#it turns out I can remember all the names of the Valar (though I had to think for a second to get Nessa)

[ethanray]

My list

Bonus internet points will be awarded to anyone who actually tries this exercise before voting.

Assume you need to get the spelling at least somewhat close, and if a character has multiple names, only one counts. Also, if a character doesn't have a canonical name, I'm sorry, but "that guy's wife" doesn't count.

For reference, if you can name the 9 members of the Fellowship, the eponymous Hobbit and his 13 dwarf buddies, 3 prominent women, and the guy who runs the Rivendell B&B, that's 27 characters right there. And you probably also know the name of a dragon.

For further reference, Tolkien Gateway has 637 (!!) pages dedicated to Third Age characters. (Don't click that link until you've voted, of course)

Edit: Your humble pollmaker gave this a try, and got as far as 73 before deciding she was too tired to keep trying to remember dwarf and Silm names. If you also want to share (and don't mind people being incredulous at your having forgot ____), pastebin allows you to paste text and share it for free. :)

[anemoxlys]

Thranduil x Reader Cinderella AU

The fat crush I have on this man (this is the 18th piece of writing I have done for him-

Can you tell I just watched Into the Woods?

Word Count: 2000+

“Please Valar…” You whispered before swinging your legs out of your bed and quickly rushing to put on your clothes, the cold of the morning startling you slightly. It had been a few hours since you’d been up before the rest of your household woke as well, buzzing with a certain energy that they only ever got during ball season. “Oh I simply cannot wait!” Angelica squealed, grasping her hands in Marjorie, her sister’s. “Yes, the prince is bound to choose one of you.” Your stepmother agreed, sitting down at the table before snapping her fingers to gather your attention. “Yes ma’am?” You hastily ask, dashing over to her. “Have our gowns ready for tonight, and remember you must feed the dogs whilst we are out.” She sighed, as if talking to you was this time consuming, wasteful task. “I-I was wondering if I may not join you this ball, ma’am?” You softly murmured, nervousness flowing over you. “You, join us?” Your stepmother cackled, clearly finding the prospect ridiculous, “My dear, if you were to come with us, who would clean the house in our absence?” She continued, patting your head before speaking again, “Now, tighten those corsets. We want to grab the prince’s attention after all.” She commanded. Dutifully, you did so, trying to withhold the tears from slipping down your cheeks.

You watched, silently as your ‘family’ rode away from you, their carriage spreading out of the gates without you. Finally, you let yourself cry, fat, ugly tears slid down your cheeks as you sobbed in the driveway. “My dear, why do you cry?” An unfamiliar voice asked. “Apologies, are you lost ma’am, maybe I can help?” You immediately responded, wiping your cheeks dry. “It seems as though you are the lost one, is there not a ball tonight?” She asked, resting her hand on your shoulder. “Yes, though I am not allowed to attend.” You smiled sadly, “Are you sure I cannot help miss, I have food if you need or water..?” You asked softly. “I shall make you a deal, you get me a loaf of bread and I shall make you go to the ball.” The strange lady offered. “Of course.” You responded, wholly unbelieving her side of the bargain as you hurried inside to get her the food she wanted. 

“Here you go, miss, safe travels.” You smiled, handing over the loaf, alongside some extras that you packed. You moved to turn around only to be stopped, “It seems I have yet to uphold my end of the deal, do turn around dear.” She called, watching as you followed her instructions.             -     

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” You whispered, clasping your hands together before the carriage door opened and you were forced to step towards the palace. “Miss?” A man’s voice sounded. “Yes, sir?” You asked, nervousness flowing through you. “May I accompany you inside?” He asked, a pleasant smile on his lips. “Me?” You started before realising how rude you probably sounded, “I mean, yes, if you wish.” You corrected, an embarrassed smile falling across your face. The man standing before you was horribly attractive, long blonde hair framing his face perfectly, a pristine black outfit hugged every muscle flawlessly, and his hands were so unbelievably soft when they gently took yours. “Tell me, what is the name of the most beautiful lady in this kingdom?” He interrupted you from your thoughts with his sweet, deep voice. “I do not know sir, to be honest I do not attend such events regularly enough to have an opinion.” You answered honestly, pure terror now overflowing you as you began to walk up the stairs, eyes falling on you as you did. “You look nervous?” The man beside you asked, concern in his voice as you felt his own eyes settle on you. “Just a bit.” You replied before a nervous laugh spilled out of your lips, “Who am I kidding I’m amazed I haven’t run off yet.” You smiled awkwardly, trying not to clasp his hand too tightly. “Don’t be, you look divine.” He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. “That means a lot, thank you.” You grinned, some of the anxiety leaving you, “May I ask your name?” You questioned, noting the surprised look on his face, “Apologies, as I said I do not attend social seasons regularly.” You immediately backtracked, your face turning hot. “Not at all, my lady, I was simply taken aback. My name is Thranduil Oropherion.” He answered as your eyes widened. “My prince-” You began before he cut you off, “Do not say anything.” He began, pressing his finger to your lips before realising what he had done and immediately pulling back, “I enjoyed our conversation before. It was… refreshing to not be a soon-to-be king to everyone.” He elaborated, watching as your face grew a small bit less flushed. “Of course.” You murmured, taking in a quick breath as you reached the top of the stairs. “Don’t be nervous, just think that they’re staring at me.” He muttered into your ear before the doors swung open revealing a large gold ballroom, paintings covering the roof. 

“Prince Thranduil Oropherion.” The herald announced as the room grew silent and all looked up the stairwell. “Should I have arrived with you?” You whispered as you looked down at the room full of people all staring as you began to descend the stairs. “Do not worry.” He replied before chuckling slightly, “Probably not though.” He continued as you shot him a horrified glare, causing him to laugh slightly more obviously. “Only now we are expected to dance.” He grinned, leading you towards the centre of the room. “You planned this all along didn’t you, my prince.” You hissed, mentally preparing yourself to step on his feet. “What are you accusing me of, my lady?” He smirked, outstretching his hand for you to take. “I’m not a good dancer.” You admitted, a slight laugh escaping you as his face turned mildly horrified, “I’m not going to leave with broken toes, am I?” He teased. “Quite possibly, your majesty.” You replied with a grin of your own. 

You smiled softly at the memory, sweeping the floors as you recalled last night before you had fled the palace. “Wench!” One of your stepsisters shrieked, most likely calling you to prepare them for the second day of the royal balls. “Coming!” You replied removing your apron before running upstairs. “Corset.” She spat, bracing herself against the bed frame. “Of course.” You muttered, getting to work on pulling at the strings of her corset.

-

“I am glad to see you again, my lady.” You heard the now familiar voice of the prince. “To think, I came through a different entrance and everything.” You joked. “Indeed, one might think you were trying to avoid me.” He half-jested. “Indeed.” You agreed. “Why did you run last night?” He asked, taking a step towards you. You remained silent. “Do I scare you?” He started, this time you interrupting him, “You could never, my lord.” You hastily denied, “You wouldn’t want to be seen with me outside of this palace. Let us enjoy what we have here as it cannot exist anywhere else.” You murmured sorrowfully before walking over to get a drink, leaving the prince by himself. 

-

“That bitch was there again!” You heard Angelica squeal before attempting to hit a high note on a song her and Marjorie were learning with their singing instructor. “I know!” Her sister replied before also attempting the same note. You were amazed your ears were still intact with how loud their screeches were, yet you survived the constant war against your senses. “Y/N!” You heard your stepmother call, breaking you from your thoughts. “Coming ma’am!” You called back, placing the broom against the wall before reluctantly walking to her study. You knocked before hearing the confirmation of you being let in. “What do you need from me, ma’am?” You asked, bowing your head as you shut the door behind you. “The stable boy has fallen ill, clean the stables.” She ordered before dismissing you with a wave of her hand. 

-

“My lady.” You smiled as the prince’s voice came to your ears. “My prince.” You replied with a sad smile, knowing that this was the last time the two of you should meet. “May I finally learn your name?” He asked, taking your hands in his own. “I told you my lord-” You began before he interjected, “May I not know the name of the ellen who has taken my heart?” He pleaded, his eyes practically staring into your soul as he spoke. “I may give you a hint my lord.” You gave in, your own heart beating to the same rhythm. “Anything.” You opened your mouth to speak before noticing the clock as your face grew pale. “I must go!” You hastily muttered. “Please, your name is all I desire!” Thranduil begged, reaching for your wrist. “I am sorry, my prince.” You whispered, tears coming to your eyes as you slipped your glove off of your hand, leaving it in his and fleeing down the stairs. As you did so, your foot caught on one of the stones and you slipped down some of the stairwell- your foot sliding out of your shoe as you did. Glancing back up at the doorway, you saw the prince racing down the steps after you, watching with wide eyes as you quickly slipped off your other shoe and fled, leaving one behind. 

-

“That whore took up the whole ball all three days!” Marjorie sobbed into your stepmother’s shoulder as you swept the fireplace, careful to not spill any ashes onto the carpet. “I know.” Your stepmother comforted before a knock on the door caused her to pause. “Shall I get it stepmother?” You asked as she glared at you. “Of course.” She responded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Right away, ma’am.” You muttered, standing to move to the door, accidentally knocking over some of the cinders. “You stupid girl!” Your stepmother screamed, her hand coming to slap your cheek, “Clean those up, I shall get the door. Stupid child.” She spat, not caring as tears began to slip down your cheeks at the sting of her hit. 

“We really must see every ellen.” An unfamiliar voice spoke as the sounds of footsteps came towards you. “My daughters are all you need to see, our housemaid does not leave the house much.” Your stepmother immediately shut down the idea as you continued to sweep. “No matter Elaron.” A familiar voice reached your ears. You forced your head to stay down, however your sweeping has ceased, the urge to look at his face one more time growing nearly overpowering. 

A loud, piggish, squeal reached your ears as Angelica tried to shove her foot into your shoe. You watched out of the corner of your eye, a small smile on your lips as she was rejected- her sister taking her place as she also tried to shove her hoof into the clearly too small heel. 

“I thought I said to clean that up!” Your stepmother hissed, stalking over to you as you hastily began to clean again. “Sorry, ma’am.” You softly apologised, flinching away from her as she raised her hand up. “There is no need to violence, miss.” Thranduil’s voice once again reached your ears, his voice sounding more hopeful than before as he carefully walked over to you. “What is your name?” He asked, voice full of desire. “I am afraid I cannot tell you, my lord.” You responded softly, a grin falling over your lips as he sharply breathed in. “Elaron!” He quickly called as the sound of more footsteps came. “May I?” He asked, kneeling down before you, shoe outstretched. “Of course.” You answered, finally looking at him. Carefully, he slid the shoe onto your foot, his face erupting in happiness as it slid further onto your foot without resistance. “You have the other?” He asked, “I would hate for my queen to walk with only one shoe.” He continued as you reached into the pocket of your apron- pulling out the second shoe which he carefully slid onto your other foot.

I hope you enjoyed, I know it's not as long as some of my other works but I like the length for this fic (I feel as though if it has been too long it would have been less enjoyable) Let me know your thoughts, and if there are any typos please let me know I do not proof-read...

[starspray]

Sunwarmed

My @whiteoliphaunt fic, for @gwaedhannen--I hope you like it!

Rating: G Characters: Finrod/Amarie Summary:

The more he thought about it the more he realized he was not quite missing the Tirion of his childhood, but Nargothrond at its height. His own city, that he’d planned and helped to build with his own two hands, where his friends among the dwarves had visited so often, and where he had earned his favorite epessë. No one in Valinor called him Felagund.

Also on AO3

.

It was very quiet in Tirion. The War of Wrath was ended and the armies returned, alongside many others, but still: most who had departed Tirion when darkness fell had not returned. Many now slept in Mandos; many more had refused the Valar ’s call and remained in Middle-earth with its wide open lands now filled with opportunity and possibility and and safety.

Finrod would have been lying if he said he did not envy them.

He sat atop the roof of the palace, looking out over the city. It was a spot he and his cousins had often retreated to when they were young—and even when they were grown, and the tension below grew too much. These tiles, or perhaps their predecessors, had borne witness to many afternoons of long and winding conversation, of tears and of laughter, hopes and dreams and teasing. Now there was no one to talk to; his cousins and brothers were all dead, and his sister had refused to come home. Finrod was not surprised, and he hoped that Galadriel found everything she wanted and more in Middle-earth—but he still missed her. It was lonely, being the only one left in Tirion.

Finrod sighed, and stretched out his legs, leaning back against the sun warmed stones of the wall. He missed too the bustle and noise of a full and thriving city—though the more he thought about it the more he realized he was not quite missing the Tirion of his childhood, but Nargothrond at its height. His own city, that he ’d planned and helped to build with his own two hands, where his friends among the dwarves had visited so often, and where he had earned his favorite epessë. No one in Valinor called him Felagund.

As he contemplated the horizon, both familiar and strange, the soft rustle of skirts heralded an unexpected companion. He turned and found, to his surprise, Amari ë emerging from the window—or trying to. The current fashions in Tirion ran to rather wide skirts, and she was having a bit of difficulty getting her layers of petticoats through the opening. “Thank you!” she said when he held out his hands to help her. “I thought I might find you up here.”

“Who else knows of this spot?” Finrod asked, amused. “I rather thought it was a secret between all my cousins.”

“Artanis told me about it once,” Amarië said breezily. “Very long ago, before all the troubles began.” She smoothed her deep green skirts as she settled on the tiles beside him, as though she had brought a small grassy hill up to the roof with her to serve as a cushion.

“She prefers Galadriel, these days,” Finrod said. “That is the name her husband gave her.”

Amari ë smiled, but there was a strange, almost wistful look in her eyes. “It is hard to imagine her married,” she said. “I never thought there was anyone in the world who could keep up with her.”

“Celeborn certainly can.”

They sat for a while in silence, looking out over the rolling green hills to the south, and the road snaking through the Calacirya in the east toward Alqualond ë and the glittering blue Sea. “What name do you prefer, these days?” Amarië asked suddenly. Finrod looked at her in surprise. “So many Exiles are returning with new names, but I cannot remember being told yours.”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “Finrod is the name I gave myself,” he said finally, “when we were rendering all our names into Sindarin. I had others, over the years…” Nóm was in many ways dearest to his heart, but it had no place in Aman. “Felagund, I was called. From Felakgundu, in the Dwarvish tongue. I had many friends among the Dwarves—they helped to delve and build my city Nargothrond. ”

“I have heard that name,” said Amarië, troubled. “In the songs they sing on Tol Eressëa. King Felagund who battled the Enemy’s lieutenant beneath his haunted tower.”

“Not his tower, but mine, stolen and overrun after the Bragollach,” said Finrod. “And, after, it was my tomb.” He smiled at Amarië, though she looked both shocked and horrified. “It’s all right! I won’t faint away to think or talk about my own death. And anyway, Sauron got his due. Lúthien came and sang the tower town to rubble. Better to have it so than for it to be of any use to the Enemy.”

“And now it is drowned, with all the rest of that land,” said Amarië softly.

Finrod sighed, letting his smile fade away. “Yes. With Nargothrond and Gondolin and Menegroth the magnificent…but there is much still of Middle-earth left, and new kingdoms are rising even as we speak.”

“Yes, and your sister will finally find herself a queen of some glorious realm,” Amarië said.

“Perhaps,” said Finrod.

“And what will you do, now that you are here again?” Amarië asked.

“I don’t know. I have been a king and a hero, and I don’t think I would like to be either one again.”

Silence fell between them again. Then Amari ë reached over and took Finrod’s hand in her own. The sunshine glinted on her golden hair and the golden beads woven into her braids, making her sparkle. “You have never been a husband,” she said, “though once I know you wished it.”

