A place for everyone to share their fanfiction recommendations, for The Hobbit and for Lord of the Rings.
Drop your fics in the Ask or in a message to yours truly!
Gen
Frodo & Maglor, Frodo & Gandalf
Characters: Frodo, Maglor as Crablor and as Himself, Gandalf, Eönwë, Elrond, Mentioned Galadriel, Mentioned Bilbo, Various Members of the House of Finwë Alluded To
Summary: Frodo, on the shores of the Grey Havens moments from departing on the grey ship, find a sad and lonely little crab. Feeling some kinship towards it he decides to take the crab with him into the West. Only, the crab is more than just a simple crab, for it had once been... Maglor, Son of Feanor.
Snippet:
In Frodo's dreams he had heard the music of the far-off Sea, his heart moved to a bittersweet ache at the sound as close akin to the elves' Sea-Longing as his hobbit senses could reckon. It was a sound that both keenly reminded yet gently soothed the wound of his shoulder that flared up on bad days and certain calendar dates or when the weather turned. A wound that never fully healed. But very few if any hobbit at all had laid eyes, or let alone sought out, the Sea, and no dream could have prepared Frodo for its endless blue sight stretching off into the far away distance until water kissed the sky and became one, or of its sheer overwhelming might that could even make Bilbo's dragon feel small... and nor could it prepare him for its beauty.
Languidly rolling waves lapped the fine powdered shores with white tipped foam peaks that the gulls overhead dove at to dip their bright wings in and snatch silver scaled fish in their beaks. Light broke over the surface like crushed glass, glittering as gold coins scattered like rose petals carpeting the Great East Road on a late spring day, the Sun just a scant few hours from setting whose path Frodo would soon be following into the West.
The elves were making the last minute preparations before they were set to sail. Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel were conversing with Lord Círdan of such matters, and Gandalf was keeping the hobbits company while the deckhands were loading the passengers’ belongings below the ship's deck as Bilbo napped through it all in the carriage. Only... Neither Sam, Merry nor Pippin knew yet that among the luggage being hauled away was also Frodo's as well.
He'd been thinking of a way how to tell it to them all throughout the journey to the Grey Havens, but he couldn't quite find the words. How do you explain that the home you loved your whole life, the home you have gone into great peril and adversity for to save, no longer felt like home anymore? How do you explain that you no longer fit in the one place you should belong? That though the Shire and his friends were all touched by the Ring War and had changed for it; it was Frodo's own hurts and changes that prevented him from finding peace in this world?
Which was why he had sought out a bit of solitude on the white beach of the shoreline, taking every second he could before the time to depart finally came. The shushing waves and the clean salt scent of the breeze did not yield Frodo with any answers to his quandary, but it served to calm his troubled heart if even for but a moment.
Something tickled the hobbit's bare toes that was neither sand nor the lapping water. His foot already moved before Frodo perceived the tiny red creature scuttling across his toe hairs, and he accidentally knocked it on its hard-shelled back, many little legs flailing in the air.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Frodo instantly crouched, feeling remorseful for blundering over an animal much smaller than himself.
Written for Day One of @gondorweek: '1.The Line of Kings, Minas Tirith, "It has come to me, the One Ring. It shall be an heirloom of my people."'
I had such fun writing it; thank you for the prompts!
Word Count: 1,182
Relationships: Gen
Rating: Teen & Up
Summary: An AU in which Faramir takes the Ring.
to victory or to ruin, fic below cut:
The metal is not as cold as Faramir expects. The Ring sits in his palm, the small piece of gold warm to the touch, hotter than it should be for the cool temperature of Ithilien. Even after the blood and death and battle, it is warm. Warm like the spilled blood on white stone, like the crush of bodies underfoot, like the call of his heart to the Ring itself.
The stares from the halflings, however, are anything but. They have long since stopped pleading with him. Good. If there is one thing Faramir cannot stand, it is begging. Reason — at least, when it is reason for something against what he believes — is only mildly better.
"What is it?" Faramir hears himself say, the words sounding hollow, echoey, like he's hearing them from the end of a cave. The Ring shimmers in his hand as he turns it towards the halflings.
It is not the original Ringbearer who responds, but Sam. Frodo seems to have given up on trying to plead with Faramir, but Sam is still glaring daggers. "You're doing the wrong thing," he tells Faramir, who has lost count on how many times Sam has said this.
"Am I?" Faramir tilts his head. "No, halfling. I am doing the best thing for my people. With this ring will my people be saved."
"No!" Anger is still creasing Sam's forehead. "You will fall to it! Don't you see what it did to Frodo? Don't you know what happened to your brother?"
Boromir. He'd always said that Faramir was strong. Stronger than Boromir himself, maybe. "I am not my brother. I am wiser."
