#lord glorfindel

[earthlybeam]

Elves how they would react to finding you (reader) asleep in unusual or unexpected places.

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Thranduil, Elrond, Glorfindel, Celeborn Version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand doors of the throne room swung open with a low groan, pushed apart by two silent elven guards who bowed as their king strode past them. Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, entered with the unhurried grace of one who knew the world would wait for him. The faint, almost musical sound of his boots against the stone floor resonated softly in the stillness of the hall. His platinum blonde hair, fine as silken threads of moonlight, cascaded over his shoulders, catching the warm glow of the enchanted lanterns that lined the room. His robes, a rich blend of forest-green and gold, billowed behind him like the rippling of leaves caught in a gentle breeze. The delicate embroidery of vines and leaves that adorned the fabric shimmered faintly, as if alive with magic. With one hand, Thranduil lightly adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve, the motion precise, as though even the smallest detail of his appearance had to be impeccable. There had been much on his mind before his arrival. He had spent the morning in quiet reflection, walking alone among the ancient trees of his woodland realm. The whispers of the forest were as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart, and they had provided him with much-needed solace after a morning of deliberations with his advisors. Now, with his thoughts ordered and his patience carefully restored, he returned to his throne room, seeking the tranquility of its familiar grandeur. Yet, as his sharp gaze swept the room—taking in the towering carved columns that reached like ancient oaks toward the vaulted ceiling, the intricate tapestries depicting the history of his people, and the soft, ethereal glow that bathed the space—he froze. For there, sprawled across his throne as though it were the most natural thing in the world, was you.

For a heartbeat, Thranduil did not move. His steps halted mid-stride, his long fingers still resting lightly on the folds of his robes. His gaze sharpened, narrowing as it landed on your insolent, audacious form, draped across his grand seat as though it were a mere lounge chair. One leg was hooked lazily over an armrest, the other dangling precariously off the edge, while your head lolled back in serene, unbothered slumber. The sight might have been offensive had it not been so utterly absurd. One elegant brow arched high on his otherwise stoic face, betraying a mixture of disbelief and amusement. The audacity! It was as if you had declared yourself ruler of Mirkwood in his absence. Yet, as he studied the scene further, his lips twitched ever so slightly, threatening a smirk. Your utter shamelessness reminded him of a lounging house cat, basking in stolen luxury, oblivious to its impertinence. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the ridiculousness of it all. Then, slowly, he strode forward, his boots clicking faintly against the stone floor.

“You remind me,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “of a pampered house cat who saunters about as though it owns the palace.” His words echoed in the empty hall, the quiet humor lacing his tone unmistakable. His lips curved into a subtle smirk as he came to a halt beside the throne, his piercing gaze fixed firmly on your slumbering form. “For your information, this throne is mine. And it is hardly meant for lounging.” When you failed to stir at his entrance, Thranduil’s lips curled into a faint half-smile, a sigh slipping from him, heavy with a mixture of exasperation and a subtle amusement. His gaze lingered on the sight before him: you, sprawled across his throne as though it were your own personal sanctuary. One arm dangled loosely over the armrest, fingers lightly brushing the ornate wood, and your head tipped back in a peaceful, untroubled slumber. Your leg rested lazily across the opposite armrest, its casual placement a quiet defiance of the regal seat you occupied. The sheer audacity of your relaxed position, so out of place in this grand hall, sparked a glimmer of bemusement in his sharp eyes. For a long moment, Thranduil simply stood still, watching you with quiet fascination. His gaze softened ever so slightly, amusement mingling with something warmer, a rare tenderness that stirred beneath his usual cool demeanor. Was it affection? Or perhaps just the odd comfort of seeing such a carefree display in a room so often filled with the formalities of his rule? It was a rare sight indeed, and one he found oddly captivating.

But his patience was not without limit, and despite the lightness of the moment, curiosity began to win out. He had to know whether you would acknowledge his presence at all. With a fluid, controlled motion, he took a single step closer to you. His long, elegant fingers reached out, not tapping on the armrest, but gently nudging your foot with a soft push. The touch was deliberate, light, yet firm enough to break the stillness between you. His eyes, though, never left you as he waited, his expression a careful blend of mock severity and quiet amusement. The nudge barely disturbed your slumber. Instead, you shifted in place, murmuring unintelligible words as your body lazily adjusted, seemingly trying to block out whatever dared to interrupt your peaceful rest. A barely audible grumble left your lips, muffled by the soft cushions of the throne, as you pulled your leg back slightly and mumbled, “Five more minutes…” The words were thick with sleep, and there was a childlike petulance to them, as if the world could simply pause until you were ready to face it. Thranduil’s eyes softened as he watched the fleeting defiance, his lips quirked in a smirk at your quiet refusal to acknowledge the presence of your king. You had claimed his throne as your own, and now you dared to dismiss him with nothing more than a sleepy demand for time.

Thranduil stilled, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and bemusement. Five more minutes? His mind barely processed the words, his sharp gaze flicking over your relaxed form sprawled across his throne. He was the King of Mirkwood, a lord of the Eldar, a figure of ancient authority, and here you were—ignoring him, dismissing him as though he were some doting servant instead of one of the most formidable beings in Middle-earth. The audacity of it had his heart stirring with a sharp mixture of irritation and humor. He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, one that might have seemed irritated to anyone else, but the gleam in his eyes gave him away. He was far too amused to be genuinely angry. With the elegance of someone utterly accustomed to being obeyed, Thranduil bent at the waist, his long fingers reaching out effortlessly. Before you could even react, he swept you into his arms, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The sudden motion jolted you from your slumber, and your body stirred instinctively. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, they were wide and confused, the sleep still thick in your gaze. Your expression distorted in surprise, your mind struggling to comprehend the change in position. Thranduil’s piercing eyes met yours as your grogginess collided with the bewildering reality of being cradled in his arms, and for a heartbeat, you looked at him as if you weren’t quite sure what was happening.

“What—?” The question slipped from your lips, still half-formed and lost in the haze of sleep. His voice, smooth as velvet, cut through your dazed state. “You’ve claimed my throne,” he murmured, his tone rich with regal mockery as he settled back onto the seat with effortless grace, pulling you gently onto his lap. His words carried a quiet authority, though there was an unmistakable glint of amusement beneath the surface. “I shall claim you in turn.” You grumbled faintly, still too drowsy to put up much of a protest. You tried to return to your comfortable position, your voice muffled as you snuggled closer to him, “Mmm… It’s not what it looks like… just… borrowing it for a moment… keeping it warm for you…” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. Thranduil’s lips quirked at your half-hearted protest, the subtle humor in your words only deepening his amusement. He arched a brow and, with a small, knowing smile, leaned in just slightly, his voice low and filled with mock curiosity. “Keeping it warm for me?” His tone was playful, laced with a hint of his usual regal authority, though it softened as his gaze lingered on you. He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and melodic. With a smooth, practiced motion, he adjusted you more comfortably in his arms, settling you further into his lap. Your body shifted against him, your head now nestled in the crook of his shoulder. Thranduil’s long fingers grazed your cheek as he swept aside a few errant strands of hair, his touch so gentle it contrasted sharply with his commanding presence. The softness of his actions was a quiet reminder of the affection that lingered beneath his often-imposing demeanor.

His fingers traced the curve of your face, moving with a tender precision that made his touch feel like something intimate, something meant only for you. “Such gratitude,” he murmured teasingly, his voice a soft purr that vibrated through the air. “I should expect you to purr, yet instead, I receive grumbles. Perhaps I’ve spoiled you too much.” You made a small, unintelligible noise in response, your protests a mere murmur beneath the weight of sleep. It was enough to make him chuckle softly again, the sound warm and deep. His lips curled into a small smile as he leaned back in the throne, the high back of it supporting him as he gazed down at you with that characteristic mix of amusement and tenderness. His fingers continued their soothing path along your shoulder, then down your back, the slow rhythm of his touch a balm against the weight of the world. Though his eyes sparkled with mirth, there was a gentleness in the way he held you, as though he were savoring the rare quiet between you, a moment of peace in the otherwise ever-demanding life of a king. He was content to let you rest, for now, the world outside could wait.

For Thranduil, this moment was an odd mixture of exasperation and contentment. He wasn’t used to such… informality. Such audacity. Yet here you were, completely unbothered, utterly unafraid in his presence. You had dared to fall asleep in his throne as if it were a mere chair, and while he might have been expected to take offense, there was something about it—something about the ease with which you claimed his space—that he found… endearing. As your warmth pressed gently against his chest, a soft shift in your position, Thranduil’s gaze softened. He tilted his head back ever so slightly, allowing the weight of centuries and responsibility to ease, if only for a fleeting moment. He glanced across the hall, where the flickering light of enchanted lanterns danced across the stone, and for a brief second, the usual burden of ruling seemed to lighten. The quiet of the throne room, usually heavy and full of formality, felt oddly peaceful with only the sound of your soft breathing breaking the silence. With a tender shift, he rested his chin lightly atop your head, the position oddly comforting, as though you had both created a small, shared sanctuary within the vast emptiness of the hall. His voice lowered to a soft murmur, just above a whisper, words meant only for the stone walls to hear. “You are a maddening creature, Mellon nîn,” he said, his tone rich with affection and something unspoken, “But perhaps, that is why I let you stay.” For a king who had long ruled alone, the quiet intimacy between you both felt surprisingly welcome, even amidst the rare silence of his throne room.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Lord Elrond sat at his desk, his eyes scanning the carefully arranged scrolls before him. The study was bathed in the soft, golden light of the afternoon, casting long shadows across the room as the quiet rustle of parchment filled the air. His fingers moved with practiced precision, lifting one scroll after another, sifting through the ancient texts with an air of quiet determination. There were few things that could pull him away from the depths of his work, and the passing hours had done little to diminish his focus. His thoughts, sharp as ever, were entirely absorbed in the task at hand, yet beneath the surface, a sense of something else stirred—a lingering awareness of the presence nearby, one that never failed to bring a sense of calm to his soul.

As his hand reached out for another scroll, his fingers brushed against the edges, but the parchment slipped from his grasp. He watched it roll from the desk and tumble to the floor with a soft thud. Elrond’s attention flickered briefly, his mind momentarily distracted as his gaze followed the parchment’s descent. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his focus lightened for just a moment. He remained still for a beat, letting his eyes briefly drift over the papers, before deciding to rise and retrieve the wayward scroll. As he moved toward the fallen parchment, something unexpected caught his eye. Beneath the edge of the desk, tucked into the shadowed corner of the room, lay the form of his friend. There, sound asleep, was you. The sight of you, so peacefully curled in such an unorthodox position, brought a fleeting smile to Elrond’s usually composed face. The sight was endearing, unexpected, and far more charming than he would ever let on. Your legs were tucked up toward your chest, your head resting on your arm with your face hidden in the curve of your sleeve, hair spilling around you like a silken cascade. One hand was curled beneath your cheek, your other arm loosely draped over your body, as though you had simply fallen into a moment of comfort and rest, right there in the quiet of his study.

For a moment, Elrond simply stood there, his usual serene expression softening as a faint flicker of amusement danced behind his dark eyes. His lips, so often set in a stern line, tugged ever so slightly at the corners, the rarest of smiles—small, soft, and fleeting—curving his mouth. It was not the first time you had fallen asleep near him, but there was something about the sight of you curled beneath his desk, so utterly unaware of the world around you, that stirred a tenderness he seldom allowed himself to feel. Elrond’s hand hovered for a moment, resting on the edge of the desk as he studied you with quiet affection. Your rhythmic breathing, the way your chest gently rose and fell, was a gentle reminder of the peace you brought to his heart. The sight of you here, in this place so close to him, softened the edges of his usually meticulous and composed demeanor, a warmth filling him that not even centuries of experience could shield him from. A chuckle stirred in the back of his throat—quiet, almost imperceptible—but one that could not be contained. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in this rare bit of levity, marveling at how effortlessly you had slipped into his world, leaving traces of warmth and comfort wherever you went. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, rare and soft, though it remained, for a moment, hidden beneath the seriousness of his expression. It was only when the scrolls and papers on his desk seemed to pull him back to the present that Elrond decided to bring you from your peaceful slumber.

