#it all started with Legolas

[a-happy-little-frog]

I’m a simple woman. I see an androgynous person with long hair and I simp.

[eliounora]

sunset in silence

[k8lynjoy]

Something I absolutely adore about The Lord of the Rings is the healthy depiction of masculinity, and how it's not seen through just the Hobbits - who are known for valuing friendship, love, and a quiet, simple life. It's Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Boromir, Faramir, Eomer, and Theoden. All of the men love, they laugh, they cry, they express themselves, they grieve, and they're never weaker for it. In fact, it's this emotional vulnerability - their capacity for love - that helps them succeed in saving Middle Earth. It's such a refreshing and beautiful thing to see.

Just props to JRR Tolkien for writing the characters the way he did and to Peter Jackson and the cast for bringing it to life so beautifully.

[rhinocio]

What Song fic shitposts from The Tauriel Show chapters

[cloverplover]

the fellowship of the ring (family: felinae) :3

"lore" below the cut

so much thought went into this and i couldnt tell ya why!

all the cats shown are members of the subfamily felinae of felidae, which basically excludes big cats like lions and tigers (that can roar). since in lotr canon the fellowship takes place time-wise sort of after all the big players have come and gone, i think that all the remaining races would be smaller cats in comparison, to emulate that vibe of the end of an era. each character of a different race has a different genus- including boromir and aragorn, because a lynx is basically a fancier caracal and i thought that was funny.

felis, the housecat genus that the hobbits are in, actually has quite a few species, so i imagine that in this universe the more housecat you are, the more respectable a hobbit. however some cats (tooks!) are a bit more related to wild cats, hence why pippin looks like a sandcat.

gandalf, true to the books, is just sort of doing his own thing- everyone probably has a theory on what kind of cat he is but he won't confirm or deny any of them. aragorn knows but won't admit it. saruman, on the other hand, i imagine as a cheetah :3

the dwarf family also includes leopardus, which is small spotted cats. i chose a pallas cat for gimli (and then regretted it when coloring) because i thought it fit his vibe too well to pass up, but maybe thats just his family tree, who knows. i imagine them all with geometric spot patterns, better than how i drew gimli's, and very broad shoulders.

caracals are the only living member of their genus, so i also give cougars to men. maybe the house of rohan gets them. up to interpretation!

anyway. on to your regularly scheduled programming

[tathrin]

An Elvish Lure

Somebody said “using yourself as bait” and my brain spat this disconnected snippet out, so: enjoy a scene in which the Three Hunters try an alternate plan by which to catch-up with the orcs and free Merry and Pippin.

"No," Gimli said.

"Gimli—"

"No," he said again, shaking his head hard enough to make the braids of his beard slap against his shoulders. "No, absolutely not."

"Gimli," Aragorn tried again, "this plan is our best chance to—"

"I said no!" Gimli roared. "I will not have it! Aragorn, I will not!"

It was not Aragorn who answered him. "Gimli, be calm." 

Gimli squeezed his eyes shut at that voice, as though he could shut-out the words as easily as he did the sight of the narrow, beardless lips from which they had issues; that golden head; those mithril-bright eyes. Fingers as long and spindly as bare twigs closed on his shoulder, their grip tight enough that he could feel it even through his shirt of mail.

"This is our best chance to save Merry and Pippin," Legolas said. "Perhaps our only chance. Gimli, I am not afraid—"

"Can I not be afraid for you, then?" Gimli asked wildly, grabbing those long fingers and holding them tight. He looked up at Legolas, then very quickly closed his eyes again. He pressed the archer's captured hand to his cheek and held it there, as though he might hold the elf back from this reckless plan as easily. "Orcs hate elves so much, Legolas…"

"That is why it has a chance of working," Legolas said. He sounded so unbearably calm, his woodland accent giving his speech the lilting cant of birdsong. He had sounded so strange to Gimli's ears, once. When had that fair voice stopped sounding strange?

"And if it does?" Gimli retorted. His grip on Legolas's hand tightened. "When it does? What then, Legolas?"

Legolas's narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Then we will fight them."

"Then you will fight them, all alone, until we can come to your aid," Gimli corrected him. "Legolas…" His voice failed him and he had to clear his throat twice before he could force the words out. "Legolas, what if we come too late?"

"It is a risk I am prepared to face," Legolas said simply. "And at any rate, Gimli, I do not believe you will. I have more faith in you and Aragorn both than to let myself fear that I will have to face all the orcs alone. And besides!" he continued with a sudden, fey laugh. "Should it not be the orcs who should fear to face my blade and bow? I slew many of their fellows at Amon Hen, and I will slay many more in these sweet green fields if they will but do me the favor of coming within range of my arrows!"