Finrod turned his hand to lace their fingers together. “Would you still have me, Amarië, after all this time?” he asked.

Her smile was lovelier in his eyes than all the jewels of Nargothrond and more wondrous than the greatest wonders of Middle-earth. “I would.”

[eilinelsghost]

Very tempted to send a mean one too! But they suffer enough already. Aegnor/Andreth, 'kiss on a place of insecurity'? As mean or soft as you want it to be hehe 😉

Well I'm not sure whether this counts as mean or soft, but I had fun writing it! (For this prompt game.) Thanks so much for the prompt!!

------

He had arrived with the dark, slipping through the doorway with the night breeze and the scent of heather blossoms, carried with him from the hills. So familiar was that sense from the years of recollection that Andreth sat long minutes before realizing she was not alone. The shift to certainty struck together with the sound of his voice and her breath drew in with a hiss.

“Tyelca.” His voice was one with the breeze, the old epessë brushing over her like the heather-scent. Patience thou art not! Haste I shall name thee, my swift-tongued adaneth, sharp and quick as a hawk.

Her voice in return was hardly a whisper, the rustle of dry leaves. “Náro.” 

Silence held reign again and she dared not move a muscle. He would vanish. He would turn away. He would once again prove a phantom. So long as she did not turn, she could not know if he was ghost or flesh, wish or truth.

“Tyelca?”

“I am here.” 

And he was here. She had not remembered that particular note in his voice, it was a new resonance discovered and no memory’s conjuring. He was here in truth.

“Ingo told me.”

“Did he?”

“All of it.”

“Did he.” She felt his presence move a step closer, hesitate. He was waiting for her to turn, for some note of welcome or scorn, but she sat rooted in place with her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Was it his face she feared to see, touched once again by the light of her hearth—fire upon fire; or was it hers, marked with winter and care, that would be unhidden from his eyes if she turned, set in the light where he could see…

“He tells me they call thee Saelind now,” Aikanáro said softly, the old tenderness warm and fervent beneath his words, “that thou art—“

“Do not.” She turned at last at the familiar address and her voice lashed across his, stinging and sudden. “I cannot bear it.”

“Andreth—“

“Do not.” The anger in her eyes burned out in challenge, a match for his own, and he sank to his knees before her. Oh Valar she had not remembered the full depth of his face, the living warmth of him as his hands reached out, rested upon her knees, the piercing light of his gaze. Oh gods, oh gods… It was suddenly unbearable and her own hands flew up, shrouding her face behind the palms, and the tears stung as they pressed out against her will.

“Please, dear heart. I have not come so that I might leave thee.”

The tears leaked between her fingers now, charted paths along her weathered joints. “Then for what have you come, Aikanáro?”

There was silence. Then, golden and bright, his intent wrapped about her senses, the warmth of his spirit reaching for hers where his limbs yet faltered.

“To wed thee,” he whispered at last, and she heard his own tears cracking through his voice, “if thou wilt yet have me—overlate and cowardly though my love has proven.”

A sob broke free and she shook her head fiercely, her shoulders shaking. It was ludicrous, it was a mockery, surely it…

“For one day, for one hour—didst thou not say it?”

“You know I did, over and again I said it and to what avail?” She drew her hands further over her face. “Naught but the full life of Arda would satisfy thee; even then when I yet had youth, even then when there was hope of life as well as death…My full tale of years was not enough for thee! So how, how, Náro, can I believe the dregs would be thy fill?”

He reached up and rested his hands over hers, inch by inch shifting his around them, slipping his fingers to lie between hers. “Never my fill, Tyelca,” he said as he drew their hands down together to rest against his chest. “I could drink of thy love till the end of all things and never, never, be sated.” He shifted her hands to rest within one of his own and reached out to brush the trailing hair from before her eyes, to trace along the line of her jaw, to draw her forward till his lips rested upon the creases between her eyes, the lines of mirth dancing out from each corner, the thin folds upon her cheek. To kiss her lips drenched now with mingled tears.

------

*Tyelca: Queyna - hasty, agile, swift

[cilil]

・゜゜・．☾⋆ Good ☆ Night ⋆☽.・゜゜・　　

A little gift for the amazing @i-did-not-mean-to💜

Characters/relationships: Irmo & reader (platonic)

Synopsis: You have trouble getting a good night's sleep. Irmo visits you to help out.

Featuring: Modern day Middle-earth, 2nd person POV, gender-neutral reader, fluff & comfort

Short oneshot (~800 words)

Past 2 am. Again.

You put your headphones down and massage your temples in an attempt to soothe your headache, though you already know it's in vain. It always is. Glancing at the clock on your screen again, you blink a couple of times to make sure you read the time correctly, still in disbelief. You could've sworn that the clock showed 10 pm only minutes ago. 

Where all the late hours of night keep disappearing to you have no idea, yet what you can tell for certain is that your body doesn't seem to feel them. You're exhausted, vaguely tired, and your headache returned a few hours ago, a faint yet persistent pain at the back of your skull, but you feel restless. Even if you had gone to bed like you had meant to–before you forgot all about the time–you wouldn't have been able to sleep. 

It's been like this for a while now. Staying up late until you finally pass out, wake up, go about your day, repeat. Despite your best efforts and good intentions, you find yourself unable to escape from this tedious rhythm your body has become accustomed to. Rest and relaxation simply appear to elude you. 

You are in the middle of contemplating whether to try going to bed or stay up for a while longer when you notice a strange purple glow reflecting off your screen. Confused, you turn around and freeze when you discover a strange figure standing in the middle of your room. It's a man, though you can tell he isn't human–his body seems to give off a purple glow, and a pair of spectral, colorful butterfly wings is attached to his back. His eyes are purple as well and his hair is long, wavy and white, yet his facial features appear to be soft and youthful. 

For some reason, you aren't afraid, and you don't even understand why. Perhaps you should be or at least be wary of this stranger, but something compels you to stay calm, reassures you that he means no harm. And then, at the back of your mind and as if by coincidence, you remember a name and legends you read about a long time ago. 

Irmo. Vala of Dreams. The Valar. The Gardens of Lórien. Valinor.

The stranger–Irmo–tilts his head to the side and gives you a warm and friendly smile. 

"Do you recognize me?" he asks, and all you can do is nod in response. You remain frozen on your chair; no one ever told you what to do when you meet one of the Valar. 

"You have trouble sleeping, haven't you?" Irmo continues and holds out his hand for you to take. Before you have time to second-guess yourself, you do. His presence is strangely soothing, despite your initial shock. 

"I'm tired, but I can't sleep. I don't know why," you attempt to explain with a shrug and force a smile in return. 

He nods, and you feel that the gesture is genuine, that he understands and takes you seriously. 

"There are a lot of things going through your mind," Irmo says and strokes your hair with his free hand. "Makes it difficult to rest, hmm?" 

You exhale and shake your head, another wave of exhaustion rolling over you. 

"I don't even know what's going on," you admit. "At least I don't really understand." 

"You don't have to explain yourself," Irmo says and squeezes your hand. "You can tell me whatever is on your mind or you can go to sleep, if you prefer. I can make a dream for you as well." 

"I think I just want a good night's sleep for once," you say, and he lets out a quiet little laugh. 

"Fair enough, little one. I thought so." 

Irmo guides you over to your bed and tucks you in with a gentle, loving smile.

"Keep a safe, comfortable and quiet space in your mind, free from anything that hurts or bothers you," he tells you, sitting down on the edge of your bed and folding his wings. "Fill it with all the things you hold dear and that bring you joy, and whenever you need to rest or things become too much, go there. Tell yourself a story, go to another world, dream." 

"But how do I do that?" you ask, unsure what he means.

"Let me show you." 

And Irmo starts to sing. 

~•~•~•~

You wake up late the next morning, but you soon realize you can't be bothered to be mad at yourself for it. You can't remember the last time you felt so... calm. Relaxed. Focused. At peace with yourself. 

Irmo has vanished without a trace, and you begin to wonder if you just imagined everything or had a rather vivid dream–until you find a little dreamcatcher on your nightstand, made with colorful threads and decorated with shimmering pearls and white feathers. A gift to remember him by. 

~•~•~•~

tag list: @eunoiaastralwings, @edensrose

get tagged for my writing? here's the form

masterlist

[tolkiendefiled]

Season 2 Episode 6

Remember how I said the last episode was kind of okay? Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Back when the trailer for the second season came out, I said that the Rings of Power is the worst hate-fiction ever. And boy, did this episode prove me right. It’s like someone said, “Let’s ruin every character,” and then the one rational person working at Amazon was like, “What do you mean everyone?” Almost nothing in this episode is from the books.They’re blatantly copying scenes from Game of Thrones, but worse, damn near none of this stuff is set up. This is exactly what happened in the first season, and at the same point in the season. They want to have these moments of gravitas and emotion, but they never took the time to build up to them, so the moments fall flat.

I feel bad for the actors because they’re really trying. If you watched the episode, you know what scene I’m talking about. The showrunners and writers did them no favors. They’ve got nothing to work with. Take the scenes with the Hobbits. Nori realizes that she’s put the Stoors at risk because the dark wizard is looking for her. Nori tells the leader that her people should leave, but the Stoors don’t want to leave their home, so Nori decides to turn herself in. The show tries to make a big deal of the importance of the Stoors’ home, but this is literally the second time we’ve seen them, and the third time we’ve had any moments with the leader, whose name I’m never going to remember. The actress is doing her best to sell the dialogue, but the scene has no weight because we don’t know anything about these people. This is like showing a random scene from Seven Samurai of the villagers crying. Their performances are fine, but the audience won’t care because they have no connection to these people. You need the scenes of the villagers being helpless and afraid, and then being selfish and shady, for the crying scenes to work. It’s all about context.

Speaking of which, Poppy and Merimac randomly fall in love. Don’t be alarmed, you probably just heard the sound of thousands of lesbians crying out at once. They were certain, absolutely sure, Nori and Poppy were a thing, but now that’s gone. I’m sure they’ll get over it. That said, this is a little fast. These two literally just met, and bruv isn’t exactly running on all cylinders. Then again, Poppy ain’t that bright herself. I bet no one will have a problem with how fast these two fell in love, even though it makes no sense; but if Mr. Nobody had been a woman, well, we’d never hear the end of it. At any rate, because of this, Poppy convinces Nori to stay and fight. Sure, why not? I mean, it’s not like we know nothing about the dark wizard, or his minions, or the Stoors, or what the hell is happening in Rhûn. Just act like this is a big moment. Fuck the context.

Speaking of ignoring context, the Stranger and Tom Bombadil ramble on about the Secret Fire. You might be wondering what that is, and since the show doesn’t bother to explain it to the audience, allow me to mansplain. The Secret Fire is the Power of Creation. It’s what Ilúvatar uses to create life, or more accurately, fëar - a spirit or a soul. This is what allows a creature to have sentience and free will. Other beings, like the Valar, can create other creatures, but those creatures are animated by their creator’s will. They don’t truly act on their own. Only Ilúvatar can impart true sentience onto beings. He does this when Aulë creates the Dwarves, and when Yavanna creates the Ents. This is also why the Orcs are not thought to be created by Morgoth, but instead corrupted by him, because Morgoth can’t create sentient life. So, why is this in the show? Because the Stranger says in his fight with the Balrog that he’s a servant of the Secret Fire, so again, the show implies that this is Gandalf while pretending it’s not.

The issue is that the scene makes no sense in context to the lore, or even the show’s jacked up narrative. We’ve never heard anything about the Secret Fire, and the show has Bombadil speak about it in such a vague way that it’s impossible to understand what he’s getting at. That’s bad for the audience, but it’s worse for the Stranger because he keeps asking for help, and old Tom keeps speaking in nonsensical riddles. It seems like the show is just going in circles with the Stranger, and I think it’s because the writers wrote themselves into a corner by having him not remember who he is or how to use his power. If they commit to him being Gandalf, then he would immediately have to deal with Sauron, which completely breaks the lore since the Wizards don’t arrive until the Third Age after Sauron is defeated. Now the writers need some way to keep the Stranger in the East, so they’re dragging this out, but they’re also trying to claim that Sauron’s on the brink of rising to power, so it doesn’t make any sense why the Stranger would stay in the East. It’s a total mess - one the showrunners needlessly created by changing the order of events. It’s almost like Tolkien knew what he was doing.

Then old Tom takes the Stranger to the keyblade graveyard (attached) to find his staff. This is how you solve the problem of him not going to stop Sauron? Have him spend weeks searching for a stick? Oh no, it’s actually dumber than that. See, the Stranger keeps getting visions of Nori in danger, so he wants to help her, but Bombadil keeps going on about Sauron, and discount Gandalf (the Stranger) is like, “Well, Nori will die,” and so the show has Tom Bombadil completely butcher one of Gandalf’s lines: “Many that die deserve life. Some that live deserve death. Who are you to give it to them?”

The correct line is: “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be so eager to deal out death and judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.” The point wasn’t to lecture someone about whose life is more important. Gandalf says this to Frodo to teach him that Gollum may yet serve a purpose, that even if Gollum can’t be changed, it doesn’t mean his actions can’t lead to good outcomes. And that’s what happens in the story. Because Bilbo didn’t kill Gollum when he had the chance, Gollum was there at Mount Doom when Frodo succumbs to the Ring. He takes the Ring from Frodo and, depending on how you want to read it, either accidentally falls or is deliberately pushed by Frodo into the lava with the Ring, destroying the Ring and winning the day. Had Bilbo killed Gollum like Frodo wanted, once Frodo fell to the Ring, Sauron would have killed him, taken the Ring, and overthrown the world. The point of Gandalf’s words is that no one should go around killing people just because they think that person deserves it because you don’t know what part that person may play later on. It’s a good line and great advice, so why would they butcher it and make it into the polar opposite of Tolkien’s point?

Ironically, many of the people who will complain about this line technically agree with Tom Bombadil, that some lives are more important than others. It’ll be interesting to see how they thread that needle without making themselves look like complete hypocrites.

Anyway, Bombadil tells discount Gandalf to choose and then ditches his ass, and that’s the last we see of them in the episode. We basically learned a whole lot of nothing. It begins and ends at the same place. This man is still looking for a fucking stick. Are you kidding me? No, they’re not kidding. They’re committing to the bit.

For example, Celebrimbor is losing his mind over the rings. Literally, he’s going bananas. He snaps at his staff, forgets Short Round’s name (Mirdania), and is completely consumed with trying to make rings for Men. It’s kind of implied that Annatar is messing with his mind, but none of this makes any sense in context to the show. Celebrimbor didn’t have any problems creating rings for the Elves or Dwarves. The show claims that the rings for Men need to be made so that the Men won’t easily fall prey to corruption, but the show never explains why Men would be so easily corrupted, or why Celebrimbor is incapable of solving this problem. Worse, it doesn’t make any sense why Celebrimbor needs to do this when, in the previous episode, Annatar said he’d make the rings himself. Remember, Annatar is Sauron, and Sauron is the greatest craftsman in Middle-earth at this time. He teaches Celebrimbor how to make Rings of Power, not the other way around, so there’s no reason Annatar couldn’t make rings for Men on his own. This is just some nonsense the show contrived to add conflict, but it doesn’t work because it didn’t properly set it up. The show tries to make it as if Sauron himself is as manipulative and seductive as the One Ring, but it’s so obvious what he’s doing that it makes the characters look gullible and stupid to fall for it. No one has any reason to trust Annatar, especially when all their problems began when he showed up.

