batsheba

sara aka batsheba | she/her | baby face gamer tries her best. sometimes wholesome, mostly chaotic, always a mood | poland | passenger service agent | learn turkish | polish sign language interpreter

[anaszpan]

Imagine: Imagine you're working in the kitchens of Erebor Castle. One of the princes falls in love with you.

[A/N] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 [ GIF: GONCA / PRINCES UNK ]

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] After the restoration of Erebor, the mountain breathed again with firelight, hammer-song, and the glow of molten gold beneath its endless stone halls. The great kitchens of the kingdom never truly slept. Before dawn, ovens already roared with heat, copper pots simmered over open flames, and the scent of fresh bread drifted through the corridors like a promise of warmth against the cold mountain winter. You were only one servant among many — flour dust forever clinging to your sleeves, hands rough from kneading dough and hauling heavy cauldrons across the endless kitchens carved deep into the rock. Your days began in darkness, long before the court awoke, preparing meals for miners, guards, smiths, and nobles alike. Few in Erebor noticed the kitchen staff. Fewer still remembered their names.

But the mountain remembered lonely hearts.

One winter evening, while carrying a basket of still-warm loaves to the upper halls, you crossed paths with a prince of Erebor — either Fili, golden-haired and proud as the sun on polished armor, or Kili, sharp-eyed and reckless, with laughter that echoed warmly through cold stone corridors.

At first, it was nothing more than passing glances. A teasing remark about burnt crusts. A prince lingering too long beside the kitchens under the excuse of stealing fresh bread. A servant pretending not to notice. Yet he returned again and again.

Soon, the kitchens became your hidden sanctuary. Long after midnight, when the court slept and only the low crackle of the ovens remained, he would slip through the heavy doors smelling of leather, smoke, iron, and winter air from the training grounds. Sitting together beside the great stone hearths, you shared stolen cups of mulled wine while dough rose quietly nearby and embers painted the walls gold. You told him stories no noble would ever hear — gossip from the servants’ halls, old recipes passed down through generations, the exhaustion of feeding an entire mountain kingdom. In return, he spoke of royal burdens, of expectations carved heavier than stone, of fears hidden beneath princely smiles and polished armor.

And somewhere between warm bread, flour-covered hands, and whispered conversations beneath the glow of the ovens, something dangerous began to grow. Because a prince of Erebor should never fall in love with a kitchen servant.

And inside a royal mountain built on tradition, gold, and pride — love could become as perilous as dragon fire.

[anaszpan]

Imagine: being Fili’s wife, wounded in battle, surviving against all odds, only to learn that motherhood has been stolen forever. And while love still remains, duty does too. To preserve the family line, Fili is forced to take another wife — while the first still lives beside him.

[A/N] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 [ GIF: BALA / FILI ]

ATTENTION! I’ve got an idea for this story. It’s nothing huge and includes quite a few time skips, but let me know if there’s interest in a short Fili story.

Sketch underneath. Enjoy!

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] For one horribly brief moment, nothing made sense. The world went silent so suddenly it felt as though someone had shoved you beneath freezing water. Every sound of battle vanished in an instant — the screams of orcs, the clash of steel, the heavy crunch of boots through snow. Only moments ago chaos had been tearing the air apart, and now there was nothing left except silence. Dead. Hollow. Wrong. All you could hear was your own breathing. Short. Shaking. Broken. And your heartbeat. Pounding so violently it felt ready to burst from your chest.

You looked down. And the world stopped completely. You couldn’t breathe. Your body looked unfamiliar. Like something detached from you. Like the corpse of a stranger seen from far away — unreal, disconnected, impossible to understand.

Impossible. This couldn’t be happening.

For one desperate second your mind tried to reject the truth. It insisted this was a mistake. That the blade wasn’t truly buried in your stomach. That the blood belonged to someone else. That in another moment you would blink and wake from this nightmare. But the pain was real. Gods… it was real. The blade had gone deep. So deep it felt as though it had split you open from the inside. Thick, dark blood ran down the steel in heavy streams, dripping into the mud beneath your feet with sickening wet splashes. You stared at it, frozen.

At your own blood. At your trembling hands. At the steel protruding from your body.

The freezing air no longer existed. Neither did the snow beneath your boots. There was only the blade tearing through your insides and the animal panic crushing your throat shut. Your fingers clamped around the orc’s forearm instinctively, nails digging hard into filthy skin. Beneath your touch you felt tense muscle, dried blood, grime, and the stench of sweat mixed with rot. Its breath smelled like death.