Gimli looked up at the laughing elf in sad, silent horror.

"We will not have to hide ourselves so far away from Legolas that he will be alone for long," Aragorn said, stepping forward to lay his hand on Gimli's other shoulder, the one that did not burn yet with the memory of Legolas's touch upon his mail. "Orcs are keen of smell, but their eyes are not so sharp in daylight, and their ears will have a hard time hearing anything over the thunder of their own feet upon these plains. Besides, Gimli, we have the cloaks given us by the Lady of Lórien; was it not said that they would help to hide us from unfriendly eyes?"

"It was," Gimli agreed heavily. "But these orcs are fast. And what if they have archers among them?"

"What of it?" Legolas shrugged again, scoffing. "I do not fear crude orcish arrows."

"A crude arrow can kill as readily as a finely-wrought one," Gimli reminded him.

Legolas tossed his head, his golden braids rippling in the dawn. "Only if they strike their target."

Gimli gaped at him in exasperation. "Legolas—"

"No, Gimli, I do not ask you to like this plan, but please. Are we not friends now?" Legolas dropped abruptly to his knees in the soft grass, a position which put his eyes nearly on the same level as the dwarf's. It was Legolas who looked up at him now, his pale eyes glittering as sharply as a sword. "Then please, my friend, cast aside your doubts. Trust me to do this."

"I do trust you, Legolas," Gimli responded automatically. "I do not doubt you. But—"

"Then it is settled." Legolas made to stand, to turn away, but Gimli caught him by the arm and held him still.

"But," Gimli said, his voice a stony growl, "I do not like the idea of you making yourself bait for orcs."

Legolas swiveled on his heels, elvish grace keeping him upright despite the sharp tug of a strong dwarven arm yanking him off balance, and stared up at Gimli. The smile he gave the dwarf was small and fleeting, and there was a heavy sadness in the curve of it that reminded Gimli, suddenly and painfully, of the grey woods of Lothlórien.

"I do not say that I like it either, Gimli," Legolas said softly. "But we cannot outrun the orcs. If they cannot be made to pause their march, they will vanish into Isengard with Merry and Pippin and all chance of saving our friends will be lost." He pressed his free hand to Gimli's cheek and gently stroked the downy hairs there. "I would risk a thousand such dangers for the chance to stop that foul fate from befalling those dear young Hobbits—and I know you would, too, Gimli."

Gimli swallowed, but the aching lump in his throat did not dissipate. "Legolas…"

"The fact that the orcs left the field of battle while the three of us yet lived worries my heart greatly," Aragorn said. His voice, too, was quiet, but a dark tension thrummed through his words like the warning rumble of stone on the brink of a cave-in. "That they put their need to carry away their captives over their desire for slaughter and torment…that worries me, Gimli. Worries me greatly."

Aragorn did not have the keen eyes of the elves, but his sharp grey gaze rose over the plains nonetheless and he stared off into the distance as though staring at the shadows of that terrible band of orcs nonetheless. "I do not know if even this will cause them to turn aside from their path…but if anything will entice them to delay their task, it will be the chance to make sport of a lone and injured elf."

"And so I shall play the bait," Legolas said, before he sprang to his feet, the movement too fast this time for Gimli to stop. He looked down and offered Gimli a fleeting, knifblade smile and declared, "And we Three Hunters will see if we can draw the hunt to us!"

Gimli should have cheered; the words were spoken in the sort of tone that rallied hearts and lifted spirits blazing into battle. But all Gimli could see in his mind was the terrible sight of Legolas left standing all alone, waiting for the orcs to come and find him while his friends hid and watched from safety.

"Legolas…"

"Peace." Elvish fingers pressed against Gimli's lips, stopping his words but not his fears. "Give me this chance, Gimli, and I will turn your doubts aside."

"I do not doubt you—" Gimli started to say again, his voice thick and strangled with the heavy feelings of his heart, but Legolas was already springing away, up the short and stony hillock. Gimli watched him go, his steps as light and swift as the flutter of butterfly wings.

"I do not doubt you, Legolas," he said, the words spoken now in a whisper so low that even elvish ears might struggle to hear them now. "But I fear for you."

Aragorn's hand closed on his shoulder again, warm and steady and lacking the silver-fire touch of Legolas's smooth brown skin. "Come," he said softly. "Let us get under cover, Gimli."