He couldn’t help but be struck by the sight—the way you appeared so content, utterly unaware of the world around you, lost in the quiet sanctuary of sleep. His heart warmed at the sight, even as he felt a playful glimmer stir within him. Quietly, he reached for a thick book resting on his desk, its weight reassuring in his hands. He dropped it onto the surface with a deliberate thud, the sound echoing through the room like a small thunderclap. He couldn’t help but be struck by the sight—the way you appeared so content, utterly unaware of the world around you, lost in the quiet sanctuary of sleep. Your form was curled up beneath his desk, small and peaceful, like a gentle ripple in a still pond. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair spilled out around you in a tangled mess—there was something so serene about it. Elrond’s heart warmed at the sight, even as a playful glimmer stirred within him. It was rare to catch you so unguarded, so completely absent from the cares of the world. He found a small amusement in it, and with a quiet, thoughtful smile, he decided to indulge in the moment.

Quietly, he reached for a thick book resting on his desk, its weight reassuring in his hands. His fingers brushed over the pages as his gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer. He then dropped the book onto the desk with a deliberate thud, the sound echoing through the room like a small thunderclap. The noise shattered the peaceful silence, its sharpness undeniable in the quiet study. The sound caused you to stir immediately. Your body shifted beneath the desk, a low murmur escaping your lips as you slowly blinked up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, fighting to adjust to the light. You struggled for a moment, eyes squinting, as though the waking world was still a hazy place, and for a brief second, you simply stared at him in confusion.

A soft, sleepy hum escaped your lips, your brows furrowing in mild disorientation, as if you were still caught between dreams and reality. Elrond’s gaze softened instantly, his heart tugging at the sight of you, the fog of sleep thick in your eyes. It was a quiet, endearing thing to watch you struggle in the half-light of consciousness. His usual composed demeanor faltered just slightly, as an affection he couldn’t entirely conceal shimmered behind his calm exterior. Seeing the way your body remained still, trying to fight off the clutches of sleep, Elrond’s voice slipped out, steady and calm, but with a teasing warmth that wrapped around his words like a soft blanket. “It seems my study has gained a new resident,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he allowed a gentle humor to color his voice, though the quiet care that usually guided his tone was still present.

You blinked up at him again, your confusion giving way to the fog of sleep. You rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the haze, but your attempt to make sense of the situation only made Elrond’s amusement grow. His lips parted in a quiet chuckle, a sound rare enough to make the air around him feel warmer. As you continued to stare at him, his chuckle deepened—just a hint of affection behind it. Still blinking, your voice came out thick with sleep. “What—what time is it?” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly, clearly still not fully awake. “Did something… fall?” You yawned, stretching as best you could while still tucked beneath his desk, your body moving with the languidness of someone pulled from a deep, peaceful slumber.

Elrond couldn’t help but smile more at the sight. His usual solemnity melted in the face of such vulnerability, the love he held for you clear in his expression. The way you lay there, so peacefully unaware of the world around you, made something stir deep within him—affection, tenderness, and a quiet joy. He allowed himself a rare, soft smile, the kind that only you could bring out of him. He leaned down just a little closer, his breath gentle in the stillness of the room, and his voice, though steady, carried a playful warmth. “It seems you’ve found a very comfortable corner of my study,” he said, the words laced with both amusement and the fondness he felt for you. His eyes twinkled softly, a lightness there that not many would see, and certainly not when his mind was usually so focused and heavy with the burdens of leadership. Kneeling down to your level, Elrond reached out, offering you his hand with a graceful fluidity. The gesture was an effortless blend of strength and gentleness, a clear invitation to rise, yet with an undeniable tenderness that matched his quiet care. His fingers hovered just within reach of yours, patient and calm, allowing you the time to decide if you were ready to take his help. His brow arched slightly in amusement, the faintest trace of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he waited for your response.

“Come now, little one,” he said, his voice a soft melody, his tone like a gentle caress against your sleep-dulled senses. “Surely there are more suitable places for rest than beneath my desk.” There was a teasing edge to his words, but beneath that lightheartedness, there was a depth of care—an affection that was always there, even when his voice was steady and composed. He was concerned, though not in a way that felt overbearing. It was the sort of concern that felt natural, the concern of someone who cared for your well-being as deeply as he did. Still groggy from your unexpected nap, you made an attempt to push yourself upright, but your body, heavy with the lingering pull of sleep, didn’t seem to respond as you’d hoped. The sudden movement was a little too much, and your legs wobbled beneath you. A soft, sleepy murmur escaped your lips, a confused sound that was almost entirely made up of a yawn. Before you could regain your balance, Elrond was there—his hand steady, his grip firm but not forceful—guiding you back to a more stable stance.

You stumbled slightly, and in your disoriented state, you accidentally bumped your head lightly against the edge of the desk. A soft thud, not painful, but enough to make you wince in surprise. Elrond’s smile widened, though the tenderness in his gaze never wavered. His quiet chuckle filled the space between you, warm and soft, like a ripple in still water. But the amusement quickly shifted into a more protective concern, and he was instantly attentive to you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. “Careful, Mellon nín,” he murmured, his voice lowering to a near-whisper. The soft tone held an edge of worry, though it was quickly masked by the calm, steady assurance he always carried. His fingers grazed the spot where you’d bumped your head, though his touch was light, checking for any signs of injury. “I’ll not have you injuring yourself,” he added, his words gentle but firm, as if to remind you that he would always be there to catch you when you needed him. The care in his voice was unmistakable, and though you were still a little dazed from your nap, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of comfort in the quiet reassurance he offered.

With a small, reassuring sigh, Elrond helped you find your feet fully, his hands guiding you toward a more comfortable chair. He moved with practiced care, as always, attending to your needs with a quiet dedication that came so naturally to him. Without speaking, he rose and went to a nearby table, where he had previously prepared a fresh cup of herbal tea—still warm, its soothing aroma drifting through the air. He placed the cup gently into your hands, his gaze unwavering, yet filled with tenderness. “Drink this,” Elrond said quietly, his voice both affectionate and firm. “I’ll not have you wandering my halls half-asleep.” The concern in his voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of warmth, a reflection of the deep care he held for you. You took the cup, sipping slowly as he observed you from across the room. Despite his own work awaiting attention, Elrond’s gaze often flickered back to you, a soft smile tugging at his lips, though he remained composed. It was clear that, while his mind was occupied with his tasks, part of him was wholly devoted to your presence, finding contentment simply in knowing you were close.

You took a moment, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye, the sleepiness still evident in your voice. “Thanks, just what I wanted!” you said, a hint of sarcasm lacing your words, though the gratitude was clear beneath your teasing. You had intended to keep resting, to remain lost in the peaceful haze of sleep, but there was a part of you that appreciated his care, even if you weren’t entirely thrilled with the interruption. As the warmth of the tea began to settle in your bones, the lingering exhaustion of your day weighed heavier on your body, pulling at your consciousness. Without a word, you shifted from the chair, your movements slow and languid, almost as if the weight of the day had caught up with you all at once. You moved towards Elrond with an ease that came from knowing he would be there, his presence a constant source of comfort. Slowly, carefully, you settled yourself in his lap, your head naturally seeking the warmth of his chest. The act, though wordless, spoke volumes—a request for closeness, for the quiet reassurance only he could offer.

Elrond, ever attuned to your needs, didn’t hesitate. His arms encircled you with a natural grace, as though this was the most familiar thing in the world, the way his body seemed to instinctively know how to shelter and protect you. You felt the strength of him beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, a gentle rhythm that began to slow the pace of your own thoughts. His embrace was secure yet tender, holding you as though you were both his greatest responsibility and his deepest joy. You nestled into him, letting go of the last remnants of your grogginess, surrendering to the comfort of his warmth. Elrond’s hand, the same one that had guided you with care earlier, moved to your hair, his fingers brushing through it in soft, rhythmic strokes. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic, as though each touch was meant to calm not just your body, but your mind as well.

He allowed the silence to stretch between you, broken only by the quiet sound of your breathing and the occasional soft chuckle that escaped him as he regarded you, half-lost in the moment. “You seem to have no intention of leaving,” he murmured with a teasing lilt to his voice, his breath warm against your skin. There was a lightheartedness to his words, yet the affection in his tone was unmistakable. “I think I’ve made the mistake of offering comfort to someone far too determined to take advantage of it.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he continued to stroke your hair, the motions slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to simply be here with you. The playful edge to his voice never faltered, but beneath it, the care in his touch was clear—each movement tender and full of a quiet, deep affection. “Mmmm…” you mumbled sleepily, your words slurring slightly as you burrowed deeper into his chest, your exhaustion still clinging to you. You didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore, and honestly, you didn’t want to. “I’m just… here to… help you… with your work…”

Elrond chuckled softly, the sound rich with warmth, as his fingers continued their soothing rhythm through your hair. He could feel the tension leaving your body, the weight of the day beginning to melt away, and he felt a quiet peace settle over him in response. His smile widened, the affection in his gaze deepening as he responded with gentle humor, though his voice was still full of tenderness. “Yes, of course,” he said, the teasing edge to his voice still there, but it was tempered with love. “I suppose you’ve been quite the help in keeping me company.” And so, in the calm of his study, with nothing but the steady beat of his heart and the quiet, rhythmic motion of his hand through your hair, the two of you shared an unspoken understanding. Elrond resumed his work, his attention divided between the task at hand and the precious presence nestled in his arms. He knew, as always, that the simplest moments—like this one—were often the most meaningful. The peace of the moment was perfect, and with you in his arms, all was right in the world.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

After finishing his tasks in the stables, Glorfindel paused for a moment, leaning lightly against the handle of the broom he had just set aside. The warm, earthy scent of hay mixed with the familiar tang of leather saddles and oiled tack filled the air, a smell he had long since come to associate with calmness. The soft snorts of horses and the occasional rustle of hooves shifting against the stable floor provided a steady, almost rhythmic background, one that always eased the weight of the day from his shoulders. He reached up, brushing a damp strand of golden hair back from his forehead, his gaze sweeping the tidy rows of stalls one last time. Everything appeared as it should: the straw fresh, the feed buckets filled, and the horses content. Yet, as he turned to hang the broom on its usual hook, his sharp eyes caught an unusual detail.

One of the stall doors at the far end was slightly ajar, its sturdy wooden frame left just wide enough for a sliver of light to spill through. Glorfindel frowned faintly, his mind already cataloging possibilities. It was rare for the stable doors to be left unsecured, rarer still for one of the attendants or elves in charge of the stables to overlook such a thing. Straightening, he moved toward the stall with quiet, measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn planks of the stable floor. His keen senses remained alert, his eyes flicking briefly over the nearby surroundings to ensure nothing else was amiss. As he approached, his hand brushed instinctively toward the hilt of the blade that rested at his side—a habit born of countless centuries of vigilance. He did not truly expect danger here, in this peaceful sanctuary of Imladris, but old instincts were difficult to silence entirely. The faint creak of the floor beneath him and the soft rustle of hay reached his ears as he closed the gap between himself and the open stall. Glorfindel’s frown softened into something more thoughtful as he reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against the edge of the door. It swung inward with a faint groan, revealing the scene within.

He hesitated on the threshold, his sharp gaze adjusting to the dimmer light inside the stall. What he saw made him pause. His hand, still resting on the door, stilled entirely, and the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his expression. The sight that met his eyes made him pause, his breath catching in his chest before it escaped in a faint, incredulous chuckle. There, nestled comfortably on a thick bed of hay, was you—completely unaware of his presence, lost in peaceful slumber. Your form was curled slightly on one side, one arm tucked beneath your head like a makeshift pillow, while the other rested limply against your chest. The golden straw beneath you framed you like a halo, catching the light that filtered in from the high stable window. Your face, serene and softened by sleep, was partially obscured by a stray lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek. The gentle rise and fall of your chest marked the rhythm of your deep breaths, each exhalation soft and unhurried, as though the world outside held no urgency. Your legs were bent slightly at the knees, with one ankle resting lazily atop the other, and the hem of your tunic was slightly rumpled from the uneven surface of the hay.

