#he knows the plants of the shire like the back of his hand

[fistfuloflightning]

Be honest, Merry… where exactly did you get those? …And you didn’t think to check if they were poisonous?

Tolkientober Day 7: (courting) Customs

[minaturefics]

Though I Know My Heart Would Break

Request: For the poll that Legolas won! You guys sent in a few prompts, I've incorporated: sick (injured, rather) fic, hurt/comfort, everyone lives, and reader confesses first! Hope you guys like it! (Title is from Hozier's Francesca that has me in a chokehold)

Legolas x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

Content warnings: Mild injury (no overly graphic descriptions)

3.7k words

---

You walked through the forest, ducking under the cedar branches, weaving between the cypresses. The air was rich with the scent of herbs — thyme and sage, marjoram and parsley. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the canopy, specking the forest floor with light. Legolas’ footsteps were silent on the soft ground, but the steady clopping of the horse he was leading reassured you of his presence.

With the coronation over, and Eowyn and Faramir wed, attention was turned to restoring Minas Tirith and setting up a settlement at Emyn Arnen. You and Legolas were tasked with surveying the land and forests around Emyn Arnen. Sam was curious about the plants, hearing how new and different they were to those back in The Shire, but Frodo’s reluctance to stray further than the Citadel kept him in Minas Tirith. 

You paused by a cluster of pink rockfoils, thumbing the thin stems before plucking a few small flowers and tucking them into a waxed pouch. 

“Mellon nin,” Legolas said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated, “Why do you pause and pluck? You have been doing so since we arrived. ”

“They’re for Sam. He might have agreed to stay in Minas Tirith, but I saw the shade of disappointment in his eyes. I thought perhaps I could bring the forest to him instead.”

His lips tugged up at the corners. “And what will you give the forest in return?”

“What do you mean?” You frowned and stood. 

He smiled, soft and knowing, eyes wandering over the barks and branches. “These trees have been left at peace for many years, the bushes and shrubs untouched. They are not used to wandering fingers and restless feet.”

You glanced down at the patch of rockfoils, the decapitated stems looking more brutal in light of Legolas’ words. Your lips twisted and he chuckled, and your eyes drifted back to him.

He had always been so full of light and laughter, even during the endless days and dark nights, even after Gandalf fell, even after the hobbits were taken. Ethereal, that was what people said of the elves. Otherworldly. 

But he looked so human, so normal, standing in a patch of sunlight, laughing at the concerned expression on your face. There were smudges of dirt on his boots, dew dotting the bottom hem of his cloak, and even a small leaf lodged in his hair. 

Yes, Legolas has always just been Legolas to you. 

Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to lose your heart to him. How could you not? While the others regarded him with a deference, or awe in the hobbits’ case, or even confusion at his elf customs, he had never truly seemed so different to you. His eyes, brown and alive in the light, still crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His voice, low and melodious, still cracked when he spoke of sorrows. And his hands, delicate and strong, still bore soft calluses from his bow. 

The last couple of days had been so indulgently wonderful. Without the threat of war or the constant need for secrecy and vigilance, being out in the wilds once more was soothing. It was a great secret joy, of course, that you had Legolas’ undivided attention. 

He had been more loose limbed and free with touches. Hands grazing yours as you walked, his knee against yours while you sat. His eyes too, seemed to melt into an amber by the fire, a tenderness in his gaze. It felt as though the seed of friendship had slowly, slowly, started to grow into something more. 

“Shall we continue on?” He said, and inclined his head towards the distant sound of water. “We can set up camp and leave our things while we walk the forest.”

You nodded and smiled before looking away, eyes scanning the forest floor before they landed on a patch of flowers. They were strange looking, three pronged with large paper-like petals. You knelt by them, carefully cutting the blooms with your knife, and idly said, “It is beautiful here, is it not?”

He hummed in agreement. “I could envisage residing here for a time, should Faramir allow it.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder and chuckled. “You should speak to Sam. Aragorn has already consulted him on some of the gardens in the Citadel, it would not surprise me if Faramir would ask him to Emyn Arnen to design something.”

“Those flowers,” he began, stepping closer and inspecting them, “they are… strange. I do not know what they are, and perhaps it would be better to leave them be.”

“Are they poisonous?”

He leaned in and sniffed them. “No, but as I said before, this forest is unaccustomed to such things. Gifts must be freely given, and what is not must be a fair exchange.”

You dropped them into the pouch and laughed, continuing through the forest. There was a strange note in his voice, something older, wiser, than the Legolas you knew. But what harm could there be in a few cuttings? The forest was vast; a few flowers and leaves here and there would not be any loss at all. “Come now, Legolas, you speak as though —”

A stone caught your toe, your knee buckled, and you fell to the ground. Sharp pain jolted up your wrists and knees, then a hot stinging spread across your palms and shins. You blinked, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the rotting leaves in the dirt, before warm hands rested between your shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?” Legolas said, crouching and easing you back into a sitting position. You stared at him, eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips. Had he always had such beautiful lips? “Mellon nin, are you alright?”

“Yes… I —” The shock of tingling subsided from your hands and legs and only a dull throbbing remained. You looked down at your knee, the same knee that had been shot, and found your trousers ripped and the old wound reopened. It was not as bad as the initial wound, though still relatively deep, and was bleeding sluggishly through the matted dirt. “Oh, I’m… bleeding.”

His eyes darted from your knee to the divot in the ground where a leaf caught in your fall was stained with blood. His lips tightened before he let out a soft sigh. “It is as I said: a fair exchange.” An easy smile spread across his face, the hand on your shoulder loosened its grip, and his voice took on a merry lilt. “However, I do not believe we will have any more trouble on our little trip here.”

The shock of the fall had subsided and you looked at the pouch still clutched in your fist. “Well, I suppose I should make the most of it then, and collect what I can for Sam.”

He laughed, squeezing your shoulder affectionately. “Never one to pass up an opportunity. Come, let us set up camp by the river and have a look at your wound. I do not wish for the matrons at the Houses of Healing tomorrow to claim I have neglected you.”

He pulled you to your feet, and looped an arm around your waist to help you hobble along. His arm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. Pressed up against him you could smell his scent, something fresh like grass or water, unsullied even by a couple of days in the forest. The both of you found a suitable spot under shelter by the trees, and after tying the horse up, he led you to the banks. 

His nimble fingers pried apart the shredded remains of the fabric by your knee and started to wash the wound. He dressed it with some honey from his pack and untouched moss from the forest floor and some spare wrappings you had in your supplies for such an eventuality. 

While he worked, you watched his hands. Long and lithe, they were precise and delicate with their motions. If only you could reach out, and lay your hand on top of his, to sweep your thumb over the back of his knuckles. But your hands were still muddied, and the new closeness you shared with him was too new and too tenuous for something like that. 

Legolas set up camp with a practiced efficiency, and soon the both of you were sitting beside each other by the fire, eating your supplies of bread and cheese. The fire crackled and popped, and around you the forest became alive at night. Owls hooted in the trees, and critters rustled in the bushes, and then, very softly, Legolas began to sing. 

The words were lost on you, but the melody was enough. The notes drifted in the air, curling around you, seeping into your skin. It sounded slow and adoring, leisurely and lazy, and the sensation of lying on sun-warmed grass, your lover’s touch skirting up your arm, filled your body. You leaned back on your arms, sinking into his voice, letting it carry and caress you. 

When the last few words rang in the air, you opened your eyes. Legolas was looking at you with a fond expression, eyes half-lidded and lips in a soft smile. 

“That song,” you whispered, “what is it about?”

His smile widened and he said, “I’ll tell you another time perhaps.”

-

Legolas stood on one of the parapets that overlooked the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Your wound was not healing as well as it should, most likely because of how bad the initial arrow wound was, and you were getting it redressed by the matrons. He sighed and let his eyes wander from the stone flagstones, to the rooftops, to the plains. In truth, the sight of your flesh, angry and inflamed, shook something in him. Even something as minor as your wound, was enough of a risk for infection, for fever. 

Humans were so fragile, so… final. 

He blinked at the thought. Yes, of course, how could he forget? Humans were mortal. Boromir was, Aragorn was. Even the merry little hobbits and Gimli were. How strange to think that such a thing slipped his mind when it came to you, but it was far too easy really. 

There was a vitality that seemed to pour from your being, an almost stubborn resilience, especially in the grim shadow of misfortune. It was the way you would play with the hobbits, even after a long day of walking, or grit your teeth and carry on, even harrowing experience after harrowing experience. When you smiled, the day was better, brighter, and he always found himself trying to get another laugh from you. 

And yet… such a light could be so easily snuffed out. 

He shifted on his feet and watched as you limped from the Houses of Healing. He had intended to go with you, but Sam had wanted to discuss garden plans, and Boromir had gone with you instead. He was about to raise his arm and call out to you, when a figure emerged from behind the line of trees. Boromir walked towards you with outstretched arms and pulled you into his side and helped you along, vanishing from his sight beyond the trees.

Ever since the end of the war, it had felt as though things were shifting between him and you. It was only small, nearly imperceptible changes — softer smiles, more frequent dinners alone, hands that reached and fingers that brushed. And yet… Why did it feel as though you were on the other side of something he could not cross? 

He thought of the cry of the gulls, the perpetual tugging at his heart for the sea. Oh, how he wished he had never heard them. Was this how Arwen felt all the time? Longing, aching. She was happy with Aragron, he knew, but sometimes he would catch her gazing out of a window, eyes forlorn and smile sad. Aragorn knew, understood even, and in those moments he left her to her quiet longing, never hurt or bothered, and welcomed her into his arms when she went back to him. 

But would you understand? Could you accept that there would always be one part of him that belonged to the sea, to the distant shore he would never reach? Or would it be a burden to ask such a thing of you? Maybe you would be better off with someone… mortal. He sighed and wandered back towards the Citadel proper. 

“Boromir, this is unnecessary. Put me down!” Your laughter rang out and you and Boromir emerged onto the courtyard. You were in his arms, limbs flailing as he wrangled to keep you held properly. “Boromir, I — oh, Legolas.”

“Ah, Legolas,” Boromir said as he gently replaced you back on the ground. “I return them to your care.”

He forced a smile onto his face. “How is your leg?”

“Mild infection but nothing to worry about,” you said, hobbling over to him. 

He instinctively reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist. You were warm underneath his hand, warmer than usual, and you smelled strongly of herbal poultice. He could detect traces of burdock and comfrey, and underneath it all, the smell of you. He took a greedy breath, filling his lungs with proof of your life. “You should be resting. Let us go back inside.”

“I’ve been inside the past week. I’m bored to death,” you grumbled. “Let’s sit outside for a while.”

He helped you to one of the stone benches and you collapsed onto it, hissing in pain. You gingerly stretched your leg out and sighed as you settled. He sat next to you, his eyes lingering on your knee. 

“Oh, stop fussing. It’s quite minor, really.”

“I have seen men succumb to infection from unassuming cuts. I do not think I will rest easy until you are fully healed.”

He followed the line of your leg up to your waist, then shoulders, and along your jaw and lips, up to your nose and eyes. Such beauty, destined to fade, to vanish from the world forever. How could he bear it? How could anyone?

“What is on your mind, my friend?” You asked.

“I was just thinking about the fading nature of men. I do not know how your kind bear it.”

“Death?” You chuckled. “But elves can die too, can they not?”

“Yes, but… it is not in our nature. In peace times, it is very rare for our kind to die. For men… even now, where there is no suffering any longer, you still experience the sting of mortality.” His chest constricted. “How can one stand to behold love and light, knowing it will vanish?”

“It is because they do not last, that we relish in them.”

“Even if it will bring you pain later?”

You smiled, gentle and indulgent, and placed your hand on top of his. His shoulders relaxed at your touch, the tension seeping out of his muscles. He wanted to capture the moment, to bottle it somehow, keep the image of you with the sun on your eyelashes and the feeling of the softness of your skin forever preserved. 

“Yes,” you whispered, “even then.”

Something shifted in his heart, just slightly, and a smile crept onto his face. Yes, he thought, especially then. 

-

“Sam,” you said, surveying the small garden. He had done a good job with it — the shrubs were well trimmed and flowers burst in orange and yellow all around. “Are you certain it will look good?”

He nodded and grinned. “It’ll look real pretty with some candles about. I still remember what it looked like in Lothlorien. We don’t ‘ave the sort of fancy holders and the like, but I’ll do my best.”

You smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I would do it myself but my knee…”

“No thankin’ needed. If anything, I should be thanking you. You brinin’ me those plants and flowers, even when the forest didn’t like you doin’ so.” His eyes fell to your knee. “I’m real sorry it caused you such trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” You chuckled and patted him on the back. You looked around the garden again, trying to imagine the candles and cushions that Sam said he’d arrange for the night time picnic you had planned. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“I think he’ll love it. Mighty romantic, if I can say.”

You shifted on your feet, stomach suddenly lurching. “What if I’m mistaken, Sam? I’m not sure I could bear the embarrassment.”

