousands pounds

And give her back her dearie."

Geordie looked at the flames of the fire she tended which seemed to dance to the rythm of the song. Her chest felt heavy at the thought of Arwen sitting in a corner of the mountain, counting endless gold merely for the sake of her lover's safety.

Some gave her marks, some gave her crowns

Some gave her dollars many

She's counted out five thousand pounds

And she's gotten again her dearie.

Yet the words Aragorn sang next made Geordie feel her Arwen's touch on the cheek, almost as if she was there herself, lifting her face up to meet hers with a smile.

She galnced blithe in her Geordie's face

Say "Dear I've bought thee Geordie;

But the blood would have flowed upon the green

Before I lost my lady."

Geordie smiled at the memory, her happiness so real her lips felt kissed right there and then. Yet Gimli and Aragorn had finished the song, and her mind remembered the saudade that made her heart ache in such a lovely way.

Geordie clasped her by the middle small

And she kissed her lips so rosy

"The fairest flower of elven kind

Is my sweet strong Arwen."

Geordie called her lady’s name in a thought, and, sensing it in a heartbeat, Arwen smiled sending back her lover a loveing thought from Rivendell.

The hobbits asked her of the veracity of the song and while Geordie answered their questions with a conscient smile, Aragorn could see her eyes, mind, and heart walked the halls and gardens of Rivendell, - hands not holding a stick to tend a fire but Arwen’s hands.

#lord of the rings fanfic #lotr fanfic #arwen x oc #arwen x reader

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silentstep · 7 years ago

Link

I was actually just rereading this section of RotK recently, for my own fic purposes:

The light was still grey as they rode, for the sun had not yet climbed over the black ridges of the Haunted Mountain before them. A dread fell on them, even as they passed between the lines of ancient stones and so came to the Dimholt. There under the gloom of black trees that not even Legolas could long endure they found a hollow place opening at the mountain’s root, and right in their path stood a single mighty stone like a finger of doom.

‘My blood runs chill,’ said Gimli, but the others were silent, and his voice fell dead on the dank fir-needles at his feet. The horses would not pass the threatening stone, until the riders dismounted and led them about. And so they came at last deep into the glen; and there stood a sheer wall of rock, and in the wall the Dark Door gaped before them like the mouth of night. Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch too dim to read, and fear flowed from it like a grey vapour.

The Company halted, and there was not a heart among them that did not quail, unless it were the heart of Legolas of the Elves, for whom the ghosts of Men have no terror.

‘This is an evil door,’ said Halbarad, ‘and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter.’

‘But we must go in, and therefore the horses must go too,’ said Aragorn. ‘For if ever we come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond, and every hour that is lost there will bring the triumph of Sauron nearer. Follow me!’

Then Aragorn led the way, and such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dúnedain and their horses followed him. And indeed the love that the horses of the Rangers bore for their riders was so great that they were willing to face even the terror of the Door, if their masters’ hearts were steady as they walked beside them. But Arod, the horse of Rohan, refused the way, and he stood sweating and trembling in a fear that was grievous to see. Then Legolas laid his hands on his eyes and sang some words that went soft in the gloom, until he suffered himself to be led, and Legolas passed in. And there stood Gimli the Dwarf left all alone.

His knees shook, and he was wroth with himself. ‘Here is a thing unheard of!’ he said. ‘An Elf will go underground and a Dwarf dare not!’ With that he plunged in. But it seemed to him that he dragged his feet like lead over the threshold; and at once a blindness came upon him, even upon Gimli Glóin’s son who had walked unafraid in many deep places of the world.

Aragorn had brought torches from Dunharrow, and now he went ahead bearing one aloft; and Elladan with another went at the rear, and Gimli, stumbling behind, strove to overtake him. He could see nothing but the dim flame of the torches; but if the Company halted, there seemed an endless whisper of voices all about him, a murmur of words in no tongue that he had ever heard before.

Nothing assailed the Company nor withstood their passage, and yet steadily fear grew on the Dwarf as he went on: most of all because he knew now that there could be no turning back; all the paths behind were thronged by an unseen host that followed in the dark.

