#tharkûn

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[vor0nwe]

"Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf, to the East I go not."

[ithilienns]

Name Etymologies of Middle-Earth: Gandalf

“Yes, yes, my dear sir—and I do know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don’t remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

― The Hobbit, Chapter I: An Unexpected Party

[sillylotrpolls]

I tried to list them all, even the weird regional ones that I'm pretty sure no one ever actually uses. ("Greyhame," seriously?) Put your answer and where you live in the tags so we can see what everyone calls him around Middle-earth!

Remember to reblog for bigger sample size!!!!

[cilil]

✧˖ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 °.

Are you looking to name a Maia or Vala OC or to write about an Ainu character, but aren't sure how to name them/refer to them? You've come to the right place! Here's a fun little breakdown of Ainur names (there's also a tldr at the bottom for quick answers). Hope it helps!

Level 1: What others call them (near, far, wherever they are)

Much like other characters in the legendarium, Ainur have different names in different languages and their identities may be seen differently depending on which culture they're currently interacting with.

One great example for this is Gandalf. His original name in Valinor was Olórin (related to "olos"/"olor" which means dream or vision), while the name Gandalf came from old northern Mannish and means "Wand-Elf". To the Dwarves, he was known as Tharkûn, which is Khuzdul for "Staff-man", and his Sindarin name was Mithrandir, which means "grey wanderer". These are just a few examples of his various names and nicknames, but you get the idea.

If you have other characters referring to the Ainu in question, consider which language(s) they would speak and see if a name has already been given to that Ainu in the specific language. Otherwise you can translate one of their existing names or give them a new one based on how you think the culture/group of people whose perspective you're currently writing would view the Ainu. An example to illustrate the latter: On Númenor Mairon was referred to as Zigûr, which means "wizard" in Adûnaic - fitting for a sorcerer.

As for the Ainu(r) character(s) you're writing, consider that they may also need different names in different languages depending on who they interact with. Ainur are omnilingual and will typically introduce themselves according to the language others around them speak. Depending on how open they want to be with their identity, they may simply give a slightly altered version of their name that reflects the other language (for example the Adûnaic version of Melkor is Mulkhêr), translate their name, make up a new one or accept one that was given to them. However, the name they identify with and use in their inner monologue may be a different one*... and this is where we move to the next level.

[*Important side note regarding this: While Morgoth and Sauron are commonly used names for Melkor and Mairon, these names were given to them by other people and are intended to be derogatory, so even though it's not always explicit in the text, we can safely assume that they do not self-identify as such and stick to their more "flattering" original names.]

Level 2: Quenya

When Ainur are introduced in canon, a Quenya name is usually given as their "real" name. Again, Olórin is an example (one among many) for this.

Having a Quenya name is pretty essential for every Ainu who lives in/has ties to Valinor and can be important for the ones in Middle-earth too, depending on the time period and how they self-identify. Be sure to look up the Quenya names of existing Ainur characters and have a Quenya name ready for your OCs, unless they were never in Valinor and explicitly cut themselves off from their kin and culture. Gothmog might be an example for this, being an Ainu who is pretty much exclusively referred to with a Sindarin name and seems to at least not object to the usage of his "evil Balrog name"/isn't mentioned to identify with a different name instead. However, even in such a case consider that other Ainur might still remember the character in question by their Quenya name and continue to use it.

Level 3: Valarin

As you probably know already, Valarin is the language of the Ainur that they created when they began taking physical forms. While they still use it among themselves and some Valarin words were adopted into Quenya, the alien and at times unpleasant sound of Valarin prompted them to learn Quenya instead to converse with Elves.

Would the Valarin name be a more "accurate" name of an Ainu, given how it was their first language and they only later translated their names? You could say that, and some authors have chosen to use Valarin names for that reason.

However, the main issue with Valarin is that so little is known about it and it can be intimidating and/or infuriating to even try using it aside from the few known Valarin names, which are:

Aȝūlēz (Aulë) Arōmēz (Oromë) Mānawenūz (Manwë) Oš(o)šai (Ossë) Tulukhastāz (Tulkas) Ullubōz (Ulmo)

Alright, don't panic. Valarin is, at least in my humble opinion, not a must. The texts themselves use Quenya, the Quenya names are a translation of the Valarin names and the Ainur in general are known to self-identify by their Quenyan names a lot, for example Mairon liked calling himself "Tar-Mairon".