Gimli allowed himself to be drawn away, but his feet scuffed heavily on the uneven grass as he turned to stare behind him at the silhouette of Legolas standing tall and thin against the dawn, pale cloak and golden hair streaming out behind him. He made a fine target for arches up there, Gimli thought sourly; a fine target indeed.

Legolas drew his white knife, and Gimli turned away. He knew that the scent of elvish blood would be needed to draw the orcs' attention; knew further that only with the wind blowing strong and swift towards their quarry did this mad plan have any chance of success, and so he cursed the breeze. Had it only died or shifted, Aragorn and Legolas would have been forced to give up this chance; would have had no choice but to simply run instead, run until they dropped perhaps and even yet fail—but run together, rather than risking Legolas's life alone.

Gimli could not bear to watch Legolas take his blade to his own arm, spill his own blood, to lend verisimilitude to his role as bait; yet he fancied he could hear the sharp glide of knife over skin nonetheless, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight and let Aragorn lead him, stumbling, to the hollow in which they would hide together while Legolas stood out there, tempting danger, alone.

They huddled in their grey cloaks, hands on weapons and breath in their throats, and waited.

And then—and then Legolas screamed.

Gimli started upright, his own breath drawing in for an answering cry of rage and vengeance, but Aragorn grabbed his arms and held him fast. "No, Gimli!" he hissed, hauling the dwarf down bodily back into the small depression in the earth. "No, he is not hurt. This is the lure, Gimli! This is the plan. Be still!"

Gimli let himself be drawn back despite the thundering of his heart against his ribs. He pressed one bare palm against the earth, trying to draw strength from the touch of stone against his skin; trying to find the endurance for which the dwarves were so renowned. But he could not stop trembling; could not stop hearing the echoes of that terrible shrill scream inside his ears.

"I have never heard such a cry, Aragorn," he whispered.

Aragorn's grip on his arm tightened. "I have," he said. His voice was low, almost haunted in the shadows of their hiding-hole. "I am sure Legolas has as well, for his people have long fought the Shadow in Mirkwood—and," Aragorn added, swallowing hard as though against some terrible memory, "he could not have sounded so convincing, if he did not know the sound of an elf in torment."

Gimli's gut twisted and he bit his lip hard enough that he tasted a coppery spill of blood across his tongue. "I would that he did not know it," Gimli said hoarsely. He glared up at Aragorn and added in a sharp voice, "I would even more that he should never experience it himself."

"We are not far," Aragorn insisted. "If the orcs take the bait, we will know it; we are near enough to help. He will not stand alone."

"Not for long," Gimli muttered, "but perhaps for long enough." He held his axe very tightly and wished for a whole host of doughty dwarven warriors at his side—or better, at Legolas's side.

Another cry rose, more warbling than the first piercing shriek; more plaintive, like the screamer was weakening.

Gimli's grip on the haft of his axe tightened until his hand ached. "Aragorn…"

"He is not hurt, Gimli."

"Not yet."

Aragorn had no answer for that.

They sat in silence, straining their ears for the pounding thunder of orcish feet upon the earth; waiting to discover if the enemy would take the bait.

Waiting to learn if the three of them would live through it, if they did.

{read more gimleaf stories here}

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Thranduil’s (non-existant) Queen

I strongly headcannon that the silvans were very free in their gender and sexual identities. The basic norm was that everyone is bisexual until proven otherwise, and even then it’s quickly accepted. Furthermore, due to the nature of elven lives (aka being immortal) being polyamorous is rather common, as is sleeping around with no romantic relationship.

(The valar can’t tell them what to do!)

That being said, cheating is still a gigantic no no for them, as is abandoning one partner for another, especially if there is little to no warning or reason.

Anyway, slightly crazy idea, but what if Thranduil was not, in fact, married, and simply had and has a bunch of one night stand/regular bed partners and one day ended up pregnant (read my user name) and that’s how Legolas came about.

Thing is, legolas looks so much like Thranduil that no one knows who the other parent is, and Thranduil roles with it bc hey, at least no custody issues.

Elves outside of greenwood: so what happened to your mom?

Legolas: uuuuhhhhhhhh

Que elaborate tragic story that becomes worse and worse the more legolas retels it.

You can bet your ass legolas has fun with it. His friends pitch in and all of a sudden no one knows what happened to the queen of greenwood (they do not call it mirkwood) except that it’s bad.

Thranduil has no idea that this is going on until elrond brings it up one day.