But what truly made the scene so endearing—so utterly absurd—was the presence of the large horse standing just beside you. Its dark eyes glinted with a quiet intelligence as it leaned down, its velvety muzzle gently nudging at your hair, as though ensuring you were still breathing. The beast exhaled softly, its warm breath ruffling the strands of your hair, an almost protective presence looming over you in the small, intimate space of the stall. Glorfindel suppressed a laugh, one hand rising instinctively to cover his mouth as he marveled at the sight before him. The combination of your utterly relaxed state and the horse’s quiet, almost guardian-like demeanor struck him as both amusing and unexpectedly charming. He shook his head lightly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips, as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe to take it all in.

His smile deepened as he leaned casually against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest as he took a moment to observe you. This was indeed a unique horse, but in a way he hadn’t quite expected. “Well, well,” he murmured to himself, “What a unique horse we have here.” He watched for a few more seconds, the peacefulness of the scene filling him with quiet amusement. Finally, an idea struck him—a little playful trick, something to rouse you from your slumber in a way that would surely draw out a reaction. He reached down, scooping up a handful of loose hay from the floor. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he lightly sprinkled it over your hair, his voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt. “Rise and shine, my curious little steed. Your stable duties await!” The teasing voice broke through the haze of your dreams, tugging you back to reality in a way that was both jarring and strangely gentle. Something soft landed atop your head, and you groaned faintly, instinctively brushing at it before fully opening your eyes. Your mind, still foggy with sleep, struggled to make sense of the sensations around you—the scent of hay, the warm breath of a nearby horse, and the sound of restrained laughter.

You blinked slowly, confusion clouding your thoughts as the scattered pieces of the scene began to come together. Your hand brushed through your hair, dislodging loose bits of hay that clung stubbornly to the strands, though a few still stubbornly clung to your shoulders. The distinct crunch of the straw beneath you was the next realization that surfaced—hay? Why was there hay? It wasn’t until the familiar voice sounded again, this time accompanied by the faint shuffle of movement nearby, that you snapped fully awake. Jerking upright with wide, bewildered eyes, you looked around, your gaze darting to the open stall door and the tall, golden-haired figure crouched just a few feet away.

“Glorfindel?” you mumbled groggily, your voice thick and raspy with sleep. You squinted at him, your frown deepening as the drowsiness slowly loosened its hold. He was grinning, his blue eyes sparkling with unmistakable amusement as he rested one elbow on his knee, casually watching your disoriented attempts to make sense of things. “What in Middle-earth are you doing here?” you finally managed, though your tone came out more accusatory than you had intended. Your fingers brushed through your hair again, pulling out yet another stubborn piece of hay, as your sleep-heavy mind reeled. How had you managed to fall asleep in a horse stall? And, more importantly, why did he look like he was enjoying this far more than he should? Glorfindel’s soft chuckle filled the air as he stood, effortlessly steadying you when you wobbled a bit. He didn’t answer right away, simply brushing a few stray pieces of hay from your shoulder, his grin widening. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his voice light with amusement. “It seems you’ve found a rather unusual bedmate.” He gestured toward the horse that had stayed by your side, now curiously sniffing at your disheveled hair. “Though, I must admit, I find your choice of company rather charming.”

Despite the haze of sleep still clouding your mind, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you looked toward the horse, who had seemingly become your unlikely guardian for the nap. “I wasn’t planning to fall asleep here,” you muttered sheepishly, brushing more hay from your hair. “It’s just… so cozy.” He raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “Cozy? In a stall?” His voice held the teasing lilt that you were slowly coming to expect from him. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Though I’d suggest next time, perhaps a blanket instead of hay.” His words softened, and there was a warmth in his eyes as he helped you steady yourself, clearly both amused and concerned for your well-being. You couldn’t stop a sleepy frown from forming, even as you appreciated his gentle manner. “You don’t have to scold me,” you mumbled, still trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. “I’m not scolding,” Glorfindel replied with a soft laugh. “I’m just… making sure you don’t wake up next to a horse’s tail next time. Now, how about a little breakfast, hm?” His voice was warm, his teasing now edged with a kind of protective affection. “You’ve certainly earned it after your… unique nap.”

His laughter echoed in the quiet stables, and despite the lingering grogginess, you couldn’t help but smile at how easily he’d lightened the mood. The gentle teasing, the way he helped you stand and guided you toward the exit—there was something comforting about his presence, something that made the sleepiness fade even faster. The horse, too, followed behind, as if reluctant to leave its new companion. Glorfindel’s playful nature and teasing were all on full display, but it was also clear to you that, despite the lighthearted jesting, he cared for your well-being. He didn’t scold, didn’t make you feel foolish—instead, he made sure you woke up in the most reassuring way possible, with a smile and a gentle hand guiding you. And, as you walked toward the stable doors with Glorfindel by your side, you couldn’t help but feel that, while you might never hear the end of this little nap, his playful nature made it all the more bearable.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

Among the Roots of a Mallorn Tree

The golden light of Lothlórien filtered through the dense canopy of the mallorn trees, their silver leaves shimmering like living stars. The air was filled with the soft murmur of wind through the branches, the distant songs of birds, and the subtle rustling of the forest’s life. It was a perfect day to walk the ancient woods, the stillness broken only by the occasional step of a passing elf or the rustle of an animal darting beneath the underbrush. Celeborn, tall and composed, moved gracefully through the forest, his gaze both sharp and serene as he took in the beauty of his realm. However, today something was different. As he wandered deeper into the woods, his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of movement among the roots of an enormous mallorn tree. For a moment, he thought it was a small animal curled up in the shade, nestled against the ancient wood. His steps slowed, and his heart softened with the brief thought that the forest’s creatures had claimed the spot as their own. But as his gaze focused further, the shape became clearer, and his brow furrowed slightly in recognition. There, nestled among the thick, gnarled roots of the mallorn, was you.

There, amongst the gnarled and twisting roots of the great tree, lay your form, curled up and almost indistinguishable from the earth itself. The thick, knotted roots cradled you like a natural bed, and your body was draped in the shadows of the mallorn’s silvery leaves. Your face was relaxed, eyes closed in peaceful slumber, and a faint smile curled on your lips. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of your chest as you breathed deeply, so utterly at ease in this unexpected spot that Celeborn couldn’t help but feel a mix of fond amusement and affection. He stepped closer, his long, fluid movements bringing him to your side with silent grace. The soft rustle of leaves beneath his boots barely disturbed the tranquility of the moment. Leaning over, he observed you for a moment, appreciating the way the intricate roots seemed to embrace you, as if you had become one with the ancient tree itself.

He couldn’t deny the gentle smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. You had always managed to find the most unusual places to sleep—be it on a bench, curled up by a fire, or now, amid the roots of the great mallorn. The sight of you, so utterly relaxed, made his heart ache with tenderness. “Truly, you have an uncanny ability to find the most… unusual places to sleep,” Celeborn whispered softly, his voice carrying the warmth of the surrounding forest. His hand hovered above you for a moment before he brushed a single leaf from your face, the light touch tender and filled with affection. As his fingers gently swept the leaf aside, your hand stirred in response, a soft, unconscious motion. You swiped at the air with a casual gesture, as if swatting away an irritant, but your fingers never made contact with anything—only the sensation of Celeborn’s touch lingered, unnoticed in your dreamlike state. He smiled warmly at the delicate moment, his touch remaining soft as he placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake, careful not to startle you from your slumber.

“Wake up, my friend,” he said, his tone barely more than a murmur, though firm enough to rouse you from your slumber. “It seems the world has moved on without you.” You stirred at the gentle motion, letting out a low, half-hearted grumble as you shifted slightly, clearly reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth and comfort the roots had provided. A soft groan escaped your lips as you burrowed deeper against the gnarled wood, as though willing sleep to pull you back under. For a few moments, you were lost to the haze of dreams, the earthy scent of the forest and the rustling whispers of the wind lulling you to stay.But the presence beside you was impossible to ignore. The voice—calm, comforting, and always familiar—persisted, tugging you further from the fog of slumber. Slowly, begrudgingly, your mind began to clear, and you cracked one eye open, squinting up at him in reluctant acknowledgment. Celeborn stood there, a patient smile on his lips, his silver hair catching the soft light of the mallorn leaves. His gaze, warm and steady, met yours as you blinked the last remnants of sleep away, a half-formed grumble still escaping you as if protesting the very idea of waking.

You let out a tired laugh, the sound soft and rough as it broke through the lingering haze of sleep. Rubbing your eyes with slow, deliberate movements, you stretched your arms high above your head, your body still heavy with drowsiness. “I… must have fallen asleep without even realizing,” you murmured, your voice thick and low, as if the very earth beneath you had conspired to hold you in its gentle, grounding embrace. The warmth of Celeborn’s presence seemed to surround you, his steady gaze pulling you further from the tendrils of slumber that clung stubbornly to your bones. His smile softened, the corners of his lips curving with unmistakable fondness as he crouched beside you, careful to keep his movements slow and unintrusive. “I can see that,” he replied, his voice rich and warm, the faintest hint of teasing in his tone. “Though you seem to have chosen a very… intimate spot. It seems the roots have accepted you as one of their own.”

Your eyes widened slightly as his words brought clarity, and you blinked, suddenly more aware of your surroundings. Looking around, you noticed how the massive, winding roots of the mallorn tree curled protectively around you, like a cradle crafted by the forest itself. Above, the ancient tree stretched endlessly into the sky, its golden leaves shimmering in the dappled light and whispering secrets to the wind. The realization brought a soft chuckle to your lips, still tinged with sleep. “I suppose I’ve become a part of the tree, then,” you said, your words accompanied by a sheepish grin as you glanced back at him. “Perhaps it’s just too comfortable here…” Celeborn’s eyes crinkled slightly with amusement, though his concern remained evident in the way his gaze lingered on you. Extending a hand, he spoke gently but with purpose. “It may be comfortable, but the ground is no place for a proper rest, my dear.” His hand was warm and steady, his voice carrying that familiar blend of amusement and care that always put you at ease. “Come, let us find you somewhere more fitting.”

You hesitated, the idea of moving feeling far too strenuous in the wake of such a deep slumber, but with his hand there—a quiet promise of support—you found yourself reaching out. His touch was firm yet careful as he guided you upward, his strength effortless as you swayed slightly, unsteady on your feet. The sleep that still clung to you made your limbs feel heavy, and you leaned lightly against him, seeking his warmth and stability. Celeborn’s hand remained at your back, a gentle anchor as you regained your balance. The familiar scent of the forest mingled with the faint, calming fragrance that always seemed to surround him, grounding you further in the present. “You’re patient with me, Celeborn,” you murmured softly, your voice carrying the faint remnants of drowsiness as you leaned into his side, your steps tentative. “Always waiting for me to wake up, always guiding me through.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound like the rustling of leaves caught in a soft breeze, rich with warmth and the kind of affection that ran deep and steady. “Patience is a virtue, my friend,” he replied, his voice low and soothing as he began to lead you forward. “And with you, it is always worth the wait.” His steps were slow, measured, and unhurried as he guided you through the tranquil woods, his hand remaining at your back, steady and sure. Though the journey to a more fitting resting place would be a short one, neither of you seemed in any rush to reach it. The golden light filtered through the canopy, bathing the two of you in a gentle glow as you walked. Sleep still clung to your mind, but with Celeborn’s quiet, unwavering presence at your side, the line between dream and wakefulness felt blissfully blurred. No matter how many times you wandered into the forest only to succumb to sleep in the most unexpected of places, you knew you would always find him there, patient and ever-watchful, ready to guide you back to safety. And though you still felt the pull of slumber, there was a comfort in knowing that you could lean into him, that his presence would always feel like home.

[fictionalmenjusthitdifferent]

YOU CAN'T TELL ME THIS MAN ISN'T THE PERFECT FANCAST FOR GLORFINDEL

[starsilversword-art]

Dís x Glorfindel because there's only two fics with this ship on Ao3 and I demand more content. (Any ship name ideas?)

Edit: I gave her a beard.

[batsyforyou]

Glorfindel

Elf Eyes Glorfindel x FemReader (loading …)

The Golden Apple x FemReader (loading. . . )

Rain Rain Go Away

LetterOnUs.com

Lillies in the Library

Glorfindel and One Bed Headcanons

Cuddles with Glorfindel

How Glorfindel and Finrod were as Babies

Blanket Series

Glorfindel Sleep Headcanons

Masterlist

[stormchaser819]

Which Tolkien character is your roommate?