If this however isn't satisfying to you and you would still prefer to have Valarin names ready for the Ainur you're writing, but can't make much of what little is known (less than 20 words and names respectively), you can still "make up" your own Valarin rendition of the Quenyan names. Here's how:

If you look at the ones I listed above, you may have already noticed that there are strong similarities between the names. Manwë, for example, comes from the Quenyan root "man" with the ending "wë", and you can see these elements being present in his Valarin name as well. So I'd suggest you take the Quenyan root and simply... make up a name that sounds like it could be proper Valarin (yup, we cheese it). To give you an example I've seen floating around in fanon: Melkor's name comes from the Common Eldarin (common ancestor of all Elven languages) "melek"/"mbelek", which means powerful (root "bel"/"mbel"), and Valarin names people use for him are usually some variant of "(M)Belekorōz".

Level 4: "True Names"?

But wait, some of you may say, didn't you say that the Ainur only invented Valarin when they took physical forms? Yup, I sure did. The Ainur in fact existed before language was even a thing - as spirit beings who communicate telepathically (via good old ósanwë) by nature they don't need it among themselves.

And this why I think not even the Valarin names are technically the "true names" of the Ainur and that they in fact don't have a "one true name". Given how the use of ósanwë, especially in an environment like the Timeless Halls where no physical barriers exist, allows them to pretty much project their entire identity, emotional state and being to one another, there should have been no need for names. Rather, they would have "titles" or "descriptors", a sort of summary of who their identity and function. You can arguably see that in Melkor's name still: "He who arises in might".

Now, again, what I'm saying in the paragraph above isn't explicitly spelled out in canon, but rather the conclusion I've come to after researching and thinking about it. I would also advise against giving various Ainur half a sentence as their original "name" for your Timeless Halls fics - I thought about it, but realized it would be both obnoxious to write and unpleasant to read.

[TLDR] To conclude, my advice is this: Quenya as the original/default name is completely fine, you can create a Valarin version if you want to and otherwise you may need additional names in other languages depending on the setting and situation, as outlined in level 1.

With that being said: Happy writing and character creating!

[lathalea]

The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ...

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had  pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs. 

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier. 

“Look at his back!” 

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said. 

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.” 

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop. 

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice. 

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. 

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

 The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body. 

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal. 

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.  

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that  joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups. 

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with  wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice. 

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.  

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain. 

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head. 

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…” 

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin. 

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

 “We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

 A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin��s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again. 

“Help me understand this, laddie.” 

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes. 

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

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[ramoth13]

The Question of the Rings: What do they do? A Brief and Humble History

Season 2 has been a hive of fascinating interpretations. Annatar's manipulations, Celebrimbor's crafts, or the stranger's tension between mastery and service, there is almost no end to the ways in which the series has taken on fundamental aspects of the lore.

But one element I've been rather intrigued by is the way the series will display its title subject matter: the power of the rings. Here, I would like to take a turn discussing the Elven Rings specifically. And hopefully I can take a turn at the other sets (men, dwarves, and Sauron's later). There is an answer that stays true to the original intention, which they have seemingly held true to in the series as well,- the rings provide stasis of life.

In the third age, Elves no longer dot and populate the trees, hills, and mountains of Middle-earth. In fact, there are seemingly only four elven realms left, Rivendell, Lothlorian, Mirkwood, and the Grey Havens. Of these, only Mirkwood is not under the direct power of an Elven Ring at any given time.

Mirkwood's king, Thranduil, is unique in this roster as being the only king of an elvish land never under the stasis of a ring. But it is important to also note that his realm is the only realm that is shrinking, beset on all sides by the darkness of the forest, the invasion of the spiderlings, and even Necromancers. Even if the necromancer in question was Sauron (and there is plenty of evidence to suggest it was, but nothing definitive so far as I'm aware), the Sindarin king is a far cry from his powerful former counterpart, Thingol, whose wife was a maiar with the powers of protection. Thranduil's kingdom isn't just shrinking though, it is also the last of the original holdouts.

Although Thranduil and his son Legolas are Sindarin, those people who went towards the Valar but never made it to the sea, they rule over Silvans, those elves who stayed in their forests refusing the call of Valinor. They are hermits, whose way of life is quickly fading. They are considered the least in grandeur and wisdom of all elves (my sincerest apologies to Arondir and Tauriel, I love you both and dearly).

So why is it that the realm of Mirkwood is struggling to stay afloat while the other three elven strongholds thrive?

Indeed, the rings of power have the power to maintain. Think of the trees of Lothlorian, which have all faded and died in all other parts of Middle-earth (minus the seedling which Samwise plants in the shire, of course). Think of the last homely house of Elrond, right at the foot of mountains filled with goblins and wargs, yet not even the Witch-King of Angmar may enter it.