Elrond: i have not said it before, but my condolences for the loss of your wife. I understand it was quite horrific.

Legolas: *sweating*

Thranduil: *slowly turning towards his son* yes, i miss her dearly *you-are-so-grounded glare at legolas*

And:

Elladan and elrohir: how did you deal with the loss of your mother

Legolas: *hnnnnnnnnnn, i am not qualified for this but i can’t tell THEM that* .... killing orcs has worked for me so far.

Later:

Thranduil: *bursts in the door* LEGOLAS-

Legolas: I PANICKED, OK? LEAVE ME ALONE!

And:

Thranduil, as he goes to check on the mountain and humans after the dragon (book canon): Legolas, this is the 6th time i’ve told you to not be so-

Bard: *wet, grimmy, tired* *walks past as if in slow mo and like a supper model*

Thranduil: -Rrrreeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

Thranduil: *stares*

Legolas: Ada, No.

[legolasghosty]

Flower prompt! How about blue salvia for willex? 💙

...ignore the fact that this was sent in like 4 months ago...

"I figured out what it is!" Alex exclaimed, dropping down onto the park bench beside Willie, a shy smile pulling at his lips. "You're pebbling!"

Willie stared at him for a second. What? Also, who gave this guy the right to look that cute in a hoodie and basketball shorts? Seriously. His hair is all damp and messy from band practice and the tan lines on his ankles look ridiculous. And somehow, he's still the prettiest person Willie has ever seen.

And he also definitely said something... whoops.

"Sorry, what did you just say?" Willie asked sheepishly.

Thankfully, Alex's smile didn't dim. "All the little gifts and stuff," he said. "It's called pebbling, it's a kinda love language thing."

Willie tilted their head. "Um, what? Gifts?" Willie wasn't much of a gift person in general. Christmas was a pain in the neck, trying to figure out what everyone wanted.

"Like the other day, with the snare keychain you found after work?" Alex responded, mimicking Willie's confused motion. "Or the pink sea glass last week? All the little stuff you give me. It's called pebbling."

"I do that with everyone though," Willie said slowly, trying to think. "It reminds me of you guys. It's not really... on purpose."

Oh gosh, now that Alex pointed it out, Willie kind of did give all their friends a lot of random stuff. Some of it was cool, but most of it was probably junk. He just liked sharing it with them. But... they didn't want to be annoying to their friends...

"Gosh, sorry, I didn't mean to overstep," Alex burst out, startling Willie. "I just saw something online about it so I was doing some research and I guess I just wanted to tell you. But I'm so sorry, we can drop it-"

Willie covered Alex's mouth with his hand before he could say anything else. "No it's okay," they promised, pushing away their own thoughts. "I just didn't really, um, realize I was doing it. I don't want to bug anyone."

Alex wrapped his fingers loosely around Willie's wrist and moved their hand from his mouth to his cheek. "It doesn't bug me," he promised. "It's actually really sweet. I was looking into it cause I wanted to learn how to... I don't know, do it back I guess? Cause I love it when you share stuff with me and I wanted to give that back to you."

"You wanted to-" Willie began, but then gave up. Words were way too complicated.

They slid their hand around to the back of Alex's neck and kissed him. Because, really, what else could he do? What words could show Alex just how much he meant to them? How he was always on their mind, drumming and dancing and laughing and holding them? How little things like this just pulled Willie deeper into the ocean of love he felt for his partner, and how Willie never wanted to resurface. The English language didn't really have the right words for that. So instead, Willie kissed him.

When they separated, one of Alex's arms was around Willie's waist. His other hand was tangled in their hair. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled. In books, there tended to be lines about how one character could see a million things in another's eyes. That wasn't really the case here though. All Willie could see in Alex's eyes is "I love you" repeated over and over and over again. He hoped Alex could see that message shining right back at him as they breathed in tandem.

"You're amazing," Willie murmured, resting his forehead against Alex's.

"Learned it from you," Alex answered, his faint chuckle tickling Willie's skin.

"So it's called pebbling?" Willie clarified.

"Yup," Alex confirmed. "Apparently penguins do it too."

"Well at least I got somewhere to go with my fancy tuxes," Willie joked. "I beat penguins."

Alex laughed and pulled them back in for another kiss. And a couple of days later, when Willie showed him a little collection of pebbles, worn smooth by the Pacific Ocean, he kissed him again before he could get out the words, "These made me think of you."

[kierancaz]

GUESS WHOS WATCHING THE HOBBIT AGAIN 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪

[astrangergivingthestrangewelcome]

.