So time unreckoned passed, until Gimli saw a sight that he was ever afterwards loth to recall. The road was wide, as far as he could judge, but now the Company came suddenly into a great empty space, and there were no longer any walls upon either side. The dread was so heavy on him that he could hardly walk. Away to the left something glittered in the gloom as Aragorn’s torch drew near. Then Aragorn halted and went to look what it might be.

‘Does he feel no fear?’ muttered the Dwarf. ‘In any other cave Gimli Gloin’s son would have been the first to run to the gleam of gold. But not here! Let it lie!’

Nonetheless he drew near, and saw Aragorn kneeling, while Elladan held aloft both torches. Before him were the bones of a mighty man. He had been clad in mail, and still his harness lay there whole; for the cavern’s air was as dry as dust, and his hauberk was gilded. His belt was of gold and garnets, and rich with gold was the helm upon his bony head face downward on the floor. He had fallen near the far wall of the cave, as now could be seen, and before him stood a stony door closed fast: his finger-bones were still clawing at the cracks. A notched and broken sword lay by him, as if he had hewn at the rock in his last despair.

Aragorn did not touch him, but after gazing silently for a while he rose and sighed. ‘Hither shall the flowers of simbelmynë come never unto world’s end,’ he murmured. ‘Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door that he could not unlock. Whither does it lead? Why would he pass? None shall ever know!

‘For that is not my errand!’ he cried, turning back and speaking to the whispering darkness behind. ‘Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!’

There was no answer, unless it were an utter silence more dreadful than the whispers before; and then a chill blast came in which the torches flickered and went out, and could not be rekindled. Of the time that followed, one hour or many, Gimli remembered little. The others pressed on, but he was ever hindmost, pursued by a groping horror that seemed always just about to seize him; and a rumour came after him like the shadow-sound of many feet. He stumbled on until he was crawling like a beast on the ground and felt that he could endure no more: he must either find an ending and escape or run back in madness to meet the following fear.

Suddenly he heard the tinkle of water, a sound hard and clear as a stone falling into a dream of dark shadow. Light grew, and lo! the Company passed through another gateway, high-arched and broad, and a rill ran out beside them; and beyond, going steeply down, was a road between sheer cliffs, knife-edged against the sky far above. So deep and narrow was that chasm that the sky was dark, and in it small stars glinted. Yet as Gimli after learned it was still two hours ere sunset of the day on which they had set out from Dunharrow; though for all that he could then tell it might have been twilight in some later year, or in some other world.

— Tolkien, J.R.R.. The Lord of the Rings: One Volume (pp. 787-788). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Kindle Edition.

and, well. I’m deeply, unspeakably glad that there’s hurt/comfort fic about this, and having it be such a really great fic is just icing on the cake. Amazing icing. Best icing I’ve read in a while.

#fic rec #my first love #gimli/legolas #sometimes I really do have trouble with tolkien's non-naturalistic style of dialogue #''this is an evil door'' is. really hard to read with a straight face sometimes #but like... fuckin. you can /feel/ the oppressive atmosphere like in Uprooted's Wood

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jdkloosterman · 7 years ago

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Few of other race have succeeded in learning the language of the Dwarves. In this history (Lord of the Rings) it appears only in such place-names as Gimli revealed to his companions; and in the battle-cry which he uttered in the siege of the Hornburg. [link] That at least was not secret, and had been heard on many a field since the world was young. "Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai menu!" *Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!* (1) Dwarves of Belegost: "Last of all the eastern force to stand firm were the Dwarves of Belegost, and thus they won renown. For the Naugrim (dwarves) withstood fire more hardily than either Elves or Men, and it was their custom moreover to wear great masks in battle hideous to look upon; and those stood them in good stead against the dragons. But for them Glaurung and his brood would have withered all that was left of the Noldor. But the Naugrim made a circle about him when he assailed them, and even his mighty armour was not full proof against the blows of their great axes; and when in his rage Glaurung turned and struck down Azaghal, Lord of Belegost, and crawled over him, with his last stroke Azaghal drove a knife into his belly, and so wounded him that he fled the field, and the beasts of Angband in dismay followed after him. Then the Dwarves raised up the body of Azaghal and bore it away; and with slow steps they walked behind singing a dirge in deep voices, as it were a funeral pomp in their country, and gave no more heed to their foes; and none dared to stay them."