At this point, some of my fellow Enthusiasts might point out that in the third age, the third ring of power no longer resides in the Grey Havens. Old Círdan gave his ring away...

They are correct, of course. The last of the Elven rings, Narya, lies hidden away, upon the finger of a wandering Maiar trapped in the body of an old man. An istari, once known as Olórin, better known to the elves as Mithrandir, and to the Dwarves as Tharkûn, but to good hobbits and men as Gandalf.

So how does the Grey Havens fit into the stasis field? It is not a kingdom, but a doorway, one in which the Valar have opened and maintained, to bring the elves home to Valinor. Only those under the powers of the rings and the holdouts, the Silvans, are left. But the Valar maintain that opened gate. The Haven is not a permanent residence, but a path towards the home of all Elves.

Which at last leads to the question: if Gandalf has the ring Narya and its power is one of life and stasis, how is he using it? I suspect Rings of Power may yet show us. But if they do not, I would posit that his wanderings are a clue. The great elven lords of the third age (Elrond, Galadriel, and Círdan) are maintaining their realms for very different reasons. Unlike the others, Galadriel cannot leave for Valinor, for her test is not yet finished (she must prove that she is willing to give up power). Círdan is maintaining the Havens until all of the elves leave, and Elrond seems to be acting as historian and tour-guide to those passing to Valinor.

But Gandalf's use of the ring seems to be less regional. That is, by traveling, he spreads the Ring's influence throughout Middle-earth. My speculation here (and in that I mean that this is where personal opinion is treading new ground) is that the Gandalf uses the Ring to bring life and prosperity wherever he travels, be it as Gandalf to the Hobbits and Cities of Men, as Mithrandir to the Elven Havens and elvish realms, or as Tharkûn to the Dwarven halls under mountains.

It is worth noting that the Elven Rings have been rumored glimpses of martial power, such as when the aforementioned 9 wraiths are halted at the border of Imládris. It is presumed that it is the powers of the Ring that kept them at bay. But with the exception of the video game (Shadow of Mordor), I am not familiar with any other attempts to show the rings as martial weapons. Not to say they don't exist.

It will be interesting to see where the Rings of Power series takes the power of the rings. I hope this was helpful and/or at least interesting!

Na lû e-govaded 'wîn.

~Ramoth13

[thatfancygirlinwhite]

So. I've been working on this 'little' Bagginshield one-shot that I reckon will be around 10k words — I hope, unlikely to be less, we'll see — and am quite excited to share some progress of how it's going!

I reckon, if all goes well, that I'll be able to post by next weekend latest.

Here's a sneak peek!

The Prancing Pony is a tightly squeezed wooden building with a narrow door, opening into a sombre interior, and with only a sign overhead to indicate that it is any kind of working establishment. Thorin ducks through the low doorway and takes the tavern in at a glance; the men (and occasional woman, he notes dispassionately), seem engrossed in their own ales, some pouring over maps, others singing a bawdy drinking song. Tharkûn sits in front of him just as he is about to stand up and leave, and says, "Now, now, what is the great Captain Thorin doing here, all alone?"

Guess what kind of AU it is...

[ovenscookbook]

He stepped forward, meeting their eyes one by one. “Will you stand with me?”

Something shifted, then. All six of them regarded Fíli with a newfound consideration that certainly wasn’t there before, especially of those who weren’t particularly connected with Erebor, as Dain or Tharkûn. Maybe, he guessed, it was then that they were able to see beyond his age and realize his potential.

Dain was the first to speak during the meeting, and he would be the first again to pledge his allegiance. He and Yrain bowed deeply. “Hail, King Fíli.” They said in unison. In Dain’s voice, it echoed deeply familiar to the warrior

- Where The Heart Is, Chapter 26

[lotus0kid]

Bagginshield AU ficlet

A/N: Hello!  Here’s a hobbit-style gift to others for my birthday, as well as a sort of fandom self-introduction, I guess.  Hope you all like it!  Hope I can settle on one of my other ideas so I can actually finish something a bit more substantial!  ‘Kay, bye! (Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consort Under the Mountain AU, slight angst followed by domestic fluff; spoilers for the fate of Thrain) The King and Consort have gotten a late start this morning.  As Bilbo dresses, he calls over to Thorin, “Can you check to see if breakfast’s been brought in?”

“Of course.”  Thorin fastens his robe, and walks to the door leading from their bedchamber to the sitting room.  As he goes, he glances to the right and away, and the idle thought flickers across his mind- There is Adad.