The orc bared yellow teeth in a slow, disgusting grin. As if it could taste your suffering. As if every second of your agony delighted it.

Then it twisted the blade. The world exploded.

A strangled sound tore from your throat. Your body jerked violently, knees trembling so hard they nearly gave out beneath you. And then the orc ripped the weapon free. A wet tearing sound shattered the silence. The scream that burst from you afterward hardly sounded human. It was raw, ragged, filled with so much agony it destroyed your voice entirely — more like the desperate howl of a wounded animal dying slowly in a trap. Your knees collapsed instantly. The sword slipped from your fingers and struck the mud with a dull clang, though the sound barely reached you. The world was breaking apart into fragments of noise and blurred images.

Flashing blades. Shadows moving through snow. Blood staining the white ground crimson.

Every inhale burned your lungs like molten glass. Every movement tore the wound wider. Inside your stomach was a horrible emptiness left behind by the blade — hot, throbbing, soaked in blood. You tried to press your hands against the wound. But the blood poured through your fingers too quickly. Far too quickly. Hot. Thick. Terrifyingly endless. Gods…

Fili turned only when he heard your scream. You would never forget the look on his face. At first there was confusion. Then shock. Real shock. Sudden. Crushing. And after it came fear. So enormous it stole the breath from his lungs. The color vanished from his face beneath the soot and blood. His eyes widened in horror, and the axe nearly slipped from his hand. For that single moment he did not look like a warrior. He looked like a man watching his entire world fall apart.

“No… no, no—” Fili lunged toward you. You never even saw him kill the orc. Maybe he split its skull with his axe. Maybe he slit its throat. Maybe he tore it apart with his bare hands. It didn’t matter. The only thing you remembered was blood spraying across the snow and the fury in his eyes — wild, blind, terrifying fury. The kind that left nothing alive.

And then he was beside you. He caught you in his arms so tightly it felt as though he was trying to hold your soul inside your body through sheer force alone. As though he believed death itself could be kept away if he refused to let go.

“Look at me,” he kept saying, voice trembling violently. “Don’t close your eyes. Please… please…”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You survived. Later, the healers would call it a miracle. They said that if the blade had gone even slightly deeper, if your body had collapsed at a different angle, if the blood had poured faster, there would have been nothing left to save.

But those words meant nothing to you then. Because miracles were not supposed to feel like this. A miracle smelled like blood, bitter herbs, and infection seeping through bandages. A miracle meant weeks of fever so violent your entire body shook beneath sweat-soaked blankets while dreams and reality melted together into one endless nightmare. It meant pain so unbearable there were moments you prayed they had simply let you die on that battlefield.

Some nights you woke screaming, convinced the blade was still inside you. That you could still feel cold steel tearing through your flesh. That you were drowning in your own blood all over again. And every single time, Fili was there.

Always.

He barely left your bedside for more than a few minutes at a time. He slept in a chair beside the bed, head resting against the mattress as though he feared you would disappear the moment he closed his eyes. Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night and found him already watching you in silence, something fragile and terrified hidden deep inside his gaze — something you had never seen in him before. He held your hand while the healers changed your bandages, when the pain became so unbearable your nails dug into his skin hard enough to draw blood. He never even flinched. He let you crush his fingers if it meant carrying even the smallest piece of your suffering for you. He fed you slowly and patiently when you were too weak to lift your head. Wiped trembling lips with a damp cloth. Brushed tangled hair away from your face after nights ruined by fever and sweat. Read old chronicles of Erebor beside your bed in a low, steady voice until sleep finally claimed you. Sometimes he stopped halfway through a sentence, thinking you had already fallen asleep.

And then you heard it. The way his breathing broke. The quiet sound of him crying. You had never heard Fili cry before. Weeks passed. Then months. The wound slowly began to close, but something inside you never truly healed. You could feel it. In the silence of your own body. In the strange emptiness beneath your ribs that no healer could name.

Until one day the healer asked Fili to leave the room. And immediately, you knew. Not because he said anything. Because he didn’t.

The old dwarf avoided your gaze for a long time. His wrinkled hands tightened nervously against the edge of the table as though, despite a lifetime spent delivering news of death and suffering, this might be the hardest thing he had ever said.

