#justice for legolas

[winwin17]

Don't mind me, I'm just here to ramble about the frequent misinterpretation of Legolas.

In a lot of fan content, I tend to see him get portrayed as a feminine, scatterbrained diva or something along that line. He's depicted as girly and overly dramatic. It's not like I haven't been entertained by the memes about Legolas and his hair products or stuff like that, but hear me out - just because he's pretty doesn't mean he's girly or shallow (equating those two things is another separate issue altogether).

The thing is, even though he's pretty and has perfect hair, he's actually quite masculine, and his actor even has quite classically masculine features (face and physique). What's more, Legolas is an elf. Elves don't need beauty products, and I doubt most of them would care much for them anyway. They're naturally like the most beautiful creatures. Both the dudes and the ladies have long hair, so in that context, that feature doesn't necessarily suggest girlishness to me. Anyway, this is basically to say that I don't care for the self-absorbed, appearance-focused, girly diva interpretation of Legolas I see in fan content. There's much more to him than that.

The movies unfortunately gave Legolas his reputation as a Captain Obvious, which does him a disservice in bringing out this depiction of Legolas as a ditsy, dumb guy with an empty head. (It probably wasn't the intention, but it's a byproduct nonetheless.) Besides being portrayed as a Captain Obvious, another disservice done to him by the movies is the emphasis on Legolas as a cool action guy, superhero level, and maybe even invincible. But book Legolas is actually more human(?). That is to say, he gets scared and downhearted and cries just like all the rest of the Fellowship. While it's true that even in the books he does tend to maintain a more optimistic, lighthearted disposition than the others, he's still imperfect. He's still a person with hopes and fears and dreams and feelings, and he's not beyond forgetting the words to songs. ;p Yes, he cracks jokes, but he also does "not wish to go to Moria," and he grumbles when he has to be blindfolded in Lorien. Pretty relatable on many levels.

None of this is meant to be a book purist's rude degradation of movie Legolas, but just to lament the way I personally feel he is so misinterpreted and misrepresented. Legolas isn't shallow or one-dimensional. He's brave, he's strong, he's caring, and he's open-minded enough to take risks and make connections that are unconventional. He's respectful to his leaders, he's passionate about saving the world, destroying the Ring, and rescuing Merry and Pippin. He's helpful and committed to the Fellowship even though he doesn't have to be. He's compassionate towards people he doesn't have to care about.

So while we have characters like Boromir who are so frequently misunderstood and misrepresented, let's have some justice for Legolas, too.

[lautstaerkeriegler]

something that still confuses me about tolkiens world is the general situation of low-born elves with like a job.

Like in general in any age, what does their life look like. Do they just serve the same dude for milennia? Do they get days(years?) off?

What if some silvan elf in the third age that has served Thranduil for like the last 2000+ years gets sea-longing? Are they allowed to leave? Do they have to wait until a significant portion of a household gets sea-longing? Are there any elven lords that got to Valinor sooner because their beloved cook or smth got the west-itchings? All the servants chaperoning a broken Celebrían, did they go west? Did they want to? Are they with her in Valinor and really want to go back east (are they allowed to?)

And what happens in the grey havens, does Cirdan just let any numbers of elves on his boats? Do they have to build new boats constantly? Do some elves need to wait in the havens until a minimum number of elves per boat is reached?

Like how does Tolkiens general world of fealty and feudalism handle the elves strong individualism?

Because sure some elves were loners just wandering about, but what about the ones we never get told about like idk the dude who does Elronds laundry?

[acefaun]

Neuvillette's "According to the judgement of the ✨ORATRICE✨ ✨MECANIQUE✨ ✨D'ANALYSE✨ ✨CARDINALE✨"

is giving me the same vibes as

Legolas' "They're taking the Hobbits to ✨Isengard✨gard ✨gard✨gard✨"

[witchthewriter]

𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑶𝒇 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑹𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔

Okay, I've finished watching all of the Lord of the Rings movies - without interruption or being on my phone. So I gotta say - Frodo is a bit of a bitch.

| 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞

This Hobbit was constantly by Frodo's side. Unfailing in his loyalty. If it wasn't for Mr Gamgee, the ring wouldn't have been destroyed?! He kept Frodo going, and even though "he couldn't carry the ring," he said, "okay bet, i'll carry you then." AND THREW FRODO OVER HIS SHOULDER AND KEPT GOING.