Spin the wheel to see whether you'll enjoy your time as a roommate. 🤣

[asinoeiv]

1st - Egalmoth, Duilin, Ecthelion and Glorfindel in the back.

2nd - Annatar, Celebrimbor and Oc

3rd - Anaire, Fingolfin, Feanor and Finwe

[balrogballs]

some elrond raising aragorn headcanons on this fine sunday (now illustrated):

1. Elrond's irl children have a running joke that he loves Aragorn more than the three of them combined but everyone knows it's just a joke and the truth was that he loved all his children equally: but his love for Arwen, Elrohir and Elladan could be split across thousands of years like a slow burning candle. But he would only have Aragorn for a century or two — simply a blink in the eye of time, so his love for him was fiery and blazing — a sandstorm in an hourglass.

2. Toddler Aragorn was 100% spoilt, and it was entirely Elrond's fault. Most of the Dunedain fosters would normally come to Imladris as adolescents, as per general medieval fostering custom, and leave by adulthood. Aragorn, however, came in as a baby due to his circumstances, and Elrond — whose last baby was a baby 2800 years ago — went FERAL

3. Baby Aragorn was the bane of Glorfindel's life. He would make it a point to personally torment him. Four year old Aragorn once braided Glorfindel's hair to his chair so remarkably it took Erestor an hour to free him. When Elrond found out, he gave Aragorn extra dessert for being clever enough to do such good braids.

4. The best day of Elladan's life was the day Aragorn got his first haircut at the age of three, because Elrond cried for some inexplicably paternal reason and Elladan prayed Mandos would strike him down in that moment so he could die laughing hysterically.

5. Have I mentioned that baby Aragorn was very spoilt? However, nobody in the House of Elrond said anything of it, because that baby being a little spoilt was small payment for bringing joy to a family shrouded in grief for centuries.

6. Aragorn was 10 when Thorin and his company passed through Imladris, and he was OBSESSED with the dwarven lord. He would follow him around, beg him to play chess with him, ask if Thorin wanted to hold his pet lizard. Thorin would never admit it, but he too grew to adore the boy across those few days.

7. The entire household of Imladris spent decades placing bets as to when Elrond would accidentally call Aragorn 'Elros'. Elrond, for his sins, made sure that he never once mentioned Elros to him — so that Aragorn would grow up knowing he was loved for being him, not a facsimile of a long dead twin... until the day they parted, and Aragorn put a small heirloom from his family in Elrond's hand. A tiny gold ring traditionally given to elflings on their first begetting day — that had once belonged to his own ancestor, Tar-Minyatur.

8. Elrond used to scare Elladan and Elrohir with the idea of Ungoliant when they were younger, but when they tried the scare tactic on toddler Aragorn, he was very excited and wanted to hear more about the enormous spider. So they had to resort to drastic measures and tell him about an even more fearsome creature that ate little boys who didn't go to bed: Arwen Undomiel, the giant werewolf prowling the forests of Lothlorien.

9. Many songs were sung about the final parting of Arwen and Elrond, a tragedy that would last beyond the breaking of the world. Less sung about was a quieter parting, where the Lord of Imladris watched King Elessar walk towards the gates of Minas Tirith for the last time — Elrond's final baby. His very, very last.

[sorcerousundries]

Lalala vs okokok with lotr and the hobbit

Your the lalala, they’re the okokok

Thorin, Fíli, Aragorn, thranduil, Elrond, Arwen, bilbo, gimli, Sam, Éomer, Glorfindel, Bard, Beorn, glóin, Tauriel, Faramir, Boromir, Haldir, Bifur, Dwalin, Balin, Dori, óin, Galadriel

They’re the lalala, your the okokok

Legolas, Frodo, merry, pippin, Éowyn, kíli, celeborn, also Arwen, Lindir, bombur, ori, nori, bofur, meludir

[southaway]

Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower

I used the same general design I've used for him before. Lots of gold and floral motifs. I wanted a flowing sense in his clothing and I wanted to make him look like he was dancing as much as fighting.

Glorfindel felt like a nice choice for the New Year.

[n0tamused]

heard u were desperate for elf asks and me, the local elf fucker, has decided to grace your life pookie😚

elves who have still yet to start their courting with their human s/o, finding pieces of themselves in their work room or finding their human passed out over a table. huffing about human fragility under their breaths, walking over to drag them back to their bed for a proper rest, freezes before their ears turn a cute pink because their sweet mortal was musing about them. whether it be poetry draft, painting, art, sculpture in process, embroidery — anything. and elves adore art, so this is like skipping straight to “will you marry me?” before starting their dating

A/n: thank you for stopping by once again Nobu! Please stop more often hdhfhhs <3 I do hope you like this pookie. I planned to put even more characters into this, but that would have been too much for one post, so I'll separate it into another post tehee

Content: Thranduil, Glorfindel, Maedhros x GN!Reader, fluff hcs, a tinge of angst in Maedhros' part (ofc)..

𓄃Thranduil

-The vast forests of Mirkwood held much beauty, and even more when one looked closer into them. The trees were one of a kind, holding memories of old and having seen rises and falls of  both elf and man. Yet they all remained steadfast, roots holding them upright. In the same manner, Thranduil held himself

-It was an image not many could ever hope to replicate, and a trait many aspired to have, like big fancy shoes one hopes to grow into

-And perhaps you have spent too long in the Woodland realm, you’ve learned a lot, but a lot more was waiting to be learned as well. It came to a boiling point where you were growing fussy with yourself for not having a pipe through which to blow your steam out through. There was so much beauty and lore, yet you couldn’t find a way to capture it all. And seeing all of this, your tense display, Thradnuil had gifted you paints and canvases and brushes, and a whole new room so well illuminated that you could even paint in it during the night, given you had a good candle with you. 

-It came as a relief, having your own space, yet you felt indebted to him as much as you felt flattered that the elven-king cared so much about your comfort. When he had approached you with the request to court you, he almost seemed aloof, despite his request holding many thoughtful words and his gifts showing even more care. But that could be just the little voice of the devil that came with courting one of the most important figures in Middle-Earth. You didn’t express this much to Thranduil, for he really did his best at meeting you halfway with the courting traditions of men and elves.

-In turn you decided to paint him. Or, at least, try to do so. It would be worth it. So you set out on this quest and holed yourself in the painting room, having selected a medium sized canvas and the best colors you could ever hope to pair up with one another. The initial layout looked good, with Tranduil standing in the woods, surrounded by greens, oranges and reds, wearing an outfit he recently wore when he took you out on a walk through the forest. There is also a large elk approaching him in the painting, but you saved the animal to be painted last. You had covered most of the canvas, nearly finished with the backdrop of multiple tree trunks and you were working your way to the foreground when your vision began to droop and blur.

-Raising your head you saw that it was well past sunset and you could no longer see the color on your canvas as well, your candle was flickering out.

-But your chambers seemed a world away, you could not bother to try your legs to walk the distance. And the next best thing was the bench in the room, usually reserved for any guests you may have hosted, but tonight it would be your bed. You moved the plush pillows and the blanket around until you were comfortable, and you finally shut your eyes for the last time that night.

-Thranduil had wandered in some time later, finding it rather odd that he hadn't seen you for the entire day, and the guards he asked about your whereabouts had little answers as well. But his instincts told him you’d be here.

-He went in with his lamp, alone venturing into your space and  seeing the canvas first. For half a heartbeat he half-expected to find you behind it, painting in the dark - humans had weird ways of doing things, he realized

-But once he went around it, he only saw an empty chair and unwashed brushes, crusted with paint. And the unfinished painting..

-His breath stopped in his throat, his brows furrowing as he leaned in closer, shining the light of the lamp onto the canvas. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, surely it wasn’t his likeness he was seeing in the sketch lying underneath the drying paint? But the worse option was to believe that it was another elf wearing his attire

-A soft hum snapped his focus away, and he turned to see you shifting in your sleep. It was then when he felt his ears begin to burn, his lips pushing into a thin line as he attempted to ease his heart from beating so terribly fast, too hard, he felt it beating against the bones of his ribcage

-He coughed into the palm of his hand then took a deep breath, approaching you after what felt like an eternity of waiting. It was in your shared interest that you sleep somewhere comfortable.. 

-Despite his racing thoughts, he did make it a point to talk to you in the morning about your courtship, perhaps this was your way to signal him that you were ready for the next stage..? 

☀︎Glorfindel

-There are not many things that can catch Glorfindel by surprise; he is a seasoned individual, both in the art of combat and in more mundane things. He has seen much, and more. His mind is not so closed off to the change in the world, and while he is used to planning things, strategizing, his mind does prefer to take life one day at a time. Let life be the present moment until tomorrow arrives.

-You came into his life rather unexpectedly, but he welcomed you all the same. What feelings began to brew he had hoped to keep secret for a while longer, but once he realized that things were not going to change and that his feelings were only growing, taking into account your mortality, he had approached you and asked to court you

-He delivered the speech elegantly, armed with his usual carefree and easy going demeanor, but once his breath fell short towards the end you could tell that this meant a lot to him. And stepping into this more intimate relationship with him felt much easier than expected, but now you just had much more affection from him, and you had the privilege of seeing him more as well

-It was only natural that your own nature led to you wanting, even needing, to preserve him in some form of a craft. To flatter him the same way he did you, or to simply have something to remind you of him when he wasn’t with you

-Poems you tried, but no word seemed sufficient enough to capture Glorfindel’s character. Art you tried too, but you proved not skilled enough to satisfy yourself with those results. So you turned to something else - embroidery. It wasn’t easy, but the process was more satisfying and the image that was slowly coming into reality made you much more happier than the other attempts at making something in the image of Glorfindel

-It was a bit of a challenge to discard the failed attempts from him, but embroidery was easier to deal with before the bigger image was beginning to materialize. ‘It’s only a little something I’m making…for decor!’ or ‘I wish to give my mother something as a gift’ and so on. Glorfindel did not distrust you on that. It made sense, and why would you hide anything from him, anyway?

-Perhaps you overestimated yourself with your human strength, staying night after night doing work or finishing the embroidery or being unable to sleep. But exhaustion finally caught up to you one evening as you were sitting by the hearth. The warmth of the fire was licking up your arms and the side of your face, tempting you to close your eyes, lulling you to sleep. And before you knew it, your heavy eyelids giving way to darkness to overtake you

-Glorfindel found you in your chair, chin on your chest and arms stretched down to your lap, fingers still touching the wooden hoop keeping the canvas in place. The needle was slipping from your fingers, hanging on by a thread. 

-Glorfindel shook his head and approached slowly, being light on his feet as he took the needle from your limb fingers. The thread pulled at the canvas as he picked it up, and it was then when he saw the picture you were making. His brows furrowed in focus and he felt more alert than a moment prior. He pried the wooden embroidery hoop from your hand and picked it up to take a closer look. Now that he thought of it, he hasn’t seen the progress made on this in a long while. 

-It was a field of golden flowers, carefully crafted with yellow thread and in the middle was a finished white horse, and a person - well most of them. They were unfinished and only the shoulders-down of the body was visible, but Glorfindel recognized the clothes as his own, and he could recognize Asfaloth in any format.

-He wasn’t caught by surprise often, he held and open and calm mind, but even if he had expected this, even if he did hope for this, it made his heart feel like bursting 

-He had to hold himself back from bowing down beside you, taking your sleepy face in his hands only to wake you up with a dozen of kisses

-Glorfindel really did his best to not cause a scene in that moment, and after a moment of simply admiring the artwork and tracing the pads of his fingers over the thread on canvas, his smile only growing, he had to remind himself that you were still asleep in a chair. And your back wouldn’t be thanking you in the morning for that

-After setting aside your embroidery, he gently picked you up and carried you to bed, smiling all the way and feeling how his chest swam with joy and a feeling he could only describe as a well-stuffed feather bed

-He laid you down, bringing the covers over you and for a moment longer he just admired you, having so much to tell you, but he settled with a kiss to your cheek for now, making a note to himself to make a better gift for you, and to ask for your hand soon.