The last week or so had been so lovely it had felt like a dream. Nearly every night, Legolas had invited you to sit with him at the top of some tower or parapet. He would point and tell you stories of the stars and of the elves that had come before. There were so many instances where he would lean in close, eyes half-lidded, and talk in a low, murmured tone. You would watch his lips, and watch as he watched yours. But then he would draw back and glance away. 

“The elves are funny folk,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn’t tell you what might be goin’ on in Legolas’ mind, but I doubt he would be spendin’ so much time with you if he didn’t have some… reason to do so. If you catch my meaning.”

“I hope so, Sam. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go to the kitchens to see what cheese and fruit they might be able to spare me.”

He gave you an encouraging smile and with a little wave, you set off downstairs. 

The sun was just setting when Sam called you back to the garden to assess what he had prepared. Candles were dotted all around the courtyard, separated on candelabras and clustered in small groups around the picnic blanket. Plush cushions were laid out and there were little white flowers scattered on the soft wool, perfuming the air with the faint smell of jasmine. 

“Sam,” you gasped. “This is — I cannot —”

“I’ll be takin’ your speechlessness as a compliment?” He smiled shyly and ducked his head. He reached for the picnic basket in your hand and placed it on the blanket. “There, now it’s complete.”

“I’ll repay you for this Sam, I promise.”

He blushed. “Like I said before, there’s no need. Anyway, I best be hurryin’ along. Wouldn’t want Legolas to stumble upon me here and get any wrong ideas.”

You laughed and he vanished back inside. You limped over to the blanket, wincing a little as you lowered yourself, and tried to slow your breathing. Legolas would come, wouldn’t he? What if he took one look at the scene and fled? You shook your head. No, he wouldn’t do that. If you were truly mistaken about his feelings towards you, he would tell you gently and bear you no ill will.

“Mellon nin,” Legolas said from behind you and you turned, heart thumping in your chest. His eyes were wide and a slow smile was spreading across his face. “I received your message. Why have you asked me here?”

You swallowed. Did he not know? “Is it… is it not obvious?”

“I have an inkling, perhaps.” He wandered over, his steps lazy and relaxed, and sank onto the cushions. The tightness in your chest eased a fraction. “But I do not wish to presume what may or may not be in your heart. Will you not give me the truth?”

“Legolas, I…” You cleared your throat. By the Valar, why was it so difficult to speak? He arched an eyebrow at you and you glanced away, speaking more to the picnic basket than to him. “I… care for you. A great deal.”

He took your hand, and you dared to lift your gaze. He beamed at you, and then a flash of mischief entered his eyes. “As a friend?”

You scowled at him. “Do you often plan candlelit picnics for your friends, Legolas?”

He laughed and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. They were soft and warm, his breath hot on your skin. “I am teasing, meleth nin.”

Heat crept up your neck and you tried to withdraw your hand. He held fast and planted a line of kisses up, up, up, from your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder. His eyes were almost sparking in the dim, the dots of candlelight flickering in his dark irises. He kissed your jaw and your nose and your temple before dipping his head to capture your lips.

He kissed slow and languid, as though savouring the feeling of you against him. He tasted tart and sweet, no doubt from the berry and honey biscuits you knew he liked to snack on. The strange tension in your stomach snapped and vanished, and you melted under his touch. His growing smile made you giggle and your teeth knocked against his, making him laugh. 

“I am curious about what you have in that picnic basket of yours,” he murmured. “There will be time for such enjoyment later.”

A flush coloured your cheeks. “I suppose it would be a waste if we simply ignored all the food I prepared.”

“Though, before we continue, I must ask you a question first,” he said, growing grave and serious. His eyes drifted down to your joined hands, and he brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Could you bear being with me, living with me, when part of my heart is forever owned by the sea?”

You reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “My love, could you bear to be with me? If you stay, you will fade.”

“It would be a worse fate to live eternity without you,” he whispered. “That I could not bear.”

“Legolas…” It seemed all the more tragic that he, of all people, should die. He was light and joy and the thought of him growing cold and dim wrenched at your heart. “You deserve to… I cannot…”

“I have made my choice, meleth nin. Let us be happy together.” He cupped your cheek, a smile spreading across his face. His eyes were soft, but certain, his touch gentle but sure. He kissed the tip of your nose, chuckling, before he slanted his lips against yours. The kiss was chaste and quick, and all the more sweeter for its casualness. 

“For however long we have,” he murmured, “let us be happy.”

“Alright,” you said. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent, breathing his breath. Yours, for now, for ever. “For however long we have.”

---

ok but what is it about the immortality of elves that has me appreciating/relishing/romanticising our mortal lives. i swear this is the second time ive done this with legolas.

Taglist: @sotwk

[shanks-the-wino]

Shanks X CisFem Reader

The Tour

"So, did you inherit this place or something?" your fingers brushed gently over a large grape leaf basking in the sunlight.

"You just refuse to believe I built this place on my own, hmm?" the redhead chuckled playfully, "Ok, well, I did have a little help. My grandfather passed away and left me some money. But this vineyard didn't already exist."

"How long did it take?" you glanced up to meet his onyx gaze.

His face contorted in thought as his fingers ruffled through his red locks, "Hm about three years to grow the plants. Maybe a year of planning and picking the plants before that. It's been almost 15 years since."

"So, you were younger than me when you started this little empire." your tone was almost incredulous.

"Empire is a bit much," he blushed.

"You have taken over this side of the mountains, and you've got the old man making wine tour packages. I think everyone who is anyone gets married here."

"It just happens to be a good place to have this sort of business that's all." he shrugged fiddling with the plant closest to him.

"So modest." you chuckled bringing his black pearls back up to you.

"You have to stay humble when you have your own business," a crooked smile curved his lips, "ya never know when it could all go away."

"Well, I think you'll be safe. There seems to always be a market for good wine." you stepped closer to the redhead.

"You think it's good?"

You swore if he had a tail it would have been wagging.

"The sample you gave me at the resort was more than good, in my unprofessional opinion." you smiled a bit bashfully which made Shanks' pulse race, "Not that it really means much."

Your stomach did a flip as his hand gently enveloped your shoulder and he leaned down into your personal space.

"F/N, your opinion means more than most." his tone was low and perhaps a bit too sincere, he immediately cleared his throat yanking you out the moment, "I... I mean as a consumer and all...y-you know."

"Right," you agreed with a chuckle, "just like, your average Joe kind of opinion."

A sigh deflated him, "I didn't mean it like that."

"Just giving you a hard time." your lopsided smile gave him butterflies and brought the brightness back to his expression.

"Alright, shall we continue?" he gestured to the golf cart you'd traveled across the vineyard in, "I believe I promised you a tasting."

The tasting room was located in the cellar, which sounded a lot less appealing than it actually was.  You let out a breath of awe as Shanks parked the cart and announced your arrival.

A doorway carved into the stone of the foothill of the mountains. It was curved and framed with wild flowers of all kinds. The short stone path leading to the thick wooden door was lined with your favorite, gorgeous irises that happened to be in full bloom. Bees and butterflies fluttered about happily.

Shanks watched you with a soft smile. This was an unexpectedly beautiful moment that he was incredibly grateful to have witnessed.

"I see why people get married or here." you murmured caressing one of the flowers in front of you.

"It's really fairytale like." he admitted having been told that by many brides.

"It's like the freaking Shire." the unfiltered thought just tumbled from your lips.

Shanks let out a soft laugh, "I've heard that a few times. I suppose it does look like a hobbit should be living inside."

You chuckled in relief, "Did you design it that way on purpose?"

"With Bilbo in mind?" that crooked smile was making you feel warm, "No, I just wanted something that looked organic and was functional for storage so we didn't have to get too high tech."

"High tech?" you echoed.

"I'll show you," he stepped forward opening the door into the dimly lit room, "storage should be between 55 and 70 degrees and relatively humid. It allows the wine to age at a steady rate and it's how it was done before modern technology was around."

You followed him into the rather large room taking in the high rounded walls lined with racks filled with bottles. In the center of the room was a counter with a sink and a rack of delicate fluted glassware of different sizes hanging above. Shanks watched you take in your surroundings happy that you seemed so interested.

"Would you like to try some?" he asked reaching for the stemware.

"Sure, but I'm driving." you leaned over the counter.

"Don't worry a tasting isn't meant to get you drunk." he was already searching for a bottle he had in mind, "Not that it was my intention."

"Well, now I'm worried." you jested making him turn back.

"I certainly hope I haven't given you that impression." he raised his scarred brow.

"That joke was in bad taste I guess." you blushed a bit embarrassed.

He couldn't have found you more adorable.

"I'm sorry," the redhead chuckled, "it wasn't, you just said it so matter-of-factly."

"My humor isn't always appreciated."

"It should be, I actually find it pretty charming." he placed a bottle with a worn label and a small pale between you, "How do you feel about cheese?"

Meeting his curious gaze with a confused expression you replied, "I'm lactose intolerant, but that doesn't really stop me."

He let out an endearing laugh, "Well, I'd rather not poison you, so why don't we stick to fruit, crackers and some charcuterie?"

"What's happening?" you questioned as he gathered items from the pantry and fridge across the room.

"It's all part of the experience." he answered placing grapes, strawberries, seasoned crackers, aged salami and prosciutto on a plate.

You watched him work with interest. This was by far the fanciest thing you'd ever done. As he placed the plate between you and unquarked the bottle it dawned on you that this was starting to feel very much like a date.

Be cool.

Be cool.

Be cool.

"You ok?" Shanks asked, "Ya kinda zoned out there."

"Yeah," you glanced away sheepishly, "I just didn't expect the afternoon to turn out this way."

Shanks studied you for a moment before looking down at the counter. Seeing you go bashful sent him into a bit of a panic.

He'd unintentionally set himself up with you on a casual afternoon date. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

"Well, I was happy to show you around, and I suppose it'll help at work now that you've been around the place." he was suddenly wishing the floor would open up and swallow him.

It's not a date.

It's not a date.

It's not a date.

All romantic tension deflated immediately as your expression fell.

"Uh, right," you quickly smiled but it wasn't genuine, "I don't make many bookings since I work overnight but I can train the day shifts I guess."

Why?

Why was he like this?

[shirefantasies]

Hello friend ! 🤍 I see your requests are temporarily open and I hope that is still the case. Your writing is so cute and wholesome and I rly enjoy it 😊

I am not sure if you have me on your taglist- If not, could you tag my tolkien blog @wordbunch so that I don't miss anything!

Could I ask either for hobbits with elf crush (yes we have human crush but what about elf crush!), or how the members of the fellowship (the ones that were there for the final battle against sauron, when aragorn made the famous speech lol) - how you support/motivate/comfort each other before that event

Sorry for the suuuuper big message 😇

Nah you're totally fine! I've gotten waaaaaay longer and more complicated asks 😂 I have @wordbunch on my taglist rn so I'll keep tagging you in all my posts 🥰 it's still crazy to me that the blog that I loved and was inspired to make this blog from IS ON MY TAGLIST WHATTTTTTTT insane. It's like I'm a musician and like Freddy Mercury or the Beatles or if you’re me Danny Elfman is following me lmaos nuts man. All that to say I so appreciate your support and here are some hobbits to start 😉

The Hobbits Falling For Elf!Reader

Frodo

His Elvish skills serve him greatly here; as if by instinct he greets you in your own language, bringing a smile to your lips. “Where did you learn the words of the Sindar?” “From my uncle, actually. Ever since his visit here years ago he has never forgotten your history and your hospitality.” Realization widens your eyes and parts your lips. “Your uncle is Bilbo Baggins?” “Yes,” the hobbit smiles and gives a little bow, “I am Frodo Baggins, Bilbo’s nephew.” Your hand clutches your heart and you look upon Frodo’s rising form with new exhilaration. “I was there when Bilbo and his company came. Quite a…well, a boisterous gathering, but your uncle was dear, curious and polite. A model guest indeed. It is an honor to know another member of your lovely family.” At that, you take your turn to give Frodo a small bow, one hand sweeping outward. The intensity of his eyes, the great joy and wonder, brings heat to your cheeks that matches the red tinting his.

Sam

Sam’s awe for the elves comes to his aid here for it gives him a bit of courage to talk to you, but also disguises his attraction to you as that wonder-filled curiosity. He tells himself-nay, all but commands himself- that curiosity it shall remain. You are very pretty after all, but what would an elf want with a- “Are you, then, the gardener I heard about from Frodo?” Half jumping out of his skin, Sam focuses again on your eyes, his own quite wide. “Oh, yes indeed! Indeed I am. What did he tell you about me?” “Only that you tend every growing thing with the utmost care, and if anyone knew a thing about the Shire-plants, it was you, Master Gamgee.” “Begging your pardon, but you can just call me Sam if it suits you.” “It does indeed, Sam. If I ask it of you, would you answer a few questions? Look at a few sketches? My task, no, my passion, is my book of botany, and I believe you would be a great help.” “You could use my help? Of course! Lead the way.” Standing up as straight and tall as he could, Sam remained at attention, grinning up at you. His smiled warmed you as you led him between the great trees of Lothlórien to your study.