[toadstoolillustrations]

Going to check a scene from the hobbit films is like oh this an incredibly homosexual scene. what were they thinking that has to have been on purpose right. and why is it actually making me feel things. man these films could have been at least decent... I can admit the casting was solid, and the few good scenes like this show that there was some bit of heart put into them... And then it immediately cuts to the most absurd and simply made up shit and I think ah. Never fucking mind.

[foldingfittedsheets]

In my household growing up scaring each other was like an Olympic level sport. We’d wait around corners, we’d hide under things. We took it seriously.

My mom started it. She loved scaring us. She has a cherished photo of me screaming that she took one Halloween night after jumping out of a dark bush at me. But my quickly brother latched onto the game with abandon. Mom quickly regretted teaching us to do this as turnabout did not seek like fair play to her.

At one point my sister was given a life size cardboard cutout of Legolas and the second we realized that thing was an instant jump scare we’d move it all over the house. The scream from the bathroom at 2am was my crowning achievement but Legolas tragically went missing shortly after. Read: my mom burned him.

Now, as the youngest I was at a severe disadvantage. I spooked the easiest after my mom. I was exceptionally sneaky and patient so I typically got my revenge but I quickly learned that if you didn’t jump then it was less fun. Thus began my campaign for nonreaction. Every time someone jumped out at me I startled a little less as I stamped down on the reflex.

After a year or so I would just blink at my brother when he popped out from a closet. Don’t get me wrong, I was still scared. The spike of adrenaline and panic still happened internally but I didn’t react anymore. My brother soon gave up on me and the game died to our mothers intense relief.

I largely forgot about that period of my life but every so often someone tries to scare me and is extremely disappointed.

My favorite of these attempts was at Red Robin. Servers loved to spook the hosts when they could, it was a fun pastime when they didn’t have enough to do.

The hosts were meant to open the doors for people when it was slow. The door we opened had a single seat beside it on the left, then a blind hallway that led to the bathroom.

One evening I was on door duty. I was facing slightly away from the seat on my left. A server buddy of mine snuck out of the bathroom quiet as could be. He waited for the perfect moment, then leapt over the seat to land in front of me with a huge, “RAH!!!!!” It was a feat of fear and athleticism.

Panic shot through me like a lightning bolt but grounded itself quickly. I didn’t outwardly so much as blink in surprise, and after a quick beat I turned to look at him calmly and said, “Hey, Joe.”

He deflated and all the other hosts jaws dropped. “How did you see me?!”

“I didn’t,” I assured him.

He scoffed in disbelief and slunk away defeated.

He hounded me for a week about how coolly I’d greeted him, asking if I’d heard him coming or if another host had tipped me off. “No, you scared me,” I told him. He never believed it and no further attempts were ever made on me.

[bilbo-fettt]

what do you mean

[tathrin]

A response to this ask; taken from this prompt; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox).

#28....as a lie.

*technically this one picks up after the end of this story if you want to read that first, although you don’t need to; it’s as much a self-contained snippet as any of the others, it just happens take place in a setting within the events of a specific fic, that’s all.

Gimli’s eyes were drawn ever and again to the elvish dancers, even as he was drawn several times into brief conversations as friends and acquaintances paused at the table he now shared with Gandalf to exchange a few words and toast their well-wishes together for Gondor’s king and queen. Gimli was glad of the toasts, at least, for they brought fresh mugs of cool ale, and the heat of so many cavorting bodies had raised the temperature of the hall to near-dwarven levels, despite the cool white stone and tall windows through which a summer’s breeze still wafted.

Legolas’s hair shone like a sunrise in the rich torchlight, and his eyes gleamed like starlight on pale clouds. Gimli was amazed that anyone could long look elsewhere, with the shine of him whirling there to draw the eye.

He was not amazed that the other elves twirling on the dance floor were drawn to him; of course they were. How could they help but be lured in, dull drab moths circling that golden glow? Long hands ran up and down Legolas’s lithe limbs and pressed against his slender waist, long fingers twined through the streaming locks of his unfettered hair and curled possessively around his braids—

The mug in Gimli’s hands gave a crack and shattered, soft metal collapsing in on itself in his grip. He stared at the mess in his hands, numbly grateful that he had at least drained it already and so there was no ale left to spill out across his lap, and then he hurriedly shoved it onto the table behind him. He could feel his cheeks burning hotter than any torch in the hall.