⚔︎Maedhros

-There was little place for a human in Maedhros’ life, even as wars came and went and brought before him countless faces only for him to see them fall before him in the days following. He has seen much, too much, but there was only one path in his life, and it lay ahead of him.  Yet, even his path wasn’t made wholly of only the things he knew. There were things changing, with him and around him

-It was strange to have someone with him. Ever since you came into his life Maedhros had slowly begun to adjust the ways when it came to interacting with you, and what  chats you two had always managed to take his mind off of the constant battles and the Oath. It took a longer time for him to realize it and come to terms with his feelings, but once he did he plucked up whatever strength and elegance he could summon. He remembered the person he was before coming here, before everything, and he did his best to emulate that stability and a bit more cheerful demeanor. How much that works.. well you can imagine. But that does not mean he was bad at it, just not as good as enthusiastic as he imagined he’d be </3 He does think about it later and does wonder if you would have preferred if he asked in some other fashion

-Maedhros visits you when he can, although the truly private times between the two of you are far and few between with such a big host of people following him and waiting on his orders. He does treasure any moment he has with you. He hold your hand and kisses the inside of your wrists before he has to depart, kisses your forehead when he comes to see you and sits right besides you for as long as he is with you

-His heart had grown much more fond of you, it feels alive and the scars he bears nearly feel non-existent when he’s around you

-And little by little, you manage to get the old Maedhros from underneath the rubble. He had  taken habit to calling you ‘his light’ in elvish, among some other endearments

-It was a late night when he came to visit you, and he did expect he might not find you awake at the hour but he tried his luck regardless as he went into your chambers. Despite your earlier claims that ‘he doesn’t need to knock’ he knocked anyway, only opening the door when he got no response.

-And there you were. Sitting at your little table (although everything average to us is little to Maedhros-) with your head on your arms. A quil rested between your fingers, and a blotch of ink was left both on paper and the wooden surface. As much as it was endearing at first, Maedhros couldn’t help but worry. He hurried in, carefully closing the doors and peering at your face before he agreed with that little voice in his head - you were fine, just asleep.

-His large palm tenderly caressed your upper back, coaxing your sleepy self to move just enough until the point he could pick you up without jostling you around too much. Your bed was just beside the table, so after he had settled you in, he smiled at the  thought of your stubbornness to leave your work corner. He knew you could be stubborn beyond measure, especially about things that you held dear to heart

-Not wanting to depart yet, he went back to your table to see what he could do with the spilled ink and scattered papers

-He found a towel nearby and used it to suck up the wet ink - the dry splotches were beyond his skill. It was quiet work, but he found his mind wandering, one might even call it relaxing. 

-He was picking up papers absentmindedly, not wishing to overstep your own trust by peering into whatever it is you scribbled down

-And he held onto that thought until he glimpsed something he couldn’t ignore. Since when did you know elvish?

-It suddenly came into view, the papers he held in hand were all letters in elvish, although each stroke revealed you were a novice in the language, but he also saw effort and thoughtfulness. The first page began with ‘Dear Maedhros’ and then the rest continued on into a poem. Maedhros thought he was dreaming, and had to glimpse outside the window to remind himself where he was 

-He read through and found himself falling apart from within. Each line, each word, addressed to him held so much love and care, it meant more than any song some bard could sing of his valor in battle. And it was written by you - and you’ve seen how ugly he could be, yet you wrote how you loved him all.

-He was probably as red as his hair, but his lips also twisted downwards in this pout-like expression keeping tears at bay. His heart felt full, too full for him to manage. Maedhros doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. And with his curiosity sparked, he peered into the crumbled letters scattered around, finding even more verses that were unfinished. On the corner of the table was a thick book, almost crumbling to ashes from how old it looked, but he recognized it as the first book holding the alphabet of men and elves, translations and grammatical rules to follow

-Maedhros sat down, not trusting his legs to keep him upright anymore, holding the letters to his chest.

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[fflewddur-feanorion]

[earthlybeam]

Could I request how Glorfindel, Celebrimbor, and Elrond would react to a reader who had magical healing powers kind of like Rapunzel on Tangled? Sorry if this one sounds too weird. Thank you!

How would Glorfindel, Celebrimbor, and Elrond react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

The battle had raged for hours under a darkened sky, the sun hidden behind clouds thick with smoke and ash. Glorfindel had been at the forefront, leading his warriors with a brilliance that seemed to defy the shadow encroaching upon the land. His golden hair, shining even amidst the chaos, was a beacon of hope to those who fought beside him and a target for the foul creatures of darkness. The enemy had come in waves—hordes of orcs, snarling wargs, and even a towering beast that seemed to echo the malice of the ancient balrogs. Glorfindel faced them with unmatched courage, his sword flashing like a streak of sunlight cutting through the gloom. He moved with a grace and precision that belied the sheer brutality of the battle, each swing of his blade felling multiple foes.

He had drawn the attention of the monstrous beast early on—a hulking creature of shadow and flame, its body riddled with jagged spikes and its eyes burning like molten coals. The creature had been relentless, its roars shaking the battlefield as it charged toward Glorfindel. He had stood his ground, the fire in his heart matching the fire in the beast’s eyes. “Hold the line!” Glorfindel had called to his warriors, his voice carrying above the din of clashing steel and dying cries. “Do not falter! Do not fear!” His words had steeled their resolve, but the monster was a foe unlike any other. As it bore down on him, Glorfindel met it head-on, his sword cutting into its hide with precision. Yet for every wound he dealt, the beast retaliated with savage ferocity. Its claws raked the ground, sending up sprays of dirt and rock. Its tail lashed out like a whip, and Glorfindel barely managed to evade the blow, his reflexes saving him from a potentially fatal strike.

The battle between the two was a dance of light and shadow, strength against strength. Glorfindel drove his blade into the creature’s flank, and it howled in pain, but not before its massive arm swung down with devastating force. The blow sent Glorfindel hurtling backward, his armor denting as he crashed into the ground. He rose quickly, ignoring the sharp pain that radiated through his ribs, and charged again, his blade singing as it cleaved through the air. Finally, with one well-placed strike, Glorfindel severed one of the creature’s arms, its blackened blood spilling onto the scorched earth. The beast screamed in fury, thrashing wildly, but Glorfindel pressed his advantage. He leapt onto its back, driving his sword deep into the base of its neck. The creature convulsed, its death throes shaking the ground, but not before it retaliated with a final, desperate strike. Its clawed hand came down, raking across Glorfindel’s side. The jagged talons tore through his armor and flesh, leaving a gaping wound just above his ribs. The force of the blow flung him off the beast, and he landed hard against a jagged boulder.

Dazed and bleeding, Glorfindel barely registered the monstrous creature collapsing in its death throes, its fiery light flickering out. Around him, his warriors rallied, inspired by his victory over the beast, but Glorfindel himself could no longer rise. He slumped against the boulder, his strength ebbing away with each passing moment. The pain in his side was sharp and unrelenting, blood pouring from the wound in a steady stream. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fading to shadow. He had given everything to ensure his people’s victory, but now he felt the cold grip of death closing in. As his breathing grew shallow, his thoughts turned to you. He did not know why—perhaps it was the comfort of your voice, your light, or the way you had always reminded him of hope. He clung to that thought as darkness began to claim him, the sounds of the battlefield growing distant. Unbeknownst to him, you were already searching for him, your heart aching with a desperate urgency as you moved through the wreckage of the battlefield. And though Glorfindel’s strength waned, a flicker of hope remained, faint as a dying ember, but enough to hold on just a little longer.

The battlefield was a grim expanse of ruin. The ground, scorched and blackened, bore the remains of the fierce battle: shattered swords, broken shields, and the lifeless forms of orcs sprawled in grotesque piles. Smoke curled into the dusky sky, carrying with it the acrid stench of death. You staggered through the devastation, heart pounding, eyes scanning desperately for the one you sought. Glorfindel. Where was he? Your breath caught when you finally saw him—a golden light dimmed amidst the carnage. He was slumped against a jagged boulder, his once-radiant hair now matted with blood and dirt. His golden armor, dented and smeared with ash, bore the marks of a fierce battle. But it was the wound above his ribs, a jagged, gaping tear, that seized your heart in terror. Blood poured from it in rhythmic waves, pooling at his side. “Glorfindel!” you cried, your voice cracking with desperation as you rushed toward him. Your heart thundered in your chest, each step heavier than the last, the battlefield stretching before you like an unforgiving sea of carnage. You stumbled, tripping over the debris scattered across the ground, but nothing could stop you from reaching him. When your eyes found his bloodied form, crumpled against the jagged boulder, a wave of terror hit you like a physical blow. He stirred faintly at your voice, his golden hair matted with blood, and his face—once filled with a strength that could command armies—was now pale and drawn, a shadow of its usual brilliance. The vibrant blue of his gaze, so often like the clearest sky, was now clouded and dull, a reflection of the anguish he bore.

“Glorfindel…” you whispered again, your voice barely a breath, as you knelt beside him. He blinked, as though struggling to focus on you, the pain written clearly across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, a ragged whisper, “You… shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.” You felt your heart break at his words, the finality in his tone. But there was no hesitation in you, no thought of leaving him to the cold embrace of death. “I’m not leaving you,” you replied fiercely, your voice stronger than you felt, a stubborn defiance that surged within you like a lifeline. You dropped to your knees beside him, hands trembling as you reached for him, desperate to touch him, to feel his warmth. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in irregular intervals. Every shallow intake of air seemed to cost him more than the last. Blood, dark and thick, soaked his side where the wound had torn through his armor. His once-mighty sword lay shattered at his side, a grim reminder of the battle that had almost claimed him. You saw the faint twitch of his hand, weak and uncoordinated, reaching out as though he still wished to protect himself, to rise against whatever enemy threatened him. But the motion was feeble, his strength draining away with every passing second. Your fingers trembled as you reached for his bloodied cheek, brushing away a streak of crimson, your heart breaking as you felt the coldness of his skin beneath your touch. “Hold on, Glorfindel,” you whispered urgently, a desperate plea buried in the words, though it was more of a promise. “I’ll fix this. I’ll save you.”

His lips parted, perhaps to protest, to tell you again that it was hopeless, but no words came. His chest heaved with effort, the blood pooling at his side staining the ground beneath him. His body seemed to sag further against the boulder, his strength crumbling like the very battlefield that surrounded him. A deep, suffocating fear gripped your chest. The thought of losing him here, in this moment, was unbearable. You couldn’t lose him—not like this. Not after everything he had fought for, not after all the sacrifices made. You could feel the weight of the battle pressing down on you, the cries of fallen warriors, the distant rumble of the still-unfolding war, but in that moment, there was only him—his pain, his breath, the stillness between you both. You leaned closer, your heart thundering as you pressed your forehead gently against his. His breath was shallow, but it was steady—barely. And you held onto that, onto him, with everything you had.

A fierce resolve overtook you. The battle raged on around you, the cries of the wounded and the clash of weapons filling the air, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was him. You glanced around the battlefield in desperation, searching for anything that might help him, but the wreckage was overwhelming. Nothing was within reach. Medical supplies were too far away, and time—time was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand, each second slipping further away, each breath of his weaker than the last. There was only one choice left. It was the only thing you could do now—the only thing you had ever heard whispered in the stories. Your gift. The light you carried within you, the power that was both a blessing and a burden. You had never dared to use it like this, not in such dire circumstances, but you could feel its stirring deep within your chest, as though it knew what was at stake.

Taking a deep breath, you reached for a strand of your own hair. Your hair, a deep shade of midnight black with glints of silver that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the dull light of the battlefield. It felt as though it remembered the light of a time long past, a time before darkness had settled across the lands. As you pulled a section free, the strands seemed to catch the light, glistening like threads of the stars themselves. Without hesitation, you pressed it to his wound. The blood soaked into your hair immediately, dark crimson staining the silvery strands, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t care. Nothing mattered except saving him, pulling him back from the brink of death. Your fingers trembled, but you held steady, gathering your strength as you closed your eyes. The song came to you unbidden, a melody you had known since childhood, a song of old magic, of healing, of the light that flowed from you.

“Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine. What once was mine.”