Now, there is at least one person who knows something’s up, and that’s Durin. Apparently, the Elven smiths ran out of mithril and a new shipment never arrived, so Annatar goes to Khazad-dûm to ask for more, offering King Durin fresh timber for his mines. The king denies him, but it’s just a ploy. He expects Annatar to come back due to the coming war, so now he can charge more for the trade. This is the ring talking. It’s making him greedy. Durin tries to take the ring from his father, but gets knocked away. The show doesn’t explain this, but this is because the ring increases the bearer’s natural powers, so the king is now stronger than the average Dwarf. Durin is broken by his father’s change. Disa tries to get him to turn on his father, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

The scene wants to be heavy and important, and the actors are giving it their all, but we spend so little time with Durin and his father that the moment carries no weight at all. We’re supposed to think it’s tragic that the king is falling to the ring, but we don’t know enough about him to see this as a tragedy. We have no connection to this man. I give the actors credit for their performances, but it would have been nice if the show gave them the screen time to earn the reaction they want.

Anyway, the pair decide to stop Narvi from mining more mithril by Disa singing to call down bats to chase the miners away. This is their great stand against the tyranny of the ring. Whatever.

Back before Annatar left Eregion, a body washed up with a message asking “Where is he,” meaning where is Sauron. This is a message from Adar, who suspects that Halbrand is Sauron and is still in Eregion. He tells this to Galadriel, who continues to prove she’s the dumbest person in the world. Although, to her credit, she at first tries to act like a rational person. Adar tries to get her to talk by sharing his feelings about Sauron. He mentions that Sauron preys on people’s minds to find what they want most, and asks what Galadriel wanted. To no one’s surprise, it wasn’t common sense, but instead an army. Adar says that what he wanted was children, which apparently explains the Orcs, but that raised a question for me. Are these not regular Orcs? I think I questioned this in the first season because they seem to be connected and loyal to Adar. We saw this in the first episode of this season when they stuck with Adar, even though Sauron should be powerful enough to control them. Are these Orcs specifically tied to Adar? Or is this just how the Orcs came into being? The show never bothers to explain this.

Another problem is that the show just makes shit up. Case in point, the crown of Morgoth. This (attached) is the crown from the first episode that Adar used to stab, and not kill, Sauron. Apparently, this is the same crown that bore the Silmarils, and that’s interesting because the Valar turned that into a collar to chain Morgoth at the end of the First Age. So, did that not happen? Did Morgoth not get banished into the Void? The best excuse I can see for this change is that this bit about the crown being turned into a collar isn’t in the Appendices, but the show clearly references and uses things from the rest of Tolkien’s works, so that excuse doesn’t fly.

What makes even less sense is why Adar still has it. See, he thinks the crown should have been enough to kill Sauron, but it wasn’t. Now he realizes that he needs the crown and the Three Elven Rings to do it. Why would the crown be able to do this, or the rings that only preserve? What’s the plan? Use the rings to keep Sauron alive long enough to stab him to death? The crown has no power, and the rings don’t kill things. So what is his plan?

And then, to make it worse, Galadriel initially refuses to cooperate with Adar, but when he returns, she decides to work with him, so she tells Adar all about the Elves’ forces on their way to Eregion, and that Elrond is with them and has her ring. You just told your enemy your whole fucking plan, and revealed your secret weapon! Is he even really on your side? You don’t know! Why would you tell him your whole fucking plan? So, of course, when Galadriel says that they need to wait for the Elves because Adar’s single legion isn’t enough, Adar reveals that he’s got way more troops, and soon, he’s going to have a Ring of Power. This bitch is literally the dumbest person in the world. She’s supposed to be this cunning military strategist, and she just gave away the whole fucking plot.

However, I will give her some credit. She realizes that Sauron’s plan might be to use Adar’s forces as his own, so getting Adar to attack Eregion might be a trap. Okay, fine. Decent insight. Oh, but there’s just one more thing. Sauron is supposed to be a great power, and the Orcs are susceptible to strong wills, so all he’d actually need to do is just exert his will and the Orcs would be his. Technically, none of this should be happening. Sauron should have had the Orcs on his side the moment he thought about them. Then again, I have done this really weird thing called reading the books, and you know nobody’s supposed to do that.

The siege of Eregion happens, and the people fall into a total panic, even though all of these Elves probably survived the First Age, so this wouldn’t be their first battle. I’m not saying none of them would panic, but it is strange that damn near all of them lose their shit. They got me over here like Chucky. You act like you’ve never seen a catapult before.

Meanwhile, Celebrimbor hears the commotion and tries to look, but Annatar blocks him. When Celebrimbor forces his way outside, Annatar traps him in a fake vision of Eregion to keep him from learning about the siege. Annatar talks about the importance of the rings to Celebrimbor’s legacy, claiming that the Silmarils will just be a whisper compared to what Celebrimbor will achieve. Then he gives Celebrimbor mithril dust supposedly created by Narvi, which we never find out how the hell he got, and hands him Fëanor’s hammer.

Now, the way the scene plays out makes it seem like the Nine Rings for Men are the most powerful or the most important rings Celebrimbor creates. That’s the opposite of what happens in the books. The Three Elven Rings are the height of Celebrimbor’s prowess, and that makes sense because they were made last. This is a weird thing to reverse. If I were being as generous as possible, then I could say that the show doesn’t claim that the Nine are the greatest, but instead implies that Celebrimbor outdid himself with the original Three and now can’t live up to his own hype. Either way, it’s total nonsense.

It also begs the question of why Annatar is even there. He’s really not doing anything with the rings. He’s not teaching Celebrimbor new techniques. He’s not making any of them. The Elves are actually doing all the work. So what is he doing? The books made it clear that Annatar taught Celebrimbor how to make Rings of Power. The show just has Annatar there. He’s pointless.

Anyway, Celebrimbor goes back to make rings, and then the assault happens. That’s the end of the episode, but that’s not all that happened in the episode. I saved the bit with Númenor for last because it is the worst hate-fiction I have seen in a long time. I thought I was supposed to be watching the Rings of Power, not some half-ass version of Games of Thrones, but that is the best description of this nonsense in Númenor.

Elendil is brought before Pharazôn to renounce his crime of, I guess, punching Pharazôn’s son, and to pledge his loyalty to Pharazôn as a true king. Elendil renounces his crime, but won’t pledge fealty, so Pharazôn sentences Elendil to trial by the Valar. He will be put to the sea at the mercy of a sea monster, who will either eat him - proving his guilt - or spare him - proving his innocence in the eyes of the Valar. None of this is in the books, but worse, it doesn’t even make sense in the show. Like I’ve said many times in this review, the show never bothers to set any of this up. We know nothing about how the Númenóreans view the Valar or their traditions around them, so when the show mentions something like trial by sea monster, it comes out of nowhere. There’s no context for any of it - from why Pharazôn would choose this method to why it’s even a thing. The best this show offers is that Pharazôn is trying to throw the Faithful’s love of the Valar back in their faces by forcing Elendil to follow this archaic rule, but we know next to nothing about the Faithful or Númenor’s rules, so this falls flat.

They lock Elendil up in prison, and then his daughter comes to plead with him to pledge fealty to Pharazôn. Where in the Game of Thrones have I seen this before? Ned Stark - I mean, excuse me - Elendil obviously refuses to bend the knee, so his daughter brings in the blind queen to plead the case, but he still refuses because it would be against his beliefs as one of the Faithful. The problem is that none of what they’re talking about has even been in the show. For the umpteenth time, we have no context, so why should anyone care about the scene? Also, since when did Míriel and Elendil become a thing? Are they fucking? They better not be fucking. That’s not in the books. That’s way off from the books.

Anyway, time comes for Elendil to die, and of course, the queen takes Elendil’s place. And of course, she’s spared by the monster. The people then chant for her as the queen of the sea, but Pharazôn’s already been made king, so I’m not sure what this is supposed to accomplish. She’s not actually the queen anymore, right? Or maybe not right because this show never bothers to explain what the fuck is going on. That said, this (attached) is a cool shot.

The Númenor scenes end with Pharazôn checking the palantír and seeing Halbrand, and I’ve got to admit that, as much as I think it’ll be a shit show, I kind of want to see what they’re going to do with this. Because in the books, Sauron tries to corrupt the Númenóreans after failing to corrupt the Elves, but it backfires, and eventually Pharazôn comes after Sauron, but the Dark Lord doesn’t have the power to defeat the Númenóreans, so instead he bends the knee, and eventually goes from prisoner to Pharazôn’s advisor. I’m interested to see how the writers will handle this because they already made the Númenóreans hostile to war in Middle-earth, so none of these people would agree to Pharazôn going back there just to get Sauron. Again, this is another example of the show needlessly writing itself into a corner. Unfortunately for the show, there are only two episodes left, so they don’t have enough time to fix any of this nonsense. It’s almost like they should have stuck to the plot of the books instead of writing the worst hate-fiction ever.

[doodle-pops]

Automatic

Irmo x reader

Kinktober 2022: Bondage

A/N: I never thought that I'd be writing for the Valar given how much I'm iffy about them in the Silm, but for Lorien, I'd make all the exceptions.

Warnings: fembod, bondage, pet names (reader gets called little one), a hint at size difference, mentions of oral sex (m receiving)

Word Count: 2.2k

Synopsis: Tying up your lover for the first time takes a wrong turn, or maybe a right turn.

“Are you sure about this little one?” there was concernment in his voice but underneath, it was laced with danger, a silent warning to thread carefully with your choice of action.

“Uh-huh, I’m sure. I want to do this,” you replied with the brightest sparkle in your eyes as you were completely unaware of the dangerous trap you were setting yourself up for. You hadn’t the slightest idea just how deadly your famed lover was capable of being. All his honey-dripping smiles and alluring praises were only just a sneak peek of what he was planning for the main course of his meal later, but you were too wrapped up in the innocence of taking the lead to understand.

Gazing at your lover, his hands were bounded together as your smaller ones delicately attempted to wrap ropes around his wrist and fasten them to the headboard. Irmo still remembered the exciting aura radiating as you came bounding into his halls holding the ropes behind your back and bore the sweetest smile ever before proposing the question.

‘Can I tie you up?’

It was not the question you should ever ask him. He had warned you countless times to tread carefully when dealing with matters of intimacy, because he knew when he was in a headspace, it was impossible to get him out. He could never control himself around you properly. Always fucking you like there was no tomorrow. However, he just wasn't sure on how to approach the situation without scaring you, hence, your reason for constantly creating them to rile him up. You did love the times when he'd let loose and be free but Irmo would always apologize about being overly rough. You could tell that he secretly wanted to break ties and ravish you with little to no sense of control and without any remorse, a guilty pleasure.

Looking at you with daring eyes, Irmo arched a brow when he found you taking overly long with making a solid knot to fasten his wrist to the headboard. Not wanting to openly express his displeasure, he couldn't help but roll his eyes and sigh disappointedly as he shifted his body at your leisurely pacing. Were you serious about this? At the rate you were moving, he'd become bones.

“Why are you taking so long little one?” he questioned impatiently, and it made a smirk grow across your face.

“Why does it matter, I thought you didn’t want to do this because I should thread carefully?” you mocked him which was the worst mistake you could ever make.

Silently grinning and choking up a scoff, he hung his head and shook it while blinking away the anger in his eyes, you were too focused on making the last knot to notice the change in his expression. Big on having many intimate moments with you, and when he did, it was mostly gentle and tender. Though, when you did attempt to push him over the edge with your antagonizing teasings, all he’d just do was sit back, relax and plan when to strike unexpectedly. He was capable of being a sneaky devil masked underneath the perfect divine façade. Unfortunately, patience wasn't on his side tonight because he wasn't letting it slip. He was growing tired of these games you’d always play, completely forgetting the power he held literally in the palm of his hands when it came to your pleasure.

Waiting for you to crawl back down, you perched yourself onto his waist, sitting in only a thin see-through nightgown lacking underwear, just how Irmo preferred. While you were wrapped up like a present, your lover was stripped completely and laid himself bare on his bed, open for your taking. His stomach was a taunt and lean with a chiselled chest and not overly meaty biceps to match his physique. His silver hair fell around his body, encasing him in a silver glow making him appear as a gift in your eyes. And his cock was wet with spit and precum from all the previous warm-ups you gave him earlier in an attempt to get him prepared for later. It slapped against your ass, smearing its precum across your skin and staining it.

Reaching behind you for his cock, a hiss resonated from his throat when your dainty fingers gripped him firmly and gave a few pumps before running him through your folds. You could feel the anticipation as he slightly trembled. His body shivered in wait as he felt you teasing yourself by rubbing his tip around your entrance and sinking down on his tip and sliding off. With each passing minute as you continued to do so, he was tugging on the restraints. Any minute a crack would be heard.

“Quit teasing and just put it in little one,” he growled and you couldn’t believe it, he was desperate for attention.

Snapping your eyes over to him, you couldn’t help but roll them before commenting on his attitude, “So bossy.”

Leaning your body over his and looking directly into his eyes, you noticed the swirling storm raging as you sunk yourself slowly onto his cock. His nostrils were flared and his breathing ragged. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he bit his lips from the welcoming tightness and warmth of your cunt. Not being able to keep it in, Irmo threw his head into the pillows and moaned into the bedroom’s air. He was panting and thought for a moment that he was about to die surrounded by your heat.

“Take your time little one, you know it's a tight fit, easy on my cock – ”

“Will you be quiet?” You snapped at him as you were only halfway down his cock. He was always nudging against your cervix and if you were to sink the rest of the way, you’d rip yourself in half. It always amazed you how he was able to make himself fit.

Widening his eyes at your attitude, his head was flung into the pillow to release a burst of devilish laughter that haunted your soul. You were playing with fire. Glancing at you through hooded eyes, Lorien continued to observe through slithered eyes as you attempted to sink your body the rest of the way and only pausing to tremble because you couldn't fit him. Waiting patiently for you to pause at the right moment and take deep breaths, he thrust his hips forward and pushing himself completely in. You fell onto his chest with nailed gripping his shoulders as his hips pumped themselves into your cunt pushing the rest of himself the rest of the way in. He couldn't help but chuckle at your pathetic moans, begging and pleading for more and to go harder, but he wasn’t ready to give in yet.

With ease as his hips drove into yours, he broke free of his bonds with the whisper of a word and brought his arms to wrap around your waist. They were quick to slide off your child-bearing hips and grip your ass as his speed increased. His enormous hands squeezed the plump flesh to his delight and gave light spanks to it. You on the other hand were crying out to him to have mercy and give you want you wanted as he thrust his cock at an angle that grazed near your soft spot but never touched it. He was confused about where all the attitude from earlier had gone.

His cock easily slid in and out your cunt from the excessive moulding off your body during your first few times. He made sure that your body would only contort under his will and remember his cock upon first entry. Still to this day, it was a torturous experience. The way his cock would struggle to squeeze past your muscles while being suffocated to death, Irmo enjoyed the feeling of knowing you would always be too small to take him. The power it gave him made him just a tad bit cocky, but it was a privilege to have you struggle to take his cock. The stretch would send you into a frenzy.

Tumbling in and out of pleasure, Irmo was controlling every sensation your body experiencing at that moment, his way of showing you that he would forever have power over you. Your body was just floating out in the sea of ecstasy, not your usual drowning and you wished to experience that grasp of pleasure if only he would just graze your soft spot. The laughter going in one ear and coming out the next and the grip his hands held on you – figuratively and literally – felt overwhelming. It made your body cave into his desires and will. Everything you were going to do was all under his command, his control, his power that he dangled over your head as if he was toying with a cat.

His hips were always sinful, and it was no different from how they rolled against yours. Calculative and precise with just a hint of venom loving the way you clawed at his chest and breathed heavily as though you were losing your breath. One thrust and your body would lurch forward and up his chest. The hands on your body ran sensationally over your skin, making you squeal and squirm with enhanced pleasure. As much as you wanted to deny his touch, your own body betrayed you and arched into his hands, trembling under every glide of his delicate fingers. All you could do was bury your face in the crook of his neck and whimper.