Merry

“You’re an elf!” “Yes,” you giggle, “And you are a hobbit, are you not?” “That’s right, a hobbit of the Shire! …Are we really going to Rivendell?” Merry’s smile is infectious. “Yes,” you answer with a nod, “Your friend is safe there and so shall you be.” “Is it true what they say about it?” “That would depend.” “That it’s the most beautiful place in Middle Earth, positively glowing with magic?” The flutter of joy in your heart that always comes with thoughts of home returns in full warmth. “It is to me,” you answered, glancing back down into the hobbit’s dark blue eyes. “I think it will stay second to Hobbiton for me,” Merry confessed with a wide smile, “Although if you’re there, Rivendell may win out yet.”

Pippin

“You’re all very good at that, you know.” Turning on your heels, you see a hobbit standing leaned against a pillar on the far side of your practice area. Crossing it to retrieve your arrow from its embedment in your target, you watch your visitor with curious amusement. A smirk spreads across your face. “Archery? Far from it. My brother alone proves that.” “Not a good shot?” The hobbit replies. “Accidentally caught one of Lord Elrond’s banners once. Tore the whole thing down.” “I’d likely do the same,” the hobbit admits with a sheepish smile. “You know not until you take up a bow yourself. Come…” “Pippin.” “Pippin,” you smile, reaching a hand down to urge him forward by the shoulder and seeing Pippin smile at the contact, “Stand here.” Remaining there as he did, Pippin bobbed and bounced on his heels as you retrieved a child’s training bow. As soon as he accepted it you stood behind the hobbit, wrapping your arms over his and sliding his hands into the proper grip. “How is that?” “Excellent,” he said. “Good. Now, my dear Pippin, let us take a shot!”

Bilbo

Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited him upon entry to the Valley of Imladris. Not the cascading waterfalls or white columns, not the great libraries, no. You. Far taller than him and much fairer, you stun the hobbit like nothing else. How can he address you? What could he possibly find to discuss with someone in the council of Lord Elrond himself? …Literature. He can do that! As it turns out, his stroke of luck is greater than he might have anticipated: you are a writer, painstakingly translating old Quenya texts. “I-I’ve studied a fair bit of the Sindar’s language, but this? This is quite unfamiliar to me.” Scooting your chair closer, you smile down at the hobbit. “Here, allow me to show you.” Bilbo leans closer- he must, for you invite him to sit at your side and peer over your shoulder, eyes scanning between unfamiliar characters and your lovely profile.

Rosie

Her gut reaction becomes her voiced reaction: “I never thought I would see an elf in real life.” Sheepishness overtakes her as soon as the words leave her mouth, though. Chuckling gently, you admit this was quite a journey for you, too. Another initial reaction and joke from Rosie is that you’ve never tasted real ale, then- hobbits’ ale. You’re quickly being poured a glass. Over drinks she asks you questions, like what plants grow in your region and what your favorites are. What you eat, what you drink. All the questions you might expect from a hobbit, but with such a glowing, endearing smile the whole time.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude @kpopgirlbtssvt @rivendell-poet | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

[sonics-atelier]

Blooms of Friendship: Thorin and Bilbo's Garden Challenge

For @bagginshieldweek24 Day 6 : Single Parents/Uncles AU + Gardening

Summary: Mr Gamgee has a gardening competition, Thorin doesn't have a green thumb so frodo helps, cue fluff.

a/n : I had a blast writing this, btw if anyone cares Sam and Frodo went frolicking in the Forest later.

In the peaceful heart of the Shire, where the hills rolled gently under a sky that seemed perpetually blue, Gaffer Gamgee announced a grand gardening competition. The rules were simple: whoever could grow the most beautiful, vibrant garden in a month would be declared the winner. The competition stirred excitement among the hobbits, and even more so for Master Baggins and Master Oakenshield.

Bilbo, ever the lover of nature, had always kept a flourishing garden. His flowers bloomed brightly, their colors a vivid tapestry that delighted the eyes. Thorin, on the other hand, was a dwarf of stone and steel, more accustomed to the cold beauty of gems than the delicate life of plants. Yet, never one to back down from a challenge, Thorin decided to participate.

For the first two weeks, Bilbo’s garden thrived as expected. Flowers of every hue and fragrance filled the air with a sweet perfume, and Bilbo took great pleasure in watching them grow. Thorin, however, found himself in a different predicament. Despite his best efforts, his garden was a desolate sight—wilted plants and dry soil that seemed to mock his determination.

It was during one of these frustrating afternoons that Frodo, Bilbo’s young nephew, noticed Thorin’s plight. With a gentle smile, Frodo approached the dwarf. “Uncle Thorin,” he began, his voice encouraging, “I could help, if you’d like. Gardening just takes a little patience and understanding.”

Thorin looked at Frodo, surprised but grateful. “I’d appreciate that, Frodo,” he replied, nodding. “Perhaps you can teach this old dwarf a thing or two about the Shire’s secrets.”

And so, Frodo took Thorin under his wing, guiding him through the basics of gardening with the wisdom that came so naturally to the hobbit folk. Together, they tilled the soil, planted new seeds, and tended to the ailing plants with care. Under Frodo’s patient instruction, Thorin began to see the subtle changes in his garden. Slowly but surely, green began to spread, and small buds appeared, promising blooms yet to come.

As the competition drew to a close, Thorin’s garden was not the most vibrant, nor the most extravagant, but it was alive and blooming—a testament to his perseverance and Frodo’s guidance.

The day of the competition arrived, and the hobbits gathered to admire each other’s hard work. Samwise, acting as the judge, made his rounds, carefully inspecting each garden. Bilbo’s garden was, of course, a sight to behold—full of color and life, just as it had been from the start. Thorin’s garden, though more modest, held a charm of its own, with sturdy flowers and a sense of quiet resilience.

When the results were announced, Bilbo secured a well-deserved second place. Thorin, to his surprise, was awarded third place, his efforts recognized by Old Gaffer Gamegee, who appreciated the effort and care that had gone into reviving the once desolate plot.

Bilbo laughed warmly when Thorin’s name was called, the sound full of mirthy. Thorin, however, had eyes only for Frodo as he handed the boy the bronze medal. “This belongs to you, Frodo,” Thorin said sincerely, “You’ve taught me much, and this is as much your victory as it is mine.”

Frodo beamed, clutching the medal with pride. “Thank you, Uncle Thorin,” he said, his face alight with joy.

As the crowd began to disperse, Thorin placed an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, drawing him close. The two of them stood together, watching as the evening sun cast a golden glow over the Shire. Bilbo leaned into Thorin’s side, a contented smile on his lips.

“You know,” Bilbo said teasingly, “I never thought I’d see the day you’d take up gardening, Thorin.”

Thorin chuckled, his gaze soft as he looked down at Bilbo. “Well, I never thought I’d enjoy it, but it seems the Shire has a way of surprising even the most stubborn of dwarves.”

Bilbo grinned, tilting his head to meet Thorin’s eyes. “It certainly does.”

Without another word, Thorin leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, a simple gesture that spoke of quiet affection and shared contentment. In that moment, there were no grand declarations or flowery speeches—just the peaceful understanding between two souls who had found a home in each other, in a land where flowers bloomed as brightly as their love.

- @sonics-atelier 2024 , do not repost or reuse in any way , shape or form.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

I don’t know if you’re still doing the trick or treat thing, but I am dying for some Bagginshield fluff, featuring my favorite berry, maybe? 🥺🫐

Sorry I couldn't get this out last night, but here's some blueberry fluff!

Try It?

Pairing: Bagginshield

Type of Treat: Fluffy

Word Count: 662

It was a wondrous day for a walk through the mountainside. When Thorin had asked for Bilbo’s hand, he had made sure the dwarf realized how important sunshine and outdoor walks were to him if he were to remain in Erebor. Exactly four days later, there was a balcony and hidden set of stairs outside the royal apartments. Dis and Balin did nothing but chastise Thorin for how reckless that was, but Bilbo was completely enamored with the dwarf’s ingenuity. Their wedding had been the happiest day of Bilbo’s life.

Wandering through what Bilbo referred to as ‘the gardens’ he took stock of all the plant life returning to the mountains in the wake of Smaug’s demise. Many of them Bilbo was familiar with, but there was the occasional plant or two that Bilbo had to have Ori help him look up the name for it. Nearing the end of his walking trail, Bilbo checked on what he had assumed was a tree growing in only to be met with a beautiful sight!

Fresh wild blueberries were blossoming, thick and full and nearly bursting. Bilbo’s mind was racing with all the recipes he could make with a basketful of them. He might even have enough for a pie! Taking off his jacket, Bilbo created a makeshift carrier for the berries plucking as many as he could. He cursed his inability to reach the higher ones and vowed to come back with a basket and Thorin later for a respectable berry picking. 

Once he had as many blueberries as he could manage, he folded them carefully into his jacket and carted them back up the mountainside. Not quite enough for a pie, but more than enough for some tarts! As soon as he was back in his and Thorin’s suite, he made his way straight for the kitchen. Fully stocked and furnished, a wedding gift from the family Urs. 

“Bilbo, what are you doing?” Thorin asked amused, finding him hours later covered in flour and smelling of pastry dough.

“Look! I found blueberries today! We can go back tomorrow and gather the rest of them and maybe can them or turn it to jam…why do you have that weird look on your face?”

Thorin’s grimace seemed to be twinged with guilt when he admitted. “I don’t like blueberries.”

Bilbo was aghast. He had never heard of someone not liking blueberries! “What? Whyever not?”

“The fruit itself is yellow but somehow it has a purple juice? It is…odd. And then I’m not a fan of the outside texture.”

Bilbo’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of understanding. “You’ve only ever had them raw, not baked? Would you be willing to try a tart of mine to see if you would like it?”

Thorin looked uncomfortable, and Bilbo was quick to reassure him with a kiss. “You don’t have to. In the Shire, we believe food should be enjoyed, not forced. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“If they were blackberries…believe me, amrâlimê (my love), I would have them devoured in a heartbeat. But blueberries…”

Bilbo kissed Thorin again, more thoroughly. “It is perfectly alright, my dear. I’m sure there are members of the Company that would be more than willing to…”

Thorin suddenly grabbed Bilbo and kissed him again, his tongue exploring its way into Bilbo’s mouth. Not that he was complaining in the slightest.

“Are those the blueberries I taste?” He asked when he finally pulled away, a wondrous look in his eye.

Bilbo smirked. “Well I had to sample the tarts to make sure they were edible.”

Thorin rolled his eyes and shook his head before taking a step towards Bilbo’s cooling tarts. He hesitantly picked it up, gave it a sniff, before popping it in his mouth. Thorin’s eyes grew wide in amazement, and he quickly ate five more after it. It was then that he and Bilbo found out that blueberries Thorin liked. It was grapes he had an issue with.

[nocompromise-noregrets]

for the wip tag game, I am FASCINATED by the idea of a legolas-sam-ring temptation conversation, that sounds GREAT!!

heeee! I think it was a Tumblr post that got me thinking about it, but I can't now remember as it was a few months ago >.< I have a few fics in which Legolas and Sam (and others) make a garden in Minas Tirith for Arwen after the end of the War of the Ring, and this is another one...

“D’you know, Mr Legolas,” says Sam, one morning when we are both busily engaged in planting some of the plants we have brought from Ithilien in the garden we are making for Arwen in Minas Tirith, “when I took up the Ring for Mr Frodo, it talked to me.” He pauses, and I glance down to see a sheepish expression on his face, almost bordering upon ashamed. “As I understand it, that was common for those who bore the Ring, Sam. What did it say to you?” Sam does not quite seem able to look at me, and he does not answer straight away, so I turn my attention back to the periwinkle whose roots I am unwrapping from the damp sacking I used to transport it here. “It promised me things,” he says eventually, very softly, so quietly that I almost do not catch what he has said. “It whispered about things it knew I wanted, though I didn’t really know I wanted them, myself, and once it had said what it said, I wanted those things more than anything. Even more than helping Mr Frodo and putting an end to the Ring and its nonsense and going home to the Shire.” “The Ring and its master were very good at making promises,” I murmur, taking up my trowel and digging a little hole, placing the periwinkle’s roots down and covering them with soil. “Not a one of them was true.” I am thinking of Celebrimbor, of course, and his terrible fate, of Isildur, of Boromir, of Gollum and all those whom the Enemy ensnared. “I know, Mr Legolas, I know,” says Sam, sounding miserable. “And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to put it away from me and say, no, you’re wrong, I don’t want that, I want what I came here to do, which is to help Mr Frodo and put an end to you.” “But you did it, Sam,” I tell him, and I cannot help but reach out and place a hand upon his shoulder, for he sounds so unhappy and so ashamed of himself, and I cannot bear to see him suffering so. “You did what so very many others could not.” “I suppose,” he says. “But I still wanted those things. I still do. Well, some of them. The flaming sword I can do without, I’ve no use for it now. But…but to see all that broken, scorched land growing green again, to see it become the greatest garden in Middle-Earth, even greater than the Shire…” He trails off, scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes, and all I can do for a moment is to look at him, temporarily robbed of speech by the simplicity, the purity, the beauty of his greatest wish and temptation. “I think that would be the thing that would make me the happiest,” he says eventually. “And to know that you’re going to go and live in Ithilien and make it beautiful again, that’s…I suppose that’s like getting my wish, only without the Enemy being behind it.” He dredges up a smile, and glances up at me, looking nervous and worried and still a little ashamed of himself, all at once, and my heart turns over.