The words spilled from your lips, soft at first, trembling with uncertainty, but as you sang, something inside you shifted. The more you poured your heart into it, the clearer the melody became. It rose in strength and clarity, echoing across the battlefield, cutting through the heavy silence that hung over the scene like a fog. The song was a lifeline. A cry for him, for life, for hope. The air seemed to shimmer with the power of your voice, wrapping itself around Glorfindel, pulling him back from the abyss. His head lolled weakly to the side, his breath shallow and faint. His eyes fluttered closed once more, the exhaustion and pain too much for him to bear. Yet, as your song reached him, the warmth of it washed over him, pulling him back from the edge of darkness. His breath steadied, his pulse slowing, and for a fleeting moment, there was peace in the chaotic world around him.

The light from your hair, soft at first, began to grow brighter, blooming with a life of its own. It pulsed with a rhythm, an ancient pulse, as though the light was drawing from deep within you, from the heart of the very stars themselves. The golden glow wrapped around his wound, weaving itself into the jagged tear in his side. It was as though the very fibers of his flesh were being gently coaxed back into place. Slowly, the wound began to knit itself together. The ragged edges smoothed, and the deep crimson of the blood was replaced with the warmth of the light. The death that had clung to him—dark, cold, and relentless—was slowly driven away, as if it could not stand in the face of your song. With every note that left your lips, every surge of light that pulsed through him, the wound healed, the life returning to his body, stitch by stitch. The terror that had consumed you ebbed away, replaced by the fragile hope that perhaps you could save him—perhaps you could pull him back from the brink of the grave.

Glorfindel stirred at the sound of your voice, a soft, pained groan escaping his lips. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, and for a moment, his face twisted in agony. But then, as your song continued, the warmth of the light you had summoned wrapped around him, a gentle but persistent force that seemed to slow the chaos inside his body. The erratic rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing less labored, as though the very air around him had begun to ease his suffering. His eyes, clouded and distant moments before, fluttered open once again. The piercing blue of his gaze, which had once been full of life and fire, was now dimmed by pain, but still they sought you out. There was something in the way he looked at you—something both desperate and filled with awe—that made your heart tighten.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, he saw you. Your hair, still glowing with the light of your magic, shimmered like liquid gold in the darkness of the battlefield. The light seemed to emanate from you, pulsing gently like the heartbeat of the world itself. It reminded him of the stars, of the Trees, of a time long past, a time when the world had been whole, when the light had been pure and undivided. “This light…” His voice, though hoarse and weakened, was filled with reverence. “It is the light of the Trees… the same as the stars. It feels… like home.” His words barely reached you at first, but the weight of them settled over you like a mantle, heavy with meaning. He was not simply speaking of what you had done, but of something much larger—something ancient and eternal, a connection between the two of you that stretched beyond this moment, beyond this battle. You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. Your tears, which had been threatening to spill from the moment you’d seen him lying there broken and bloodied, finally fell freely down your cheeks. You didn’t wipe them away. Instead, you allowed them to fall, as if they could wash away the fear and pain that had consumed you.

What you saw when you looked at him made your heart race. Color had returned to his cheeks. His breathing was steady now, the horrible wound that had once bled so freely was no longer spilling blood, its jagged edges sealed by the light that still radiated from you. The warmth of his skin had returned, and his pulse was strong under your hand. He was alive, and he was whole again, thanks to you. His trembling hand, weak but determined, lifted from the ground. It hovered for a moment, and then he reached toward you. His fingers brushed against your hair, still glowing as though the sun had found its way into the night. His touch was light, reverent, as if he feared disturbing the miracle that was unfolding between you. “You are a miracle,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a tremor in his voice that betrayed the depth of his gratitude. “A gift to this world… and to me.” The words hung between you, and in them, you could feel the weight of his admiration, his awe. His gaze locked onto yours, unshakable in its depth. There was no fear in his eyes now, no uncertainty. Only gratitude, and something else—something far more vulnerable.

“I owe you my life.” You shook your head, a smile spreading across your tear-streaked face, but there was no joy in it. Only the release of tension, the knowing that you had saved him, and the overwhelming relief that washed over you. “You owe me nothing, Glorfindel,” you murmured softly, your voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness of the moment. “Just… stay with me. That’s all I ask.” His chest rose and fell, and his breathing, still labored but much more controlled, slowed further as his hand found yours. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness that had once lingered in his skin. He covered your hand with his, the tremble in his fingers a reminder of the battle he had fought, the battle he had almost lost. But now, as he looked at you, he seemed resolute, as though this bond between you, forged in the fire of near-death, was unbreakable. “I will,” he promised, his voice soft but steady, despite the lingering exhaustion in his voice. “I will stay, for as long as I can, beside you.”

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a vow. You felt the truth in them, deep within your soul. He would stay, not just because of what you had done for him, but because of the connection between you, the bond that had formed in this moment. And as you looked around, the battlefield—the carnage, the horror, the screams that still echoed in the distance—faded into the background. It didn’t matter anymore. It was just the two of you now, amidst the wreckage of the world, and the light that still pulsed gently from you, wrapping around you both like a shield. In that moment, time seemed to stretch. There was no past, no future—only the present. The light between you both, and the feeling that, somehow, something far greater than a battle had been won here. It was a bond that transcended the world of the living, a connection forged in the light of the stars, in the shared breath of survival. And no matter what came next, that bond would remain, as enduring as the light of the stars themselves.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The forge was a living entity, its heat and rhythm pulsing in the very air, the crackling fire and the sound of ringing metal filling the stone chambers of Eregion’s smithy. Celebrimbor, ever the perfectionist, stood at his anvil, sweat beading on his brow, his brow furrowed in concentration. The mithril before him glowed a fierce white as he hammered it with steady force, shaping it into the intricate design he had envisioned for days. His movements were fluid, practiced—each strike of the hammer precise, each moment more focused than the last. The world around him seemed to fade as the forge consumed his attention entirely. His thoughts, too, were consumed by the work before him; every detail needed to be just right, every line, every curve of the metal as flawless as the vision he held in his mind. The flames swirled around the smithy, lighting the air with a fierce heat, but it did not bother him. His long years of crafting had trained him to ignore the burn of the forge. His hands, though slightly trembling from the intensity of his work, never faltered. There was no room for weakness. Yet, in his single-minded dedication, he failed to notice the dangerous proximity of the sharp edge of the mithril. It had been a fleeting moment—a miscalculation too small for anyone but the sharpest eye to catch—but it was enough.

As he brought the hammer down one more time, the edge of the glowing metal slipped beneath his forearm, cutting through the skin with a clean slice. For a heartbeat, there was no reaction. No pain, just the realization that the strike had missed its mark. He continued on, moving to adjust the metal, only when the sting began to spread did he finally look down. Blood, bright and stark against the white of the mithril, seeped from the wound, dripping onto the stone floor in slow, steady drops. The sharp pain was almost secondary to the shock that washed over him. It was not the injury that had him concerned, but the feeling of weakness that it brought with it. He grimaced as he lifted his arm, glancing at the cut. It was deep—perhaps too deep to ignore—and yet, he had no time for such things. His mind immediately returned to the work before him, that insatiable desire to finish what he had started, to craft something of worth.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered to himself, the words coming out like a practiced mantra. “Truly, nothing.” His voice, steady but tinged with a faint annoyance, seemed more to reassure himself than anyone else. He wiped the blood from his arm with a slow, deliberate motion, as though he were removing an insignificant speck from his sleeve. But the flow did not stop. The blood continued to pour from the wound, soaking his sleeve, dripping onto the floor in a pool of red. The work needed to be finished, that was all he could think. Yet, with every passing moment, his strength seemed to drain away, the world around him becoming distant and faint. His fingers began to shake slightly, his grip on the hammer faltering. There was no denying it—he was weakening. But it didn’t matter. Not now. The sound of the hammer striking the metal slowed, the clangs growing more muted in his ears. His eyes clouded for a moment, the sharp sting of dizziness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He glanced at his arm once more. Blood still seeped, darkening the stone beneath him. It was then that he heard the door open behind him. Footsteps approached rapidly, the sound of your voice breaking through the fog in his mind.

But there was a strange buzzing in his ears now, a sudden discomfort creeping in. The sight of the blood, the steady trickle pooling on the ground beneath him, sent an odd shiver down his spine. Still, he did nothing. His focus remained on the mithril, on the task that needed finishing. The fire raged on, the hammer fell, and the world outside his forge seemed to fade away. It wasn’t until he heard the familiar sound of your voice—sharp, commanding—that the haze of his concentration was broken. Celebrimbor barely registered your voice as it cut through the haze surrounding him, but the urgency in it jolted him out of his single-minded reverie. His focus had been so consumed by the forge, by the hammer in his hand, that everything else had seemed insignificant. But now, as you rushed to his side, the reality of his injury set in, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. His arm, still dripping with blood, had become the center of his awareness. It was a burning, sharp pain now, and he could feel the weakness creeping through his body like a creeping tide. The forge no longer seemed as important as it had moments ago. His grip on the hammer faltered once again.

You stood in the doorway for just a heartbeat, taking in the scene—the pools of blood collecting on the stone floor, the pale color of his face, the shaking hand he was trying to steady. Your heart clenched in your chest. It was only then that you noticed the dimming of his usual light, the way his posture slumped just slightly, his strength ebbing away. “Celebrimbor! Sit down—now!” you commanded, rushing forward without a second thought. His stubbornness would not win this time. His amber eyes flickered toward you, but he made no move to comply, instead waving you off with a half-hearted gesture, his voice weak and dismissive. “It’s nothing, truly. There is still much to be done—”

“No,” you snapped, firm in your resolve. You moved swiftly to his side, your hands finding his uninjured arm, guiding him to a nearby bench. His muscles resisted the pull for a moment, his pride making him hesitate, but you were too quick. You helped him sit, your voice gentle yet commanding. “You are not doing anything more until I’ve seen to this.” His eyes met yours with that familiar mix of pride and reluctance, yet the deep furrow in his brow betrayed the discomfort he could no longer ignore. As you knelt before him, your heart pounded in your chest, but there was no hesitation in your hands. With a quiet, steady motion, you placed Celebrimbor’s bloodied arm carefully in your lap, your fingers lightly brushing against his skin. The sensation was immediate: his skin, pale from blood loss, felt heavy in your grasp, the warmth of his body seeping into you. The blood that stained his forearm was a stark contrast to the paleness, and your breath caught as you took in the severity of the injury. The gash was deep—too deep to be ignored, and the blood kept flowing despite the distraction of the forge’s heat and the constant hum of the fire.

His expression, always so controlled, now wavered between pride and silent discomfort, but he remained steadfast, refusing to acknowledge the toll the injury had taken on him. He had borne it so stoically, even as his strength drained. But now, with his arm cradled in your lap, he could no longer avoid the truth: the wound was too serious to ignore any longer. You could feel the weakness seeping from him, and it made your resolve harden. Swallowing the rising tide of concern that threatened to overwhelm you, you pushed the fear aside, focusing on the task ahead. This had gone on long enough. His life was more important than his pride, more important than the work that still lay unfinished at his anvil. You would not allow him to lose any more of his strength, not when you could help. With gentle hands, you began to lift your hair, your fingers instinctively twining it around his wound. Your hair, which had always been of a deep, earthy shade, began to shift in hue, responding to the energy that pulsed within you. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to glow with a soft golden light, the strands shimmering with warmth. The golden glow seemed to pulse with each breath you took, each note of the healing song you began to hum. The moment the light appeared, it spread outward like sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees. The glow intensified, slowly creeping up his arm as your hair flowed around the gash. The sensation was like a soft breeze, gentle but insistent, and the heat of the forge seemed to retreat before it. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering the energy within you, feeling the pull of the magic rise and coil in your chest. You began to sing, your voice soft, but every word of the melody carrying a power that resonated deep in the chamber.