Gimli chanced a sideways glance at Gandalf, who was watching the dancers with every evidence of placid enjoyment on his old face. Had he seen? Had he heard? He said nothing, but that did not always mean anything with Gandalf. Perhaps Gimli should speak, should craft some excuse...

“Flimsy human metal,” he muttered, and glanced at the wizard again. Gandalf nodded absently, but did not otherwise react.

Gimli let out his breath in relief—and then a second later he nearly choked on it, as Legolas suddenly bounded out of the tumult to perch on the bench beside him. His eyes danced as merrily as any of the revelers and his smile beamed bright and clear upon his beardless face.

“Will you not dance with us, Gimli?” he asked. His voice was light with laughter and with joy and his thin chest heaved from his exertions. Gimli found his eyes drawn upwards to the bare lips above that smooth and hairless chin.

“What?” he said.

“Dance with us, Gimli!” Legolas repeated. “Come, you can teach us dwarven steps and I will show you the ways of elvish revelry up close.”

“No,” Gimli answered automatically, his heart stuttering in his throat. “No, I—I am quite comfortable here, thank you.”

“You do not seem comfortable,” Legolas observed, and Gimli felt his stomach drop like a stone. He could not stop himself from glancing behind him at the ruined mug, even though he knew the gesture was a dead give-away; if Legolas had not seen it before, he surely would now, with Gimli’s gaze to lead him to it like a map—or a swift arrow.

“I am perfectly fine,” Gimli insisted. “Gandalf and I are enjoying the dancing quite well from here, thank you.”

Legolas spared a glance at the unmoving wizard but his eyes soon fixed on Gimli once more. “You are bothered by something,” he said quietly. “I can tell. Will you not tell me what? Perhaps I can help.”

Gimli’s mind stuttered with the possibilities of the help that Legolas might offer, and he quickly shied away from the idea. “No!” he blurted. “No, I—as I said, I am fine. It is merely warm in here.”

Legolas laughed. “Warm!” he cried. “But you are a dwarf!”

“Aye, a dwarf,” said Gimli, “and one who is enjoying his ale from his comfortable seat, and has no need to go whirling about like some flighty elven dandelion!”

Legolas should have laughed; Gimli knew his friend well enough to know that much. He should have laughed, but he did not. Instead his pale eyes narrowed sharp and keen on Gimli’s face, and Gimli could feel himself blushing beneath that tight scrutiny.

“Does it bother you,” Legolas asked in a low voice, “to see me frolicking so with these other elves?”

“What?” Gimli exclaimed. His hands clenched convulsively, and he was glad that he had already broken his mug; had he still been holding it now, he would surely have turned the thing into a flattened disk of over-stressed and useless metal. “Bother me! Of course it does not!”

To prove it, Gimli made himself laugh and shake his head, as though Legolas had spoken some ridiculous jest. He even lifted the elf’s lean brown hand and kissed the smooth knuckles as more evidence of how thoroughly unbothered he was. “Go back to your dancing, Master Elf!” Gimli chortled. “I am doing quite well watching it from afar, thank you!”

Legolas stared at him for another moment, his smooth face unreadable . The tips of his ears were flushed dark red from all of his cavorting and his pale eyed looked very wide with no beard to frame them.

Then he shrugged, and said, “As you like, then!” and squeezed Gimli’s shoulder once before bounding away and throwing himself back into the whirl of the merry elvish dancers.

Gimli let out a shaky breath and flexed his hands a few times, getting the blood-flow back into them.

"Lying will do no good for either of you," Gandalf declared calmly. "And it is hardly fair to Legolas; he will take you at your word, whatever you tell him."

Gimli could feel his cheeks burning hotter, shame coming along to add its kindling to the blaze. He managed to force an unintelligible grumble of disagreement from his lips, but nothing more articulate than that; he felt as though he was already strangling on all the words he would not, could not, say.

"He will," Gandalf insisted. "The elvenking might be able to spot a lie from 300 leagues and skewer it as neatly as his son ever has an enemy with that bow of his, but Thranduil's people are another matter. Lies are not generally told in Mirkwood. It is not a place for dissembling, or oaths, or scheming. The Wood-elves are a simple, honest people. And you are Legolas's friend." Gandalf pulled his eyes away from the dancing and fixed his gaze on Gimli instead. His bushy brows were drawn very low atop them, making his eyes glint like embers in deep shadow. "If you tell him something, he will believe you, Gimli. And you will have none but yourself to blame for the results."

Without waiting for Gimli to muster either the courage or the wits for a response, Gandalf swept to his feet and strode off into the tumult of the party.