“My sweet, sweet little one. Look at me, that’s it. Now, here’s how things are going to go from now on,” he paused to suck in a deep breath as he felt your walls clenching around him before continuing, “...you can either let me have my way with you and we can pretend this never happened or…I can fuck you like you desire but never let you cum. Choose.”

Whimpering and crying out his name, he was enamoured by the way it rolled off your tongue; he always was. All the pleasurable sighs you gifted him about how good he was making you feel were praises to boost his already prideful capabilities. He knew he was a God in the area of pleasuring you and your little attitude tonight tempted him to use that title to strip you bare. Manoeuvring his hips to sink his cock as deep as possible into your heat, the grip on your ass held you firmly as his thrusts slowed to a snail’s pace making the multitude of veins on his cock kiss every inch of your heat as it moved in and out, coating itself in the most perfect ring of cream at the base.

“I-Irmo please, I want to cum, please…” you whined.

That was all your lover required to roll you two over, so you laid under and him on top with your hands bounded in his above your head. His larger body covered yours and pressed you into the bed, placing just a fraction of his weight so you couldn't run. His hips never ceased their pounding and shook your entire skeleton. Your bones were rattling from the intensity of his thrusts and all you could do was lie there and take them. Irmo took the opportunity to bring his lips down to yours for a quick distracting kiss as his hands inched yours further up the bed to interlace the ropes around your wrists. He was skilful and witty with his movements; not once did you suspect your lover fastening your hands to the bedhead until he pulled away with a dangerous glint in his eye from the kiss. It was then you realized the trap you had set yourself up in right from the very start. Irmo would have never allowed you to get away with tying him up so easily unless some payback was written in stone.

“I warned you to thread carefully, but you never learn,” violet eyes gleamed into your fearful ones, a dark cynical chuckle escaped his throat as you struggled against the bonds. Tugging and knowing that it was useless because they were ropes specially made by the Vala, you released a whine because this was not how you imagined him having his way with you for your earlier stunt. A completely different scenario resonated in mind.

You were too stunt to speak.

“What is the matter little one? Why so scared? You gave me free rein to have my way so we could forget about your little,” dragging his hands down to grip your cheeks and squish them together, he shook your head, “attitude. So, sit back and relax, you haven't anywhere to go.”

Your response fell short because the next round of thrusts made your back bow off the bed as the air was knocked out of your chest. He purposefully rested his body against yours, pinning you into the mattress so you had no choice but to stay there and take what he gave while lacing your skin in blissful love bites. He was truly a passionate lover, the best you had ever experienced and the only one you had encountered. Everything he delivered was a sensory overload that had your head spin and brain melted. From the brushing of his chest against your nipples to the wicked thrust of his cock past your tight cunt to the breath-taking kisses he gave.

“We’re not even through one round, but let’s see how many more you can last for tonight.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @someoneinthestars @lilmelily @aconstructofamind @mysticmoomin

Kinktober 🏷: @rain-on-my-umbrella @something-about-twilight @hoshinokurasa

[thelustybraavosimaid]

As he floated in and out of fevered sleep, through curtained daylight and chill night, he felt as though gray ice grew inside him, stiffening his limbs and filling him with frost. He wondered if he would ever be warm again. (The Music of High Places, Stone of Farewell)

...

Chunks of coal burned in iron braziers at either end of the long room, but Jon found himself shivering. The chill was always with him here. In a few years he would forget what it felt like to be warm. (Jon III, AGoT)

--

Other times he could not be found at all. He skulked around the castle like a scrawny shadow, could shinny up a wall as well as the roof-masons and glaziers, and knew so many passageways and hiding holes that the castle folk called him "ghost boy." Rachel boxed his ears frequently and called him a mooncalf. (The Grasshopper and the King, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

The next morning Bran was nowhere to be seen. They finally found him fast asleep in the upper branches of the tallest sentinel in the grove.

As angry as he was, his father could not help but laugh. "You're not my son," he told Bran when they fetched him down, "you're a squirrel. So be it. If you must climb, then climb, but try not to let your mother see you." (Bran II, AGoT)

--

"Oh, please, master," the jester beseeched. "Weep no more! All men must die—you, I, everyone. If we are not killed by youthful stupidity or ill-luck, then it is our fate to live on like the trees: older and older until at last we totter and fall. It is the way of all things. How can you fight the Lord's will?" (The Grasshopper and the King, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

"Let them. Is it treason to say a man is mortal? Valar morghulis was how they said it in Valyria of old. All men must die. And the Doom came and proved it true." The Dornishman went to the window to gaze out into the night. "It is being said that you have no witnesses for us." (Tyrion IX, ASoS)

(George took the latter line literally)

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies," said Jojen. "The man who never reads lives only one. The singers of the forest had no books. No ink, no parchment, no written language. Instead they had the trees, and the weirwoods above all. When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood." (Bran III, ADwD)

--

"To be fair, Man and Animal both live a similarly brief span of years in Osten Ard, and this is not true of Sithi and Man. If the Fair Folk are not actually deathless, they are certainly much longer-lived than any mortal man, even our nonagenarian king. It could be they do not die at all, except by choice or violence—perhaps if you are Sitha, violence itself might be a choice..." (The Grasshopper and the King, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

Meera said, "You speak the Common Tongue now."

"For him. The Bran boy. I was born in the time of the dragon, and for two hundred years I walked the world of men, to watch and listen and learn. I might be walking still, but my legs were sore and my heart was weary, so I turned my feet for home."

"Two hundred years?" said Meera.

The child smiled. "Men, they are the children." (Bran II, ADwD)

--

"I saved him, Susanna. I had to," he whispered. The corners of the woman's mouth twitched—it might have been a smile.

"I...know..." she said, voice coming ever so softly in her raw throat. "If only...my Eahlferend...had not..." The effort was too much, and she stopped. Elispeth leaned down to show her the child, wrapped in blankets, still attached to the bloody umbilicus.

"He's small," the old woman smiled, "but that's because he arrived so early. What is his name?"

"...Call...him...Seoman..." Susanna croaked out. "...it means...'waiting'..." She turned to Morgenes and seemed to want to say something more. The doctor leaned closer, his white hair brushing her snow-pale cheek, but she could not make the words come. A moment later she gasped once, and her dark eyes rolled up until the whites showed. The girl holding her hand began to sob. (Birds in the Chapel, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

"I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. "Lyanna was…fond of flowers." (Eddard I, AGoT)

...

5. Since all of their mothers died, who gave Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister their names?

Mothers can name a child before birth, or during, or after, even while they are dying. Dany was most like named by her mother, Tyrion by his father, Jon by Ned.

[Source]

--

The black cart and its attendants drew to a halt just within the circle of firelight. One of the four standing figures raised an arm, the black sleeve falling away to reveal a wrist and hand as thin and white as bone.

It spoke, voice silvery-cold, toneless as ice cracking. (The Hill Fire, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. (Prologue, AGoT)

...

The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking. (Prologue, AGoT)

--

And what were these figures who approached him across the shambles of the courtyard, moving as gracefully over the icy stones as blowing thistledown?

His heart raced. At first, he saw their beautiful, cold faces and pale hair, Hengfisk thought them angels. (Foreward, Stone of Farewell)

...

"No one's here," said Bran, bravely. "Look at the snow. There are no footprints."

"The white walkers go lightly on the snow," the ranger said. "You'll find no prints to mark their passage." (Bran II, ADwD)

...

"The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful…think, oh…the Sidhe made of ice, something like that…a different sort of life…inhuman, elegant, dangerous." (A Game of Thrones: The Graphic Novel, Volume 1)

--

"Qantaqa was a pup when she was found by me," Binabik continued at last. "Her mother had probably been killed, or from starvation had died. She snarled at me when I discovered her, a ball of white fur given away in the snow by black nose." (A Net of Stars, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

Father frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. "Do we know what killed her?"

"There's something in the throat," Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. "There, just under the jaw."

His father knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood. (Bran I, AGoT)

...

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.

"Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. (Bran I, AGoT)

--

"In the smoaking rubble of the Temple there not lay a great and gleaming Stone. It was proclaimed by the Aedonites that here was the heathen altar, melted by the vengeful Fires of the One God.

"I, Nisses, believe instead that this was a flaming Star of the heavens fallen to Earth, as happens on Occasion.

"Now, from this molten wrack was taken a great price, and the Imperator's swordwrights found it Workable, and the sky-metal was hammered into a great Blade. In mind of the scourging branches which had flaid Usires' Back, the star-sword—as I suppose it to be—was named THORN, and a mighty power there was in it..." (Forgotten Swords, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

"The finest knight I ever saw was Ser Arthur Dayne, who fought with a blade called Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. They called him the Sword of the Morning, and he would have killed me but for Howland Reed." (Bran III, ACoK)

--

"By contrast," the passage continued, "the one man who was John's match on the field of war was his virtual opposite. Camaris-sá-Vinitta, last prince of the Nabbanai royal house and brother of the current duke, was a man to whom war seemed only another fleshly distraction. Astride his horse Atarin and with the great sword Thorn in his hand, he was probably the most deadly man in our world—yet he took no pleasure from battle, and his great skill was only a burden, in that his mighty reputation brought many against him who would otherwise have had no cause, and forced him to kill when he would not." (The Shadow of the Wheel, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

"Prince Rhaegar's prowess was unquestioned, but he seldom entered the lists. He never loved the song of swords the way that Robert did, or Jaime Lannister. It was something he had to do, a task the world had set him. He did it well, for he did everything well. That was his nature. But he took no joy in it. Men said that he loved his harp much better than his lance." (Daenerys IV, ASoS)

--

Binabik was right: this thing emerging from like a jet-black butterfly from its prisoning chrysalis was not only a sword, it was a sword like no other he had ever seen: long as a man's arms spread wide, fingertip to fingertip, and black. The purity of its blackness was unmarred by the colors that sparkled on its edge, as though the blade was so supernaturally sharp that it even sliced the dim light of the cavern into rainbows. (Beneath the Uduntree, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

In answer, Jon had pressed Longclaw into Sam's hand. He let him feel the lightness, the balance, had him turn the blade so that ripples gleamed in the smoke-dark metal. "Valyrian steel," he said, "spell-forged and razor-sharp, nigh on indestructible. A swordsman should be as good as his sword, Sam. Longclaw is Valyrian steel, but I'm not. The Halfhand could have killed me as easy as you swat a bug." (Samwell I, AFfC)

--

Their leader had worn a helmet in the form of a snarling hound’s face, but Isgrimnur had never heard of such an emblem. (Cold Comforts, The Dragonbone Chair)

...

He turned to find Clegane looming overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane's hideously burned face. (Tyrion I, AGoT)

[sunflowersupremes]

I think I've made like, two sarcastic comments about how I'm glad the Finarfin you've mentioned isn't the Finarfin from my stories (or at least in the splinters like jewel shards verse) but I don't think I've asked, do you have any headcanons on Finarfin? I'm interested if you'd like to share any!

-@outofangband

@outofangband

Yes!!! I remember that comment. I also hope he’s a bit nicer than the Finarfin from Return in Chains, one of my fics (although that Finarfin isn’t evil… just… makes questionable decisions out of desperation, which is basically the Finwean Family Pastime).

I LOVE FINARFIN.

He thinks “Finarfin” (aka Finwe-Ara-Finwe) is a terrible name and can’t believe his brother would have done such a stupid thing. (He also thinks “Fingolfin” is a terrible translation).

After all his relatives took off and left them, he got put in charge of not only the country, but also literally everyone’s CRAP. Meaning, as the only remaining member of the house of Finwë, he had to figure out what to do with all the houses and possessions they left behind. He ended up boarding them up and leaving them, in the hopes that they would come back one day (elven possessions don’t rot or decay, after all).

The only time he used one of his relatives homes after they left was gifting Maglor’s house to Celebrían when she arrived. By that time he had accepted that Maglor would never return, and he figured she had the best claim to it (and it had the largest garden, which he knew she would like, and it was in the artist’s district which she loved). When Elrond actually managed to drag Maglor back with him, Arafinwë was SHOCKED. Thankfully, Maglor was fine with him gifting it to her and just moved in with them.

He just generally seems like he wants the best for everyone. I don’t think he’s a coward, I think he’s just very cautious (and he has a bit of foresight, which means he probably saw that the future would be WORSE if he went as well). I also like the idea that part of his reason for staying was ‘get on the Valar’s good side so I can eventually convince them to help’ not realizing that by the time they helped his entire family would be dead.

He has a great sense of humor and is generally a fun guy to be around. His assorted relatives know they’re always welcome at either of his homes (he has one in Tirion and one in Aqualonde) even if he’s not there himself. Half the time he gets back from vacation to find at least two random nieces/nephews chilling in his house.

He and Maglor both have a similar grasp of emotions and Osanwe. Maglor uses his gifts to fuck with people; Finarfin tries to use his to help people. He spends a lot of time going around fixing all the people Maglor has screwed with.

Arafinwë annoys Maglor precisely because he can see through Maglor’s attempts at manipulation. Maglor tried to trick him into doing something once and Finarfin calmly said ‘if you wanted attention you only had to ask’ (that, of course, was HIGHLY OFFENSIVE as far as Maglor was concerned).

Arafinwë does not want the crown. It is a running joke in Tirion that whenever someone from the line of Finwë is reborn or sails, he tries to give them the crown (it is true, actually, but no one else wants the thing either). He even tries to give it to Maglor once he turns up.

His attempt at inventing democracy backfired when he was elected.

Nerdanel becomes very close to him during the First Age while they bond over missing their children.

He keeps a memorial in the palace garden, with markers - made by Nerdanel - for every fallen member of the house of Finwë. They even add a marker for Gil-Galad after the Last Alliance even though no one has any idea who the fuck he is or if he’s related. The memorials are kept even after the dead are re-embodied, as a reminded of ‘that dumb thing you did that one time’

He makes annual trips to the Halls of Mandos just to ‘chat’ with Namo (and subtly inquire as to when he’s going to be getting his relatives back). Finrod’s release was, in part, to try to appease Arafinwë, but all it did was make him more determined that he COULD get the rest of his family back.

He informs Namo that no, no you will NOT be keeping my brother and his children until the Second Music, thank you very much. (Namo points out that their Fëar are very badly damaged, Arafinwë asks why the fuck Namo thinks that he - as a Vala - is best equipped to heal people who hate his guts)

Fëanor gave him a pet swan when he was five because Fëanor thinks swans are assholes and expected it to terrorize his younger brother. Instead Arafinwë befriended the swan and trained it to bite Fëanor on command.

Arafinwë typically doesn’t eat meat, the only exception is fish.

He can’t figure out why the Valar put Eönwë in charge of the host. I mean, he’s a great guy and a terrifying fighter, but he seems to have a few screws loose.

Elrond and Elros’ return to Gil-Galad was only because of Arafinwë. Maedhros and Maglor didn’t trust the host of the Valar, but Arafinwë sent them a letter promising to personally watch over the twins and arguing that they would be safer with the Host. Because of this, Elrond and Elros resented him for a long time, blaming him for taking them away from their adopted family.

Arafinwë spent a good chunk of the War of the Wrath keeping Eönwë from accidentally causing Diplomatic Incidents or Other Minor Catastrophes. The rest of the War was spent trying to work how the the fuck he’s related to Gil-Galad. He still isn’t sure, he’s pretty sure Fingon might have just picked up a random kid somewhere. Or he might be a Fëanorian, but he kind of hopes NOT. He loves his half-brother, but holy fuck.