Now, maybe I wouldn't be as ticked off, if the other characters' gave Sam the same respect as Frodo. When Gandalf swooped in the eagles, and brought to safety, everyone went into Frodo's room. And poor Sam was left behind, standing at the door, watching on as everyone showed their love to Frodo.

| 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐝𝐞𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐭

Okay, so there are 3 main female characters. Throughout the whole series.

Arwen (love interest of Aragorn, yes she did save Frodo and brought him to safety).

Galadriel (who spoke for like 10 minutes throughout the whole series? Married.)

Eowyn (Who falls in love with Aragorn, even though she wants to fight for her kingdom and her family. But she still had to fall in love with someone ... and if she couldn't have Aragorn, then she had Faramir). So she did fight in the first battle, but where was she when the army went to the Black Gates??

I think this is why it's taken me so long to get through the whole trilogy because there weren't any female characters I could relate to. Who actively helped against the antagonist.

| 𝐆𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐲

I'm going to say it with my whole chest, I think Gandalf the Grey is sexy. But when he became ... what, the white wizard? He became less sexy. HOWEVER, where was his magic? Did I miss a major plot point? Because why was Arwen dying? And why was there a big eye, where was the actual physical villain? (If anyone wants to answer these questions, please(!) do so).

| 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 … 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬?

Because why were there only Legolas and Gimli there to help? Elrond snuck into Rohan's camp and told Aragorn of the orcs on corsairs coming, and gave him the sword. But why couldn't other Elves and Dwarfs help the Men? Because even if it wasn't their war to fight, they would still be in deep shit if Sauron won?

[legolasghosty]

Okayyyyyy so This Post happened earlier today, and @girlstuffnorp, @floating-in-the-blue, and @1mnobodywhoareyou got me thinking about Willex (as I often am). So here you guys go! Not edited at all, I'm sorry. It's late. Enjoy!

-----------

Alex poofed into the museum, stumbling a little over a random plank of wood on the ground. Sure, he'd already checked here twice. But he had to find Willie somehow, and this just felt right. He hadn't found the skater on Sunset Boulevard, or at the park they'd met up at a couple of times before. And Alex knew better than to go anywhere the Ghost Club.

Now when it was too late.

But maybe there was a chance. Julie's plan might work. But they needed Willie to pull it off.

The guys had offered to help Alex look, but he'd turned them down. He had to do this on his own. And well, the last time he'd taken them to find Willie, it hadn't ended well.

So here he was, on his own, trying to follow the odd tugging in his chest that had led him to the skater in the past. But he just kept ending up here. And Willie wasn't-

"Alex?"

Alex nearly jumped out of his insubstantial skin at the voice and spun around to see Willie standing a few yards away, board clutched to his chest and a startled look on his face.

"Hey," Alex said, raising a hand awkwardly. He wasn't used to this uneasy tension between them. Willie was there, but he felt so much further away than he had before everything went down at the ghost club.

"Is everything okay?" Willie asked, taking a careful step closer.

"Yeah, yeah," Alex said quickly. "Or like... not any less okay than before."

Willie let out a relieved chuckle. Just one. Alex missed his full laugh. "That's... good. I think?"

"Yeah it is," Alex agreed, his eyes falling to the skateboard in Willie's hands, unable to meet his eyes and see the discomfort there. He hated that he'd caused that hurt, even if it wasn't on purpose. Then he remembered why he was here in the first place. "Julie sort of has a plan."

Willie's frown deepened. "What kind of plan?"

Alex took a deep breath. "A plan to play the Orpheum."

"Wait seriously?!" Willie exclaimed, the hopeful note in his voice giving Alex the courage to meet his eyes again.

There was too much happening behind the dark irises for Alex to decipher in an instant. But he knew there was hope. And worry. And sorrow. And suddenly it hit Alex square in the chest that if this worked, if they played the Orpheum and crossed over, then that would mean saying goodbye to Willie. For good.

"That's awesome, how are you pulling that off?" Willie continued. He came a step closer and the knot in Alex's chest loosened a bit.

Alex glanced around and spotted the bench they'd moved together the first time they came here. He nodded towards it, then sat down himself. Willie hesitated. Alex felt himself crack just a bit more. Willie had never put distance between them before Caleb. In fact, he'd always been crossing it, grabbing Alex's hand or bumping their knees together or shaking him by the shoulders. There wasn't any of that anymore.

But then Willie sat down, leaving a few inches of space between them, but closer nonetheless. Alex exhaled.