Thank you for asking! <3333333 if anyone else fancies asking about any of my current WIPs, the list's here!

[annabawritersdream]

For the Headcanons Game

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

OC: That One Elf ™

Thank you for the ask!

Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanons and That One Elf.

[I'll name him at some point, but I feel like he'll always be That One Elf in my head].

A little bit of context first.

Though he's very much a Fëanor-wannabe, he only admires Fëanor's smithing skills and actually vehemently despises the person Fëanor is/was. He did not join his kin in Middle-earth to retrieve the Silmarils and thought the whole Oath thing was complete bullcrap and a colossal waste of time. He is a kind, very eccentric person. He's a weird guy, especially compared to other Elves. His home and the way it is decorated is very much in line with his eccentricities.

He owns a palatial home in Tirion—a sort of family estate—which is basically Versailles on a much smaller scale. He's obsessed with gold and diamonds, so there's plenty of that in every room. He loves mirrors because he loves to stare at his beautiful reflection at any given time and his bedroom walls are basically covered in mirrors and self-portraits in various outfits. He has a wig room—I do not know how his obsession with wigs started yet, but he has thousands of them—and he chopped off his hair because he hated the idea of having to comb it and style it every day. He loves wigs because they're more "practical" (his words, not mine). Too bad that he spends hours styling them with ribbons, pearls and diamonds. My dude is obsessed with diamonds. He could easily braid his real hair in half the time he spends styling the wigs but...that's what he enjoys, I suppose.

In addition to the wig room, he also has a smoking room. That's where he stores every kind of plant he can get his hands on and his tobacco stashes. He meets up with Bilbo and the Hobbit introduces him to pipeweed. It's love at first sight for him (or love at first smell, I guess) and he basically creates an indoor greenhouse to grow both athelas and pipeweed. I'm not sure whether pipeweed is native of Valinor, actually. Though I suppose Bilbo and Frodo could have imported some of it from the Shire. It's my new headcanon. And yes, That One Elf does smoke athelas. That's probably why he's the only sane Fëanorian one can have an interesting conversation with. He's very pleasant to be around.

To be honest, if he could he would probably smoke grass as well. It's my headcanon he went to Yavanna quite a few times and straight up asked her if she had some good stuff to share. He'll probably tell Sam and Pippin all about it and Pip will eventually build a shrine in his honor and worship him like the legend he is. They'll be best buddies. It is also my headcanon that Olórin and That One Elf did test one another's knowledge about pipes and had smoke puff battles. Manwë doesn't know by the way. He would probably have a heart attack if he did.

Back to the main topic: he's a collector and adores statues and it's highly possible that he sculpted a few busts of himself he placed both in his yard—it's basically an English garden—and in his study. Self-absorbed much? Maybe just a little.

He loves fountains too so add a couple of those as well. The more stuff, the better. His dining room is basically a Roman triclinium—nope, he doesn't eat at the table like normal people, he's that extra—and his bed is huge. Silk bedsheets and pillows because that's the bare minimum, of course. Velvet curtains and silk everywhere. The kitchen is the most spotless room in his house—did you seriously think the guy could cook? He's as bad as Éowyn, maybe even worse. He also has an entire ballroom to his own, a ballroom full of mirrors. The more mirrors the better. He has two wine cellars but he doesn't really drink Valarin wine. He's stoned out of his mind most of the time, so I guess that makes up for it. His house also has a drawing and music room. He plays the piano and the lute. He's a composer and write his own songs. He usually drinks several pints of ale as he practices the piano and I'm quite certain all the alcohol he consumes kind of affects his singing. Don't tell him though. He is very kind but he has a huge ego. I'm also sure he's a major Bagginshield shipper and cries his eyes out when Bilbo told him his story. He also has a copy of Bilbo's book in his study.

That's all for now, I think. I'll tell you more if I come up with additional deets!

Thank you again for the sending in the ask and I'm sorry that it took me so long to reply!

[tookishrogue]

ready now

a/n: for @toadstool-amongst-the-tulips! sorry this took so long! I hope you like it!!

pairing: none!

warnings: very brief mention of alcohol; implied depression

taglist: @blueberryrock, @to-be-frank-i-dont-care, @zalie, @scyllas-revenge, @justmemyselfandthefridge, @heckin-music-dork, @frodo-with-glasses!

Y/N wrinkled her brow and idly picked at a blade of grass, peeling sections of it apart and twisting the pieces together. After several minutes of this, she leaned against the trunk of the tree she'd been sitting under, the rough bark scraping against her back through her cotton dress. Even the grass seemed dull; spring hadn't quite taken hold of the terrain yet. Various shades of brown and gray painted the scene, a small handful of red buds on the trees providing the only source of bright, hopeful color; a whisper of spring in a barren, winter-worn world.

A soft, gentle voice broke the silence. “Y/N? You were saying?”

“Oh, sorry. I, er, don't remember.”

The russet-haired halfling shifted, turning to face his companion. Dark circles had taken up residence under her eyes; her bright smile had all but disappeared. “Is it bad again?”

“What?”

“Sorry for mentioning it, but you seem…gloomy. Is there anything I can do?” Worry crept into Pippin’s voice, his eyes fixed on her.

“Not really. Just one of those days, I guess.”

Pippin nodded and fell silent. The pair watched as the bare branches of dozens of trees swayed in the tepid spring wind. Silver clouds blanketed the sky, begrudgingly revealing only small patches of white sky. A songbird chirped in the distance, a short melody cutting the silence. Yellow and brown created an odd quilt-like pattern in the grass, only small portions brandishing a shining green hue. Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and withdrew into her shawl in an attempt to shut out both the cold and the heavy mental fog she was experiencing. Pippin glanced over at her, his brows knitting together in worry. He leaned back again and rested his head against the tree, deep in thought.

After a moment, he stood and held out his hand. “Come on, I have an idea.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow and took it. He grinned and helped her up, excitedly rambling in his best Gollum impression in an odd attempt to cheer her up. The two walked back to her home, where he told her to change into her favorite, most comfortable outfit. As soon as she shut the door, he sprinted away, presumably to his own home. A short while passed and he returned, practically vibrating with glee. His telltale crooked grin and shining eyes told Y/N all she needed to know: the Took had something big planned.

The two walked wordlessly for a few minutes before Meriadoc Brandybuck turned up, nodding to each of them. Samwise Gamgee, who had been anxiously watching the trio from his garden up the road, abruptly set down the trowel and tulip bulbs he had been planting. Scrambling through his open gate, he adjusted his jacket and walked beside Y/N, mumbling a quick greeting as he matched her gait. After a few more moments, Frodo Baggins slipped into the group, offering her a soft smile and a knowing look. In all her years, Y/N had never seen the group so quiet. It was highly suspicious.

As they arrived at The Green Dragon, Merry and Pippin each grabbed a door and flung it open. The inn was totally empty.

“Pip, I --”

“Just wait, trust me!”

Y/N raised an eyebrow and walked in, skeptical, the group snickering as she looked around. Dozens of curly-haired hobbits suddenly jumped up from their hidden places behind or under furniture, cheering. A small band burst into song, playing her favorite drinking song. The once-silent bar was now filled with the deafening roars of rowdy, half-drunk hobbits. Merry and Sam had already made for the bar to order drinks while Frodo snagged a table in the center of the room. Pippin remained by her side, a triumphant grin lighting up his face.

“They're all here for you. I invited everyone in the Shire! I wanted to show you how much you mean to everyone. No one here came for the drinks, though it may seem like it. They're here because of you. Because they care about you.”

As she studied the room, the faces of the halflings began to blur and melt; each movement seemed distorted and slow, their voices unbearably loud. Her hands began to shake as tears flooded her eyes. She greatly appreciated the effort Pippin had put into this, but doubt and an odd feeling of guilt were eating away at her. He had done so much for her; he'd dropped everything to do something he knew would cheer her up. All of her dearest friends were here, but she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Surely most, if not all of the guests felt obligated to come. They'd put a halt to their plans to take their place as bodies in a room, to begrudgingly become a wall of support for one person.

“Y/N? I'm sorry, are you okay? Here, let's get some fresh air--” Pippin stammered, placing a steadying hand on her back and gently leading her to the bench outside. “Here, it's cold. Put this on.” He added, slipping off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, frozen in her seat. “You can go on in, I think I just need a minute. Thank you for doing this.”

Pippin rested his arm on the back of the bench and nodded. “I meant what I said, by the way. Everyone here really cares about you. They didn't just show up out of obligation, either.” He chuckled as she gave him an alarmed look. “I know you. I knew you'd be thinking it. Be kind to yourself; for my sake, if it helps.” He nodded to the patch of daffodils under a nearby tree. “Those see your favorites, right?”

“Yes, actually. How did you know?”

“Because I know you.”

Y/N smiled. It had only been a few minutes, but this quiet moment with her dearest friend had calmed her nerves and racing thoughts. She glanced over at him, gratefulness and hope flooding her heart. “Thank you.”

He smiled back, warmth shimmering in his eyes. “Anytime.”

[fixaidea]

How about Sam (LotR Sam) for the ask meme?

(I kinda left out some questions, I might add them back in later.)

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

Part of a reason is why I love all the Hobbits: the contrast of this lofty mythical setting with their simple, practical nature. Partly of course because I love his loyalty and his dynamic with Frodo.

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

His voice and inner narration.

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

On one hand he's mean to Gollum even when the poor bastard is actually kinda-sorta *trying*, on the other hand, can you really blame him?

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

I uh... Is there a form of media out there LotR hasn't been adapted into? There's radio play, there's a musical, more than one cartoons... I can't name a famous comic version, but maybe that's out there somewhere too.

(Or does the question want me to put them in the world of another story...? Wording unclear.)

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

Johnny I hardly knew ya

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

I also like plants very much. I'm basically a gardener with a degree.

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

I know I'm not the only one who likes to put him in a happy polycule with Rosie and Frodo.

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

Completely disregarding Frodo's own heroism in favour of him. I mean, HE'd loathe that too, y'know?

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

I suppose? I'd probably get on his last nerves because I'm a slob.

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

He's shown to have a soft spot for eccentric weirdos who have their head in the clouds at all times, so I think so, yeah.

11. Would you date this character?

No.

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

Isn't the whole Shire basically what cottagecore is?

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.)

Sam/Frodo/Rosie

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

I can't really name anything that bugs me too much? Maybe self-inserts, but that just goes for anyone.

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with?

It's been a long while since I just browsed around in the LotR fandom, I usually search for specific topics, so I can't really name any.

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire?

I'm a complete broken record at this point but him and Frodo are a package deal in my mind.

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like?

I can't think of any. A negative relationship (see Gollum) can still be interesting to read about.

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

Obvious answer aside, I'd love to see him meet Radagast.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I've only written fic where he's mentioned, so unfortunately N/A

[mordoriscalling]

Assurance and Authority (2/25)

Post-BOTFA Persuasion Au: Bilbo returns to the Shire after the Quest, having rejected Thorin’s proposal of marriage. For years after, he struggles with regret. When he and Thorin meet again, he knows better than to hope. 

Chapter 2 also available on AO3

(Ch 1)

After Master Baggins’s return, Bag End was restored to its former glory. In order to achieve that, Master Baggins had to buy back most of the things that had been auctioned off, though it turned out to be no easy task. Some hobbits either just refused to give back their prizes, or only a large sum of money could persuade them, and even then, many hobbits were loath to part with the pieces of Bag End they managed to get their hands on.

Due to the fact that Master Baggins spent so much money on regaining the items that belonged to him, everyone assumed that he had acquired some unimaginable fortune. If coming back from the presumed dead hadn’t been enough to make him a subject of great curiosity, the rumours of his great wealth only fueled the speculation about his person. Everyone wondered: what on this green earth had he been doing in his absence to come into the possession of so much money, and why had he been gone for so long?

When asked about this, Master Baggins would give the oddest answers. He would speak of a great adventure, of dwarves, mountains, a dragon and hoards of treasure, as well as so many other strange things that everyone decided he must have gone mad. No one but little fauntlings believed or liked his stories, and many hobbits have ceased to hold him in high esteem due to his disrespectable adventure and beliefs, for he did talk about the trolls, orcs and dragons as though they truly existed.

Master Baggins’s reputation became greatly tainted after his return indeed. This was not only due to his adventure and beliefs alone, but also because of his changed attitude. He made no effort to improve his bad name and steadfastly ignored what other hobbits said about him. In fact, Master Baggins dismissed all gossip as well as whatever else he deemed to be “petty matters”. His adventure seemed to have uprooted all of his proper manners, instead planting the seeds of such directness that it offended the sensibilities of many in the Shire. His bluntness did not serve to win him much sympathy among fellow hobbits and thus, the number of callers on his door decreased to mainly those who had business dealings with him or Sackville-Bagginses. While the former were received with all the required cordiality and fairness, the latter were only met with closed doors.