“The wound was very deep, my lady,” he said quietly at last. “The blade damaged more than we were able to heal.” Your heartbeat became so violent it made you nauseous. “Tell me.” He hesitated again. Too long. Then he spoke the words that shattered your life into pieces. “You will never be able to bear children.”

The world fell silent. There was no scream. No tears. Not even pain. Only emptiness.

You sat motionless, staring at the stone wall of the chamber, hearing nothing except your own breathing — shallow, uneven, unfamiliar. As though you had drifted far away from your own body. You will never be able to bear children. The words echoed endlessly inside your mind. No son for Fili. No little boy with golden hair running through the halls of Erebor with a wooden sword in his hands. No little girl falling asleep in Fili’s lap during feasts. No tiny fingers curling around his. No child carrying his laughter. His eyes. His name. And then came something even worse than grief.

Guilt. Heavy. Suffocating. Wrapping around your heart like chains.

When Fili returned to the chamber, he looked at you only once before understanding immediately. He saw it in your eyes. In the way you sat perfectly still, as though your soul had already left your body. “What did he say?” You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t force the words out. And then the truth struck him too. You would never forget the look on his face. That brief moment when all the color vanished from his cheeks. As though the air had been ripped from his lungs. He dropped to his knees beside the bed so suddenly the impact cracked loudly against the stone floor.

“I don’t care,” he said instantly, grabbing your hands with trembling fingers. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!” And that was when you finally broke. Because you knew he was lying. Not to himself. To you.

He loved you more than the crown. More than the throne. More than his own life. But Erebor was not only his heart. It was duty. History. The bloodline of Durin stretching back through centuries.And the kingdom needed an heir.

At first the whispers were quiet. Conversations abruptly ending whenever you entered the room. The lingering looks from elders lasting one second too long. Then slowly they became bolder. The advisors began speaking of “the good of the kingdom.” Of “the stability of the throne.” Of “securing Erebor’s future.” They never said it directly in front of you.

But you heard them. You always heard them. Fili would explode with fury every time. His voice thundered through the halls loudly enough for echoes to carry across Erebor itself. He drove advisors from the throne room. Threatened to strip titles from anyone who dared mention a second wife. Then he would return to you shaking with anger and pull you into his arms so tightly it felt as though he was trying to protect both of you from the entire world.

But the years passed. And the whispers never stopped. Slowly, they began to break him. You saw it. In the new lines forming beside his eyes. In the silences that grew longer and heavier with every passing year. In the way he sometimes remained sitting alone upon the throne after council meetings had ended, staring into nothing. For the first time, you truly understood the weight of a crown. A crown was not gold. It was chains.

And so one night, with only a single candle still burning in your chambers, you finally spoke the words that tore your heart apart more cruelly than the blade ever had. “You should marry again.”

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You accompany Boromir during his final moments.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : The horn of Gondor broke at the edge of the world, and the sound of it went wandering through the trees like a wounded thing that could not find its way home.

She heard it before she saw him.

Liriel had been gathering fallen leaves for fire kindling when the note split the forest—long, proud, and terrible in its loneliness. Her heart leapt into her throat. She knew that sound as she knew her own name. It was Boromir’s voice, forged in brass and breath, calling not for victory, but for help.

She ran.

The forest of Amon Hen had grown strange since the Fellowship had scattered. The air felt tight, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. Liriel stumbled over roots and stones, her cloak snagging on brambles, her lungs burning as the horn sounded again—shorter now, broken. With each step, dread pressed heavier upon her chest.

She found him at last in a small clearing torn open by violence.

Boromir of Gondor knelt against a great tree, its bark split and scarred by black-fletched arrows. Orcs lay dead around him, their bodies twisted and still, but he did not look at them. His gaze was unfocused, fixed on something far away, as though he were already halfway gone.

Arrows pierced him—too many to count at first glance. One in his shoulder, another in his side, more buried cruelly in his chest. Blood darkened his mail and soaked into the earth beneath him.

“Boromir,” she whispered, and the word broke her voice.

His head lifted at the sound. For a moment, confusion clouded his gray eyes. Then he saw her, and something like relief—soft, stunned relief—passed over his face.

“Liriel,” he breathed. “You should not be here.”

She dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of the blood staining her skirts. Her hands trembled as she touched his face, warm still, alive still, though death had already laid its claim.