It was his idea to turn Morgoth’s crown into a collar, because he was fucking pissed off by that point. It was mostly a joke, but Eönwë, being a himbo, went with it.

He was attempting to negotiate either the return of the Silmarils OR a different way to end the Oath when Maedhros and Maglor stole the Silmarils from Eönwë’s camp. One of the guards they killed was a childhood friend of Arafinwë. Arafinwë already had rooms waiting for Maedhros and Maglor back in Tirion, because as soon as he got them on a boat he was planning to take them straight home, whether that was the Valar’s plan or not.

Arafinwë had managed to arrange a pardon for Galadriel, but she was still angry and proud and announced that she didn’t want it, thus resulting in her getting a personal ban.

He knew Galdalf before he went to Middle Earth and gave him a very long list of things to tell Galadriel, most of which amounted to ‘get over yourself and apologize to the Valar so you can come home you fucking idiot (and please tell Elrond hello, he’s a lovely child, really)’

He adores the Hobbits and can’t believe Elrond managed to bring them. Gandalf who? He gives his grandson-in-law all the credit, thank you very much.

[dialux]

I’ve been going on a reading binge of all your Tolkien Women fics, and I cannot stop thinking about Indis. As a consequence I’ve created a headcanon that hurts my heart and I am going to inflict it upon you because this is clearly your fault.

Indis is one of those people just meant to be a parent, it fits her so well everyone knew it was just a matter of time before she became one. And once she gets married she tries so hard to be there for Feanor despite her own grief, but he won’t let her in. She has her kids and everyone congratulates her on having four (four!!) wonderful children, but in her heart she has five. Because Feanor might not have let her into his heart, but she certainly let him into hers, and she will always think of him as her eldest son.

It will haunt her to the end of all days and beyond, that he was always her son but she could never truly be his mother, and on her bad days she thinks that every catastrophe and death of the first age can be laid at her feet for not succeeding in the one thing everyone said was her speciality.

Okay, so a) fuck you, b) fuck you, c) fuck you. This story is basically just saying that, only in more euphemistic terms, anon.

...

Once, there were three: a woman with fair hair, a man with fair eyes, a woman with fair skin. 

...

The woman with fair skin is captured and taken by the Dark One to his fortress, where she languishes for long weeks in grief and agony. She is not turned, even as those captured alongside her become evil beings, twisted and gruesome and cruel. Melkor wonders why this woman- this limpid-eyed, weeping girl- can withstand what no other has managed.

He does not get the chance to find out.

The woman with fair hair storms Utumno. She drags her sister out alongside whoever is left of their people. But the fair-skinned woman collapses only a few days’ from the chill of Utumno, and she shows her sister the secret she expended all her fea upon: a child, a fair-haired, fair-eyed, fair-skinned girl.

Intyale the Fair-Haired buries her sister Indis in a cave of glittering light. Then she takes the child down to her people, and she bids her brother, fair-eyed Ingwe, to watch their niece. Indis he names her, for the mother she will never know, and he raises her as his own daughter, this girl who bears the brightest things of all his family.

...

She is the daughter of all three of them. Of Indis the Slain, and Intyale the Bright-Speared, and Ingwe the Grand. Indis bears one woman’s name and another woman’s steadiness and a man’s strength. She is the princess of the Vanyar. She will always be that.

She will always remember how desperately her mother fought to keep her alive. Hidden in Utumno, chanting song after song of hiding and cleaving and darkness, straining for one more moment- one more moment- to keep the little babe at her breast alive- defying Melkor himself- 

The Vanyar suffer the greatest of the losses to the Dark One before ever Orome comes to them. They- none of them, not from the eldest down to the youngest child- will ever trust Melkor ever again.

She was born in grief. 

The Doom that Namo places- it is shocking, it is pitiless, it is cruel. But then Alqualonde still rings with the laments of the Teleri. But then, Finwe is dead. Melkor has taken not just one from Indis’ life. 

She was born in grief, and, as one by one her children too learn that taste, she wonders: Perhaps the doom is my own.

...

When she is very young, she asks Intyale: What did I get from my mother?

And Intyale- this, Indis remembers very, very well- had paused, and considered, and then said, Her silence.

...

From Indis her mother, she receives silence. From Ingwe, she receives the knowledge of ruling and leadership. From Intyale- 

-from Intyale, she receives the strength of will to remain unbowed.

...

Indis loves Miriel with the kind of love of a calf for its mother: overwhelmingly, adoringly, all-consumingly. She spends hours with Miriel, learning to weave those tapestries, hands tangled in thread of silk and cotton and wool, eyes affixed to the wall just as often as she watches the silver spirals of Miriel’s hair.

The Noldor tend to craft to show their passion for the world, but Indis has nothing of that: she is a fair dancer, a well-versed scholar, a singer of surpassing talent. None of them call to her more than the rest.

She aids Miriel often, now that the building of Tirion is almost complete. Indis enjoys sitting with her and with Finwe, sipping a salty-hot tea as the light changes from gold to silver; she often falls asleep there, slumped over in her chair, and returns only at the second Mingling to Ingwe’s abode.

...

This is what they all forget about Miriel’s death: it was slow.

Slow and lingering and painless. She had dignity unto the end. Finwe clutched her hand until it could not be held. Little Feanaro is the only person in all of Aman, they say, who has lost his mother.

Indis bites her tongue until it bleeds, and does not speak.

...

Intyale dies upon the hills of the Ered Luin. Indis is still young in those days, not quite an adult and not quite a child. Three children are gamboling near the water, and there is- something. Not quite something, but not quite nothing either. Intyale realizes before anyone else, and flings herself forwards, bare-handed.

Bare-chested.

The water boar is driven backwards into the river. Indis grabs the children. Two maiar run, grasp the situation, calm the boar down with songs. Intyale emerges from the river dripping.

She collapses upon the sand, and Indis is there in heartbeats: Intyale is the only mother she remembers, distant and proud though she may be. When she dares to let her eyes drift to Intyale’s chest, everything tightens up inside of her. Her mother is rent open, from breast to belly. 

“No,” says Intyale, and reaches up, and grips Indis’ chin tighter than she ought to be able to, so close to death’s door. “Look at me, little one. We are more than our flesh.”

“You are dying,” whispers Indis, trembling.

“Yes,” says Intyale bluntly. “Call for Ingwe.”

Not for the maiar, who might save her. And not for the Valar either. Intyale has given up: Indis doesn’t realize this until later, but her mother- her aunt- would not have called for Ingwe had she not been determined to join the sister she watched fall.

Intyale forces Ingwe to swear to care for Indis as he would his own daughters. Then she asks for her spear, and to be burned until even her bones show no ash. She tells everyone who her sparse belongings must go to. And then, fingers clutching the bone-spear, she dies.

...

(Feanor, too, burns. Half her family burns to death, Feanor and Fingolfin and Fingon and Turgon and Maedhros and- and- and-

That fire is not of Finwe alone. Fire can be taught to catch, and Feanor never burned quite so brightly to anyone else as he did for Indis and her usurpation of his sainted mother. No: the fire is Indis’ inheritance, and Indis’ gift.)

...

Intyale does not tell anyone who her bone-spear should be given to. Indis finds herself holding onto it, and somehow never lets go.

...

This is what they forget: Miriel was the first to die in the peace of Valinor. 

The second is Finwe.

...

Feanaro has lost his mother, but Indis will become that mother if he will allow it. She would wish for nothing more. Of course she wishes for nothing more. 

But he does not.

Indis watches him when he does not realize. She can see it- the grief, the loneliness. He is a little boy, and Finwe is not half the father he would wish to be, and there are impossible things in this world that Indis wants- her mother, her Miriel, her peace- but most of all she just wants little Feanaro to be happy, to know happiness and joy and trust in it instead of fearing the joy will turn cold and dead in his arms.

...

Miriel had been- quickly angered.

So had Finwe. So do most of the Noldor. Indis is patient enough not to pay much attention to it. 

Well. She is patient.

...

Miriel had been easily provoked into greatness. A few insults, a carefree comment- Miriel would sit at her loom and weave, something ever-greater and ever-better. Even now, the finest gown in Indis’ keep is one that she received from Miriel the day after she spent hours insulting Miriel’s taste in fabric.

Indis would have done that to her in those awful weeks after Feanaro’s death. She would’ve gone in and insulted Miriel to within an inch of her life, made her so breathless with rage that Miriel would have levitated out of her bed to strike Indis about the face. 

But Este’s healers- called in when the labor lasted for more than two days- refused to hear of it, and Indis could only watch as Finwe’s face went whiter by the hour and all they heard from the sickroom were little Feanaro’s wails and the healers’ murmurs. She obeys the Valar: she watches Miriel fade into Lorien, and never return.

Little Feanaro is all that’s left of Miriel. 

She is certain that he’s very much like her, too.

...

Feanaro thinks that his dislike of Indis comes from her marriage to his father. Perhaps the dislike deepened into hatred then; Indis does not know. What she does know- for she’s ensured it- is that Feanaro hated her well before her marriage.

...

(“I expected better of you,” says Indis, once.

Feanaro is three years old. His eyes are Miriel’s in shape and size and beauty. Indis, determinedly, does not flinch. 

“I’m just doing with Rumil taught me!” he exclaims.

“In Valmar,” says Indis, “children learn their letters by the time they turn a year old.”

Feanaro flushes red. “I don’t like these letters. They don’t make sense.”

“Then make your own,” says Indis, careful not to let sympathy seep into her voice.

She does not smile when the news percolates through Valinor of Feanor’s Tengwar. She does not smile, but oh, oh: how she wants to!)

...

This is what they do not see: Feanaro is young, and while fire is forever dangerous, while fire is forever alluring, it is too easy, far too easy, to stamp it out. Especially when it is young. Especially when it is small.

Indis would have been the shelter to that little flame if he would have allowed it. But he will not, so all she can do is throw fuel onto the fire. Chaff and dross and dried straw: insults and backhanded compliments and petty slights. If Feanaro will not let her protect him, then she will build him so high that none will ever be able to strike him down.

(Letting him die was never an option.)

...

Finwe dies, and they leave, and then Feanaro dies, and then Findis disappears, and then Nolofinwe dies, and then Arafinwe comes to her, for the first time since his father’s body burned in Tirion’s courtyard.

“We have been given leave to go to Beleriand,” says Arafinwe quietly, solemnly. “Morgoth shall be defeated and thrown into the Void. The Vanyar shall all come, by King Ingwe’s decree.”

“Is there something you wish to ask me, then?” asks Indis gently.

Arafinwe swallows, one reflexive jump of his throat. “Will you join me?”

Indis rises. Steps away. Goes to her bedroom and plucks it from the wall, and returns in time to see her darling son’s shoulder slump with frustration. 

“I will not,” she says. Arafinwe jumps, startled. Indis steps closer to him and presses the bone-spear into his palms. “I will not return, Arafinwe, to that land. Already it has taken much from me. I will not offer it more.”

“But-”

“Take this,” says Indis. “It is your grandmother’s.”

Surprise glitters in his pale eyes. “I have a sword.”

“This has already held off Morgoth once,” says Indis. “There are tales that will never be told, of the courage of the elves that never saw the Blessed Isles. Intyale Bright-Speared was your grandmother named, and well-named was she! This spear held Morgoth back long enough to release prisoners in the depths of Utumno before ever Orome saw us, long enough to let Intyale’s sister flee. Long enough for Intyale’s sister to hand the child in her arms over to Intyale.

“The sister’s name is Indis,” says Indis. “I was that child. I was named for her.”

Arafinwe stares at her. “You speak so rarely of them.”

“I’ve no desire to relive tragedy for the rest of my life,” says Indis flatly. “Now come. You’ll need to learn how to use that, if you wish to hold Morgoth hostage!”

...

Perhaps she began this, when she chose this path.

Perhaps she could have averted this.

But Indis is the daughter of Intyale, and it will be her bone-spear held to Morgoth’s throat at the end of this awful, deathful road, and if nothing else- if nothing else- she has the will to remain unbowed, this girl born in the shadow of Utumno, this woman who watched all those around her fall as wheat before a scythe, this mother who would rather her children loathe her than die, this daughter who has lost both mothers and knows, bitterly, the whole of that unfathomable loss.

...

That is what she tells Feanor, finally, when he returns to life.

There is something thoughtful in his gaze. He nods, and returns, a week later, and when she blithely tells him that his sons have inherited his monotonous fashion sense, Feanor flushes, and then pauses, and then says, carefully, “I’d rather it be monotonous than Finarfin’s gaudiness,” and Indis drinks her tea- salty-hot, just as she likes it- and she says, smiling, “I am glad you can be taught.”

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Gundabad - Thranduil x reader

Hi, I saw you posted about requests so I wondered if I could request prompts #20, #37 and #45 with Thranduil x fem reader. Thank you ❤

Hey, thanks for requesting @aduialel​ !  This is for everyone requesting, IF A PROMPT HAS BEEN CROSSED OFF, YOU CAN NO LONGER USE IT! Sorry, I forgot to cross off #37, but I’ll write the other two.

20. “I’ve been forgotten…” 45. “Where is Y/N? She was meant to be with you!”

Type: Imagine Pairing: Thranduil x reader Summary: the war-grounds of Gundabad are steeped in tragedy and sorrow. Warnings: deviating from original plot (i.e. time/cause of Thranduil’s wife’s death), death, sadness,  Word Count: 2,116 words

All non-English words are in Sindarin.

Y/N looked casually to her side, taking in the silver-robed King in her peripheral vision. He looked straight ahead, a cool elegance in his gaze that matched the coldness of everything he was - from his ‘war tiara’ as Y/N teasingly called it, to the way he sat. Such arrogance in posture Y/N had never seen before then, but she didn’t mind it. In some ways, she was much the same.

“You know, Y/N, we need to get you an elk,” he said, turning to her with a smile equal parts warm and cocky, so characteristic of him.

“A moose?” Y/N raised an eyebrow in response, patting her horse’s neck that matched that of every other Elven soldier. “Please. I would sooner die.”

They continued in a comfortable silence, leading the formidable army of Mirkwood to Gundabad, realm of the Witch-King of Angmar. Y/N knew the other Elves of her realm, Taur-nu-Fuin (Mirkwood), found her strange, for being so close to the grief-stricken Elvenking, who had shoved away everyone else after the death of his beautiful wife, Elerrian, in a tragic Orc ambush. Fifty to one, she hadn’t stood a chance … not when she was surrounded and unarmed. 

Y/N, too, had mourned for the kind and beloved Queen, and she remembered fondly when she was placing flowers on Elerrian’s memorial statue, she’d run into a young blonde ellon (male elf) child. 

“Wow! You’re Lady Y/N!” he said, and she bent down, hands on her knees to make eye contact with him. “You’re so pretty!”

Y/N laughed, smiling at this adorable child. “Thank you! How do you know my name?”

“I’m me,” he said mysteriously. “I know everyone.”

“Who’s ‘me’?” Y/N asked. 

The child put his hand to his heart, extending it towards her with an endearingly cute formality. “Prince Legolas Thranduilion.”

Thranduil’s son … Y/N copied his greeting. “Lady Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“You should come to dinner with me and my Ada (Daddy)!” Legolas suggested enthusiastically, already taking your hand and skipping back towards the underground realm. 

Y/N had indeed come at the young Prince’s invitation, and Thranduil was captivated by her beauty from the moment he met her - her e/c eyes that sparkled in the torchlight when she laughed, how her h/c hair moved as she tossed her head back and forth, the way her s/c hand looked on his pale one whenever she handed him something and their hands brushed for the briefest of moments. Y/N had never known why Legolas had been so far away from the palace when he was fifteen autumns old (y’all, that’s like, five. and i think the mirkwood elves counting in autumns is a very romantic concept), never found out that Thranduil had sent him out to find this entrancing elleth (female elf).