(2) The Ruin of Doriath: “Thus it was that the host of the Naugrim crossing over Aros passed unhindered into the woods of Doriath; and none withstod them, for they were many and fierce, and the captains of the Grey-elves were cast into doubt and despair, and went hither and thither purposeless. But the Dwarves held on their way, and passed over the great bridge, and entered into Menegroth; and there befell a thing most grievous among the sorrowful deeds of the Elder Days. For there was battle in the Thousand Caves, and many Elves and Dwarves were slain; and it has not been forgotten. But the Dwarves were victorious, and the halls of Thingol were ransacked and plundered. There fell Mablung of the Heavy Hand before the doors of the treasury wherein lay the Nauglamir; and the Silmaril was taken."

(3) The Fall of Azog: “Then Azog laughed, and he lifted up his head to let forth a great yell of triumph; but the cry died in his throat. For he saw that all his host in the valley was in a rout, and the Dwarves went this way and that slaying as they would, and those that could excape from them were flying south. And hard by all the soldiers of his guards lay dead. He turned and fled back towards the Gate. Up the steps after him leaped a Dwarf with a red axe. It was Dain Ironfoot, Nain's son. Right before the doors he caught Azog, and there he slew him, and hewed off his head. That was held a great feat, for Dain was then only a stripling in the reckoning of the Dwarves. But long life and many battles lay before him, until old but unbowed he fell at last in the War of the Ring. Yet hardy and full of wrath as he was, it is said that when he came down from the Gate he looked grey in the face, as one who has felt great fear.”

(4) Thorin “Oakenshield”: "The first assault of the vanguard led by Thrain was thrown back with loss, and Thrain was driven into a wood of great trees that then still grew not far from Kheled-zaram. There Frerin his son fell, and Fundin his kinsman, and many others, and both Thrain and Thorin were wounded." (footnote): "It is said that Thorin's shield was cloven and he cast it away and he hewed off with his axe a branch of an oak and held it in his left hand to ward off the strokes of his foes, or to wield as a club. In this way he got his name."

(5) A Chance Meeting: “ On a time Thorin, returning west from a journey, stayed at Bree for the night. There Gandalf was also. He was on his way to the Shire, which he had not visited for some twenty years. He was weary, and thought to rest there for a while. Among many cares he was troubled in mind by the perilous state of the North, because he knew then already that Sauron was plotting war, and intended, as soon as he felt strong enough, to attack Rivendell. But to resist any attempt from the East to regain the lands of Angmar and the northern passes in the mountains there were only now the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. And beyond them lay the desolation of the Dragon Smaug. The Dragon Sauron might use with terrible effect. How then could the end of Smaug be achieved? It was even as Gandalf sat and pondered this that Thorin came before him, and said: "Master Gandalf, I know you only by sight, but now I should be glad to speak with you. For you have often come into my thoughts of late, as if I were bidden to seek you. Indeed I should have done so, if I had known where to find you." Gandalf looked at him with wonder. "That is strange, Thorin Oakenshield," he said. "For I have thought of you also, and though I am on my way to the Shire, it was in my mind that is the way also to your halls. For I guess that we share one trouble at least. The Dragon of Erebor is on my mind, and I do not think he will be forgotten by the grandson of Thror."