"So basically we're going to get the opening band to have some kind of tech issue this weekend," Alex began, "and then throw up our video in the producer's office right after they find out. No time to find a replacement? Well lucky for them, we're right there."

Willie laughed, a little closer to his normal one this time. "Julie is a genius!" he declared, pulling one knee up to his chest. Then he smirked. "What are you gonna do to the opener?"

Alex huffed out a nervous chuckle. "Therein lies the issue," he admitted. "We have yet to agree on anything that isn't going to cause physical damage to the band, will get them out enough, and we can actually do."

Willie nodded, expression turning thoughtful. He didn't say anything for a minute. Alex took the opportunity to check out the green eggs on his socks. Would it still be called sunny side up if the yolks weren't yellow?

But he also thought about what would happen to Willie, to them, if this worked. And what would happen if it didn't. Would Willie be okay without Alex? Would Caleb take his anger out on the skater over losing Sunset Curve? Would Willie miss him? Or would he forget he existed, just a tiny blip in his long afterlife? Alex knew he wouldn't be forgetting Willie any time soon, even if he ceased to exist. Maybe Reggie had a point about never forgetting your first ghost.

On the other hand, what would happen if he took Caleb's offer? If he stayed at the HGC, playing music he didn't love for someone who owned his soul for an eternity? It wouldn't be fun. But then they could stay together. Alex could keep Willie safe from the magician. They could dance together in the club and it wouldn't matter who could or couldn't see them. They could just be. Forever.

But that would mean losing Julie. And his freedom. And probably his friends, because there was no way Luke was going to take the bait. Reggie would be caught in the middle, but he'd probably stay with Luke and Julie. So Alex would have Willie, but he wouldn't have his friends, or his music, or his soul.

Was it bad that he was still tempted?

"Okay, I'm going to handle the opener," Willie announced, startling Alex from his thoughts. "Not sure how yet, but I'll get you guys on that fancy sign."

"You mean the marque?" Alex clarified.

"I thought that was a fancy French dude," Willie retorted. "Like that one guy in Hamilton."

Alex shrugged. "I have no idea what a Hamilton is, but I think it's the same word?"

Willie laughed again. "I need to teach you the ways of sneaking into Broadway shows," he teased. Then his face fell. "Or... I guess not," he added in a softer voice.

The ache in Alex's chest, almost more painful than the occasional jolts now, returned full force. "Yeah," he sighed. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Unless..."

Willie's eyes shot to his, but the severity in his gaze was an unexpected stab to Alex's soul. "No, no way," the skater said firmly. "You're not taking his deal. I promise... It's not worth it."

"But what about you," Alex burst out. "If we leave and Caleb finds out you helped us, even just a little bit, he'd destroy you! You said it yourself! But if I stay then-"

"No I'm not going to let you do that, Alex!" Willie cut him off, one hand latching onto his. "I made my choice, okay? It was a stupid one, yeah, but it's done. You haven't! You can cross over and not have to deal with any of this anymore! And if Caleb wants to destroy me for-for caring about you, then okay. I'm okay with that, I've made my peace with the fact that my afterlife is probably going to be ended because of him at some point anyways. At least you would be safe and free."

Alex wanted to cry. He wanted to pull Willie close and hide him away somewhere no one could ever hurt him again. He wanted to hold him and get as far away from him as possible and just sit here with him forever all at once.

"I just want you to be happy," Willie murmured, running out of steam. When Alex met his gaze again, there were tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "As long as you're okay, that's enough for me. I got to know you and be your... friend for a bit. I'm not going to regret that, even if it's the end for me. I'll be okay as long as you're safe."

Alex reached out with his free hand and cupped Willie's cheek. His thumb brushed away the first tear that slid from the skater's eyes. "I don't want to leave you," he admitted softly.

"Me either," Willie breathed. "But you have to."

"I know," Alex sighed. "I'm sorry."

Willie shook his head without dislodging Alex's hand. "No being sorry. It's just how life is sometimes."

"We're literally dead already," Alex pointed out wryly.

"Details details," Willie dismissed, squeezing his hand. "Just promise me that, whatever happens, you'll do everything you can to cross over."

Alex squeezed back. "I promise," he responded, his heart cracking down the middle.

And only a day later, he would be reminded of that promise as he stared across the Hollywood Ghost Club at Willie, leaning against the back wall, as he missed a beat in Caleb's song in favor of the one calling to him from outside. Willie's gaze met his and he nodded once. Go, he mouthed.