Now, a few years later, Y/N was in a very comfortable friendship with Thranduil himself, though she would only admit to herself and no one else that her feelings for him extended beyond platonic infatuation. She knew that she shouldn’t feel this way - Elves only married once, and Thranduil’s wife had passed.

Valar, I should be grieving for her, not lusting after her husband! Y/N growled to herself. But then she would be distracted by how soft his white-blond hair felt when he asked her to brush it out, how he would reserve his rare smiles for her, and her heart would flutter away again.

But she could not let herself be distracted.

Gundabad was dangerous, and she had to fight to the best of her ability.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, Y/N noticed that Thranduil had held up a hand, and all of the Elves stopped immediately. 

Y/N drew her sword, Gweleth (it means woman of air, or something along those lines) with a clear shing!, letting the silver blade shine in the dwindling sunlight. Thranduil gave her an almost imperceptible nod, copying her motion with his familiar smirk that told her he anticipated the battle ahead. 

Guttural chants echoed off the tall walls before them, as the Elves stood in a formidable barrier, ready to end the Evil approaching from this land. 

“Orcs,” Y/N spoke, not needing to turn to her King to know he was listening. “The Witch-King sinks so low.”

He tilted his head forward in response, spinning his sword in a fluid movement. “He will not be able to sink any lower after we have buried him in the blood-soaked war-grounds of his fortress.”

Y/N grinned, running one of her fingers along Gweleth. “By all means, my King. Lead the way.”

It was then that the chants drew closer, and without warning, Orcs began to flood from behind their barriers.

Thranduil raised his sword with a roar, and Y/N kicked her horse into motion, following Thranduil’s elk with a cry of her own. As the Elves met the Orcs in a mess of a massacre, Y/N’s sword sliced through body after body. She felt a throb of worry when she could no longer see Thranduil, but forced her mind back to the far more pressing battle at hand. 

Thranduil, too, immediately noticed Y/N’s absence, and shouted to one of his generals, Authon.

“Go to Y/N! Make sure she’s safe!”

Authon nodded, turning to find the mounted girl, who slashed her sword with deadly accuracy.

A clawed hand wrenched Y/N suddenly from her horse, and she hit the ground hard, groaning as she spat some blood from her mouth.

“All right,” she growled. “You asked for it.”

She drew a second, shorter sword from the sheath on her back, and spun them around her, being absolutely covered in blood in a matter of minutes.

However, no matter how good things were looking for the Elves, it was an illusion. A sudden coldness sunk  over the war-grounds, and even the inhuman Orcs shivered. 

“The Witch-King…” Y/N breathed. Indeed, the black-robed thing strode through its army, and a terrifying silence fell upon the war-grounds. Everyone parted for it, and the Elves were too petrified to strike it down.

For some inconceivable reason, came towards Y/N. Maybe it saw she had not lowered her swords, maybe it felt her fear, but, for whatever reason, it still walked towards her.

Eerily quiet. Step by step.

“I am not afraid of you, Witch-King,” she declared, her words ringing through the heavy air. It had begun as a lie, but even as the words left her mouth she felt her fear leave. “I will never be afraid of darkness - it will always be overpowered with light.”

“Is that so?” the Witch-King’s words were frighteningly inhuman, booming and towering as he did over the (height) elleth. 

Y/N swung both her swords towards him, and he met them with his own, and as the weapons met with a harsh cry, the battle resumed. 

Thranduil had heard the exchange between Y/N and the Witch-King (who hadn’t?) and he fought to get to her, to help her, but wave upon wave upon wave of Orcs came at him all at once, and it began to become a struggle to defend himself, let alone Y/N too.

With a stab of desperation, he recalled the news of Elerrian’s death ten autumns ago, how he’d been unable to save her.

No, he pushed images of Y/N lying dead in the same position, her h/c hair soaked with blood as she lay face-down with a sword in her back. I won’t let the same thing happen to her.

Y/N met the Witch-King’s blade again, wincing as he pushed one of her swords out of her hands, slicing her flesh on the way. The cut was shallow, but it stung. Y/N tried to ignore the pain, lunging forwards and cutting at the Witch-King with a relentless rage. Authon, who had been previously occupied with some Orc, rushed forward to help her, but the Witch-King thrust out a hand and shoved him back without even concentrating on it, and the ellon let out a pained gasp as he landed hard. 

“Authon!” Y/N cried, sparing a few glances his way. But her distraction, in addition to the gashes all over her body, proved to be the last straw in an extensive haystack, and the Witch-King came at her again.

Strike after strike, Y/N tried to bar, but after a dozen, a particularly jarring attack made her arm useless. The elleth screamed as pain shot up her shoulder and through her body, and just as she suppressed the cry, another one was caused as his sword left a cut across her face. Unable to stop him, all Y/N could do was try to leap out of the way as his sword scythed through the air, mostly meeting its mark. 

Finally, the Witch-King had had enough of the stubborn elleth. He grabbed her injured arm, twisting it as she screamed, and plunged his sword straight through her stomach.

Y/N gasped as the weapon pierced her through, the white-hot pain so intense that tears rolled down her face as she let out another shriek. 

Thranduil whipped his head around, desperately trying to locate the source of what he somehow knew was Y/N’s cry. He plowed through Orc after Orc, his hair swinging as he moved in a fluid dance as quickly as he could. 

He found Authon and blanched when he realised they were the only Elves he could see. “Where is Y/N? She was meant to be with you!”

Authon’s eyes widened. “She was fighting the Witch-King, but he threw me aside. I didn’t- I couldn’t-”

“Y/N!” Thranduil yelled, panic bleeding into his voice. “Y/N!”

He saw the Witch-King of Angmar moving away, and his heart dropped. He ran as fast as he could to find where the Witch-King was walking from, not caring when his crown fell from his head, not caring as a sword bit into his arm in passing.

And then he saw her.

The h/c elleth lay on the dirt, blood pooling around her, and her e/c eyes were wide with pain. Thranduil fell to her side, pulling her head up into his lap and gently pushing aside her cloak to reveal …

“Oh, rhaich (curses), this is not good,” he cursed, looking at the hole in Y/N’s stomach that was quickly being obscured by her blood. 

“Th-Thranduil,” Y/N said weakly, coughing up a red mess. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Y/N, do not be sorry,” Thranduil insisted, pressing his hand against her wound and shivering at the wet blood already covering him. “This is not your fault.”

“No, I…” Y/N swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry for loving you.”

“What?” 

Y/N winced at the confused expression on her face. “I’m sorry for loving you. I know it’s wrong. I know Elerrian died only a few autumns ago. I know we only marry once. But could not stop myself from loving you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Thranduil asked, letting a tear fall down his face. “Why?”

“I … I was afraid,” she managed to say, the ability to speak becoming more and more difficult now. “Of hurting you, of being brushed off, of making Elerrian become forgotten. I would never wish to dishonour her.”

“Oh, Y/N, you would never dishonour her,” Thranduil reassured you. “I know she would love you.” 

He took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he said next. “You know, when Legolas first brought you back to have dinner with us, I looked across the table and thought to myself ‘Valar, she is absolutely beautiful’. Then, I thought I saw Elerrian sitting next to you. She was crying, and she told me “I’ve been forgotten…”. I felt guilty, but when I next ‘saw’ her, she told me she wanted me to be happy more than anything, and that she saw how you loved Legolas and I just as much as she did.”

By this time, Y/N’s tears came not from her pain, but from her happiness. “Why didn’t we tell each other this earlier?”

Thranduil choked out a sad laugh as another tear fell from his eyes. “I don’t know, melleth nin (my love). I don’t know.”

Y/N reached up weakly, brushing her blood-stained fingers against Thranduil’s cheek, truely allowing herself to see how handsome he was for the first time. “May I ask one last favour of you?”

“Don’t talk like that-”

“Kiss me.”

“Sorry, what?”

But Thranduil did as she asked, and, lying on a battlefield with him bent over her broken body, he felt her sigh against his lips, and then she was.

“No,” his voice cracked on the agonisingly tiny word, clutching at her cold hand and searching for a pulse. “No. No, no, no, no …”

But Y/N couldn’t hear him. She was gone already.

@aduialel​ thank you so much! i hope you enjoyed it!

everyone reading this PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REQUEST AND LIKE THIS IMAGINE! I LOVE YOUUUUUU

[nikosheba]

oh i absolutely could

Done for anon, for this prompt meme.

“You’re supposed to talk me out of this.”

“Why should I? It’s a good name.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit...derivative?”

“It was your idea. And a good one, too.” Celebrían turned her head, crooked a finger, and Elrond obligingly bent down to brush a kiss across her lips. “Call it tribute, rather than derivative. "Tell me about her."

Elrond settled down onto the lounge with her, wrapping his arms about her waist, setting his chin on the top of her head. "She looked very like him. You remember that painting I did of his coronation?"

She shifted, trying to get comfortable. It had only been a few days since he had felt comfortable letting her walk about unaided; it had been a difficult birth, and both of them knew the moment they saw their daughter that this would be their last child. He had known for thousands of years that he would have three, two boys and a girl.

Without thinking, Elrond hummed, stroking his fingers through Celebrían's silver hair. She subsided, some ache eased, and was a warm, reassuring weight against his chest. "I know the painting," she murmured. "It's the only one where you can admit you got the eyes just right."

"She had the same eyes. She was dark of hair like him, but short like her mother. Very proud, and fleet of foot. She took such pleasure in dancing, and it was often said the grace of the Eldar ran strongly within her. She used to write me letters."

"Do you still have any of them?"

"Yes," he answered, and was warmed by the memory. "Oh, not all of them. Most of them were lost in the war, or after. But there is one still in Mithlond, and I have four or five with me here. Have I really never spoken of her to you?"

"You have not." There was no reproach in her voice, only interest, and affection. "Isn't that well? You still have secrets from me, after all these years."

He kissed her temple. "Not so many years as all that," he said softly, and stroked a fingertip down her cheekbone, as she turned to press a kiss into his palm.

"No," she agreed. "Nor so many as we shall have."

"If fate and the Val--"

"I do not leave it up to them," Celebrían said tartly. "And if fate or the Valar should try to keep me from you, I shall have a few words to say to them, chief among them what I believe they owe you, for toiling long in the service of good in this world, with little aid from them."

"I do not labor for reward," he said, amused.

"If you did, you would be poorly paid indeed. Ah, but, so." She subsided onto his chest, and her gaze turned to the side, where the baby slumbered. The mobile spun slowly, emitting tinkling music and soft golden light, a present from the child's grandparents in far Lothlórien. "As Elrond and Elros were together in every peril, perhaps Tindómiel and Undómiel may be paired in every peace, in the telling of tales. The morning star, and the evening."

"I think...he would have liked that." Elrond's voice caught in his throat, and he blinked rapidly.

Outside, Gil-Estel winked, though the sun had only just begun to set.

[saurons-pr-department]

Hi! 14, 18 and 23 for the ask game?

14. Saddest moment in The Silmarillion? Probably Fingon's death. Just moments before (for the reader anyway) he's so hopeful and then he ends up getting one of the more graphic deaths in the book. Like, I don't think anyone else's death is really described, so Fingon's death always really stands out to me.

(Actually, the other death that really stands out to me is Beleg's death. Not because it's his friend who he's trying to rescue who accidentally kills him. Oh no. It's because the first time I was reading the book I remember looking up from my page and saying to myself "I really like this Beleg guy" and then I looked back down, turned the page and straight away he died! T_T)

18. What is the hardest name or word for you to pronounce? Cuiviénen is the first thing that springs to mind. There's probably plenty more, but this one definitely is a big "Why so many vowels in one place Jirt? Why??". Though, I think I've gotten the hang of this one now, thanks to The Prancing Pony Podcast, but if I had never heard them say it, I'd still be completely lost!

23. Do you have pity for Melkor? Oh yes! And it's probably come through in some of the posts I make about him from time to time. I'll admit, I'm not a big "His daddy was so mean to him! He just wanted to sing his own song!" type person. I'm very much aware that Melkor's intentions were not pure. It wasn't really a case of him wanting to be an individual and not being allowed to. We're told that he changed what he was singing because he wanted to make himself more important. We're told he wanted to go to Arda and be it's King because he wanted people to serve him and call him lord. It's not really a case of a misunderstanding.

At the same time, I feel for him in that Eru is the one who made him so powerful and gave him some of the talents and knowledge of each of the others, yet at no point do we really see Eru directing him in how to use this or what this might mean. Also, seeing as he doesn't seem to be capable of making things from scratch like the other Valar, but instead can alter what's already there, I often think that that was his purpose, that he's there to bring in variation, diversify things, to build on what the others make. He also seems to have brought cycles to the world. The Valar were making things to stay the same all the time, which would be great for Elves, but everyone else would probably be bored out of their minds! He created rain, which anyone who has ever lived through a sudden lack of it will tell you, is very very important to life on Earth. Volcanos appear to be his 'fault', and while potentially deadly, they also give greatly fertile land, a variety of types of rocks/glass and they create more land as they go! (Volcanos are very cool and we respect them in this house).

Okay, I think I'm getting a bit rambley, but yeah, I think Melkor had a lot of potential to genuinely be a very important force for good, but Eru never seemed to properly instruct him, nor was his talent for altering ever understood for the usefulness it could have had (admittedly, he did use it to corrupt things out of spite which really wasn't helping his case....).

I'm also someone who gets really annoyed with Eru's whole "At the end of the world you'll all understand your position in the music better. Yeah, you'll all suffer horribly in the meantime due to your lack of understanding, but that's just something I personally I'm willing to sit through" thing...

Silm Asks

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Eight ~ Haldir

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 3620

Warnings: Mild language, tw ptsd

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour_rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Happy early Thursday morning! Hope you have a good day <3

Cosima’s right arm grips around me like a vice. Her left arm rests gingerly on her leg. Baranor did what he could, but I imagine it is still painful to move the arm around and irritate the injury. To jostle her as little as possible, I ride as smoothly as I can. Faervel seems to sense that he needs to put extra care into the force with which his hooves hit the ground. When we hit an unavoidable jolt, I hear Cosima’s sharp intake of breath and instantly regret causing her pain. At one point, the hand curled against my stomach begins to shake, and I want to stop the horse. I want to pause and look her in the eye and swear to do better next time. I’ll watch more, fight harder, move faster, keep her safe. I want to explain to her my revitalized resolve—nothing will get to her now. She doesn’t need to worry, because I’ll do better.

But of course, I can’t do any of that.

And I definitely shouldn’t. It’s strange, feeling this strongly about the well-being of one measly human. But in truth, I’ve become quite fond of Cosima in our short time together. Maybe it’s because I don’t spend much time with humans, but I find her humor refreshing, her kindness captivating, and her wide range of emotions infuriatingly confusing. I can’t stop myself from seeking her out.

And I can’t stop myself from hoping she decides to return home with us.

I sigh. I should send her to ride with Orophin. I’m paying too much attention to her, thinking too much, allowing myself to become distracted. But the idea of sending her away, of distancing her from my care, makes me to tense. I have a feeling I would be just as distracted if she weren’t behind me. Inwardly, I remind myself to focus on my surroundings, putting it into the frame of keeping my companions safe. The closer we get to the Imladris border—and thus their border patrols—the lower the likelihood of us running into more orcs. As it is, we are too far away for Elrond’s patrols for comfort and I urge myself to remain vigilant. I can’t take any chances.

There’s a noise to my right—just pebbles dislodged by the quick feet of a rabbit, but Cosima’s human senses can’t find the source of the moment. She jumps, clinging even tighter to me, and looks around wildly, breath racing. Without thinking, I take one hand from the reins and wrap it around the hand she holds in a fist against my stomach.