The strangeness and lacking manners would have made Master Baggins nothing short of an outcast and a cautionary tale, if it hadn’t been for one thing: his generosity. Anyone who came to him with some struggle received advice and aid, while his business partners had no bad word to say about transactions with him. A few months after his return, master Baggins also threw a splendid birthday party and had a gift prepared for all of the numerous hobbits in attendance, even those who invited themselves. All this sealed the general belief that master Baggins was extremely rich and, since he shared his wealth easily with others (except the ones that were shamelessly greedy), his fortune came to be regarded as his most redeeming quality.

And so, in the end, Master Baggins’s oddness became mostly forgiven, if not forgotten. Hobbits would shake their heads when they saw him wandering around the Shire by himself, but they would still greet him and chat with him. If Master Baggins was not found at home for a period of time longer than that of an exerting walk, no one spared it a second thought, as it quickly became known that he often visited his relatives in Tuckborough and sometimes even Buckland. (In later years, he journeyed to Buckland more frequently because one of his cousins he was most fond of, Primula, settled there after marrying Drogo Baggins, also a cousin of his). When master Baggins was at home, he did not entertain many guests, to the displeasure of quite a few hobbits. Those to whom Bag End’s door was freely open were the Gamgees and some of master Baggins’s relatives, but then again, everyone knew that the Master of Bag End was peculiar; most hobbits could overlook his lack of interest in sociability as long as he didn’t become tight-fisted by any stretch.  

Then, in the second year after master Baggins’s return, it turned out just how peculiar he had become when he hosted dwarves in Bag End, more than once! This naturally stirred up quite an uproar, for it was believed to be unseemly that a hobbit would rather welcome dwarves into his smial than those of his own kind. Master Baggins was completely unconcerned with the scandal he had caused, only replying to his critiques that it would have been more unseemly for him not to have welcomed those dwarves, as they were his good friends.

The friends in question were fellow members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, with whom Bilbo had gone on the Quest of Erebor. The first to visit him were Glóin and Bombur, together with his brothers Bofur and Bifur, who all were making a journey back to the Blue Mountains in order to bring their families to the Lonely Mountain safely. Bilbo happily hosted them on their way to as well as back from Ered Luin, more than glad to have Bag End filled with the sounds of voices and feet that were not only his own.

The next year, another member of the Company visited Bag End. It was Balin, who travelled to the Blue Mountains to carry out some orders in the name of King Thorin. Bilbo enjoyed hosting Balin as much as his previous guests. While the stay of Glóin, Bombur and their families was a merry occasion full of laughter, singing and stories, Balin and Bilbo reminisced more while enjoying a quiet smoke. From Balin, Bilbo was also able to learn in more detail about how Erebor fared, as well as about the well-being of the King and the two princes, and hearing only good news brought him great relief.

Both times when Bilbo’s guests were about to depart, they urged him to visit Erebor again, assuring him that he would be welcomed as a hero. Although Bilbo was delighted at the invitations both times, he made no promise as to when exactly he would come to the Lonely Mountain again. He did not know whether his friends knew why he parted on bad terms with the King or were aware of it at all. He definitely did not want to discuss it, so he did his best not to let his reluctance show, instead making sure to express his joy at having been invited.

No other dwarves visited him in the same year as Balin, nor in the next one. Bilbo would probably have felt this lack of dwarven guests more acutely if it had not been for the fact that he managed to make new dwarf friends.

The way that came about was that, in the year following Balin’s visit, Bilbo chipped an old kitchen knife. He decided to buy a new one instead of fixing the old one, as it was too well-used for his liking. On the nearest market day in Hobbiton, two dwarven metalsmiths - a bladesmith and a brownsmith - just happened to sell their wares, and Bilbo did not hesitate for a moment to approach the stall the two put up together. The bladesmith introduced himself as Seis, and the brownsmith together with him introduced himself as Darl.

When Bilbo gave them his name in return, Seis said, “Bilbo Baggins? I’ve heard your name before, master hobbit!”

“Have you?” Bilbo said. “Have other hobbits mentioned me to you?”

“No. I’ve heard your name from stories of the quest of Erebor! You’re the Burglar who faced the dragon and defended the King and the princes in the battle!”

A blush coloured Bilbo’s cheeks. ‘Yes,” he said. “That was me.”

Seis could not have been more enthusiastic in his response. He bowed to Bilbo deeply and thanked him for his role in the reclamation of Erebor, offering any of his wares for free as an expression of his gratitude. Darl did the same and, in a show of trust that Bilbo found most humbling, revealed that her name was in fact Umí, and that Seis was her husband. (Having met Glóin and Bombur’s wives, Bilbo now knew that if dwarrowdams travelled, they did so under an alias and dressed as dwarven men, for they were rare among their own kind and took every measure to protect themselves).

Bilbo did not want to agree to not paying for their work but neither would accept his money. The more Bilbo insisted, the more stubbornly the two refused, until the whole situation turned into quite a scene that attracted a large audience of nosy hobbits.

In the end, Bilbo relented. “Fine! I shall take a knife and a saucepan from you, but please, allow me to invite you to stay at my home tonight. I shall serve you supper in return for your kind offers.”

This Seis and Umí agreed to and thus Bilbo’s friendship with them began.

From the start, the couple was eager to learn more about him and his adventures. Bilbo found their openness to be refreshing and charming. Dwarves were known to be a secretive lot, and Bilbo remembered how long it took for other members of the Company to regard him as one of their own. Seis and Umí, in contrast, treated him as though he was their good old friend they were reconnecting with. As they asked him all sorts of questions about his life and the Quest of Erebor especially, all of his answers seemed to delight them.

“Is it really true, master Baggins,” Umí asked for example, during that first supper at Bag End, “That there are all kinds of treasures in the Mountain?”

“I suppose so, yes,” Bilbo replied. “I’ve seen hoards of gold, all kinds of precious gemstones, things made of silver and mithril - ”

“Mithril?!” Seis cried. “Are you certain it was mithril you’ve seen?”

“Why, yes -”

“Then you were so lucky to have come near it!” the dwarf said. “Many would near give their lives to be able to say the same.”

“What? What do you mean by that?” Bilbo asked.

“Mithril is now beyond price,” Umí replied. “No one has mined it for centuries and its properties make it extremely desirable. No blade can pierce it, yet it is as light as a feather.”

“To illustrate the value of mithril better to you, master hobbit,” Seis said, “Let me tell you about the piece of mithril I possess. I do not carry it with me, it’s far too precious for that, so I can’t show it to you, but it’s a throwing knife, about the size of my forearm. It’s a family heirloom, passed to me from my father, who received it as a gift of thanks from King Thráin himself. With that knife, I’d say one could buy well over twenty dozen hobbit-holes just like yours.”

“Twenty dozen?!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“Aye, it was a kingly gift indeed.”

Bilbo gave no answer to that, as he felt a bit faint. He possessed a large piece made of the unique metal himself: a whole shirt of chain mail, in fact, given to him by the King of Erebor, as a token of their friendship. At the time when he had received it, Bilbo had not been aware of the extraordinary worth of mithril. Now that he knew it, he realised just how expensive his shirt was. If he understood correctly, this single gift was worth more than the whole Shire, and wasn’t that a head-spinning thought!

His friendship having been valued more than his homeland, however, brought Bilbo only sorrow, for he was quite certain the King no longer held him in such high esteem. Indeed, even in his own head, Bilbo struggled to call them friends. They had used to be that, most definitely - true companions, who had survived remarkable dangers together, and had earned each other’s respect, trust and loyalty in hardship. Their friendship had undergone some severe trials, emerging only more strengthened, yet there was one thing it did not survive.

Heartbreak.

Bilbo forced all the memories and musings about the matter to retreat deep into his mind. It was no time for brooding; after all, he had guests to take care of. Bilbo offered his guests more ale and pork roast, which they accepted happily. As they ate and drank, Bilbo had just enough time to regain his composure.

“Aren’t you curious what deed inspired such generosity from King Thráin?” Seis said.

“My husband been itching to tell you the story this whole time, Master Baggins,” Umí laughed. ‘Be careful, or else he shall bore you to death!”

“I certainly shall not! It is an interesting story!”

“Let me hear it, then,” Bilbo said.

In response, Seis regaled Bilbo with the story of how his father Tawis played a pivotal role in helping King Thráin establish his settling in Ered Luin.

“My father was a blade smith just like I,” he said, “But he understood stone like the finest miner, and he was a Broadbeam, just like I. Our house has lived in the Mountains since the dawn of our kind. My father was already over a century old at that time, and with his wandering feet, he had got to know the whole mountain range backwards and forwards.”

Then, Seis went into staggering detail about each hall and little corridor his father helped construct, and each cave-in he helped avoid. The onslaught of specialist information about stone, mining and construction - which Bilbo really did not understand - almost made his head spin. Seis spoke of it with such pride and passion, however, that Bilbo did not have the heart to stop him. All the while, Umí shared amused glances Bilbo, until she took pity on him and interjected Seis from time to time, urging her husband to have a sip of his drink or taste more of the pork roast.

“In the end,” Seis finished his tale significant time later, “my father’s contributions were so great that Thráin was most grateful and gave him his own mithril knife. My father was so honoured by this gift that he decided to stay in the King’s service for good, and him and my mother settled along the Longbeards, like many other Broadbeams and Firebeams. The new halls kept growing prosperous, so we were eager to move there.” He leaned in towards Bilbo with a smile. ‘The fact that Longbeards turned out to be most comely was a great added bonus, I must say. Just look at my Umí here.”

Umí laughed and swatted her husband’s arm. “Oh, you Broadbeams always speak in such pretty words! Makes you wonder if you mean half the praise you say!”

“I would never flatter you untruthfully,” Seis said. ‘Never once.”

“Except for the times you know you’ve done something that would anger me.”

“I’m still truthful when I try to placate you, my gem. It’s just that I’d rather face a dragon than your ire.”

The couple kept bickering good-naturedly, which Bilbo observed indulgently, for it very much reminded him of the way his parents had talked to each other.

It was only after his guests left the next day, with promises of swift return, that Bilbo decided to poke at old wounds. He took the mithril shirt out of the chest he kept it in and studied it closely. He run his fingers over the tiny chain rings, marvelling at how apparently this one item was worth more than the whole Shire and everything in it.

“A kingly gift indeed,” Bilbo said to himself. “Oh, Thorin.”

Bilbo could not help but wonder what he would have done if he had known the true value of this gift. He suspected that this knowledge would have made the regard the dwarf King had for him more believable. As such, when Thorin had spoken of it for the first time, Bilbo had been convinced that the roundabout confession in the form of a sudden marriage proposal could not have been born of clear thinking. After all, Thorin had lain heavily wounded in his tent after the Battle of the Five Armies. Moreover, although both were certain about the trust, respect and loyalty they had for one another, neither of them had directly shown any signs deeper fondness. Thus, Bilbo found it impossible to believe that the King had truly reciprocated his affections, the depth of which he himself had only just begun to understand.

Now it seemed that Bilbo had been wrong. This whole time, ever since deciding to head back to the Shire after the battle, he had been assuring himself that he had done the right thing to leave Erebor and her King behind. He had been sure that Thorin could not have been serious in his proposal. Moreover, he had had it on good authority that at the time, Thorin’s mind might not have yet fully cleared of the sickness that had previously plagued it.

Yet, if Thorin had given him this shirt fully made of precious silver steel, it appeared that he must have truly cared Bilbo just as dearly as Bilbo still cared for him.

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said again and wept, as bitterly as on the day of his mother’s passing.

[edgessunflower]

Hey hon I hope you are doing dandy💛. I was wondering if you write for pre t trans men. For The Hobbit/Lotr I'm 5'3". I have light blue/Grey eyes and short dark blonde hair. I have a lot of muscle that's covered with chub. My favorite color is yellow and I love the wilderness...preferring it over city life. I spend time getting to know different species of wildlife and plants in my area.

I suffer from chronic pain and migraines. I love music but I dance like a drunk white mom (I have ZERO coordination when it comes to that). I love sparing and learning self defense. Honestly I just wanna be loved.

I hope you have a good day...and don't feel like you have to write this.. it's only if you are open to it. Okay bye🧙‍♂️✌️🏳️‍⚧️

Yes absolutely!