I promise, Alex mouthed back, before leaving the club behind and flying to Julie's side.

[invinciblerodent]

my partner and i were talking today and he mentioned something that got my gears turning

are you in the right headspace to receive information that could possibly hurt you

absolutely dismayed to report that this asshole's severe features are just... going to continue to look fairly appealing pretty much indefinitely

it's not even just that he's somewhat boyishly handsome that's giving him that infuriating charm, he's just...

like that. it's just that secret sauce his mom apparently dunked him into like it's the River Styx

(the beard is mandatory I'm afraid, he's 100% the type of ass who lands a steady girlfriend, and immediately grows a silly fucking goatee. but also, in case at one point he decides that the long hair is a fucking hassle to maintain-

still doesn't make anything any better at all.

he just.... fucking looks like an actor who originally played the cliché heartthrob rogue in an 80's fantasy cult classic when he was like 23, and showed up at a random convention 20 years later only to generate fucking schlocky nerd-media headlines with the simple fact that he is, indeed, kinda dilfy-hot as a 40-something.)

[madeleinefjall]

six fanarts thingy from january earlier this year

[galadrielspeaks]

Love that nobody can say that about Legolas and Gimli, because it is canon that that ship sailed itself straight through the sunset and into heaven my good folks. And isn't that nice for us.

everyday i thank god that we got them sailing to the undying lands together 🙏

[camdoesnothingright]

Started reading Sansûkh, let’s see if it finally converts me to the bagginshield ship

[headcannonballs]

LOOKING FOR A DISCORD

Where we can all discuss on the various ways PJ had messed up Tolkien without needing to defend ourselves from movie fans.

I personally love the movies as great fantasy-action-adventure movies but the only part I consider Tolkien at all is the soundtrack. I want somewhere where I can vent with like-minded people on how absolutely and completely PJ messed up the themes, characters and plot, but without having to worry that I will be bombarded by tons on "you obviously don't understand the difference in medium".

I do, in fact, understand changes needed to be made from book-to-script. I just happen to not agree with 99% of the changes made. I don't deny the original trilogy is made by fans of the book from a place of love, but I do deny PJ & Co.'s headcannons that now movie fans consider canon.

I want to be able to rant about all the character assassinations of my favourites (Legolas, Pippin, Faramir, Bilbo, Thranduil, ...) without having movie!Aragorn, movie!Boromir and movie!Thorin fans butting in.

I want to be able to discuss actual thematic stuff like the nature of the Ring and how it works without being bashed over the head with cookie cutter theories like 'absolute power corrupts'.

I want to be able to read a reply and not having to wonder if the other person has ever read any book by Tolkien because it is so far divorced from canon I can't even picture it.

Anyone, out there? Or do I have to start one myself?

[siriusist]

Okay, but the thing that always kills me at the reunion scene at the end of the Return of the King, is how everyone basically gets called out by name, and then we remember awkwardly that Legolas basically was some one random Elven wood prince that Frodo met at the creation of the Fellowship, whom Frodo hasn’t actually seen since Boromir tried to take the ring from him, and that it’s been months and months and months since he’s seen him after the Fellowship was broken (and even then they were not particularly talkative with one another)

so everyone else gets a slow-motion call out by name like “GIIIIIMLIIIIII” and “ARAGORNNNNN” and then Legolas walks in in the midst of everyone celebrating, and Frodo’s slightly confused, “Oh- You’re not dead even though elves are basically immortal” look kills me every time

[theysanimations]

The Flash Speed Force Scene [Movie vs LEGO]

From Zack Snyder's Justice League (2021)

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,��� Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[brethilach]

#oooohhhhh this makes sense #also i think in the movie gandalf says they need to take the caradhras after they encounter saruman's spies #i'm assuming it was cuz it was the closest one and they needed to get the fuck outta dodge #and saruman was actively trying to kill them as they crossed

yeah, in the book they decide to go through the Redhorn Gate and over the Caradhras from the very beginning because it was the quickest way to get to Dimrill Dale (where the East Gate of Khazad-dûm opens up to), but they end up going down to the Doors of Durin instead simply because the blizzard was just THAT bad, even more so than Gandalf initially thought it would be. Frodo gets buried under the snow in the short amount of time they sit down to rest and falls unconscious (due to what seems to be hypothermia) until Boromir pulls him out of the snow and insists that they must find another way for the Hobbits' sake (FOTR, The Ring Goes South, pg 290):

A great sleepiness came over Frodo; he felt himself sinking fast into a warm and hazy dream. He thought a fire was heating his toes, and out of the shadows on the other side of the hearth he heard Bilbo's voice speaking.