Elves don’t usually engage in physical contact outside of family and romantic partners. At most, warriors will clasp each other at the elbow briefly to commemorate a job well done or to celebrate a victory. But she is human, I reason, trying to puzzle out my strange response. Humans touch each other all the time—they hug each other, hold each other, press kisses to the cheeks of those they care for. Part of comforting a human is offering them a physical lifeline, something tangible and solid that they can hold on to.

“It’s alright,” I try to soothe, not holding out hope that I’m any good at it. The wardens I’ve dedicated my life to don’t usually require soothing. “It’s just a rabbit—I saw it running off. It climbed over the rocks and caused a few of the smaller ones to fall down the hill.”

I wish I could turn around and face her. I want to look into her eyes, study her face, and see if my words have had any effect. I want to know that the fear has left her, see the relief of security smooth the tension in her brow.

She takes a couple deep breaths, and I encourage myself to take them with her. It never hurts to settle one’s heart. Then, a pressure against my shoulder blade. She’s resting her head there, I realize with a start. I stiffen automatically, not at all used to the contact. I try to relax. If it’s what she needs, I can try it. Once I get over the initial shock, I don’t dislike this feeling at all—in fact, it’s quite nice to be here for her like this.

“Okay,” she breathes. She sounds exhausted.

I weigh my options. Could we chance stopping early tonight? Would the rest result in quicker progress tomorrow? No, I decide, knowing the original plan is the best. Each of us will feel better once we are securely inside Elrond’s borders. If that means some discomfort now, so be it.

With that in mind, I push Faervel to go even faster, wanting to race towards Imladris with all haste.

{***}

I see the tension in everyone’s shoulders when we stop to make camp. Each of them carries the weight of this morning’s attack, the human’s most visibly. Since the moment Cosima left my horse, she’s been at Alexander’s side. I was right about human comforting tactics—his arm hangs around her shoulders and she lays her head against his chest. The sight is strange, and a little disquieting. Elves are so unused to seeing such blatant displays of physical affection.

For his part, Alexander also looks quite shaken. His hair, usually well-kept, sticks in all directions and his eyes dart from side to side constantly, never finding rest. He clings to Cosima as tightly as she holds on to him. While the rest of us are seasoned in the unpleasantries of battle, this is their first encounter with violence—that they can recall, that is.

I clear my throat, drawing the attention of the camp. “I will stand first watch with Baranor. Everyone else, get some sleep.” I address my brothers directly, then. “I will wake you at the halfway point.”

We waste no time. Baranor draws his sword and takes the East side of camp. I mirror his stance on the West. We found a relatively secure spot for the night — a small valley with a clearing of grass backed up to a rocky slope of mountainside. There is only one entrance to where the others sleep, unless someone were to jump from the rocks above. To prevent this from happening, Baranor and I pick points high enough that we could see any attempts to either enter our camp or ambush one of our watch stations. Before I know it, the sun sinks over the horizon and we are plunged into darkness.

{***}

Baranor wakes the others, and once Rumil comes to take my spot, I trek the short distance to the center of our camp. I lay on the now unoccupied mat next to the mountainside — across the small area, Baranor has already passed into sleep. Just as I stretch out, getting comfortable, my eyes meet Cosima’s.

She stares at the rock across the small cleaning from her, expression distant and glazed.

I call her name quietly, getting her attention without waking Alexander or disturbing Baranor. She should have nodded off hours ago. “Can you not sleep?”

She shakes her head and, even from here, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “It’s silly,” she whispers. I raise my eyebrows, hoping she’ll explain. “I know we’re relatively safe. I know there are always two people on lookout and I know you all have plenty of weapons. But I’m still so scared.” Her voice wavers. “I can’t remember a time in my life when I was attacked like that. Every time I close my eyes I see those…things.” She bites out the word, shuddering. “What were they?”

I sigh. I should have known she wouldn’t find peaceful rest in her current state. I prop myself up on an elbow, trying to make myself seem as assured as possible. My wardens tend to feel more confident when I seem confident—maybe it will help her, too. “They were orcs, some of the most evil beings in this realm.”

“And they wanted to kill us?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What did we do?”

“Nothing,” I shrug, at a loss for the reasoning of those foul beasts. “They are bred for evil, they desire it above all else. If they have the chance to kill, they will take it.”

She shivers again and throws a look over her shoulder towards the entrance of the clearing. “That’s terrifying.”

“They will not get that close to you again,” I swear. I really shouldn’t. I can’t say for sure—they’re no way I can be absolutely positive an orc won’t attack her again. But I do know that as long as it is within my power, I will do everything possible to make what I just said the truth.

She raises an eyebrow dubiously and I know that, even in her fearful and tired state, she sees through the logic in my statement. Even though I was just questioning the validity of my words, I find myself with the overwhelming need to prove them to her—and to myself. I stand, pulling my mat with me, and step around her, dropping the mat between where she lays and the entrance to the clearing.

“There,” I nod, laying back on my mat. “Anything that wants to get to you will have to challenge me first.”

Breath hitches in her throat. Her lip quivers, a shine glints in her eyes. I freeze. Oh Valar, where did I go wrong this time? But when she addresses me—albeit in a shaky voice—she sounds pleased. “You don’t have to do that.”

Relieved that she has one, accepted my offer and two, doesn’t seem to resent me for it, I smile. “It’s my job. Now, please close your eyes and try to fall asleep. I will wake you if there is need.”

She wavers for a moment and I put a hint of my Marchwarden sternness behind the gaze I level back. The edges of her lips quirk into a tentative smile and her eyes slide shut. She pulls her—my— cloak tighter around her shoulders and, in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it, whispers, “thank you.”

I settle on my back, keeping my sword and bow within easy reach, as I do every night. And, though I just told Cosima to go to sleep, I stay awake longer than I intend, watching the stars and listening to the sounds of the mountains. She was right—there is much beauty here. There is no civilization for miles, no hints of light to obscure the vastness of the constellations. As an elfling, I used to love staring at the stars. Even in my early days of the guard and battle, I would pass long nights gazing at the sky. When did I stop? When did the love of beauty for beauty’s sake leave me?

I hear the deep, even breaths indicating a human has fallen asleep and know that Cosima has finally given in to her exhaustion. I follow not long after, the soft light of the stars falling away behind my closed eyes.

{***}

The day is marked by easy travel. By my estimate, we will reach Imladris sometime tomorrow evening. It cannot come quickly enough.

Just as the sun is starting to set, we come across a small cave I have used in the past when traveling with various companies. Orophin sees it too and gives a triumphant call from his spot in the line. A cave means we can chance a fire, which means we can have meat tonight—if we can catch it.

About five hundred feet from the cave, I dismount, signaling for Orophin to do the same. I hand the reins to Cosima, give Faervel a quick pat, and raise my voice loudly enough for the others to hear. “We’ll make sure the cave is clear—the rest of you, wait here.”

The nerves, which seemed dormant in Cosima for the majority of the day, creep back into her features. Her hold on the reins tightens. I attempt to reassure her. “We’ll be back in five minutes. Stay with the others.”

I want to stay longer, to stay by her side until she feels safe, but I know it will be better for everyone once we’re settled in the cave. So I draw my sword and join Orophin at the yawning entrance.

The cave is too small to be used long-term, so it is commonly claimed by travelers who only intend to stay the night. The ceiling is plenty high for humans, but as elves, Orophin and I must take care not to stretch too high. In some places, I can feel the smooth rock graze the top of my head, dragging strands of hair out of place. But aside from that mild annoyance, no threats lie inside and I hurry to return to the others and give them the good news.

Rumil, knowing the expression on my face, grins and hops down from Roch, setting the horse to graze while he excitedly enters the cave to drop his packs. I roll my eyes, though not without fondness, at my brother’s exuberance. I quicken my pace, eager to settle the others for the night and go hunting so we can have a proper meal. As soon as I set Cosima’s feet on the ground and put Faervel to graze, I can go in search of rabbits or squirrels.

I am a few feet from Cosima when Alexander steps into my line of sight. He reaches his arms up to his friend. She smiles warmly at him, places her hands on his shoulders, and lets him ease her down from the horse. It’s a bit jerky, honestly, and I worry that her feet hit the ground with too much force. One has to be careful when helping another down from a higher place—if not, the person could suffer injury. Careless.

“Alexander,” I call. He looks put out but nonetheless inclines his head in my direction. “Leave your supplies in the cave and then meet me out here. I am taking you with me to hunt.”

He sputters. “What? No! I’m tired and I don’t even want to learn how to hunt. Take one of your brothers.”

I feel my eyes narrow. “Regardless if you would like to face the facts or not, you are in this world. And as such, you will need to learn skills to aid your time here, however long that may be. Cosima has learned how to care for the horses and ride and scout her surroundings. You will learn to hunt.” The human tries to protest again, and I raise my chin, none too pleased with having to justify my decision. “As long as you are under my care you will follow my orders. Am I clear?”

Beside him, Cosima’s eyes grow wide. She darts her gaze between myself and Alexander, watching our exchange. I raise an eyebrow at the man. It will not be me who breaks first. I have centuries of practice.

Predictably, Alexander cracks, breaking my gaze and nodding stiffly. He pulls away from Cosima and stalks into the cave, taking a few bags with him.

Baranor passes me on his way up the path—I’d nearly forgotten he was here. He lowers his voice to a volume the humans won’t detect. “He is not one of your wardens, Haldir.”

“As long as he travels in my company, he travels under my command,” I grit back, more frustration in my tone than is necessary. I work to push the emotion aside and stride forward, dealing with Faervel while I wait for Alexander.

Cosima hasn’t left. She stands, dwarfed by Faervel’s tall frame, gently brushing out his coat. There’s tension in her shoulders and I approach her almost hesitantly. I think I angered her.

She quickly confirms my suspicions.

“You didn’t have to be so rude to him.” She doesn’t take her eyes from my horse.

I purse my lips. I just need to make her understand. “He was being insubordinate.”

“Okay, but he’s not your subordinate,” she shoots back, voice rising in irritation.

I don’t quite know what to say. These humans don’t know how my job works, so their reaction is to be expected….But even Baranor commented on my behavior…was I wrong? Even if I did perhaps misuse my tone, I still can’t have someone openly refusing to do what I say. It’s a matter of security. Say he disobeyed me in the heat of battle? Someone could pay for his choice with their life. I can’t allow situations to pass now that would embolden him to disobey me later.

Cosima sighs, shaking her head. When she speaks, her voice is tight with disapproval. “I’ll finish the horses. You get to your hunt.”

I swallow. It seems I’ve angered her to the point where she wishes to cast me from her presence. I must respect that, then. “I will send Rumil to guard you.”

She nods once, still not looking at me.

I spare her one last glance then make towards the cave, feeling very unsure of myself. As Marchwarden, I’ve learned to make difficult, sometimes unpopular, decisions. People’s reaction to them usually doesn’t bother me…but something about the way Cosima wouldn’t even look at me, the frustration in her tone…it doesn’t sit well.

Rumil is already at the mouth of the cave, headed outside with a snack for Roch. I instruct him to stay with Cosima while I am gone, and he agrees easily. The two of them have been friends from the start. I’d wager he has never upset her as I have.

Alexander is waiting, too, looking annoyed. I try to remind myself to be nicer towards him, but can’t quite manage it. Something about his demeanor just irks me. But the hunting excursion will be good, I remind myself. It will allow me to get a better read on this human, to figure out where he stands and what his motivations are. With that in mind, I jerk my head to the rocks, calling him forward. “Let’s go.”

{***}

I don’t take Alexander far, but we do have to leave the noise of camp to find animals suitable for food. The human trudges behind me, probably scaring away every rodent within a mile. Why must the race of man be so loud?

“Roll your foot from heel to toe when you walk rather than stomping down,” I instruct. To my surprise, he actually follows my advice. He’s still not as silent as an elf, but there is definitely an improvement.

A silence settles between us. When he breaks it, there is a vulnerability in his voice I did not expect to hear. “Is Cosima really going to be okay?”

Baranor had assured me of the fact and I know from my years of battle that the wound is not severe, so I am confident in my answer. “Yes. I think more damage was done to her feelings than her arm. She takes things quite deeply to heart. It will take time for those scars to heal.”

I’ve offended him. He scoffs, expression morphing into a glare. “And that’s bad?”

Now, I grit my teeth. He seems always on the prowl for some reason to dislike me, and I don’t appreciate him twisting my words about Cosima to use against me. I throw his accusation right back. “I am not the one questioning her intelligence and calling her naive.”

“That’s taken out of context!”

“And in what context are your words favorable?”

He seethes, and I find a strand of amusement in the differences between our demeanors. I stand calm and cool as ever while he glares up at me, mouth pulled into a grimace, face going hot in anger.

“You know what,” he grits out, hands clenching into fists. “Don’t go on defending her. Don’t get too attached. Because after yesterday, I’ve got no doubt in my mind that I’m getting out of here. And Cosima’s coming with me.”

I scoff. “You cannot force her.”

“I won’t have to.” He exhales, an assured serenity settling on his face. For the first time since our argument began, I feel wary. “That attack broke whatever spell you all have put on her. She’ll leave willingly. I guarantee it.”

Maybe it’s the arrogant twist in his smile, maybe it’s the stress of the day finally hitting me, maybe it’s just because he’s been an ass since the day he arrived and I would like nothing more than to knock him to the ground and teach him to have some respect. Whatever the reason, I feel the cold dread creeping through my bones colliding with a white-hot anger that sears through my chest. It takes everything in me not to let the composed mask slip from my face.

Despite my efforts, Alexander knows he’s hit his mark. He can tell he’s gotten a reaction out of me, and this pleases him to no end. He waves a hand forward, gesturing to the wide expanse of the path before us. “Lead on, Marchwarden. People need to eat.”

I want to challenge him.

But that is not respectable behavior of a leader, nor polite treatment of a human under my protection. So I call on every ounce of maturity and discipline I possess and turn on my heel, continuing the hunt.

And though we have good fortune in our search and I should be pleased, I am too focused on Alex’s promise to share in the enjoyment.

Cosima choosing to leave is a very real possibility.

And that hurts me more than it should.

A/n Thanks for reading! So it looks like we’re having some ~developments~ -- what do you think?! Likes, comments, and reblogs make me smile! Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tag list :)

|next part|

|masterlist|

Tolkien tag list: @anangelwhodidntfall @eru-vande

Double Heart tag list: @lainphotography @themerriweathermage @thophil2941btw @kenobiguacamole @wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse @from-patroclus-with-love @boywivlove @tolkien-apologist @ordinarymom1 @my-darling-haldir @sweet-bea-blossom @moony-artnstuff

[nihilwrites]

Under the Stars

Pairing: Legolas / Gimli

Summary:  Legolas and Gimli stargaze together high in the trees of Lothlorien.

Tags: Legolas POV, Fluff, during Canon, G rated, ficlet, completed

AO3 link

Full story under the cut

---

When did Legolas Greenleaf first come to love Gimli son of Gloin?

Perhaps it was when Gimli first came to love the Lady of the Wood.

For in that moment, Legolas saw something in Gimli’s eye that he had never perceived in the eyes of men or dwarves before. And indeed, it made him wonder that he had never really looked into the eyes of a dwarf.

“The sight of elves has grown weak indeed,” thought Legolas, “if they cannot see the depth and beauty of the eyes of Gimli Gloin’s son.”

Dwarves were a proud people. Proud of their creations above all else. Stone and gems and precious silver brought light to their eyes, but they little cared for living things, thought Legolas upon a time.

Not so, now. For Gimli valued the fairness and majesty of the Lady Galadriel above any jewel or stony hall crafted by his forefathers.