(6) King Under the Mountain: “ Suddenly there was a great shout, and from the Gate came a trumpet call. They had forgotten Thorin! Part of the wall, moved by levers, fell outward with a crash into the pool. Out leapt the King Under the Mountain, and his companions followed him. Hood and cloak were gone, they were in shining armor, and red light leapt from their eyes. In the gloom the great dwarf gleamed like gold in a dying fire. Rocks were hurled down from on high by the goblins above; but they held on, leapt down to the falls' foot, and rushed forward to battle. Wolf and rider fell or fled before them. Thorin wielded his axe with mighty strokes, and nothing seemed to harm him. "To me! To me! Elves and Men! To me! O my kinsfolk!" he cried, and his voice shook like a horn in the valley. Down, heedless of order, rushed all the dwarves of Dain to his help. Down, too, came many of the Lake-men, for Bard could not restrain them; and out from the other side came many of the spearmen of the elves. Once again the goblins were stricken in the valley; and they were piled in heaps till Dale was dark and hideous with their corpses. The Wargs were scattered and Thorin drove right against the bodyguard of Bolg. But he could not pierce their ranks.

(7) I Say Neither Yea nor Nay: “ About a year ago a messenger came to Dain, from Mordor: a horseman in the night, who called Dain to his gate. The Lord Sauron the Great, so he said, wished for our friendship. Rings he would give for it, such as he gave of old. And he asked urgently concerning hobbits, of what kind they were, and where they dwelt. "For Sauron knows," said he, "that one of these was known to you on a time." At this we were greatly troubled, and we gave no answer. And then his fell voice was lowered, and he would have sweetened it if he could. "As a small token only of your friendship Sauron asks this," he said: "that you should find this thief," such was his word, "and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your good will. Find it, and three rings that the dwarf-sires possessed of old shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours for ever. Find only news of the thief, whether he still lives and where, and you shall have great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?" At that his breath came like the hiss of snakes, and all who stood by shuddered, but Dain said: "I say neither yea nor nay. I must consider this message and what it means under its fair cloak." "Consider well, but not too long," said he. "The time of my thought is my own to spend." answered Dain. "For the present," said he, and rode into the darkness.”

(8) The Orcs are Behind the Wall! “ Then a clamour arose in the Deep behind. Orcs had crept like rats through the culvert through which the stream flowed out, There they had gathered in the shadow of the cliffs, until the assault above was hottest and nearly all the men of the defence had rushed to the wall's top. Then they sprang out. Already some had passed into the jaws of the Deep and were among the horses, fighting with the guards. Down from the wall leapt Gimli with a fierce cry that echoed in the cliffs. "Khazad! Khazad!" He soon had work enough. "Ai-oi!" he shouted. "The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both. Khazad ai-menu!"

(9) Alas! My Axe is Notched: “ Suddenly there was a great shout, and down from the Dike came those who had been driven back into the Deep. There came Gamling the Old, and Eomer son of Eomund, and beside them walked Gimli the dwarf. He had no hlem, and about his head was a linen band stained with blood; but his voice was loud and strong. "Forty-two, Master Legolas!" he cried. "Alas! My axe is notched, for the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck."

(10) Baruk Khazad! : Few of other race have succeeded in learning the language of the Dwarves. In this history (Lord of the Rings) it appears only in such place-names as Gimli revealed to his companions; and in the battle-cry which he uttered in the siege of the Hornburg. That at least was not secret, and had been heard on many a field since the world was young. "Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai menu!" *Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!*

#Tolkien #Dwarves #lord of the rings #the hobbit #silmarillion #gimli #gimli son of gloin #thorin #thorin oakenshield #gandalf #jrr tolkien #dwarf #fantasy #high fantasy #middle earth

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maedhrosrussandol · 8 years ago

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Fic Rec Days 2/10-12

Referencing @barduil fic rec post. My fandom is Silmarillion/LOTR OTP Fingon and Maedhros