“I heard the horn,” she said, fighting the sob rising in her chest. “I knew it was you.”

He tried to smile. It was a small, crooked thing, nothing like the confident grin he wore in the halls of Rivendell or beneath the white towers of Minas Tirith.

“I blew it for you, then,” he said faintly. “So I would not be alone.”

Her tears fell freely now, darkening his cheeks. She pressed her forehead to his, as she had done in quieter moments when the world had not yet begun to crack apart.

“You’re not alone,” she said fiercely. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Boromir’s breath rattled, each inhale a labor. His hands, once so strong and steady, fumbled weakly for hers. She clasped them tight, as though she could anchor him to the world by will alone.

“I failed,” he whispered. The word carried more pain than any wound. “I tried to take the Ring. I let it see my weakness.”

She shook her head. “You resisted longer than any man could have. You fought it. You came back.”

His eyes flickered shut at that, then opened again, glassy with tears he would never allow himself in life.

“I would have followed Aragorn,” he said. “I would have followed him… my brother. Tell him that. Tell him I defended the hobbits. Tell him… I tried to be worthy.”

“You are worthy,” Liriel said, her voice breaking completely now. “You always were.”

A shudder ran through him, sharp and sudden. His grip tightened for a moment, then weakened. Panic surged through her.

“No,” she whispered. “No, stay with me. Please. Just a little longer.”

Boromir’s gaze softened as it rested on her face. He studied her as though memorizing every line, every tear, every breath.

“I am afraid,” he admitted quietly. “Not of death. But of leaving… you.”

Her chest felt as though it were being torn open from the inside. She leaned down, pressing her lips to his brow, his cheek, his trembling mouth.

“I love you,” she said, the words finally free, no longer restrained by fear or duty. “I have loved you since the first day I saw you stand beneath the White Tree.”

His breath caught. Wonder flickered in his eyes—pure, childlike wonder, as though the world had just given him a final, unexpected gift.

“Then,” he murmured, “I do not go empty-handed.”

Another shudder passed through him, gentler this time. His body sagged against the tree. Liriel wrapped her arms around him, holding him upright, holding him close.

“I will remember you,” she whispered. “As you were. As you are. I swear it.”

Boromir’s eyes drifted upward, toward the canopy of leaves and the pale sky beyond. His lips parted, and his final breath slipped out like a sigh of relief.

His body went still.

For a long time, she did not move.

The forest seemed to mourn with her. Wind whispered through the branches. Leaves fell softly, settling on his armor, on his hair, on the broken horn lying nearby. Liriel cradled him as though he were only sleeping, her tears soaking into his tunic, her sobs silent and endless.

At last, she pressed her forehead to his chest, where his heart no longer beat.

“Go in peace, my captain,” she whispered. “Gondor will remember you. And so will I. Always.”

When she finally rose, the world felt emptier, as though something irreplaceable had been torn from its fabric. She lifted his horn, broken though it was, and held it to her breast.

Boromir was gone.

But he did not leave unloved.

[anaszpan]

[anaszpan]

RUTHLESSNESS IS MERCY UPON OURSELVES - Poseidon

[anaszpan]

🏺 studio accantus | epic moments

[anaszpan]

studio accantus | causing an aesthetic earthquake 🌊 🔱

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You meet with Richard and the cast for a script read-through before shooting your scenes.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : As the cast and crew gathered for the script read-through, the atmosphere was buzzing with excitement and a hint of nerves. Laughter spilled out into the corridor as actors exchanged light-hearted jabs, rehearsed lines, and shared little anecdotes from their past projects. The energy was palpable — every face glowed with anticipation, eyes sparkling as they flipped through the newly printed scripts, the scent of fresh ink mingling with the rich aroma of coffee from the corner café.

Richard, known for his intense performances and charming demeanor, arrived at the table with a friendly smile that instantly lit up the room. He greeted everyone with warmth, shaking hands and sharing quick, cheerful banter that drew even the most timid cast members out of their shells. His presence seemed to act as a magnet.

As you dived into the script, your characters — an unlikely pair, a cynical detective and a whimsical artist — were woven into a scene filled with tension and humor. The stage was set in a quirky little coffee shop where your character was trying to sell her artwork, while Richard's detective was undercover, trying to keep a low profile. He pretended to be fascinated by your character’s eccentric paintings, secretly trying to gather information for his case.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are a cameraman working on a film set in which Richard plays the main role.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 Ade GIF src: [x]

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow on the bustling film set, I felt a mix of excitement and anxiety fluttering in my stomach. Today was the day I’d meet Richard, the charismatic star of our film. The crew was buzzing with energy, their laughter echoing alongside the clatter of equipment being moved and adjusted.