First I ship you with Legolas! 💚

He always laughs when he sees you dancing always thinking of a tree trying to walk and dance at once

He never minds sparing or helping with any type of combat even letting you shoot his bow if somehow you needed to if he couldn't each or didn't have his bow

He always helps you when you're having a migraine or a spasm of chronic pain whether it's heating up wet cloths, massaging your temples, giving you leftovers of food, giving you meds, or just cuddling you if you're not in alot of pain

He enjoys seeing you light up like a little kid as soon as you and the fellowship enter the forest or woods never being bored by the infinite area of trees, green, animals, and never ending space

He always gets different plants for you when he travels with the fellowship from flowers in Rivendell, Sunflowers in the shire, and little green eucalyptus plants

He doesn't mind whether you're tall or shorter than him but he will tease you for the top of your head reaching the side of his waist or halfway to his arm making up for it with kisses

He never judges you for being trans and will help you whether you're transitioning when you two met or have already transitioned he will get you T and if you can't give yourself the shot he will gladly do it for you

He loves when you show him your scars if you've had top surgery and he will always gently caress and kiss them but if you haven't had the surgery yet he will help you save to get it going with you to Rivendell to get it done

Next I ship you with Kili ♥️

He doesn't care that you're trans always willing to help you get T and give you your shots or be there when you give yourself the shots

He enjoys your joy of the forest always laughing at you running through the forest full of joy and wonder always going with you when you go to the forest

He gets every kind of flower he can find when he and the rest of the company go to claim Erebor back from Smaug while you stayed in Bree giving them to you right after the battle was over and coming to erebor

He always laughs dancing right next to you when you dance which makes half the company laugh as well but the others wonder why the hell the two of you have to match in personality so much

He never minds helping you spar with a sword or hand to hand depending on whether you're taller than him but even if you're taller he still teaches you to fight hand to hand or with a sword

He always helps change your bandages on your chest if your transitioning on the journey, help change your tubes if you get surgery on the journey while staying somewhere, or just gently rub your scars if you're already transitioned before the journey

He always helps anyway he can when your having a migraine or any type of long chronic pain from giving you hot baths when you're at an inn, giving you the strongest meds he had or could find, massage your muscles and joints, making sure to hydrate you with tons of water, or just cuddling you while you fall asleep

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Returning Home Chapter 18- Thorin Oakenshield x OC

Thorin Oakenshield x Bellarose Baggins

Description: As Thorin falls deeper and deeper into his Dragon Sickness (which Bellarose learns it's called) he begins making rash decisions - like preparing to go to war after he goes back on his words.

Word Count: 2.1k

Later that day Bellarose and Bilbo found Balin in a lone and quiet corner far from the treasure hall. The girl became concerned when she noticed his deep breathing. It was as if he was trying to calm himself down after crying just as she had done a few days prior. 

“Dragon Sickness,” he spoke in a sad tone before either of them could say anything. “I’ve seen it before. That look. That terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love. It sent his grandfather mad.”

“Balin, if- if Thorin...had the Arkenstone…” he trailed off softly, making the Dwarf look at Bilbo in surprise as he continued. “If it was found…would it help?”

“That stone crowns all. It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Will it stay his madness? No, lad, I fear it would make it worse. Perhaps it is best that it remains lost.” 

He raised his eyebrows at the Hobbit, and Bellarose found herself mimicking that as she faced her brother. That was the second time he’d brought up scenarios about what would happen if/when the Arkenstone was discovered. She was starting to grow suspicious that her dear brother knew more than he was letting on. 

Bellarose walked around the kingdom in search of her brother. She wanted to know what it was that Bilbo was trying to hide once and for all. The Arkenstone, perhaps? No. Bilbo was smarter than that. She had the distinct feeling that Thorin wouldn’t exactly be happy to discover that Bilbo was hiding the one thing he desired the most. 

“What is that?” She suddenly heard Thorin yell from an adjoining hallway, making her freeze mid step. “In your hand!” She rushed to the entryway of the hallway and peeked her head out, watching as Bilbo rose from the bench he sat on when he saw Thorin striding over to him at a rapid pace. 

“It- It’s nothing.” He stuttered. 

“Show me,” the Dwarf demanded, looking like he was ready to blow up. 

“It…” Bilbo trailed off, then ultimately held out his hand. Bellarose had to peek out a bit more to see that it was an acorn that laid in her brother’s palm. 

“I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,” he explained. 

“You’ve carried it all this way,” Thorin muttered in surprise, his anger melting away just as quickly as it appeared. 

“I’m gonna plant it in my garden, in Bag End.” The Dwarf smiled fondly at Bilbo upon hearing his words. 

“That’s a poor price to take back to the Shire,” he mentioned softly. 

“One day it'll grow,” the Hobbit explained in the same tone. “And everytime I look at it, I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened, the good, the bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.” The two shared a smile, which in turn brought a smile to Bellarose’s face. And for a fleeting moment she saw the Dwarf she fell in love with - the kind one she’d known for the last few months. It was quickly broken when Dwalin suddenly walked up to them. 

“Thorin, survivors...from Laketown. They are streaming into Dale. There’s hundreds of them.” Just like that, Thorin’s smile faded into a stern, uncompromising face.

“Call everyone to the gate,” he instructed, stalking off with Dwalin following closely. “To the gate! Now!” 

Bellarose was quick to hide behind the doorway when he passed to make sure he didn’t see her. Once he was gone she stepped out and walked with Bilbo to the gate. By the time they got there the Dwarves were already beginning to block up the broken entrance using rocks of all sizes. They carried said rocks both by hand and with the help of various pulleys and other machines.

“I want this fortress made safe by sunup,” Thorin demanded. “This mountain was hard won - I will not see it taken again.”

“The people of Laketown have nothing,” Kili protested (saying exactly what Bellarose was thinking), staring at his uncle in surprise. “They came to us in need. They have lost everything.” Thorin strided up to him angrily. 

“Do not tell me what they have lost. I know well enough their hardship. Those who have lived through dragonfire should rejoice. They have much to be grateful for.” He looked out at the city of Dale after speaking. Bellarose followed his gaze to the city and noticed quite a few fires being lit by the people. She then nearly jumped out of her skin when the Dwarf turned and shouted at the rest of the Company. 

“More stone! Bring more stone to the gate!”

After a while of blocking off the gate (with Bellarose staying mostly off to the side as she wasn’t strong enough to carry rocks that a Dwarf could carry) the Dwarves were forced to stop when Thorin strided towards them. 

“Come on!” Everyone laid down their tools and picked up their weapons. They followed him up the makeshift stairs they’d created from the blockage until they reached a platform they built at the top of the gate, creating a vantage point over the plains in front of the gate. 

The Hobbit girl gasped quietly when she realized there were hundreds (probably more) of Elven guards filling up Dale along with the people of Laketown. Her gaze tore away from them when she noticed Bard riding up the path to the gate on a horse, stopping in front of the gate. 

“Hail Thorin, son of Thrain! We are glad to find you alive beyond hope,” he called out with a smile. 

“Why do you come to the gates of the King under the Mountain armed for war?” Thorin questioned rather than answering. 

“Why does the King under the Mountain fence himself in?” The Man shot back. “Like a robber in his hole.”

“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed.”

“My Lord, we have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement,” Bard said in a much kinder tone this time. “Will you not speak with me?

Thorin nodded, stepping away from the platform and down the stairs. Bard took the time to dismount his horse and crossed the bridge in front of the gate. Bellarose watched for a moment, then moved to follow Thorin. She snuck down to the blockade, stopping just a few feet away from Thorin as he and Bard spoke through a hole in the blockage. 

“I’m listening,” was all Thorin said. 

“On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask that you honor your pledge,” Bard responded. “A share of the treasure so that they might rebuild their lives.” 

“I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door,” the Dwarf all but sneered. 

“That armed host will attack this mountain, if we do not come to terms.”

“Your threats do not sway me.”

“What of your conscience?” The Man shot back, growing frustrated. “Does it not tell you our cause is just?! My people offered you help. And in return you brought upon them only ruin and death!”

“When did the men of Laketown come to our aid,” Thorin said, growing angry. “But for the promise of rich reward?” 

“A bargain was struck!”

“A bargain? What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? You call that a fair trade? Tell me, Bard the Dragonslayer…” he trailed off slowly. “Why should I honor such terms?”

“Because you gave us your word. Does that mean nothing?” Rather than answer, Thorin turned away from the hole. He leaned against the blockade for a moment, looking tired and weary for a moment. Then his eyes landed on the Dwarves and Bilbo, who Bellarose hadn’t even realized stood behind her until Thorin noticed them, and his weariness was replaced with stone cold indifference. 

“Be gone, ere arrow fly!” Bellarose’s jaw dropped in shock as Bard hit the blockade angrily, then once she heard him ride away she strided over to the Dwarf. 

“Thorin, are you mad?” She exclaimed worriedly. “You cannot go to war.”

“This does not concern you,” Thorin responded simply, which angered her. 

“Excuse me, but just in case you haven’t noticed, there is an army of Elves out there,” she snapped frustratedly. “And not to mention several hundred angry fishermen. We- We are in fact outnumbered.” She was surprised when Thorin turned to her with a knowing smile and that same damn mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Not for much longer.”

“What… What does that mean?” Bilbo asked hesitantly, standing beside his sister. 

“It means, Master Baggins, you should never underestimate Dwarves,” he answered before turning to look at the rest of the Company. “We have reclaimed Erebor. Now we defend it!” With that he strode away, leaving Bellarose, Bilbo and Balin looking distressed. 

“Well, aren’t you a handsome bunch,” Bellarose joked lightheartedly as she walked into the armory of Erebor, where the Dwarves were suiting up for battle. Her comment earned several laughs as they glanced at her.It felt like it had been so long since they shared a laugh, so it made her smile as she walked over to Fili, who was having trouble strapping his armor. 

“Here, let me help,” she said, grabbing the leather strap of his breastplate and beginning to tie it to his backplate. 

“Thanks Bella,” the Dwarf responded with a small smile. The girl returned it as she continued to work, then she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Bilbo and Thorin stood in a hallway speaking so quietly she couldn’t quite hear, though they both had rather intense expressions. 

“What’re they doing?” She asked curiously. The blonde hummed thoughtfully before following her gaze. 

“Don’t know, but it looks urgent,” he responded simply. The girl nodded, deciding to leave it at that as she continued her task. Once she finished Fili suddenly turned to her. 

“Can I ask you something, Bellarose?” She was taken aback by the question, but still nodded.

“Oh, uh, sure.”

“And you will answer honestly?” 

“Depends on the question,” she half joked. 

“Do you love my uncle?” Bellarose knew for a fact that if she was holding something, it would be on the floor now. Her cheeks heated up at his (rather direct) question and she couldn’t stop herself from stuttering as she attempted to figure out how to answer, though she was cut off when the Dwarf laughed quietly. 

“It is okay if the answer is yes, I am not asking in a hateful way,” he muttered, which admittedly eased her. “I have simply noticed certain traits over the course of this quest. When you worry about him, you remind me of my mother. She’s the exact same way with him, though I believe your reasoning differs from hers.” That made the girl laugh. 

“Yes, I will admit I do not do it because I care about him like a brother,” she said softly, nodding afterwards. 

“That is wonderful!” He exclaimed quietly, pulling her into a hug. 

“It is?” She asked confusedly. 

“Bellarose, I have seen the way my uncle acts around you compared to everyone else,” he explained happily, holding her by the shoulders. “I see the way he looks at you while your back is turned. He speaks so highly of you when you end up the topic of conversation, and he has nothing but praises about your progress in swordfighting. Not to mention how happy it makes him that you are fluent in Khuzdul. It is obvious that he loves you.” His words only made her blush harder. She hadn’t even been aware of any of this, which was surprising because she was usually so diligent. 

“I…I didn’t even know,” she said softly, a smile involuntarily forming on her face.

“Perhaps you may have a chance,” Fili mentioned with a small smile. 

“Maybe,” she agreed quietly, glancing back at Thorin. All that they’d previously discussed left when they noticed the dark look he always seemed to have in his eyes. This wasn’t the same Thorin, she reminded herself. 

“But, if things continue as they are now, I fear that chance may be thrown out. For both him and me.” 

“Fili, come on,” Kili interrupted, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We have to go.” The older Durin glanced at him, then at Bellarose, then at Kili again and nodded. 

“Alright, I’m coming,” he responded simply, following his brother out along with the rest of the Dwarves, leaving Bellarose alone with her thoughts, which she wasn’t quite sure was a good thing.

Tag(s): @atomicsoulcollecto

[fireandsoup]

I am eyes emoji at eowyn_and_sam tbh. Love that combo.

oh hey thank you for the ask! and for asking about this particular thing, because even though i remembered nothing about it it turns out i still love what i wrote. sadly, i also have _no_ idea how i was going to end it, else i would def be eager to finish and post this!

i think the idea was something along these lines: sam is a gardener, he's established as a nurturing soul from the beginning. and eowyn chooses to be a healer by the end of rotk (which in the books is part of her making the turn from seeking death in battle towards wanting to live; and no shade to peter jackson but he did not fucking get this arc), and healing is also a kind of nurturing role!

but she doesn't come to it by instinct or upbringing, like sam does, she's choosing it, consciously, after everything she's been through. and at the same time, i think sam might be struggling to find his gardening, nurturing shire self again after everything _he's_ been through. so idk, i guess i felt like there was something interesting about putting these two in conversation with each other!

here is a long excerpt, which i will put under a cut because this is too fucking long already:

On the second morning since the guests’ arrival, Éowyn finds Sam behind the house, kneeling in front of some greenery with a type of blade that Éowyn seems to recall has its primary use in gardening.