My recommendations: Completed fics 1. Another Man’s Cage by Dawn Felagund: the first multi chapter Silm fic I ever read. Stunning in its portrayal of the House of Fëanor. I have accepted so much of the world she created as canon. Highly recommended. It has influenced my views and writings about these characters. The characterisations are fantastic and the writing sublime. 2. Gloom, Doom and Maedhros by Himring: an exceptional collection of almost a hundred interrelated stories focusing on Maedhros’ life. Well written, detailed and heart breaking. You don’t want the stories to end. 3. Maitimo and Findekáno by Oshun: four stories about young Maitimo and Findekáno. I love everything Oshun writes in the Silm fandom but this collection is so poignant and real. Also read “A New Day” which follows the characters in their later years. Spellbinding, heartbreaking, lovely. 4. The Ice Between by Nibeneth (angrymermaids): set years after the rescue from Angband this is the story of how Maedhros and Fingon redefine and reclaim their relationship, confronting the trauma and damage their experiences caused them both. A very detailed, nuanced, brilliant, realistic look at a relationship troubled by a myriad of issues and how the characters interact and move forward together. Graphic descriptions that are a necessary part of the story and treated with great sensitivity. 5. The Price of Vengeance by Encairion: a detailed and in depth fic that follows the House of Finwë from the Trees to second age. Chapter 18 has such a turbulent, complex, heart-rending version of the kin-slaying at Alqualondë and a tender, touching portrayal of Fingon and Maedhros realising what they mean to each other. There are parts that will bring you to tears of joy and others of sadness. Graphic, expressive, at times completely unexpected twists.

WIP: 1. Fire Dancing upon our souls by cheekybeak. A look at Legolas, after the War, in Ithilien. His interactions with Aragorn and the sons of Elrond. Intense, introspective, explosive at times but fascinating always in its portrayal of these characters. Truly gave me a much greater insight into Elladan but especially Elrohir. Not your typical Legolas but one of my favorite versions. 2. Sons of Thunder 2 by ziggy. A sequel to ziggy’s sons of Thunder 1 and related go Through a Glass Darkly. All are excellent. A post LOTR time frame, with Elladan, Elrohir, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Brings ties to the Silmarillion in for a fascinating combination. Very unique take on post War of the Ring Events. 3.Your Spirit Calling Out to Mine by @elesianne Caranthir falling in love. Beautifully written, in depth characterization of the fourth son of Fëanor. She has written other stories of Fëanorions in love that are simply riveting. Worry looking at her completed works as well. @dawnfelagund @encairion @heartofoshun @hhimring @actualmermaid

@elesianne

#silmarillion #lotr #fic rec days #hard to choose only a few #these are my favorites #I have more I love #send me an ask if you want more recs for Russingon #or recs for lotr fics #or recs for Yuri on ice fics #my fandoms are few but they are mighty

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brujahinaskirt · 8 years ago

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Stylized Fandoms - or, when It’s All The Same, but also It Isn’t.

NECESSARY STUFF: The OP above gave full permission to use their post as a launchpad for this commentary, so please don’t mistake this as either endorsement or criticism, and please do not mistake it as a group invitation to attack. I’ve written about this phenomenon in the Rowling fandom before and this gives me another excuse. Plus, as someone who tried to join a fandom via this writing strategy and failed, I think I can contribute some thought fodder on the issue of content sameness.

I’m bout to drop an essay, hobbits. This essay isn’t, however, a critique. This is a non-evaluative observation and a writing theory. And, finally, an open question to fellow fic writers.

BASE OBSERVATION: The dominant writing styles in book-based fandoms mirror and pay homage to the style of the original author.

In Summary: The Hobbit fandom (and the Harry Potter fandom, which I originally theorized about) experiences a high degree of stylistic sameness as a whole because a lot of stories attempt to recreate Bilbo’s voice as it appeared in Tolkien’s first-person-via-third-person POV technique. They achieve this, naturally, by following the original text. This trend may be especially pronounced for The Hobbit as opposed to the Lord of the Rings or Silmarillion works because Tolkien’s narratorial voice is more exaggerated – if not better-written – in The Hobbit.

Now, to break that down a little more.

Tolkien’s Hobbit style contains a few highly recognizable elements that stick out to a contemporary prose reader: sentence structure that mimics speech, brisk dialogue, use of mundane exchanges to instill realism, avoidance of emotional description, exclamation use, childlike diction, minimalistic characterization, parentheticals, verse, sweeping summarization as an alternative to scene, laboriously expanded setting descriptions that prioritize listing physical details over atmospheric metaphor, reliance on simple/well-known similes, frank delivery of fantastical elements and world mythology, limited access to character feelings, and huge time skips. When an author chooses to maintain most of these at once without selective deletion or without constantly highlighting their own personal stylistic flourishes, we get something that sounds – ‘course – super Tolkienesque.