I adjusted my camera nervously, my heart racing at the thought of finally meeting him. Richard had been a household name for years, and I admired his talent from a distance. I wasn’t just a shy cameraman; I was also an enthusiastic fan.

As the crew called for a break, I found myself standing near the craft services table, trying to look casual as I sipped on my lukewarm coffee. My eyes kept darting to Richard, who was animatedly chatting with the director about his character. I wanted to inch closer, maybe even muster the courage to say hello, but the thought of stumbling over my words made my feet feel heavier.

Just as I was about to retreat to the safety of the camera cart, a PA approached me with a bright smile. “Hey! We’re introducing the crew to Richard! You should come!”

Before I could respond, she gently guided me toward Richard and the director. As we approached, I felt my heart race. Richard looked even more striking up close, his smile infectious, the light of the setting sun framing his face perfectly. The PA cleared her throat and gestured toward me. “Richard, this is our cameraman!”

Richard turned, his gaze locking onto mine. “Hey there! Nice to meet you!” His voice was warm and inviting, shattering my nervousness like glass breaking underfoot.

I blinked, heat flushing my cheeks, my voice barely a whisper. "Maria. The pleasure is mine." We shook hands. "Just… trying to get the best angle.”

Richard chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that melted away tension. “Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you.” He leaned casually against the equipment, his presence making the hustle of the set feel a little more intimate.

As we chatted, the world around us faded, and for those few precious moments, I felt like we were just two people sharing a connection—not a star and a mere cameraman, but simply two storytellers. I found myself slowly emerging from my shell, speaking about my passion for cinematography and how I loved capturing the stories unfolding before me. Richard listened intently, asking follow-up questions that made me feel valued, his interest genuine.

“Let’s make some magic together,” he said, a playful glint in his eye as he returned to set, his natural charisma leaving me a little breathless.

When the cameras rolled again, I felt emboldened by our brief encounter, my fingers trembling less over the controls. I captured every frame with renewed passion, knowing that sometimes, the shyest moments could spark the brightest connections.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You're a waitress at The Tracing Pony. One night you are serving Thorin.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : The inn was warm, the flickering light of the hearth casting a cozy glow across the weathered wood and faces of patrons lost in their own musings. As I maneuvered between tables, I spotted Thorin Oakenshield seated in a corner, his unmistakable blue hood pulled low over his brow. He was a dwarf of regal bearing, a prince among men, though in the dim light he appeared more weary than grand.

I approached with a steaming bowl of goulash, the fragrant spices wafting up like a seasoned embrace. The rich aroma of meat simmering with root vegetables tickled the senses, a dish hearty enough to satisfy any traveler. "A warm meal for a cold night." I offered with a bright smile, setting down the bowl before him alongside a tankard of frothy ale.

Thorin glanced up, his steel-grey eyes meeting mine, and for a brief moment, I saw a glimmer of gratitude beneath the weight of his burdens. "A fine way to end a long journey..." he replied, his voice deep and resonant. He scooped a spoonful of goulash, the savory broth cascading like molten gold as he tasted it. His expression softened slightly, a rare chink in the armor of his stoic demeanor. "You have a knack, lass." he admitted, eyes crinkling in a way that suggested he rarely found such satisfaction in food.

"Just a humble waitress in a humble inn." I said, trying to downplay his compliment. Curiosity flared within me, yet decorum held me back. Dwarves were notoriously private about their journeys, and I would not pry. Instead, I ventured, “So… What do you think of The Prancing Pony, Master Dwarf? It’s a far cry from the grand halls, I wager?”

“Perhaps, but I find that sometimes the heart of a place lies in its strength of spirit.” he replied contemplatively as he raised his mug in a toast to the mingling patrons around us.

As he took a sip of the ale, the inn doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold evening air, ushering in two strangers. Their presence seemed to sap the warmth from the room—their intentions clouded like the stormy skies outside. The chatter of drunken patrons stilled as the inn took notice, eyes flicking from me to the newcomers.