“Flower, gleam and glow. Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt. Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost. Bring back what once was mine. What once was mine…”

Your voice was steady, carrying each note like a delicate thread of power, winding through the air, threading through the forge’s heat and noise. The golden light of your hair flared brighter with each line of the song, as if your very soul was calling upon the magic that coursed through you, unraveling the injury. The air around you seemed to hum, and as you sang, you felt the light seep into the gash. Celebrimbor’s breath caught at the sensation—the warmth of it, the gentle pull as the wound began to knit itself back together. His muscles relaxed, his posture straightening slightly as the pain, the weakness, the overwhelming dizziness that had been consuming him faded in the face of the power you wielded. It was a soothing energy, as though the very fabric of time and fate were unraveling, returning things to their proper place. The blood, which had been spilling out in slow, steady drips, began to retreat, as though the wound itself had forgotten its purpose. The skin, raw and torn, began to smooth out, the edges drawing together with delicate precision, the fibers weaving themselves back into place. The deep cut closed slowly, as if under the pull of an invisible thread, each layer of tissue, each torn vein gently weaving itself back to its original form. With every note you sang, the wound became smaller, the gap between flesh closing with a soft sigh, as if the body itself was yielding to your magic. The golden light seemed to cascade around his arm, weaving into the skin and leaving no trace of the injury behind. The warmth of your power radiated outward, filling the room, and in the air around you, the faint smell of blooming flowers seemed to mix with the crisp scent of the forge. As the last notes of the song fell from your lips, the wound was gone entirely. No trace of it remained. His skin was smooth and unblemished, as though it had never been marred by the sharp edge of mithril. You let out a quiet breath, the golden light beginning to fade from your hair as the magic settled, a soft and satisfied hum of energy still humming through your fingertips.

Celebrimbor’s breath hitched as the warmth of your healing magic settled over him. At first, it was faint—a gentle pull, like a distant breeze against his skin. Then the sensation grew stronger, spreading through him with a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed. He felt it more than saw it, the shift in his body, the deep gash on his forearm starting to pull together as though time itself had taken pity on him. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the wound, watching in stunned silence as the blood ceased to flow, as the skin he had torn in his own ignorance began to close. It was slow at first—an almost imperceptible change—but then, with a subtle yet undeniable force, the wound began to heal in front of his very eyes. He felt it, too—the tension in his arm releasing, the strength returning as the flesh knitted itself back together. The sensation was surreal, unlike any healing he had ever known. It was as if the very fabric of reality bent to your will, undoing the injury with such ease it seemed like a dream.

But it wasn’t just the healing that struck him. It was the power behind it, the power that you wielded with such grace. There was no violence in it, no struggle. It was delicate and precise, a mastery that far surpassed even the most intricate designs he had crafted in his own smithy. It was the kind of power that was as quiet as it was awe-inspiring, like a force of nature woven into being with every note you sang. As the last tendrils of light faded from your hair, Celebrimbor tested his arm, flexing it slowly, almost cautiously at first. His fingers twitched, his hand extending fully as if he were reacquainting himself with the sensation of strength. He expected some lingering ache, some remnant of the injury to persist—but there was nothing. The wound had vanished completely, leaving no scar, no trace of what had once been there. It was as though the injury had never existed at all. He inhaled sharply, a quiet gasp of awe escaping him as he flexed his arm again, feeling the full range of motion return to him. There was nothing—no mark, no weakness. It was as if his body had forgotten the pain entirely, as if it had never been hurt.

“This…” His voice was soft, reverent, as he spoke to you for the first time in this way—without the usual stoic calm or the sharp edge of arrogance. “This is no ordinary healing.” He looked down at his arm once more, running his fingers over the smooth, unblemished skin, still unable to fully believe it. His voice dropped a little lower, tinged with awe. “It’s as though you’ve turned back time itself, undoing what should have left its mark.” His amber eyes shifted to meet yours, and the intensity of his gaze made something inside you flutter. There was something more than gratitude there—something deeper, more profound. He was humbled by what you had done, and for the first time, it wasn’t just the perfection of the work that stood before him, but something more vulnerable. “Your power… It’s a gift unlike anything I have ever seen,” he murmured. “A creation far beyond anything I could forge.”

Celebrimbor’s voice faltered slightly, the usual confidence of the lord of Eregion giving way to a rare humility. He swallowed, his throat tight, but the words came out with sincere weight. “Thank you,” he said, quieter than before, the words heavy with a reverence that went beyond the mere healing of his body. “I… I didn’t know such power existed.” There was a pause, a stillness between the two of you, as his gaze softened, almost as if he were seeing you for the first time. The walls of pride and stoicism that had always separated him from others seemed to crumble in the face of your care and the magic you had shared. You felt it—the silent gratitude that filled the space between you. Your heart stirred with something that went beyond duty, something deeper and more connected than just the role you had played in this moment. You reached out then, your fingers brushing gently over his uninjured arm, a quiet, reassuring touch that said more than words ever could. It was a gesture of comfort, of solidarity, and as you did, you felt his own quiet relief settle into the air around you. “Rest, Celebrimbor,” you said, your voice a calm counterpoint to the storm of emotions swirling between the two of you. “The forge will still be there when you’re well. You can finish your work later.”

Celebrimbor nodded slowly, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. The stubborn, determined smith who had so often placed his craft above all else seemed to pause in this moment, allowing himself to yield to something softer, more human. His usual defiance had softened into something more gentle, more understanding. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was not the master smith, nor the lord of Eregion. He was simply Celebrimbor—grateful, humbled, and moved by the quiet strength you had offered him when he had nothing left to give. He met your gaze once more, the intensity of his amber eyes now laced with something new—a silent acknowledgment of your bond, forged not in metal but in something more enduring, more ethereal. “Thank you,” he repeated, this time with more finality, as though the words themselves were a weight he had carried too long, and finally, he could lay them down. His voice softened further. “I will not forget this.” And in that moment, with the forge still burning bright behind him, you knew the connection between the two of you had shifted. It was no longer just the craftsman and the healer. It was something deeper, something beyond the realms of creation and restoration, something that would remain long after the last sparks of the forge had faded.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The sun was beginning its descent over the hills, casting long golden beams across the forest floor. Elrond moved quietly among the trees, his senses alert to the subtle rustling of the leaves and the faint calls of birds in the distance. He had come to the border of Rivendell in search of rare herbs—specifically a plant known for its healing properties, something that would be vital to his work as both a healer and protector of his people. The forest was peaceful, as it usually was, with the scent of pine and earth mingling in the air. The soft crunch of his boots on the path was the only sound to break the stillness. His mind was focused on the task, hands deftly pulling herbs from the soil and tucking them carefully into his satchel. His robes, though elegant, were suited for the task—woven with the practicality that came from years of experience. Despite the peaceful surroundings, Elrond’s instincts remained sharp. He knew that even in the quietest of places, danger could lurk. It was in the midst of his careful work, kneeling beside a patch of delicate, silver-leafed plants, that he first sensed it. A sudden shift in the air, the faintest disturbance that tugged at his heightened senses. His gaze darted upwards, narrowing as his keen ears caught the faintest sound—a rustle, too heavy to be wind.

A crackling sound broke the quiet—branches snapping under heavy boots—and before he could turn, the ambush came. A dozen orcs emerged from the underbrush, weapons drawn and eyes gleaming with malice. Elrond’s instincts kicked in immediately, his body moving before his mind could even fully process the danger. He drew his sword, the hilt cool in his hand as he met the charge with the precision and speed that came from centuries of battle experience. The first orc that lunged at him was met with a swift slash of his blade, cutting through armor and flesh with ease. He spun, parrying another blow and then ducked to avoid a crude axe swinging toward his head. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy and quick decisions, but despite his skill, the odds were against him. Another orc came at him with a heavy club raised high, but Elrond was faster. He sidestepped the attack, sweeping his blade through the air with precision, and the orc crumpled to the ground, its life extinguished in an instant. Another rushed at him from the side, a jagged axe raised above its head, but Elrond parried the strike with ease, spinning to deliver a quick thrust to the orc’s throat. The force of the blow sent the creature sprawling to the ground. His movements were fluid, controlled—his sword a blur as he fought back the onslaught of attackers. The orcs were relentless. Elrond could feel the weight of their numbers pressing in, could hear the angry yells and the crashing of their weapons against his own. He was skilled, faster than they were, and for every orc he felled, two more seemed to appear. His thoughts were sharp, calculating—he knew he had to make this quick before they overwhelmed him. But he hadn’t anticipated how fiercely they would fight. Their numbers were overwhelming, and soon he found himself surrounded.

Orcs swarmed from every angle, and for every one he felled, two more took their place. His sharp elven senses could detect the shift in the air, the smell of their rancid breath, but they were closing in fast. It wasn’t long before a sharp pain struck him—an orc had managed to slip through his defenses and had driven a jagged blade into his side. The world tilted for a moment, and Elrond staggered back, his breath catching. The wound was deep, a gash that tore through his ribs, and blood flowed freely from the injury, soaking his robes. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his mind whirling even as his body screamed at him to stop. But stopping was not an option. He was Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell, and no matter the wound, he would not fall to these creatures. With a forceful grunt, he shifted his weight, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. The orc who had struck him fell with a quick, decisive strike to its neck. He barely had time to process it before another orc lunged, and this time he was ready. Elrond spun, his blade slashing across the creature’s chest, and then he turned, cutting down another. His movements were swift, lethal, but the pain in his side grew worse with each swing. The blood loss was beginning to cloud his thoughts, and his vision swam in and out of focus.

His body was already starting to betray him. The wound was far worse than he had initially realized, and with each passing moment, he grew weaker. Despite the pain, he fought on, cutting down orc after orc, his sword flashing in the dim light of the forest, his movements a testament to the centuries of training and experience he had amassed. But there were too many of them. An orc with a spiked mace swung at him from behind, and though Elrond tried to dodge, the weapon caught him across the back, sending a shockwave of pain through his spine. He let out a sharp cry of pain, staggering forward, and that was all it took for one of the creatures to take advantage of the moment. A sword pierced through the side of his abdomen, the blade sinking deep, its hilt pressing against his ribs. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Elrond couldn’t move. His body froze, pain wracking through him in waves, and the world around him seemed to blur. He heard the orcs laughing, their victory just within reach, but he couldn’t allow that to happen.

With a primal growl, he forced himself to move again, his sword sweeping through the air in a deadly arc. He struck down the orc that had wounded him, but his legs were growing weaker, the blood loss too much to ignore. The forest was full of bodies now—his and theirs. He had slain many, but not enough. Elrond staggered back, his vision blurring even more. His breaths came shallow and ragged, and he could feel the life draining from him. He fought to stay conscious, but the pain in his side was overwhelming, and the sight before him became a haze of shadowed figures. He felt his knees buckle, the weight of his injuries too much for him to bear. Desperation clawed at his mind as he fought to stay upright, but the ground beneath him seemed to shift and sway as most orcs fleed after the bloodshed of their kins. Finally, he could no longer stand. The sheer exhaustion of the fight, the blood loss, and the overwhelming pain brought him to his knees. He leaned against a boulder for support, gasping for air, the weight of the world pressing down on him. His hand still clutched the hilt of his sword, but his fingers were growing numb, slipping from the handle as the darkness crept in.

The forest was eerily quiet, the air thick with the scent of blood and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Elrond had fought fiercely, but the ambush had been more than he expected. The sharp pain in his abdomen was a constant reminder of how outnumbered he had been. His robe, once pristine, was now soaked in his own blood, the crimson staining his once-elegant attire. Despite the agony gnawing at him, his grip on his sword remained firm, his resolve unshaken. He had slain many of the orcs, their bodies now lying in the scattered chaos of the battlefield, but the damage to his own body was far worse than he had anticipated. He had managed to drag himself to the cover of a boulder, leaning against it for support. The ground beneath him was stained with blood, both his own and that of his fallen enemies. His mind swirled with the haze of pain, but his sharp Elven senses remained alert—just enough to hear the faint crunch of footsteps approaching. His heart gave a slight flutter when he recognized the familiar presence before he even saw them. “Elrond!” Your voice broke through the fog of his pain, the sound of it pulling him back to the present. He turned his head toward you, struggling to focus on your face through the mist of exhaustion. His chest heaved with every breath, and though his vision was blurred, there was no mistaking the concern in your eyes.