There’s a really dominant style in Snicket’s fandom, too. And Butler, Bradbury, Rowling, Gaiman, etc. Which is important to note, because…

Generally speaking, stylized writing tends to be more popular, more memorable, and more marketable than contemporary “high literary” minimalism. And it’s more likely to have intensely stylized fandoms. Which makes sense; book-readers generally come to fanfic because they want more of published content that is already familiar to them in some way. It follows that one of the reasons those style-adherent/style-preserving Hobbit fics are so successful is because they gain a lot of traction with people who are specifically looking for recreations of Tolkien’s writing style. (Since stylized writing isn’t really prominent on those abovementioned literary main markets anymore, I think this is a large part of his lasting appeal.)

Let’s take a quick look at the opening chapters of a few of the most popular, widely-read fics in this fandom to pinpoint what I’m getting at. I’ve only sampled first chapters here – mainly because I don’t want to spoil ‘em for anyone.

First, from the illustrious Sansûkh:

"You have come to a place of rest, Thorin son of Thráin," said the voice, and Thorin blinked furiously, trying to make out the voice's owner in the gloom. His excellent Dwarven dark- vision did not seem to be working, and he began to push himself up onto his elbows. He was unclad, and his skin shivered and prickled in the icy darkness.

"Explain," he snarled. "And show yourself!"

"Patience," the voice chided. It did not sound angry at Thorin's disrespect. Rather, it sounded fond, even fatherly. "Do calm yourself. Your sight will return."

In my opinion, this style is the pinnacle of faithfulness to Tolkien’s Hobbit voice. Taking a minute to identify Tolkien elements, we observe a skilled and almost intimidatingly close use of: Tolkien dialogue, Tolkien exclamation patterns, Tolkien diction, Tolkien avoidance of emotional description, Tolkien character access, Tolkien rhythm and tempo, and much more as we continue to later chapters.

From A Shot in the Dark:

Shaking, he scrambled out beneath the mountain of blankets and quilts and stumbled over to the mirror. Grasping the edge of it, he stared at the face of the young Hobbit before him with freckled skin and thick brown curls, and felt something in him crack.

"I'm young again," he said aloud, watching the face in front of him repeat his words. "I'm young again, and in my old house in Bag End before I went to Erebor—"

Understanding dawned on him and brought him to his knees. He recalled now, a story from long ago, of a Hobbit lass that had watched her beloved die in an accident. When she awoke the day after his funeral, she found herself reliving the days before the accident over and over again, and was able to save her beloved from his cruel fate.

Obviously, this fic – and every fic – displays subtle voice differences from Tolkien (and, by extention, other fic writers). And thank goodness for that, or how would an author develop a fanbase at all? That said, we can see a lot of Tolkienesque, highly attentive and skillful patterning in the prose itself, the vantage point, the syntax, and the overall voice.

Just a few more clear examples of this homage-style at its best and brightest:

An Expected Journey:

An ancient hobbit lay in a soft bed below them. His eyes were closed. There was a breeze coming in through the open window that made his thin white curls stir slightly. The sheets lifted with each shallow breath and Bilbo realized that he was looking down at himself and that he was dying. There was a pale cast to his features that showed that he was not much longer for this world. Outside, Frodo sat in the garden the elves had gifted them, a book in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. A smile made his face light up as he turned the page and there was an inner peace about him that helped to settle Bilbo’s fretful heart a little. His nephew would be happy here and maybe with time the pain of his wounds, the ones on his heart especially, would diminish. No doubt he would miss his uncle, but that was such a small thing that it hardly seemed to matter now.

“Change is a fickle thing. Remember this in your journey, Bilbo Baggins, and perhaps you will be able to alter history after all.”

The hobbit in the bed took its last breath and was still. Frodo closed his book.