Draped in dark, tattered cloaks, their faces obscured, one was tall and imposing, the other wiry, with lips curled in a sly smirk. They surveyed the room, taking stock of each face, lingering a moment too long on Thorin before they approached the bar.

"Drinks for two!" the tall one boomed, voice as thick as the ale he desired. But it was the way he leaned toward Thorin, a flicker of recognition mixed with something darker, that sent a shiver through me.

[remusjohnslupin]

"They have feelings, my friend. The Elves began it. Waking up the trees, teaching them to speak."

[caitmayart]

Feeling rough lately.

[gerardwayslips]

There's a quote from the AIDS epidemic I keep saying to myself, "Bury your friends in the morning, protest in the afternoon, and Dance all Night"

Don't feel guilty for creating beauty, for having moments where you laugh and feel good while the world falls apart around you. Because being miserable and consumed with the bad does no one any good. Dance all night to give yourself strength to bury your friends in the morning.

We will persevere. We will survive. And when it feels like you can't take another step, I'll hold your hand and take it with you.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are an elven princess and forced into a marriage with Thorin. It is not a happy one.

[ A/N ] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 Mary GIF src: [X]

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : Once upon a time in the lush realms of Eriador, where the stars twinkled like diamonds scattered across the vast night sky, there lived an elven princess named Lúthien, which was known for her grace and beauty, with hair like spun gold and eyes that mirrored the depths of the forests she called home. Lúthien possessed a spirit that longed for adventure and freedom, much like the songs of old that spoke of the windswept mountains and the endless roads of Middle-earth.

However, the harmonious chords of her life were abruptly silenced when her father, King Elindor, summoned her to his grand hall beneath the ancient oaks. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken decisions. With a heavy heart, he revealed that she was to be married to Thorin Oakenshield, the proud heir to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. This union, he explained, was intended to strengthen the alliance between elves and dwarves, a bond that had long been strained by misunderstandings and old grudges.

Though Lúthien had heard tales of Thorin's bravery and nobility, she felt no thrill at the prospect of marriage. Instead, an ache formed in her chest—the kind that whispered of dreams unfulfilled. She had envisioned a life filled with laughter, exploration, and the celebration of her people’s history, not one confined to a castle where her heart would languish behind walls adorned with gold and stone.

As the day of the wedding approached, princess felt both contempt and dread toward the man she was to marry. She remembered the day they first met. Thorin, tasked with brokering the alliance, had come to Rivendell bearing an air of command, but beneath that hard exterior, she had sensed a flicker of pain. He was a king burdened with the past, always overshadowed by the ghosts of his ancestors—yet, she could not summon any empathy for the calamity of his plight.

Once wed, Lúthien found herself in a cold and stony kingdom, surrounded by the echoes of a past filled with battles and loss. Thorin was a warrior consumed by visions of reclaiming his homeland and restoring his family's honor, a task that left him little room for tenderness or affection. Their evenings together were marked not by shared laughter or whispered dreams but by the weight of unspoken words and heavy silences. Lúthien's heart longed for the warmth of connection, yet it felt as if she were a stranger in her own home, observed but not truly known.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are an elven princess, Thranduil's sister. One day, you came instead of him to negotiate with Thorin. Thorin began to insult you. The negotiations fail and you leave Erebor with a bang.

[ A/N ] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 Mary GIF src: [X]

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : In the heart of the Misty Mountains, the air was thick with tension as I approached the grand gates of Erebor. I typically held no interest in the squabbles of dwarves, circumstances had compelled my brother to send me in his stead.

The last rays of sun glimmered upon the polished stone as I strode into the Great Hall of the Lonely Mountain. My attire spoke of my lineage — an elegant gown woven with silver threads that sparkled like starlight. I held my head high, braids of dark hair woven with delicate leaves, representing both my status and the deep connection I felt to the woodland realm from whence I came.

At the far end of the hall stood Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the Company of Dwarves and the heir to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. His eyes were sharp, glinting with pride, but I could sense the flicker of disdain beneath his bravado. As I approached, his expression shifted to one of mockery.

"So, the great Thranduil sends his precious sister instead of attending himself..." he proclaimed, his voice booming and dismissive. "How charming. I suppose he is too busy preening in the woods to bother with matters of true importance. Perhaps he fears the strength of a true king, knowing that I, Thorin Oakenshield, have reclaimed these halls.""