Gimli slumped low on his bench and stared miserably at the dancing elves.

Legolas was still so impossibly vibrant and noticeable against the duller backdrop of the others. Gimli's eyes fixed on him at once. He seemed to be moving now with even greater abandon than before, if such a thing were possible.

And if such a thing were not impossible, Gimli would almost have said that Legolas kept glancing back at the table where Gimli sat as well—but he was not, of course, and so Gimli put the thought from his mind.

He had more than enough to think of anyway, when a tall elf of Lórien slid up behind Legolas and snaked her arms across his narrow shoulders, leaning in low to murmur something into his finely-pointed ear.

Legolas laughed and turned to face her, their long lithe arms entwining as close as any dwarven lovers. They swayed and swirled together with the music, and the elf-woman’s hands slid up from Legolas’s shoulders to tangle in his braids. Legolas smiled up at her and said something that Gimli was too far away to hear, but it made her laugh. Then Legolas gave one of her dark braids a gentle tug, and Gimli realized that he was growling low in his throat as though facing down a horde of goblins.

He turned away blindly and reached for his mug, realized that it was both empty and broken, and turned back around just in time to see the elf-woman twirl away into someone else’s arms as another pair of hands took Legolas by his trim waist and plucked him out of the center of the tumult to pull him in close against their long lean body, and—

And it was Haldir, Mahal curse it. Gimli’s mouth went dry, his blood pounding in his ears like drumbeats as the March Warden leaned in close and lowered his mouth to Legolas’s ear, whispering something. He took one of Legolas’s braids in his hand and rubbed his thumb across the heavy golden strands, like a dwarf might test a metal for its quality. Haldir was hardly dancing; only swaying a little as he stared down at Legolas, who stood balanced before him on his toes like a bird paused on the edge of flight.

Gimli was on his feet before he realized it, about to start forward and—and what?

His hand was at his belt, which was empty of course; a wedding was no place for weapons. And why was he reaching for his axe, anyway? He sat back down on the bench with a heavy, hollow thump. What was he thinking? What was he doing?

He had had too much ale, clearly. It was the only explanation for his strange behavior tonight. His throat was dry, but he would not drink anymore tonight; he had drunk too much already, clearly, and it was clouding his thoughts. Making him think strange, impossible things. Making him dream things that—that were not, that could never...!

Legolas laughed and rose up onto his toes to press a light kiss to Haldir’s lips.

His head reeling, Gimli watched as the March Warden took Legolas by the hand and led him, smiling, towards the door. If Gimli thought that Legolas paused on the threshold and looked back, somehow finding Gimli’s eyes across the crowded room and glancing at him hesitatingly, questioningly, even hopefully—well, then that was just another sign that he had reached the night’s limit for ale; reached, and more than passed.

Gimli held himself very still, schooling his expression to a placid calmness that might have rivaled Gandalf’s, and then he forced a smile and a nod—just in case Legolas was really looking; just in case he could really see him.

A shadow seemed to flicker across those bright elvish eyes, as though one of the torches near the door was on the verge of guttering; although when Gimli looked at them, they both appeared to be burning tall and strong still.

When he looked back, there was only a faint fading flicker of golden locks flowing around the corner as Legolas vanished into the night and Haldir’s arms.

Gimli sat there for several minutes, staring into the empty darkness of the door. The noise of the wedding revels that had once filled the hall with such bright merriment seemed to have faded now, somehow; he heard it from a distance, like echoes from some far-off cave. Eventually he forced himself to rise, and murmur unintelligible farewells as he passed his friends, and trudge his way across the long white hall towards the other door.

He stumbled back to the rooms the Fellowship shared, alone.

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

Underutilized bit in LOTR, I feel, is how deeply out of his depth Boromir is within the Fellowship.

And by that I don't mean that he's the weakest or the stupidest or any of that, but rather that –against all appearances– he is the sole member of the Fellowship who is a Regular Normal Human, and he would have such a shocker slowly figuring all that out over the course of their journey. I mean:

Age. Legolas and Gimli wouldn't surprise him, since the lifespan of elves and dwarves seems commonly known to be way longer than humans, but Gandalf? The hobbits? None of these ages work as advertised and when he goes down to sit and commiserate with Aragorn about being the only Men in the company and how weird this all must be for them both Aragorn has to cough into his fist and mutter "Eighty-seven." "WHAT?!" (Yes, I know that Gondor keeps records of their Númenórean ancestors and said ancestors' extended lifespans, but consider this: the blood has thinned so much in Gondor that practically nobody lives longer than regular humans nowadays, and Boromir is canonically the jock in a family of scholars. He had to look up what/where Rivendell was after he got Faramir's Prophecy Dream, for god's sake.)