Comes Around Again:

“Come on, slug-a-bed,” his mother called. “Time to rise.”

Gimli blinked at the ceiling. Was he in the Halls of Mahal? He didn’t expect them to look quite so much like his room in Ered Luin. He pushed himself up to look.

The room was exactly as he remembered: dark, lit by lamps shining blue-green with the glowing plants that lived in the deep, dark places, and with grime caked in corners that he could never scrub clean. There was the crack in his wall, more an eyesore than a danger. The tapestry he had hung to hide it, his first and last attempt at loom-work, had fallen again. The stone face was too brittle. His chest of drawers, also a product of his hands, stood straight and even, if modestly decorated. His mirror, tinted green with age and spotted black, had been a relic found when they had come to these mountains when he was a lad. Between his drawers and his trunk lay his things: his training axe, his ‘prentice tools, a pile of clothing that would quickly become far too small for his growing frame.

[Purely an aside: You may notice a striking similarity of introductory schemas, too! Most of these fics begin with the classic “protagonist wakes up” scene popularly found in all storytelling mediums – but given the tragic nature of the source material, it’s become a “wake up from death” scene. This, though, is not a precedent set by Tolkien; it’s a marker the Hobbit fandom gravitated to all on its own. How? I dunno, exactly; seems like it just kind of happened that way. Cool question, if you’re a writer/literary critic/English major type.]

Please note here that I am completely uninterested in debating how good these fics are (or any fics, for that matter). Frankly, my dear, I do not give a damn whether or not you love Sansûkh, A Shot in the Dark, An Expected Journey, or Comes Around Again. What’s indisputable and relevant is that all of these fics are extremely successful. For the sake of this piece, we’re going to put artistic innovation on the back-burner and define successful by two measures: 1. sustained popularity, and 2. accurate replication of their source text. Do they achieve the dominant fandom (original author) style, and does this style reap the harvest of massive audience feedback? It’s hard to argue no, regardless of how these fics measure up to your personal tastes.

To put it another way: If you misread this essay as a rallying cry, then go and yell at individual authors for making successful creative choices, I DON’T KNOW YOU, and what’s your fuckin’ problem? That’s like yelling at one person for painting their room green because you feel there’s too much green in the world. These writers are fandom tone-setters. They know their room is green; they picked it because they like green, not because they aren’t skilled interior designers. Targeting a writer for a style trend is not helpful; it’s bratty, it’s misguided, and it’s futile.

So why would anyone worry about this? If overwhelming majorities are deliberately seeking works that recreate the experience of reading Tolkien’s prose, and writers are having great success with that style, are there any drawbacks?

IMO, there’s one big one. In fandoms like this one, I think authors can come to feel beholden to Tolkien’s style – like if they don’t recreate it, their fic will flounder – and that danger zone, not homage, is where creativity and variety come to die.

This can put a fic writer in the uncomfortable position of making a choice between three imperfect options:

Faithfully reconstruct and largely adhere to Tolkien’s style. (This is the choice most Big Fic writers in any book-based fandom make. On the downside, this limitation can feel creatively constricting. It should, however, be mentioned that some writers find this strategy ultimately increases their creativity – the stylistic constraints demand they make more daring creative choices in other realms, such as plot or characterization.)

Ignore the original materials. (The downside here is obvious: In a book-based fandom, this choice is likely to significantly decrease traffic on Page One and therefore decrease responses to your fic. As the overwhelming majority of fic writers will attest to, nothing kills a fic faster than a writer who feels like no one is interested.)

Take the middle-road. Borrow a few secondary elements from Tolkien; consistently prioritize core elements of your natural style while deliberately limiting his. (Runs the same risks as the above example. This can also be incredibly difficult, especially for newer writers who haven’t quite settled on their natural style yet, or for authors whose natural styles conflict with Tolkien’s. It’s more complex than saying “get gud scrub.” Many new writers use fandom to begin the process of creative self-discovery. This process takes years of constant writing and is arguably never finished. Long story short: We can’t simply foist this strategy upon everyone and sustain a thriving book fandom.)