I inhaled deeply, allowing the anger that brewed within me to settle into a calm determination. "My brother is a king who respects protocol, Thorin Oakenshield. Though I may not bear the title of king, my wisdom and experience in matters of diplomacy are greater than you presume. To insult me is to insult the very alliance we seek to forge."

His laughter echoed through the hall, harsh and grating. "Wisdom? Wisdom from a woman? Your presence here does nothing but show the weakness of your kin. A true ruler would not hide behind a lady’s skirts." The dwarves at his side snickered, and I felt the heat of indignation flush my cheeks. "And what do you know of struggle, dear lady? Have you ever faced the spitting breath of a dragon, or the bitter chill of winter in the dark corners of a mountain? Perhaps you’d prefer a negotiation steeped in ribbon and poetry?”

With a steady resolve, I replied, "Let it be known that wisdom is not measured by title but by actions and experience. Your pride will cost you dearly, Thorin."

Yet, the truth was, I had known that these negotiations were precarious from the start. It was no surprise when Thorin, in his stubborn pride, refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of my propositions. With each failed attempt to reason with him, the situation grew more heated. The dwarves had their minds set on their treasure, and Thorin’s arrogance blinded him to the potential of alliance with the Elves.

Finally, after an exhausting exchange of barbs and bluster, it became clear that we would achieve nothing further that day. I turned my back to Thorin and the assembled dwarves, my heart heavy but resolute. "This meeting is concluded, then. If you wish for my brother’s aid, you will have to look beyond your own pride, Thorin. Remember this."

As I made my way to the exit, I paused to take one last look at the great halls of Erebor, so resplendent but filled with such foolishness. Then, summoning a bit of elven magic, I raised my hand subtly. The torches lining the great hall flared brightly, casting dancing shadows that painted the walls. A gust of wind surged through the hall, rattling the torches and stirring the garments of the dwarves.

“You will regret this, Oakenshield.” I intoned, allowing my voice to carry like a whisper in the wind. Then, with a flourish of my dress and a fierce spark of light, I exited, leaving the hall aglow with the radiance of my departure.

Outside, I mounted my swift steed, feeling the sharp sting of disappointment but also a sense of pride for holding my ground. As the last echoes of laughter faded behind me, I took a deep breath, vowing that I would return to the dwarves, not as an insult to their pride, but as a force to be reckoned with. The balance of power was shifting, and the tale of our kingdoms was far from over.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are Fili's and Kili's sister. You go horseback riding with Sigrid. She asks why you keep defending Thorin.

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : "Family isn’t always about blood; sometimes it’s about who takes you in when the world feels lost. It’s about loyalty. You understand that, don’t you?"

[ A/N ] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are Fili's daughter. When he teaches you to fight, he is very strict and doesn't go easy on you. You wrongly think that he is upset with you and that you will never be good, while he simply does not want you to get hurt.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : "You’re not focusing!" As I stood on the training ground, my heart raced with a mixture of frustration and doubt. Fili, my father, commanded the space with a fierce intensity that I admired but also found overwhelming. Today was just another grueling session, and as he demonstrated the proper stance for sword fighting, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was disappointing him.

“Hold your sword higher!” he barked, his voice cutting through the crisp morning air like the blade he wielded. “You’re not a child anymore. You need to be strong.”

I nodded but felt a knot form in my stomach. I gripped the hilt of my sword, my arms trembling. “I’m trying, Papa.” I said, hoping to soothe the tension that hung between us, but my plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Did he truly believe I would never be good enough? Each criticism felt like a dagger, chipping away at my self-esteem.

The sun hung high, beating down on us as I swung my sword, attempting to replicate the form he had shown me. I stumbled, nearly losing my balance, and instinctively, I glanced at him for approval. Instead, he frowned, his brows furrowing as he sighed heavily. “Again!” he commanded, and I could hear the disappointment laced in his voice.

And then it happened. In a moment of distraction fueled by my frustration, I stumbled, tripping over my own feet. I fell, the sword clattering away from my grasp. The sting of the ground brought fresh tears to my eyes, and I buried my face in my hands, the weight of my failures crashing down around me.

"Get up," he said quietly. There was no reprimand this time, only… concern? It was perplexing and disarming. Slowly, as I pulled myself up, I faced him, trembling and overwhelmed. "You have to learn to rise after every fall," he continued, his voice even. "This… this is where true strength is forged." As we continued, I grew more exhausted, and my movements became sloppy. I swung my sword wildly, and when he deflected it easily, I felt the air whoosh out of my lungs. The more he pushed, the more it felt like I was fighting against the tide, drowning in my own inadequacies.