Bilbo. The entire Fellowship except Boromir has a personal relationship with Bilbo, and Boromir has neither seen nor heard of this creature in his life. Everyone else is starting off this quest with significant background knowledge of Bilbo's life and The Hobbit, whether having been told by Bilbo himself or having had family members personally involved at the time it occurred, and Boromir, again, has no clue what they're all on about.

Moria. Dwarves presumably have some built-in sensory adaptions for living underground, elf eye physics are bullshit, hobbits are stated to be far more comfortable/better navigating underground than most races, Gandalf is an Istar, and Aragorn has been hunting and tracking in various ungodly locations for most of his eighty-seven years. This means that, once again, Boromir is the only Normal Person trying to Normally Navigate a mostly-pitch-black cave system while everyone else side-eyes him for bumping into walls all the time.

Elves can sleep with their eyes open. This is admittedly not the most common thing among the Fellowship, but please imagine Boromir, still struggling to understand the fact that he's surrounded by nonhuman beings who have no shared concept of the passing of time, rolling over at 2AM to see Legolas bluescreening contentedly up at the sky, and then everyone acts like he's the weird one when he starts freaking out about it because all of them are used to traveling with/know more about elves than he does.

Even just remembering stuff off the top of my head, Boromir must have had such a weird time adjusting to being the only normal human being among the Fellowship before he, y'know. Died.

(Plus I can totally imagine Merry and Pippin giving him shit for "Well, if you're the only normal one amongst nearly a dozen people, then that's not very 'normal', is it? Maybe Men are the odd ones out and everybody else is normal.")

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Someone asked me to expand a little on a topic that was buried down in a big chain of reblogs, so I'm doing that here--it's about the use of the archaic "thee", "thou", "thy", etc. in LOTR and what it tells you about characters’ feelings for one another. (I am NOT an expert on this, so it's just what I've picked up over time!)

Like many (most?) modern English speakers, I grew up thinking of those old forms of 2nd person address as being extra formal. I think that's because my main exposure to them was in the Bible ("thou shall not...") and why wouldn't god, speaking as the ultimate authority, be using the most formal, official voice? But it turns out that for a huge chunk of the history of the English language, "thee," "thou," and "thy" were actually the informal/casual alternatives to the formal "you", “your”, “yours”. Like tú v. usted in Spanish!

With that in mind, Tolkien was very intentional about when he peppered in a "thee" or a "thou" in his dialogue. It only happens a handful of times. Most of those are when a jerk is trying to make clear that someone else is beneath them by treating them informally. Denethor "thou"s Gandalf when he’s pissed at him. The Witch King calls Éowyn "thee" to cut her down verbally before he cuts her down physically. And the Mouth of Sauron calls Aragorn and Gandalf "thou" as a way to show them that he has the upper hand. (Big oops by all 3 of these guys!)

The other times are the opposite--it's when someone starts to use the informal/casual form as a way to show their feeling of affection for someone else. Galadriel goes with the formal "you" all through the company's days in Lórien, but by the time they leave she has really taken them to heart. So when she sends them a message via Gandalf early in the Two Towers, she uses "thee" and "thou" in her words to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli because now they're valued friends and allies. And--this is the big one, folks, that was already alluded to in my previous post--Éowyn starts aggressively "thou"ing Aragorn when she is begging him to take her along as he prepares to ride out of Dunharrow. She is very intentionally trying to communicate her feelings to him in her choice of pronoun--an "I wouldn't be calling you "thee" if I didn't love you" kind of thing. And he is just as intentionally using "you" in every single one of his responses in order to gently establish a boundary with her without having to state outright that he doesn't reciprocate her feelings. It's not until much later when her engagement to Faramir is announced that Aragorn finally busts out "I have wished thee joy ever since I first saw thee". Because now it is safe to acknowledge a relationship of closeness and familiarity with her without the risk that it will be misinterpreted. He absolutely wants to have that close, familiar relationship, but he saved it for when he knew she could accept it on his terms without getting hurt.

So, you know, like all things language-based...Tolkien made very purposeful decisions in his word choices down to a bonkers level of detail. I didn’t know about this pronoun thing until I was a whole ass adult, but that’s the joy of dealing with Tolkien. I still discover new things like this almost every time I re-read.