"I don't think much of your diary," he said. "Snowstorms on January the twelfth: there was no need to come back to report that!"

"But wanted rest and sleep, Bilbo," Frodo answered with an effort, when he felt himself shaken, and he came back painfully to wakefulness. Boromir had lifted him off the ground out of a nest of snow.

"This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf," said Boromir. "It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves."

The avalanche happens in the book, but as far as I'm aware, there's no indication that Saruman was the one who did it, though Gimli DOES talk about the "ill will" of the Caradhras, saying it was named "Cruel" [by the Dwarves], a lot though and talks about the Mountains as if they're alive — I don't whether that's meant to be entirely literal, metaphorical, some spiritual Dwarf thing(?), or a combination of the three, but that's beside the point.

But Gandalf DID believe Saruman was spying on them through the Crebain that were following them (large, congizant corvids that also appear as Saruman's spies briefly in the movie), and they knew for certain Saruman had spies littered in the Gap of Rohan, so they also left the Redhorn quicker in part due to that.

Honestly I actually DO think making Saruman partly responsible for the danger they encountered in the Caradhras was a good choice for the movie (even if that wasn't the intent in the book). But that's just my opinon

some days ago I bought the third age Middle Earth map and since I rewatched the films with my parents, this afternoon I was indicated my mom where Rivendell and Minas Tirith are

watching the map I realized that Rivendell and Mirkwood are pretty near but they have the mountain in between so Legolas actually did something similar

since I don't think he neither passed thought Caradhras nor Moria, so why the Fellowship didn't take a similar path?

if Gandalf's plan was to arrive to Lothlorien, here you are, whats the problem

I understand that Jolkien wanted to kill Gandalf ecc but broooooo think about that

if someone knows where Legolas passed please tell me

[edges-of-night]

I love your headcannons, thank you very much. How do you think fellowship would react if a reader saw two cute animals and said, "Oh, it's you and me!"

Thank you very much! I’m happy to hear you enjoy this little blog ♡ Another animal request, with another anon who asked for this, too – this prompt is super cute, I hope I did it justice!

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

You’re gazing at a golden twilight forest with Aragorn when you spot two deer in the distance. Just like you, one rests its head against the other. “Look,” you chuckle quietly, “it’s you and me.” Aragorn smiles as he follows your gaze. When one of the deer nuzzles the other’s ear, he, too, leans in to give you a kiss. “What an uncanny resemblance, my love,” he says and pulls you even closer.

.

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir is scandalised when you suggest that the two cats crossing your path are “just like you and me.” He has heard stories of the ruthless Gondorian queen who used felines as her spies and flinches when one of the cats hisses at him. You go to pet it instead, and it softens and purrs – just like Boromir does when you caress him – but you don’t say that part out loud ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

You and Frodo share a cool carafe of strawberry lemonade when two butterflies flutter to the flower field beside you. “Look at those,” you say, “they’re just like you and me.” – “Sharing a delicious drink in the sunlight,” Frodo agrees with a dreamy smile. You keep watching the butterflies until one of them flies right into your face. “It gave you a kiss. I shall do the same,” Frodo says and leans in to peck you ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

You’re travelling the Shire’s hills in Gandalf’s wooden cart when two sparrows almost fly right into you. You flinch but realise they’re only doing their Spring dance through the morning air – a couple! “They’re like you and me!” you laugh. Gandalf gives you an amused look. “What a subtle way to tell me we’re going to dance at tonight’s party.” – “Indeed,” you grin.

.

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

Watching the puppies play on the ground makes you soften. When one of them bites another’s ear, you playfully nudge Gimli’s head – he’s been sitting silently next to you until now. “What?” he grunts. “The dogs are doing it,” you argue with a grin. Your Dwarf protests at first about this comparison. The two of you, dogs? “I reckon it is true though,” he muses. “We are both very loyal after all. And we like food. And games. And…”

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

You’re making your way through Mirkwood with Legolas, crossing a tree over a small pond where you make a curious observation: “Look! The toad and dragonfly are sharing a lily pad.” You snort. “They remind me of you and me.” – “Indeed! The sunlight reflects on its wings just like in your eyes, in all the colours of the sky.” You blush and wonder whether or not Legolas knew you meant it the other way around.