To more fully illustrate the pitfalls of Option Three, let me turn the criticism on myself and my own floundered fic – one of the nameless masses out there that never got airborne.

I tried out the middle-road mentality: taking a few major elements of Tolkien’s style and weaving it with personal storytelling priorities. But since some of my priorities are in direct contrast with Tolkien’s style – the style I tried to lean on! – and since his style is so dominant, I think I ultimately left readers feeling duped.

For the sake of this theory, maybe we can take my common experience and apply it to why stylized fandom functions as it does. My primary failure was that those Tolkien elements I wrote in effectively set up a story contract I had no intention of fulfilling. To explain: You’d not be out-of-the-norm in this fandom to spot those telltale Tolkien signs and expect to get the whole Tolkien suite, and you’d not be out-of-the-norm to feel disappointed when you end up somewhere you specifically didn’t want to go… namely, stuff that isn’t like Tolkien.

In my story’s case, the Tolkien seduction might be his parentheticals, and the disappointment might be winding up at action scene, lots of emotional description, and snotty diction – all antitheses to Tolkien. People don’t usually come to Tolkien for those elements, so it stands to reason they don’t often come to Tolkien fanfic for them. And it stands to reason they’d feel confused or even cheated when the contract they expected carefully set itself up only to run off to the Keys with some nobody from accounting.

Option Three can feel, to those readers, like a carefully constructed scam.

In fact, I wonder if contract-thinking is one of the major reasons why the readers who feel dissatisfied with the dominant Hobbit style find themselves flummoxed by all this. Tolkien’s Hobbit voice is obviously married to and designed for Bilbo. If you’re not paying pedantic attention to the writerly mechanics (maybe even if you are), hearing Tolkien’s Bilbo-voice transposed over another character’s POV can be a disorienting experience – if you’re in this particular reader’s shoes, something sounds off, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it is.

SUPPORTING NOTE: I see this sameness happening at some level with characterizations, too. For The Hobbit, this strikes me as especially true with characterizations of the dwarven people as a whole – their culture in fandom tends to appear as traditionally male-prioritizing, Western nuclear family-based, and (strangely, given the Jewish inspiration roots of the dwarves) Christian-toned. They are also often considered by fandom to be among the more progressive Tolkien civilizations, but that by itself isn’t saying too much. (I expect this is because patriarchal habits are so prevalent in Tolkien’s canonical civilizations, even in the ones that aren’t supposed to be.)

OPPOSING NOTE: The biggest characterization element I can’t reconcile with this theory, annoyingly enough, is my personal pet peeve: the romantic feminization of Bilbo. It’s often found in fandom and often grounded in sexist stereotypes, but is not a feature of Tolkien’s original works. That’s another essay, though, and I’ve already rambled long enough.

On to the open question!

It’s probably too late to dismantle a dominant style in a fandom as longstanding as this one – and anyway, the cost-benefits of dismantling any style trend are sketchy at best. In general, though, I wonder what can be done to neutralize the more damaging byproducts. Specifically, how can we stop that “contract” dead in its tracks, and prevent fic writers from feeling obligated to an original author’s style?

Any ideas, folks? I’m scratching my head.

(Also, if you read all this, I love you.)

Special thanks to determamfidd, MarieJacquelyn, scarletjedi, and Silver_pup -- whose works were cited in this analysis without solicitation -- for writing, and for providing hours upon hours of joy to your thankful, hungry fans.

EDIT: Edited to clearly explain how fic “success” is defined here, as well as to further prune any impressions of my personal fic preferences. Success, in this essay, is quantified partly by number of kudos/comments a piece receives and partly by the closeness of its style mechanics to Tolkien’s. These quantifiers are used here solely to explore the relationship between popularity and stylization. In the broader world, popularity on its own is a poor measure of quality or artistic merit. (And it would kind of break my heart if you left this essay feeling down about your own work. Writers out there, please know that’s not at all the implication.)

In simpler terms: Just because it ain’t famous, honey, doesn’t mean you ain’t damn good at what you do.

#the hobbit #tolkien #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #essays #writing

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