“Enough!” I cried, dropping my sword to the ground as I collapsed to my knees, frustration spilling over into sobs. “I can’t do this! You’re always so strict with me! Maybe I’m just not cut out for this! Maybe I’ll never be good enough!”

I felt a lump form in my throat, stifling the frustration rising within me. Fili paused, his sword lowered, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes — pain, perhaps? But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “What if I can’t ever be like you?”

The air grew thick with silence. Fili stepped closer, lowering himself to my level. His expression softened, a blend of concern and guilt flitting across his face. “Halwûna*” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you. I do, more than you can imagine. But the world out there,” he gestured beyond our secluded training ground, “it can be unforgiving.”

“But I can handle it.” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. “I want to make you proud. I don’t want to be a burden. I just feel like I’m failing.”

A flicker of tenderness crossed his eyes as he knelt beside me. "You'll never fail. You are my daughter, my strength, my joy, my heir. You belong to the line of Durin." His hands moved to my shoulders, squeezing gently, his warmth enveloping me. I leaned into him, feeling smaller against his sturdy frame, needing the comfort he provided.

He pulled me into a tight hug, wrapping his strong arms around me like a shield. I could feel the steady beat of his heart, grounded and steady. It calmed my racing thoughts, the whispered fears slowly fading in the embrace of my father’s love. “I do this because I care,” he murmured into my hair, his voice steady. “You are fierce; you just don’t see it yet. Every time you pick up that sword, you’re stronger than you were before. You need to believe in yourself, as fiercely as I believe in you.”

I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his love seep into the cracks of my doubt. “You won’t give up on me?” I asked softly, my voice muffled against him.

“Never,” he promised, pulling back to look at me with those bright blue eyes filled with unwavering affection. “We’ll train together, and I’ll be right by your side. You are capable of great things, and I will always be here to remind you of that.”

With those words, a flicker of hope sparked within me. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was not as far from my father as I thought. I wasn’t just his daughter; I was a warrior in the making, and I could feel his faith in me becoming a part of my own spirit.

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You're on night watch with Thorin Oakenshield. You don't like the dark and every little rustle and sound scares you.

[ A/N ] : English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : The night was thick with darkness, the kind that seemed to swallow the faintest light. The air was cool, and the only sounds were the distant hoots of owls and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. I stood next to Thorin Oakenshield, his silhouette strong and imposing against the night sky, but my nerves were on edge.

“Thorin,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady, “did you hear that?”

He turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the treeline. “What did you hear?” he asked in a low growl, the authority in his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Just… a rustling. It sounded closer this time.” My heart raced, and I could almost feel the weight of the shadows pressing down on me.

For Thorin, the night was just another realm to navigate, filled with potential threats to face head-on. But for me, it felt like a monstrous entity, each breeze urging shadows to creep closer. “You should be more alert,” he said, sharp yet patient. “The world is full of sounds, but not all are threats.”

I nodded, but it did little to quell my racing thoughts. Every whispered rustle felt like an imminent danger stalking us under the cloak of night. “What if it’s something dangerous?” I pressed, glancing nervously at the inky blackness before us.

“Then we will face it as we have faced all dangers,” Thorin replied, crossing his arms, his confidence an anchor amid my anxiety. “Keep your wits about you. Fear serves you little in these woods—but caution does.”

I tried to muster some of that bravery, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way a leader draws strength from those around them. “I know you’re right, but…I can’t help it.”

A low, guttural growl emanated from the shadows, and I jumped slightly. Thorin stiffened, eyes narrowing. “Stay close,” he commanded, stepping slightly in front of me, an imposing guardian against the night.

I swallowed hard, my instincts urging me to stay grounded, to stand firm. “What if it’s just a rabbit or a deer?” I asked, trying to rationalize the tension in the air.

“Aye, it could be...” he conceded, but his eyes remained vigilant. "Always be prepared. That’s how we survive.”

I nodded, my heart still racing but feeling slightly bolstered by his presence. As the night stretched on, I tried to focus on the stars peeking through the gaps in the foliage, the twinkling points of light reminding me that even in the darkest times, there was still a glimmer of hope.