“Good morning, Master Samwise,” she greets him.

“Oh, milady,” Sam says, hastily getting to his feet. “Good morning to you as well.” He flushes a little.

“I hope you don’t mind my interfering with your plants, it’s just I was up early, and I saw this poor seedling here needed some help. You see, there’s a wild rose under here –” he pushes some branches aside, revealing more shrubbery that looks exactly the same to Éowyn’s eyes – “but the brambles aren’t giving it any room to grow, and also there’s some nasty bearbind twined round here as well.”

Éowyn smiles. “Well, Master Samwise, I am certainly grateful for your care then, though you are a guest in this house and should not feel obliged to do any work at all.”

Sam flushes an even deeper red, clasping his hands behind his back. “To be honest, milady, I rather enjoy it. You see, before we ever set out on our journey, I was a gardener – the gardener at Bag End, which is Mr Frodo’s house. Me Gaffer taught me everything I know.

“I still care for the garden at Bag End, and my own of course, but I don’t have as much time for it as I should like. You see, ever since Mr Frodo and I came back, we get visitors and correspondence, and of course there’s Rosie and the little one, and when Mr Frodo’s ill, I take care of him, too.

“So I don’t get to feel as much soil under my hands as I should like, and when I saw this poor rose here, I thought, you might as well take care of it, Samwise, and you might do yourself just as much good.”

He falls silent, a nervous expression on his face.

Éowyn smiles warmly at him. “Well, in that case, you are certainly very welcome to apply your skill here. We have all seen evils in our days too great for us to keep from doing what we should like, now that we have the chance.”

[delicatenightfury]

Star of the Mountain Chapter 22

Warnings: fluff, angst, canon-level violence, spoilers for the Hobbit films

Pairing: OC x Thorin Oakenshield

Beta'd By: @mistys-blerbz

Author's Note: please do not steal my work! I do not own the Hobbit or the characters, but I do own my OCs and the parts of the plot that are not part of the movies. I have worked very hard on this fic. Please be respectful and do not steal.

Please comment, reblog, and like!

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Oreliell sighed as she splashed water on her face. She glanced up at the mirror in front of her. Her eyes were still just a little red, but it was less noticeable now. She had managed to fix her hair and braided it out of her face in an attempt to look put together.

She was grateful for the company that Fili and Kili provided. Thorin’s state was taking its toll on her. She hated to see him like this, so driven by greed that he could not function normally. He was not the same dwarf she had known and fallen in love with, let alone the same dwarf she had risked her freedom for in Mirkwood.

Oreliell took a deep breath to steady herself as she wiped her face dry. She would just have to take one day at a time until she could figure out a way to help him.

She stepped out of the room she had found, only to almost run into Bilbo.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Oreliell,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s quite all right, Bilbo.” She looked at him for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“Um, actually, could I talk with you?”

Oreliell nodded. She followed Bilbo down the hall. They stopped near the records room and sat on one of the benches outside. Oreliell looked down at the hobbit, noticing that he seemed a little anxious. She stayed quiet, knowing that Bilbo would share when he was ready.

“What is that?” Oreliell glanced to the side and stood up quickly as Thorin approached. “In your hand!”

“It’s- it’s nothing,” Bilbo said.

“Show me,” Thorin demanded.

Bilbo stuttered for a moment before lifting his hand, his fingers uncurled to reveal an acorn. Oreliell glanced at it before looking at Thorin.

“I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,” Bilbo said.

Thorin’s expression softened a little.

“You’ve carried it all this way?”

“I’m going to plant it in my garden. In Bag End.”

“It’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire.”

“One day, it’ll grow,” Bilbo said. “And everytime I look at it, I’ll remember. Remember what happened, the good, the bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.”

Thorin smiled. Oreliell smiled back. She hadn’t seen him smile in so long… It made warmth bloom in her chest.

Bilbo chuckled a little and shuffled his feet.

“Thorin,” he said. “I-”

Oreliell looked up when she heard heavy footsteps quickly approaching. 

“Thorin,” Dwalin called. “Survivors from Lake-town. They’re streaming into Dale.”

Oreliell watched as Thorin’s expression began to darken again.

No. No, no, no. Please-

“There’s hundreds of them,” Dwalin continued. 

“Call everyone to the gate,” Thorin grumbled. 

Oreliell reached out to try and grab his arm. 

“Thorin, wait-” 

“To the gate! Now!”

Oreliell watched him walk away. Dwalin sent her an apologetic look before following after Thorin. Her hand clenched into a fist at her side, wishing that she was able to reach out to him. 

“Oreliell?” Bilbo said softly. She glanced down at him. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” she replied after a long moment. “You managed to get through to him, Bilbo. We must pray that we can do it again.”

As ordered, the company gathered at the gate. Several of the dwarves looked out at Dale, where they could see the people of Lake-town moving around. They seemed to be setting up camp and lighting fires for the evening.

Thorin came toward them, his face still shrouded in anger.

“Gather what stone you can,” he demanded. “We must reconstruct the gate.”

“What?”

“Thorin, what do you mean?”

“Do as I say,” Thorin snapped. “The gate must be rebuilt to keep out the pests.”

The company exchanged brief looks with one another, but slowly set to work. They lit several lanterns and began to gather whatever stone and rubble they could find. It would take a lot to fill the entryway.

The hours trickled by and the sun set over the land. They brought pulleys and rope and ladders, allowing them to continue to build up as they went. The process was tedious, but the dwarves knew how to work with stone. Oreliell moved stone where it was needed, following whatever directions were given to her by the others.

“Up it goes!”

“More stone over here.”

“That’s it.”

Oreliell paused to look over the dwarves. While they were making progress, the company wasn’t moving terribly fast. Oreliell could tell that they were hesitant about what they were doing.

“Come on, lass,” Dwalin said, nudging her.

She sighed, lifting another large stone and setting it in place. She glanced up when Thorin emerged from the hall.

“I want this fortress made safe by sunup,” he called. “This mountain was hard-won. I will not see it taken again.”

“The people of Lake-town have nothing,” Kili suddenly said. Oreliell looked back at him, noting that he had stopped working. Several other dwarves paused to look at him, but continued working, not wanting to risk Thorin’s wrath. “They came to us in need. They have lost everything.”

“Do not tell me what they have lost,” Thorin said. “I know well enough their hardship. Those who have lived through dragon fire should rejoice! They have much to be grateful for.”

“Grateful for what?” Oreliell asked, turning to him. “Kili’s right, Thorin, they’ve lost everything. If we have the resources, we should offer them.”

He turned to glare at her. She saw that more dwarves were slowing down to listen and watch.

“They have their lives, do they not?”

“Not all of them.”

“Lass,” she heard Dwalin say, trying to quiet her.

She waved him off.

Thorin scoffed.

“What would you know about something like this?”

“Because I have been through dragon fire and seen my home be destroyed, just like you and just like the people of Lake-town. You know that, Thorin. You knew that before anyone else.” A brief silence came over the company at her revelation. “They’ve lost their livelihoods, families and friends. They are lost, Thorin. They have no one to turn to except us.”

“They appear to be doing well enough on their own.”

She stood up straighter. Her eyes met his narrow, dark ones. She knew that she was challenging him, but she hoped that she could knock some sense into him again like she had earlier.

“When Erebor was lost, did you not wish that someone would help?” she asked. “And when you were denied help, weren’t you angry and hurt? Would you truly choose to follow in Thranduil’s footsteps here?”

“I am nothing like the elven king.” 

“No? You’re turning your back on others, just like he did. You claimed that Thranduil lacked honor. Where is your’s now?”

Thorin roared. He moved quickly, picking up a piece of debris and hurling it through the air. Several dwarves cried out, stepping forward slightly to try and stop him. But Oreliell gasped and jerked back slightly upon feeling a sharp pain at her forehead. She felt someone close by reach out to stabilize her. She lifted her hand to her face, touched lightly where the pain was, and pulled it away. Her fingers were red. She could feel blood dripping down her face, close to her eye.

“Oreliell!” several dwarves gasped, noticing her new wound.

She ignored them and looked up at Thorin. His chest was heaving up and down, and his fists were clenched at his sides as if he were restraining himself.

“Men shmek menu,” he growled. “Get out. If you set foot in my kingdom again, I swear to Mahal that I will kill you.” Oreliell stared at him in shock. How could she not have recognized how far gone he was? “Go! Now!” (translation: /I will kill you\)

Fili gently pulled on her arm.

“You need to go,” he said sadly. “I don’t want to think what he’ll do if you stay here.”

“He’s not himself,” she said.

“No. He’s not.”

He tucked a piece of cloth into her hand, his eyes darting up to her wound. Oreliell gave him the smallest nod and went to the wall. Bifur and Nori were there, setting up a way for her to safely get over the wall. She smiled slightly at them. She paused to glance over her shoulder. Thorin was glaring daggers at her.

If looks could kill…

“Menu gajatu, amrâlimé.” She hoped her forgiveness in Khuzdul reached him through the dragon sickness. (translation: /I forgive you, my love\)

She heard scattered gasps and murmurs come from the company. She was aware that she had revealed her relationship with Thorin, which was more than likely a shock to them, but she kept her eyes on Thorin.

Thorin, however, simply growled again and reached for another rock.

Oreliell grabbed hold of the rope the dwarves had provided and quickly went over the wall. She lowered herself down, leaving small traces of blood on the rope. Once her feet touched the stone bridge, the rope was pulled up out of reach. Oreliell looked up to see several faces looking down at her, including Thorin’s harsh scowl.

Oreliell turned and started across the bridge. She was barely a few yards from the gate when a rock came flying at her again, barely skimming her shoulder. She did not turn around, nor did she stop walking. 

“More stone!” Thorin shouted. “Bring more stone to the gate!”

A tear ran down her face, mixing with the blood. The wind caused the cut to string, but she almost felt numb to it. Her feet felt heavy as she walked. She could hear stones being placed down even as she got further and further away.

It took her a long time to cross the field. Every step felt harder and harder to take.

“Vedis,” she called out.

“Oreliell? Is everything all right?”

“I am approaching Dale. Where can I meet you?”

“I will be there in a minute.”

Oreliell nodded even though Vedis could not see her.

The bridge into Dale eventually came into sight. When Oreliell looked at it, she noticed Vedis standing at the entrance, waiting for her. She felt a lump form in her throat upon seeing her sister. Vedis quickly crossed the bridge, extending her arms toward her sister.

As soon as Vedis’s arms were around her, Oreliell felt the dam break. Her legs gave out and she practically crumbled to the ground. Her body shook with heavy sobs as tears flowed down her face. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. So many things had happened that it had become far too much for her. Vedis held her tightly, lowering them both to the ground as Oreliell cried. Vedis ran her hand through Oreliell’s hair, hoping that it would help calm her down.

Oreliell eventually felt Vedis lift her back onto her feet. She looked at her sister. Vedis’s eyes scanned over her face then honed in on the cut on her forehead.

“What happened?” Oreliell shook her head, but Vedis refused to let her look away. “Tell me.”

“Thorin cast me out,” she said, her voice quiet and rough. “He’s building a wall at the gate to keep people out. He’s been searching for… that stupid stone. He’s become blind to everything else. I couldn’t reach him, Vedis. I tried, and I couldn’t-”

Vedis shushed her softly, wiping away Oreliell’s tears. She gave Oreliell a gentle yet sad smile.

“We should get you settled,” she said. “Let me tend to your head then you can get some rest.”

“What about the people of Lake-town? Surely they need your help more than I.”

“We are doing what we can for them, but you are my sister. {Let me take care of you.}”

Oreliell nodded. Vedis wrapped her arm around Oreliell and gently began to guide her into Dale.

[scyllas-revenge]

The Floor Is Molasses

The War of the Ring is over. Frodo has sailed to the Undying Lands, Sam is comfortably settled into Bag End with Rosie and his children—and Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower, is taking a much-needed vacation in the Shire.

And while Boromir may have developed a surprising knack for gardening, looking after Sam’s children is proving to be much harder than he’d planned.

Rating: G

Words: 2644

Read on AO3!

“Look at those lovely rows! You’ve improved a great deal, Mister Boromir, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” Sam removed his fraying straw hat to fan his face in the late summer sun.

“Have I indeed?” Boromir got to his feet to observe their work, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Rows of freshly tilled soil marched down the sprawling garden of Bag End, labeled with Sam’s untidy but determined hand: Peas, Turnips, Leeks, Carrots, Beets, on and on—Boromir might have called it excessive, if he hadn’t known firsthand just how much hobbits were capable of eating.  

“’Course you’ve improved,” Sam replied stoutly, now brushing the dirt from his trousers. “After your horrible start—though maybe that’s best forgotten, if you follow me.”

Boromir recalled his first day in Bag End with a wince. After being asked by Rosie to prune the rosebushes she and Sam couldn’t quite reach, he’d marched confidently into the garden and promptly trodden on their newly planted snapdragons, twisting Rosie’s face into a frightening scowl and nearly bringing little Elanor to tears. “Once again, Sam, I must apologize for that.”