When Legolas later spoke to Gimli of the Lady, Gimli’s eyes shone again with wonder, awe, and love. But now his eyes were cast towards Legolas himself, and the elf was struck with a feeling he had not known in all his long years in the great Elvish Kingdom of his father.

From then on, Legolas and Gimli went often together in the land of Lothlorien. Legolas delighted in showing Gimli the wonders of the wood. Each time the dwarf lent compliment to the woodland realm, Legolas felt a thrill go through him. Long had Legolas yearned to see the golden wood, but now he found he preferred to watch the dwarfs enjoyment most of all. Did Legolas truly see the trees and flets of Lothlorien? Or did he only see the purest essence of them, reflected in the face of Gimli?

In the highest flets of the Mallorn trees, the platforms would sway gently in the breeze. Though dwarves are well accustomed to high places and precarious stairs, the stairs are always made of stone and do not sway and rock like a ship on the sea.

“Come just a little higher!” Legolas called merrily, from the ladder above Gimli’s head. “They say this is the best place to view the stars, and the sky is clear tonight!”

“I can see the stars well enough from here,” replied Gimli, holding tightly to the bole of the tree and eying the slender ladder warily, “there, between the branches. A beautiful sight.”

“Would you truly settle for such a narrow view after you have already climbed this high?” Asked Legolas, descending down to Gimli’s level.

“Come, I will carry you to the very top. You may close your eyes tightly lest your fear get the better of you.”

Legolas knelt down and indicated that the dwarf might climb onto his back, little believing that he would.

“Fear! I am not afraid,” blustered the dwarf, “we dwarves are simply not so enamored of stars as you elves.”

Legolas was not fooled by this claim, and merely smiled in response.

Gimli hesitated for a moment and then declared, “I will climb. But you will climb below me, so if this blasted wind shakes me loose it shall bring the both of us crashing down to the good solid earth.”

“You shall climb first,” agreed Legolas, “but if you fall, I shall catch you.”

Gimli harrumphed but began the ascent all the same. Once he was resolved to do it, he climbed quickly and assuredly, somewhat to Legolas’s disappointment. The Elf would have loved nothing more than to catch Gimli in his arms and carry him to safety.

The ladder brought them to the edge of a round platform perched upon the very crown of the tree, without a single branch above it. It was not the tallest tree in the city, but here at the very edge near the great green hedge, it stood a fair bit higher than its neighbors, affording a view that was not to be found in the center of the city where many ancient trees grew thick and tall.

Legolas, with all the balance and grace of the elder race, stood upon the platform as it tilted and turned, riding it like the deck of a ship upon a rolling sea. The movement to him felt comfortable and natural to him, accustomed as he was to climbing the great trees of his homeland and standing upon their boughs.

Gimli, however, was laying face down, with his arms and legs splayed wide to keep his balance.

Legolas laughed and said, “Come, Gimli, if you will not stand or sit then you must at least lay on your back so that you may see the stars!”

Slowly and carefully, so as to not fall off the narrow platform, Gimli rolled onto his back, his eyes shut tight with fear or concentration. After a breath to calm himself, and feeling about with his hands to make sure he was not at the platform’s edge, he finally opened his eyes and beheld the stars.

As Gimli took in the sight, his eyes widened and his breath caught. Here above the treetops, with neither mountain nor cloud in the periphery of his sight, he felt himself to be floating up there among the stars, swimming in them. Distant, they seemed, but no farther than the cares of the world down below.

“Well!” said Gimli, searching for words to describe this new feeling, “well that is a sight to see indeed!”

“It is,” said Legolas.

“Beautiful!” Murmured Gimli, entranced by the heavens.

“Beyond compare,” agreed Legolas, but he was not looking at the stars.

“Come lay beside me, Legolas. Sure-footed you may be, but I believe I’ve found the best position to watch the sky.”

Gladly did Legolas lay down beside Gimli, though his face was still turned towards the dwarf and not the sky at all. Fixated as Gimli was, he made no notice of the elf’s staring.

“What do you know of the stars?” asked Legolas.

“We have named but a few in my language,” said Gimli, “and those only for the purposes of navigation. Those, and the seven stars of Durin’s crown. But we look not to the sky for that constellation, wishing only to see it in the Mirrormere as Durin once did.”

“We have named many constellations in our language, and every young elf learns them by heart.”

“Show me,” said Gimli, and Legolas’s heart sang with joy.

Legolas pointed at a string of twinkling stars and said, “here are the seven stars the elves sing of. Valacirca, sickle of the Valar. Perhaps they are the same that Durin saw reflected in those waters, but elves do not claim knowledge of that lore.”

“Where?” Asked Gimli, “I see only a vast field of lights, forming no distinct shapes in my eyes.”

“There,” said Legolas, pointing a slender finger towards the sky, “see there the four stars of the handle, and three more to form the curved blade.”

“There?” asked Gimli, pointing at an unrelated clump of stars.

Legolas slid closer to Gimli on the platform, shoulder to shoulder, so he could better see the dwarf’s perspective. Legolas took Gimli’s hand and gently adjusted it’s direction.

“There,” said Legolas. “Valacirca. The handle, and…”

“The sickle!” exclaimed Gimli, “yes, I see it! So brightly it shines, I wonder how I’ve never noticed it before!”

Legolas entwined his fingers with Gimli and, hands clasped, continued to point out the constellations. There were many stars to name, and eventually Gimli ceased to make exclamations and grew quiet. 

Thinking his companion had fallen asleep, Legolas lowered their hands and lay there in silence for a while, simply drinking in the night sky.

After some time, Legolas turned his head to look at Gimli, and found he was not asleep at all. His breath was so slow and regular that Legolas had not imagined he could still be awake, but his eyes were wide open, staring contentedly up at the stars. Knowing the dwarf was awake, Legolas became aware that he had not yet let go of Gimli’s hand, and that he did not particularly want to.

Sensing the stare, Gimli turned his head towards Legolas as well, a smile cracking through his previous serenity.

“I think I understand the elves a little better now,” said Gimli, “though I suspect I’ll have forgotten all the names you told me come morning.”

“Then I will tell you again. Each one has a story, and it would take many lifetimes of men to tell them all.”

“And I will listen to them gladly, if we ever land again in such a peaceful place.”

Those words shook the magic of the moment a little, for at once they both remembered that they were in the midst of an urgent quest, and this swaying treetop under the stars was but an island in a sea of dangers.

“The company will be looking for me soon,” said Gimli. “I thought I might fall asleep here, but I am determined to die in battle or as an old graybeard, not as a youngling falling out of a tree because he was too foolish to seek a proper bed.”

“I would not let you fall,” said Legolas, “and I had a mind to rest here myself. The sunrise will be worth the wait.”

“Let it not be said that Gimli Gloinsson is afraid of heights,” said Gimli, “but I daren’t rest my eyes till I am back on solid ground. I am neither bird nor elf, and not designed for sleeping in trees.

“Very well,” said Legolas with a laugh in his voice, “we shall return to the company and leave this bird’s nest to the birds.”

“Good. That’s good,” said Gimli, turning his face back to the sky, “but my eyes are not yet tired, and I shan’t roll off while I’m awake. Will you stay here with me a bit longer?”

“Yes,” said Legolas, “gladly I will stay with you.”

With Gimli’s eyes on the stars, and Legolas’s eyes on Gimli, and both with hands entwined, they lay there yet a while longer, high in the treetops of fair Lothlorien.

[hey-its-nonny]

So, thanks to the lovely @themerriweathermage, i can repost all of my chapters of in between!! Again, a huge, huge, thank you, love. i can’t tell you how happy i am about this.

Chapter one of In Between!

i’m super excited for this!! hope y’all like it!!

note: this first chapter will start out (and maybe end) in Legolas’ POV just for somewhat of his backstory. the rest will be told from your POV!!

~~~

The battle was over.

Burials for the dwarves had come and gone, and while Tauriel was grieving over Kili, Legolas was left with a broken heart over the she-elf in question. He just didn’t understand. Tauriel was supposed to be the one. At least he thought so.

Was there something wrong with him? His father would have told him so. He didn’t understand why it stung so harshly, but he supposed that was the risk you took when you fancied someone.

But, a broken heart didn’t really matter now, did it?

The truth was that Tauriel had all too quickly slipped out of Legolas’ grasp; and there was no getting her back. Like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode in his face, it had only been a matter of time before Tauriel slipped away from him. So, he traveled for months to meet a man by the name of Strider.

At first, Legolas had lost his sense of just about everything. He knew where he was going, but he didn’t want to find his way there. Everything he’d loved had slipped out of his grasp in a matter of weeks, and he had no power to stop it.

That’s what he hated: being unable to change things in his life. He was a prince, for Valar’s sake. Changing things to get what he wanted was quite literally what he was used to. He understood that he was privileged, although his father said he’d deserved every bit of what he got, unsurprisingly. Somehow, though, he felt he didn’t.

Just like he didn’t deserve Tauriel.

But, as his walked on with his thoughts tormenting him every waking second, he bumped into something- or someone, to be precise. While lost in his thoughts, Legolas’ feet had taken him to a small village -somewhere near Rivendell- he guessed, judging by the forests and whatnot.

It was a man. He’d bumped into another man. Upon realizing this, the elf froze, his senses coming back to him quicker than he’d lost them. He murmured an apology to the man, and the hooded figure nodded, quickly turning to go on his way.

Legolas realized he didn’t know where to go next, so he went to ask the man. “Do you know a ranger by the name of Strider?” He called, stopping the man in his stride. “Who’s asking?” He replied, low voice ringing in the almost eerie silence.

Legolas somewhat scoffed. “I am.” He stated, knowing full well what the man meant. He was angry and hurt, so a little sass or sarcasm could be expected from the elf. Who would blame him?

Apparently, you would.

Laying the pile of wood down, you readjusted the strap of your pack as your combat knives found their way into your hands. “Answer the question properly.” You spoke out, causing the elf to flinch. Cute. A fight prior to this meeting had put you in a bit of a sour mood, so any further irritation would only make things worse.

Legolas turned and faced you, eyes slightly narrowed, making it evident he wasn’t in a good mood either. “Legolas of th-“ He started, cutting himself off to correct himself. “Legolas Greenleaf.” He stated, turning to face Aragorn once more. “Now, answer my question.” He returned, raising a brow.

You shared a quick look with Aragorn, a questioning gaze evident on your features. “Strider.” He answered, and your expression phased into a calm one. You never really trusted people easily, and this elf would be no different, no matter how pleasant his face looked. Whenever Legolas heard this, however, he looked a bit embarrassed.

You smirked, leaning against the tree with a quiet hum. Aragorn grabbed both yours and the elf’s attention as he spoke up, removing his hood. “Why are you searching for me?” He asked, hand readily reaching for his blade. The bitter cold made this exchange far more intense than it should have been, but the elf showed no intentions of harming either of you.

The elf cleared his throat, searching for the answer to that question. “I merely wish to follow along whatever path you choose to take.” He said after seconds of silence, bringing down his ego as best he could. “Companionship, if you will.” He clarified, earning a distrustful, yet knowing exchange between you and Aragorn.

You walked over and pulled Aragorn aside, hoping to get out of ear’s reach from the elf. It took a while, but once you both were far enough from him, you whispered, “Are you going to let him follow us?” You asked, nodding in the elf’s direction.

The man huffed. “Perhaps. I cannot fully trust him yet, but I feel that it may be good to have him around.” He admitted, gazing at the leafless trees that surrounded you. You sighed, brows furrowed. “I don’t know if it is a good idea,” You replied, uncertainty and caution churning your insides. “but I trust your judgment.”

“We’ll have to take night watch, though.” You added, earning a chuckle from the man. “Let’s get a move on, then.” You sighed, trudging through the woods with Aragorn trailing behind you. A hopeful Legolas met your gaze, searching for any signs of confirmation. He didn’t get anything, though.

You simply grabbed your pack and firewood, tightened your tunic, and went on your way. Aragorn spoke up one final time, doing the same as you. “We do not stop until nightfall.” He stated, earning a swift nod from the elf.

~~~~

Hours later, you all finally found a resting point in a cave and started a fire, gathered around it in attempts at gaining some warmth. Aragorn had gone to scout the surrounding area, leaving you shivering and alone with Legolas. As you huddled close to the fire, shaking due to the cold, Legolas stood, walking over to the pack he’d brought.

He pulled out a thick cloak, walking over to offer it to you. “Take it. You need it.” He quietly stated, draping the fabric over your shoulders. The warmth was almost instant, and you allowed a sigh of relief to escape your lips. “Thank you.” You smiled, to which the elf nodded.

Suddenly, your curiosity got the better of you. You peered at the elf from across the fire, staring into the sky blue eyes he possessed. “Where are you from?” You asked, trying to pass the time. “Mirkwood, as they call it now.” He answered reluctantly, though he seemed a bit more at ease now. “And you?” He returned, raising a brow as he met you e/c eyes.

You stared at the flickering flames in thought, pondering if you should give the elf an answer. It was only fair. “I don’t remember.” You quietly admitted, a solemn expression on your face. “My parents passed when I was young. I’ve been with Strider ever since. He’s like a brother to me.” You explained, earning an almost sympathetic look from the elf. What were you doing?

You stood before he could offer pitiful condolences and drew both of your knives. “Speaking of Strider, I am going to search for him. Excuse me.” You quickly blurted, gently folding the cloak and setting it down.

You rushed out, internally scolding yourself for such foolish behavior. You searched for Aragorn, wondering what possibly could’ve taken him so long. After a while, you came upon a slight clearing, the silence heavy over the bitter air.

Then, you heard it. Orc voices could be heard nearby, and you assumed Aragorn was with them. You cautiously padded through woods, making no noise as you passed. You counted twenty five orcs surrounding Aragorn, preparing yourself for battle.

Then, quicker than the wind, you dashed towards the orcs from behind and began slashing at them, taking out four within a minute. But, as fate would have it, you got caught in a fight between two particularly determined orcs. “Run!” You ordered, earning a scoff from Aragorn as he faced the majority of what was left of the group.

You took the two down, your worry for Aragorn outweighing your will to survive. Aragorn fought well, taking down the mindless creatures with a certain grace only Aragorn possessed. Just as you thought you were finished, you caught a glimpse of a blade held at Aragorn’s neck.

“Aragorn!” You shouted, cutting down whatever orcs stood in the way as you bolted for you best friend. Amidst the chaos, you were caught again as another group stole your attention. You fought hard, taking the orcs down with urgency. Luckily, however, an arrow was caught in the center of the orcs head before too much harm could be done.

You looked in the direction from where the arrow came and found Legolas standing there. You finished off the rest of the group with both of the boys’ help, panting slightly once it was over. Without hesitation you went to embrace Aragorn, quietly letting out a sigh of relief. “Please don’t do that again.”

The man returned the embrace, and you pulled him along back to the cave, grateful he was still alive.

~~~~

You sat at the campfire once more, both of your companions sound asleep a little bit away from you. You watched the flame climb the air, relishing in the warmth it provided you. Then, you remembered the cloak Legolas had given you, and you picked up the soft fabric.

You wrapped it around your shoulders and sighed, making sure to keep an eye on the entrance to the cave. You made it a point to thank Legolas for saving Aragorn, unsure of what you would’ve done if things had turned for the worse.

At the end of the day, Aragorn was alive and well, and you had another companion to get to know. Legolas saved Aragorn’s life, and that was all that really mattered to you.

Maybe the elf wasn’t so bad after all.

~~~~

ugh this SUCKED, but it’s done! i’ll probably edit it later, but i just wanted to post it.

@elvish-sky is the only person on my tag list at the moment i think?? pm me if you want to be added, otherwise i won’t remember lol 😂 hope you enjoyed it!

~~~~~