Recognition flared in his greyish blue gaze, but he was too weak to hold his usual noble composure. He offered you the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with pain. His mouth was dry, his voice barely a rasp. “They ambushed me,” he said, each word drawing a strained breath from his chest. “I managed to drive them off… most of them, anyway. A few fled…” He winced, his hands pressing harder against the gaping wound on his side. The blood soaked his fingers, slipping through them like water, yet he didn’t release his hold. He had always been stubborn, never willing to show weakness, even now. But you could see through it all. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, his strength waning with each passing second. The sight of him in such a state ignited a fierce need to protect him, even though you knew he would fight against it. You rushed to his side without hesitation, fear pooling in your stomach. You knew he would try to resist, and sure enough, as you knelt beside him, his eyes flickered with the sharpness that usually accompanied his wisdom and strength. “You shouldn’t speak,” you said, your voice shaking but firm. “You’ve lost too much blood.” Elrond grimaced at your words, but there was no way to hide the growing pain from his features. His body, though still so strong, was betraying him. “I’ll be fine,” he protested, his voice barely more than a whisper. His stubbornness flared even in the face of imminent danger. “I’ve had far worse,” he insisted, though the strain in his tone told a different story. “You shouldn’t—”

“Stop arguing,” you cut him off, your voice trembling but resolute. “Let me help you.” He hissed in pain as you gently moved his hands away from the wound. Despite his weakened state, Elrond’s natural instinct was to resist. He attempted to sit up straighter, his muscles tense and his face contorting with the effort. “No,” he managed, but the protest was weak, forced. His resistance made your heart ache, but you weren’t deterred. You placed your hands over his injury, feeling the warmth of his blood against your palms as you carefully applied pressure to stem the flow. The force of the blood was appalling—his injury was severe, and the pressure was more than you could have imagined. Elrond’s breath caught in his throat as he flinched at the touch, his body shuddering with pain. “Mellon nín,” he whispered, the word slipping from his lips without thought, laced with a faint trace of vulnerability he so rarely allowed himself. Despite his obvious suffering, you refused to relent. His stubbornness might have caused him to resist your help, but your resolve was far stronger. You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the pain that was steadily draining him. You continued your work, applying more pressure, your hands steady and soothing as best as you could manage.

“Please, Elrond,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper now, your heart aching at the sight of him in such a vulnerable state. “You’re going to be alright.” For a moment, his fierce will faltered. His eyes softened, his breath a little less ragged as he allowed you to help him, though the weight of his pride still lingered in the air. He no longer argued, but the quiet, lingering pain was evident in every sharp breath he took. You could feel his body slowly sinking against you, the last of his strength draining away as you worked to heal him. As you held him, you could feel the weight of his trust—fragile and fleeting in this moment of weakness. Though Elrond was many things, the most powerful and indomitable being in all of Middle-earth, there was no escaping the vulnerability that now clung to him. You would not allow him to face this alone, no matter how much he tried to push you away. You had no idea how long you sat there together, the minutes stretching into what felt like eternity, but you wouldn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he needed you most.

You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but there was no hesitation. Elrond’s life hung in the balance, and you were determined not to lose him. Carefully, you wrapped strands of your hair—normally (your hair colour), silky, and unassuming—around the jagged wound on his side. The blood seeped through the strands, staining them red, but it was the only way to stop the bleeding long enough for what needed to come next. It was a sacrifice, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had endured. Elrond winced, a sharp breath escaping him as you secured your hair against his injury, but he didn’t resist. His Greyish blue eyes watched you with a mix of admiration and quiet acceptance, his body sagging against the boulder. The pain had taken its toll on him, yet he still carried that glimmer of pride in the way he met your gaze—stubborn, unyielding, even in his moment of weakness. His breath came in shallow gasps, but there was a quiet strength in the way he endured it, even as his life force threatened to ebb away. He had fought so fiercely to protect Rivendell, to protect all of you, and now it was your turn to save him.

Once the hair was securely wrapped, you took a moment to center yourself. You inhaled deeply, steadying your breath, willing your heart to calm. The air around you seemed to pulse with anticipation as the power within you began to stir, the magic that ran through your veins, ancient and full of purpose. You couldn’t help but feel the weight of it—the responsibility of wielding such power, the knowledge that it could be the difference between life and death. But you were ready. You began to sing, the first notes soft and barely audible, yet they carried the weight of centuries of knowledge and power. “Flower, gleam and glow…” Your voice was low, but clear, and as the words left your lips, something changed. A soft golden light began to pulse in your hair, at first faint, then growing brighter with every word. The strands of your hair, once dark, shimmered and gleamed, becoming a brilliant gold that seemed to draw the very essence of light into the forest. Elrond’s eyes widened as he watched the glow, his breath catching for a moment. The warmth in the air was palpable now, radiating outward from you like the very sun itself. It wrapped around both of you, filling the air with an almost tangible sense of peace. The dark, shadowed forest was bathed in golden light, the magic swirling around you, washing over Elrond’s injury, soothing it, and slowing the blood that had soaked your hair.

“Let your power shine,” you continued, the melody lilted with power. Each word became a prayer, a plea, not just for him, but for all that you held dear. The golden glow spread across Elrond’s wound, the warmth wrapping around him like a blanket, easing the tension in his body. He inhaled deeply, the sharp pain in his side receding, the frantic pulse of his heart slowing to a steadier rhythm. The gash, so raw and ragged just moments before, seemed to soften under your touch, the flesh beginning to pull itself together, knitting and mending as if the magic were pulling time itself backward, erasing the damage done. His hand, which had been pressed tightly against his injury in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, relaxed slightly. His fingers twitched with the faintest of tremors, but there was a glimmer of relief in his eyes as the glow bathed him. The pain that had been overwhelming him moments before began to fade, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread from the wound out through his entire body. His breath deepened, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away.

“Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine…” Your voice was stronger now, your heart pouring into each note, the golden light that surrounded you pulsing in time with the rhythm of your song. Elrond’s breath became steadier, the color returning to his face as the injury slowly but surely began to close. You could feel the magic working, could see the visible relief in his posture as the torn flesh mended itself under the influence of your power. His eyes, which had been clouded with pain, were now focused, sharp, and full of something else—something like wonder. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but no words came. The glow from your hair brightened, filling the air with warmth, and the last of the blood began to congeal, sealing the wound completely. What had once been torn and open was now smooth, the skin unbroken. The gold in your hair dimmed slightly, the intensity of the glow tapering as the magic settled, its work done. “Save what has been lost… Bring back what once was mine…” The final note lingered in the air, a soft sigh of energy that hummed through the stillness of the forest. Your body felt lighter now, the strain of the magic beginning to subside, but the relief that filled you was overwhelming. You had done it. You had saved him. The golden light slowly faded, leaving you both in the quiet aftermath, the only evidence of the healing a slight shimmer around you.

When the golden light finally faded, leaving only a soft, lingering warmth in the air, you opened your eyes. Elrond was still there, sitting before you, his expression unreadable for a moment as his gaze fell to his now-healed abdomen. His fingers hovered hesitantly over the smooth, unbroken skin, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. The jagged wound that had threatened his life only moments before was completely gone, leaving no trace of the violence it had endured. His hand moved over the area with slow reverence, as if testing the reality of it. You watched him in silence, your heart still racing from the exertion of the healing. The soft glow that still clung to your hair, though faint now, seemed to intensify under his gaze. Your cheeks flushed beneath the weight of his scrutiny. It was a feeling you weren’t entirely used to—being the subject of such intense attention, especially from someone like him. Someone whose presence alone was always powerful, commanding. You had saved him, but now it felt as though he were seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. His voice broke the stillness, low and filled with awe.

Elrond’s eyes met yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the faintest smile touched his lips. It was weak, but it held gratitude, something far rarer for him than you ever expected. Slowly, he sat up straighter, the last remnants of pain melting away with each breath he took. His skin still glistened with the healing warmth, the tension in his body ebbing as his strength returned bit by bit. The once fierce exhaustion that had weighed on him now seemed to lift, leaving behind only a quiet, steady relief. “You… you saved me.” His words were soft, almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud might somehow shatter the moment. His fingers brushed over his abdomen once more, the disbelief in his touch evident. He looked at you, really looked at you now, as if seeing you for the first time, his grey eyes wide with quiet wonder.

There was a weight in the air, thick with the magic that had passed between you, but it wasn’t the kind of weight that pressed down. Instead, it seemed to pull the world into sharper focus—the rustling leaves, the cool breeze, the distant sound of the stream, all of it faded into the background as Elrond’s gaze locked onto you. It was as though, in that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you tried to look away, uncomfortable with the intimacy of his attention, but you couldn’t. You found yourself rooted in place, caught under the gentle force of his unwavering focus. He looked down again at your hair, glowing faintly in the dim light of the forest, its soft golden hue almost ethereal against the dark backdrop of the woods. The way he looked at you, so intently, made you feel exposed, vulnerable. It was as if the very essence of who you were was laid bare under his gaze.

Before you could say anything, Elrond reached out. His movements were slow, measured, as though he wanted to ensure that nothing he did would break the fragile moment between you. His fingers brushed lightly against a stray strand of your glowing hair, pushing it gently behind your ear. The touch was so soft, so delicate, that it made your breath hitch in your throat. It was the first time you had ever felt his touch, and it lingered in the air long after his fingers had left your skin. The weight of it was profound, a silent acknowledgment of something deeper than the healing you had just performed. “Your light…” His voice was reverent, like a prayer whispered in the presence of something sacred. His eyes never left yours, and his hand, after a moment, dropped back to his side, but there was something different about him now. The tension that had once pulled his features tight in pain was gone, replaced by a softness you hadn’t seen before.

“It is unlike anything I have ever seen.” His words seemed to carry a weight, a recognition that whatever you had done for him transcended the simple act of healing. You had done more than save him from death; you had given him something beyond that. “You bring life where there is death, hope where there is despair.” The quiet sincerity in his tone wrapped itself around you, and you couldn’t help but feel the full impact of what he said. It wasn’t just praise—it was an understanding. He had witnessed the miracle of what you had done, not just with his body, but with the way you wielded your power. He understood the cost of it. He understood what you had given. You swallowed, finding your voice at last, but his words hung in the air like a fragile thread connecting you to him. As much as you wanted to respond, to deflect or downplay his praise, you couldn’t. There was too much truth in what he said, and you felt an overwhelming rush of emotion at his words.

His expression softened even further as he straightened, meeting your eyes with a quiet intensity. His gaze was no longer one of the distant, authoritative figure you had known so well. Now, there was something else there—something personal, intimate, and full of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, and this time, the words were more than just a polite acknowledgment. There was something in the way he said them that made your heart skip, made everything else fade away. “Not just for my life, but for bringing light to a dark moment. I will not forget this kindness.” The weight of his gratitude was enough to leave you breathless. It wasn’t just his thanks, it was the promise in his words—an understanding that this moment, this act, would not be forgotten. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath in that moment, as though the world itself was pausing to bear witness to the exchange between you. You could feel the sincerity in his words settle deeply in your heart, the bond that had been forged in this shared moment of healing and vulnerability. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, both caught in the stillness, in the connection that had formed between you—stronger than any magic, more powerful than any words.

[ayaosguqin]

“Fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice like music; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength”

Glorfindel

[starsilversword-art]

I'm so proud of this and I hope it's not blurry for y'all.

Inktober Day 6 - Golden

[thranduilswifesblog]

Thranduil : "I'm just curious, do you think with our advanced healing, we could actually drink bleach?"

Celeborn : ....

Legolas : ...

Glorfindel : "well... There's only one way to find-"

Elrond, spraying them all with water : "ABSOLUTELY NOT!"

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

How the elves prefer to kiss a short parter

(Elves are said to never really be under 6’4 and I’m thinking partners under 5’4)

Standing on a table

They find it hilarious and makes it easy to kiss you or pick you up if they want to continue the kiss elsewhere. They think it’s even funnier if you still have to go on your tippy toes.

Glorfindel and Lindir

Picking you up

Loves feeling you this close and making you feel safe. They won’t lie, they love that it means they can grab at your thighs and ass.

Haldir and Thranduil

Crouching down/On their knees

They like meeting you down to your level. If they’re on their knees it makes you both laugh but they love it because it makes them feel like they’re worshipping their sweet little love.

Legolas and Meludir