 He halts mid-step and looks again at the mirror that hangs on the wall there, taking in the happy, healthy, well-appointed dwarven royal it reflects.  The royal who so closely resembles the one who ceased to exist the second Smaug came. Who met a crueler fate than any other Ereborean, dead in mind and spirit before his body finally perished with no one but Tharkûn for company.

 “Thorin?  What’s wrong?”

 He tears his gaze away and turns to see Bilbo already walking toward him, a frown creasing his face.

“It’s nothing,” he answers quickly, “Only, I… I just saw my father.”

 At his nod toward the mirror, the tension falls from Bilbo’s shoulders and his frown melts into a gentle smile as he comes to take Thorin’s hands in his.  “So you did.  Yes, that’s happened to me a time or two as well.  I’ve been told I am the second edition of Bungo Baggins.”  He leans in with a confidential squint.  “Although, between you and me, I’ve my mother’s feet.”

 Thorin chuckles, then finds himself regarding Bilbo.  He sets aside painful thoughts of Thrain’s demise to imagine a hobbit who wears his husband’s face but is not him.  Bilbo seems to be doing some regarding of his own, and Thorin lets him for a moment before murmuring, “I wonder what Thrain, son of Thror, might have made of Bungo Baggins.”

 Bilbo grins wryly. “Not very much, maybe.  He was a Baggins through and through.  He did exactly one adventurous thing in his whole life.  Which was, of course, marrying my wild Took of a mother.”

 Thorin’s smile grows and he loops his arms comfortably at the small of Bilbo’s back- just as Thrain did for Fris, he recalls.  “And glad I am for it, since the outcome was a hobbit with his face, and an adventurer’s feet.”

 As expected, a pink flush and whispered “Well then…” mean Bilbo, son of Bungo, is about to thoroughly kiss Thorin, son of Thrain.

Adad: Father Tharkûn: Gandalf

[is-it-mungojerry-or-rumpelteazer]

'Mithrandir we called him in elf-fashion,' said Faramir, 'and he was content. Many are my names in many countries, he said. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.'

Aragorn is not the only one with way too many names, is he.

[iwannakillbobby]

Olórin, Mithrandir, Incánus, Tharkûn.

Gandalf the Grey.

[amidst-snow-and-ice-moved]

For: Elrond :: @calcmities Muse: Elrohir Verse: Empath | AU

Dol Guldur.

formerly known as Amon Lanc; once the home and fortress of Oropher, late King of the Greenwood. now the current residence of the Necromancer, better known as Sauron. it wasn't a place where most would dare tread, even if they wanted to. not even the Elves of the Woodland Realm, who lived within the now aptly named Mirkwood, would go there.

it was common knowledge that Elves and Dwarves rarely got on well together, especially after the Fall off Erebor. both races tried to stay away from each other, only crossing paths if they had no other choice. in the few places they did live close to the other, Ered Luin for example; there were usually Rangers of the North nearby to keep the peace.

while folk almost never came to the old Elven fortress, it was far from being deserted. alongside the so called Necromancer and his minions, the dungeons held some long term guests of his. guests who had been missing for so long, many thought they were dead. and who, despite their races, had found a mutual companionship in each-other.

"…El..?"

'Just resting, Thrain...'

a lone blue eye peered at the, older than him but still young, elf. concern stirred at the faded mental response, a direct result of pulling him from the Dark Lord's grasp. he didn't know how long his companion had been in Dol Guldur but time had not been kind to either of them. "..Not alone... Above Tharkûn... Elves..."

the halting words, spoken in a mixture of Westron and Khuzdul, the secret language of Dwarves, finally caused silver eyes to open and focus on Thrain. only then, was it possible to fully recognise who the elf actually was: Elrohir, the younger twin son of Lord Elrond from Imladris.

'Elves... Few would attempt.. to come here.. unless...'

although still weakened from earlier, Elrohir used his empathy to scan the fortress for whom Thrain had spoken. it wasn't difficult- his grandmother and father were easy to identify. his time spent as Sauron's prisoner had strengthened his power yet at the same time, weakened his control.

so his scan was more powerful than the silent elf intended, unintentionally helping the White Council in their fight. there was also another unintended side effect: it alerted them to prisoners below.

'Gandalf, Thrain is.. alive and safe...'

although the message was intended for the Grey Wizard, it was broadcasted to both Istari and elves. his mental words soon wavered and faded. but there was no doubting who had spoken- or that the missing young elf was still alive. if only just.