“Oh, no harm done.” Sam waved his words away with a reassuring hand.

Boromir's eyes lowered. Always Sam was too quick to forgive him—quicker by far than Boromir deserved—no matter how trifling or serious the offense.

“You replaced the snapdragons right quick, at least," Sam went on, grinning, jogging Boromir from his memories. "Anyways, it’s not your fault. ‘Them Big Folk are clumsy through and through,’ I told my Rosie, you know, ‘and likely it’s on account of those big clunking boots they wear, they can’t help but step on everything in their way.’”

Boromir laughed, and the sound nearly startled him. He was happy, almost unbearably happy, here in this little garden in the Shire, dirt clumped under his fingernails and a sunburn blooming on the back of his neck. Who would have guessed that Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower, would develop such a love of gardening?

True, he wouldn't remain in the Shire long enough to see the seeds sprout or to taste the fruits of his hard work, but he minded little. He’d needed something to occupy himself here—he’d never taken a vacation in his life and wasn’t used to being idle—but he’d taken to gardening with greater joy than he could have imagined. It was the act of planting, the steadfast care the seeds needed to grow, the amount of water and depth of soil and a thousand other protections against the elements…

And perhaps most importantly, Boromir’s floppy gardening hat and the lumpy, man-sized shearing gloves Rosie had fashioned for him were a good deal more comfortable than his captain’s armor, and were far less likely to be drenched in blood.

“Now then,” Sam said, scratching his chin. “We’re near done for the day, I should think. If you wouldn't mind, go inside and fetch my pruning shears. We’ll see to the rose bushes and then meet Rosie at the Green Dragon for a mug of ale, if you like.”

With a nod, Boromir went back to the green hobbit-door, pausing to scrape the mud off his boots. He ducked low to avoid the door frame and made his way down the hall.

A chorus of laughter met his ears as he made his awkward, crouching way down the long hallway: Merry and Pippin were watching the two hobbit-children while Rosie was finishing her shift at the pub, Boromir knew, but from the sound of it, his friends weren’t trying very hard to keep their charges in line.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. Now, did Sam keep his pruning shears in the kitchen? Or were they perhaps—

Something shoved at his calf. “Move!”

“Eh?” Boromir jolted upright and thwacked his head against the rafters. “Valar blast it all—” Eyes watering, he squinted down to see a chubby little figure tugging furiously at his leg.

“Move!” Elanor’s round cheeks were bright red, her wild blonde curls swinging as she punched at his calf. For a child who could be no more than five, her voice held as much authority as a king’s. “Move-move-move, get off the floor!”

“What? Why’s that, lass?”

“Because!” she cried, and it was only then that Boromir noticed that she was standing on a sofa cushion—that she’d, in fact, hopped her way to him on a long trail of cushions, several of which had split open in protest and were now bleeding goose feathers into the air. “Because the floor is molasses! Now move!”

“Ah.” A grin bloomed on his face. “Molasses, is it?”

“Yes, now hurry up, Boromir,” came Pippin’s cry from the living room. “It’s safer in here!”

“Very well,” he said gravely, distantly recalling similar games from Faramir’s childhood—though their antics had involved rather less homey threats than molasses, if memory served. In the Citadel, the marble tiles had most often turned to lava or quicksand, and out of doors the tall grasses had become thickets of enemy spears, which he and Faramir had avoided only by dangling from tree branches and leaping into ponds.

But that mattered little. He could work with molasses.

Scooping up a giggling Elanor in his arms, Boromir trudged toward the living room, groaning and dragging his boots against the floor so exaggeratedly that the hobbit-lass punched his shoulder. “Hurry up!”  

“Nearly—there,” Boromir gasped, falling dramatically to his knees in the living room doorway, depositing Elanor safely onto another cushion as he did so.

“Get up, you great lump!” she bellowed, reaching forward to yank on his hair. “You’ll be stuck forever!”

“It’s true,” Pippin added mildly. “We’ve lost many a good hobbit that way, you know.”

 Boromir looked up to reply, then snorted. Pippin was standing on the dining room table, his curly hair in the rafters.

“Oy!” Merry called cheerily. He lay flat on his stomach on top of the grandfather clock in the hall, his limbs hanging limply on all sides like a collapsed scarecrow. “How’s the gardening coming along?”

“’ullo, mister Bormeer,” came a call from little Frodo, who stood in a large plant pot, his chubby toddler hands clutching the rim to balance himself. Dirt and leaves were scattered about on the floor, the only visible remnants of the plant pot’s former inhabitant. “You gotta get off the floor, mister, or you’re gonna get stucked,” the hobbit-lad informed him seriously. “Right, Ellie?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him!” his big sister cried, hand on her hips again. “Mister Pippin, throw him a rope or something. I can’t get him up on my own, he’s too big and fat.”

Boromir spluttered. “Too big and—”

“Don’t worry, Boromir, I’ll save you.” Deftly, Pippin flung a wooden bowl of fruit in the direction of the coat stand near the wall, which toppled toward him with a clatter loud enough to make Boromir wince. Catching hold of it, Pippin directed its wooden feet in Boromir’s direction. “Go on, use this—pull yourself up to safety!”

 “And what will Sam say when he sees that you’ve all done your best to destroy Bag End and everything in it?”

“It’s already destroyed,” little Frodo crowed from the plant pot. “It’s covered in molasses!”

Boromir considered this. “A fair point,” he conceded, and with a great show of struggling and straining, he pulled himself to safety. He was too big to sit comfortably in most of the chairs in Bag End, so he settled on the dinner table with his feet resting on the nearest chair. “There,” he said, grinning at the hobbits. “Am I quite safe now, do you think?”

“No!” Elanor cried. “Now the table’s sinking into the molasses, right Mister Merry?”

"You know, I think you're right." Merry swung his legs idly from on top of the grandfather clock. “Excellent observation, Ellie my dear.”

“What am I to do then, Captain Elanor?” Boromir turned back to her. “I await your orders.”

“Get to the sofa—quick!”

Boromir nodded determinedly, but as he stepped back onto the floor, little Frodo gave a shriek. “Don’t touch the floor, Mister!”

He hesitated. “How am I to cross the room, then?”

Elanor rolled her eyes. “Jump across on the pillows, of course!” To demonstrate, she leap-frogged across the room on the strewn sofa cushions before reaching the safety of the rocking chair in the corner. The chair swayed precariously under her momentum, but stayed upright. With a shout of triumph, she turned back to Boromir and jabbed an imperious finger at him. “Now you!”

“Straightaway, Captain,” he replied with a salute, making Elanor giggle.

He hesitated for a moment, but there was nothing else for it. Boromir launched himself from the too-small chair and landed squarely on the nearest sofa cushion, which promptly exploded in a cloud of goose feathers.

“You great lump!” Elanor cried.

“Wooo!” little Frodo shrieked from the plant pot.

“Nicely done, Boromir,” Merry said dryly.

“Oh, nicely done, was it?”

Boromir winced as Sam’s voice cut through the cloud of feathers.

“What is going on here?” Sam’s stout hands were on his hips, and he glared from Boromir to Pippin to Merry, who in the ensuing moment of frightened silence toppled headlong off the grandfather clock and landed in a heap on the floor.

“Sorry, Sam,” Merry muttered.

Sam turned to pluck little Frodo out of the plant pot and rolled his eyes. “I’d expected such things from these two,” he said, turning his curly head to scowl at Merry and Pippin. “But you, Mister Boromir—now, I thought you were more serious than all this. And my Rosie’s cushions, and the dinner table, and all!”

“But Papa—” Elanor tugged on Sam’s sleeve anxiously. “It’s my fault, I made him do it!”

Sam crouched down low, setting Frodo down beside her and brushing dirt and leaves off his clothes. “And why’d you make him do it, Ellie?” he asked, more gently.

She looked around with a quivering lip, clearly mourning the loss of her game. “Because—” Her face screwed up, and then she was sobbing. “Because the floor was molasses!”

Patting her hair, Sam nodded thoughtfully.

“We really are sorry,” Pippin said earnestly, staring at the feather-spotted ground. “We’ll help you clean up, we promise.”

“Oh, you’ll help me, will you?” Sam folded his arms imperiously, and Pippin shrank back with an audible gulp. “You’ll clean this mess up yourselves, and right quick! But first—”

He bent down to Elanor, who was still weeping bitterly into her hands.

“The floor was molasses, was it?”

She nodded shakily.

“It was,” she bawled, wiping at her nose. “I’m sorry—”

“There, there, Ellie. It seems to me the only thing to do now is…” He leaned closer and whispered something in Elanor’s ear.

She stopped crying at once. “Really?”

“That’s right.”

“And Mister Boromir too?”

“Of course.” Sam rocked back on his heels, smiling sagely. “Go on, then. And take little Frodo with you.”

With a shrieking giggle, Elanor grabbed her brother’s pudgy hand and raced out the door into the yard.

“What's that you're planning, Sam?” Boromir asked. He didn’t like the gleam in the hobbit’s eyes.

“Planning?" Sam put his hands on his hips. "Now, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean—I’ve never been one for plans. So then, pick up the chairs and cushions, you lot, and sweep up these feathers.”

Heads bowed in contrition, they set about their tasks.

Boromir struggled to maneuver the broom properly, his tongue between his teeth, while Merry and Pippin began to straighten up the furniture. But only a few minutes had passed before Sam tugged the broom out of Boromir's hands. "What's that you're doing, Mister Boromir?"

"What do you mean? I'm sweeping."

"Scraping up the floor is what you're doing," he cried. "Haven't you never used a broom before?"

Boromir rubbed the back of his neck and coughed.

Sam sighed. "Well, enough of that for now, in any case. Why don't the three of you go outside and pick some flowers for Rosie, to make this place look a bit brighter?”

They weren't anywhere near done cleaning up the mess they'd made, but they looked at one another and shrugged. “It beats moving furniture!" Merry exclaimed, and the three of them made their way to the door.

But no sooner had Boromir stepped onto the front porch than he was struck with a cascade of water—accompanied by a shriek of laughter.

“What the—” Boromir spluttered, wiping at his face and his drenched tunic. Beside him, Merry and Pippin were coughing and spluttering too, though their attacker hadn’t managed to splash much more than their hairy feet.

“We got you!” Elanor cried, poking her head up from behind the door, where she and little Frodo had been lying in wait. They each held empty watering cans in their chubby fists, and little Frodo was giggling so hard that no sound was coming out.

Merry bent and ruffled the boy's hair, laughing. “I suppose we deserved that, didn’t we?”

"Yes!" Frodo giggled, punching the air in victory. "You derserved it!"

"That was a mighty strike, Captain Elanor," Boromir said, wiping at his face and shirt before picking up the laughing hobbit-lass and setting her on his shoulder. "You have a strong arm indeed."

"I know!" She beamed, swinging her feet back and forth proudly.

"Papa!" Little Frodo yelled. "Papa, we did it!"

Sam's laughing face appeared in the doorway. "Well done, Ellie, Frodo! Think that got the molasses off of them, or do they need another bath?" 

"No, no," Pippin said hurriedly, hopping on one foot as he squeezed the water out of one of his trouser legs. "We've learned our lesson." 

Merry sighed. "Well, we'd best keep cleaning up those feathers, I suppose." 

"Oy, dry yourselves off first! I'll not have you tracking water and muck all over my floors," Sam called. Merry and Pippin froze guiltily, then scurried off to obey. "And as for you, Mister Boromir—” Sam ducked back inside and returned with his pruning shears. "Let's finish up our gardening, eh?" 

"Can I help too?" Elanor cried from Boromir's shoulder. She tugged at his hair impatiently, making his eyes water.

"Me too, me too!" Little Frodo hopped up and down, tugging at the loose fabric of Boromir's trousers. At Sam's nod of approval, Boromir grinned, scooped up the hobbit-lad, and set him on his other shoulder, and together they made their way to the garden. 

"Papa, look how tall I am!" Little Frodo crowed, punching the air by Boromir's head. 

Elanor scowled over Boromir's head. "You're not as tall as me!" 

"Am too!" Frodo bellowed, and soon they were bickering heatedly. Sighing, Boromir set them both down, where they took off like firecrackers, chasing each other around in the grass and shrieking.

"I really am sorry, Sam," Boromir muttered as he took up the pruning shears. "You and your family have been kind enough to host me here, and I made a mess of things." 

"Everyone makes a mess of things sometimes, if you follow me," Sam said. "And anyway, the worst of the mess was made by Merry and Pippin."

"Even so, I should not have forgotten myself thus." Boromir frowned, reaching up to clip away the branches out of hobbit-reach. "It's been many years since I've felt so at ease, and I fear I've let it go to my head." 

"You should let it go to your head more often," Sam said, collecting the fallen branches in his arms as Elanor and Frodo laughed and wrestled in the garden nearby. "Only next time leave our poor furniture out of it, no matter how much molasses is flooding Bag End." 

Boromir shook Sam's hand, unable to stop himself from laughing. "It's a deal."