.

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Merry is a bit sensitive about his height, but that doesn’t stop you from comparing the two of you to the horse and the pony you spot in Bree. “Hey! I’ll have you know,” Merry begins, “that ponies are very sturdy and resilient.” – “I know. Just like Hobbits.” – Merry pouts at that comment and crosses his arms, murmuring, “Fine. Just don’t braid my hair like that pony’s.” – “Perhaps…”

.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

After a proper picnic, you lie in a meadow with Pippin. Purely by chance you look to your right when two bunnies scamper out of the bushes to eat some grass. You grin and whisper, “Don’t move too fast now, but there’s tiny versions of you and me over there.” – “Tinier than me?” Pippin asks and rolls over to watch the bunnies over your belly. “Aww! They’re mighty cute, but so are we!”

.

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

You watch fondly when two ladybugs crawl over Sam’s hands, dirty from gardening but still gentle to the bugs. You smile when you hear your Hobbit talking quietly: “Right. Let me get up… there you go… over here it’s safer for you. A flower house.” You tilt your head at him. “Moving in together? Just like the two of us, you mean?” – “Hm? What? Sorry, luv, I wasn’t listenin’ there.” – “Oh, nothing…” ♡

[shirefantasies]

I loved both of your new updates, with the Hobbit characters and Fellowship reacting to you calling them pretty. How do you imagine the elves replying when you call them pretty? Such as Lindir, Arwen, Haldir, Elrond and Figwit?

Lindir and Figwit are one and the same, that’s why there's only one :) here’s how I think it would go:

The Elves’ Reaction to You Calling Them Pretty

Gets sappy: Arwen, Lindir, Legolas

Shock: Elrond, Haldir, Feren

No you: Galadriel, Thranduil

Slowly, widely grinning, Arwen’s gaze falls from yours slightly, only to slide back. “You flatter me,” she says, voice lowering to a near-whisper as she steps closer, “especially for one who knows my heart is in your hands.” Flustered is the only word you could use to describe the look that crosses Lindir’s face, especially as you reach over to tuck a strand of his long dark hair behind his ear. A smile creeps across it, oh yes, but what can he do besides respond that no word that he knows can begin his description, no song he could write, would do you justice half as proper as he should like. Legolas bursts into a big, bashful smile before you even finish your sentence, reaching to take your hand and hold it against his chest. At first he says nothing, his dark eyes simply swimming in yours before he speaks. "I know not what I did to deserve such a love as you have given me, but I hope I do it again and again."

Taken aback, Elrond nearly leans away from your touch before seemingly thinking better of it, pale skin of his cheek resuming contact with your palm and bringing a rush of warmth with it. "You see beauty in the strangest of places," he chuckles, "in all things and every face you look upon. If only all of Middle-Earth could see as you do." And with that, his lips are on yours. Haldir tilts his head in- confusion? before his eyes are searching the gaze upon them, finding nothing but sincerity swimming in the beautiful color of your eyes. A smile breaks across his face, small but deeply affectionate, as he shakes his golden head. "I know not what to say beyond thanking the Valar for the gift of your love." You almost burst into a laugh at the way Feren's big brown eyes widen, turning like saucers as if you'd shifted to some unheard tongue mid-sentence. "Yes, you," you reiterate, reaching up to caress his face, the gorgeous arch of his cheekbone, "do I not make it apparent enough all the beauty I see in you?" Flushing, Feren simply shakes his head and leans into your touch before thinking better of it, turning instead to take your hand and press a kiss to the back of it. "Not at all. I was simply thinking of all the ways I should be returning the favor."

Amusement plays upon Galadriel's lips, loving glow overtaking her at your compliment, tinging her cheeks and glittering in her fair blue eyes. “Would that you could see through my eyes, meleth nîn,” she chuckles, reaching up to trace a pale hand along your hair, down the rise of your cheekbone, and to gently brush your lips with her thumb. Each motion a silent affirmation that has your heart singing as you grant her the kiss she asks for. “Well, aren’t you charming?” Thranduil teases, but all you can see in his eyes is pure, brimming love. “These are not your words, love, but mine.” His smile is wide, welcoming as the arms that pull you against the king’s back, elegant lips pecking your neck, then your cheek. “Your sincerity is a gift to this world, though. You say what you think whether it is what I wish or not. I suppose we can say I got lucky this time, did I not? As I do every day I have you by my side.”

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