"Your brother thought he was strong," Frodo suddenly says, looking up at Faramir. His blue eyes are more dull and less shining than they were when the rangers first found the halflings and their beast.
"It is still as I said. I am not my brother," he responds, and even though his words are deliberately unweighted, he himself can still hear something in them — a heaviness that can't only be from the weight of the Ring in his palm. But nevertheless, he continues. "I am not my brother. I am stronger, and I will not allow this to dominate my will. I will use it to serve my people."
"That is what Boromir, too, said, before he was killed."
"I will not be killed." Faramir clenches his hand around the ring. His knuckles whiten, then turn back to normal as he releases his grip. "This is for the good of my people."
There are footsteps behind them, and Faramir whirls around. The ranger takes a step back in surprise — perhaps Faramir's movement is more sudden that it usually is. "My lord," Damrod starts, "the men wish to know what we will do now."
"Have they not yet have enough of battle?"
"Indeed they have, my lord, but they are wondering when we are to go back to Minas Tirith. Will it be immediately, or will we wait?"
"I will tell you when I am ready to." It's more harsh than Faramir intended it to be, but at the same time, he has no inclination to take it back.
Damrod doesn't give any outward indiction that he is perturbed by Faramir's reaction, and yet something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or sadness. That's odd. Why would he be sad — why should he be sad? The Ring is in the hands of Gondor now, and will never again fall into those of the enemy. It is safe, and they will be safe, and it is all thanks to the fact that Faramir took the Ring, all thanks to the fact that Faramir has wisdom enough to take it from Frodo and Sam, instead of letting them continue on their quest. In a way, maybe the fact that Gondor — and, by extension, most of Middle-Earth, likely — will be saved from Sauron and the rising evil is all down to Faramir. Maybe it's all down to his wisdom, knowledge, and foresight.
Damrods nods and walks away, but Faramir doesn't register his movements. Not really. No, even though he can acutely feel the halflings staring at his back, Faramir simply stares into the distance. He can hear the low voices of his men, the soft clinks of swords being polished and sanded, and yet he has no inclination to join them.
Foresight. That, foresight, is the gift that he shares with his father, isn't it? It had, after all, been foresight that showed to him the body floating in the boat, the body that belonged to his brother. And for Denethor too, it had been foresight that served him, allowing him to shrewdly read the hearts of men. But Faramir had oft noticed that it was Denethor who was quicker to judge upon seeing inside a person's mind, while it was he himself who was more inclined to pity. Those days were over. There came a certain degree of satisfaction with the fact that, when he looked into a person's soul, he might now see fear, or at least acknowledgement that Faramir was above them, was their superior.
Of course his men respected him, and of course he was no mere soldier. But on the other hand, there might be something refreshing about being feared, and knowing that, whatever he told a person to do, they would now obey.
"You cannot do this." Frodo's voice pulls Faramir out of his reverie.
"I have told you, halfling. I can do this, and I will do this. I will lead Gondor to victory. Can you not comprehend that?"
The last phrase is something that Denethor used to say when Faramir was a boy, and, although rarely, still does now. The words come out of his mouth sounding just like how they do when his father says them, and instead of feeling a wave of shame, he feels a wave of pleasure. Pleasure at having been the one who caused the halfling's eyes to widen, at having caused him to take a step back. Pleasure at knowing that he has that power. What will his father think when Faramir tells him of this Ring? What will his father think when he comes back, talking like he's a different person? Talking to him, and maybe, for once, being the stronger.
"You will not lead your people to victory! Not this way, not with the Ring. You will lead them only to ruin. Can you not understand that?"
Faramir can sense the eyes of his men on him. It is imperative that he answer this correctly, that he shows that he is strong. No. That's a stupid thought. He is strong, and he will not need to prove it. Not anymore. "The realm of Gondor is a kingdom of men, and it will be men who govern and rule it, not halflings. If the king will not return, it is the line of the Stewards that shall rule, and this ring shall be an heirloom of my people."
The ring suddenly feels warmer than Faramir expects.
Title: Stray
Author: Michelle
Email: michelle [at] waking-vision.com
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings
Summary: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, with the addition of some fantastical whimsy.
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Aragorn/Arwen
Genre: Het
Rating: General Audiences
Disclaimer: I own black cats, a whole lot of them. And that’s it.
Author’s Note: Written for Fandom Weekly, Prompt #297 “Unexpected Kindness”.
Since I figured out how to make stories part of multiple series, I now have a new series, The Éothain Stories.
There are three so far, and they actually follow a sort of trajectory: from his time in the Minas Tirith Houses of Healing, to his unrequited love, to finding a more sustainable romance. :D
And my Éothain is disabled! He lost his leg in Pelennor, and he was pretty bitter about it for a while, but he finds new meaning in his aid to Éomer as king.
Written for Day Two of @gondorweek: 'The Line of Stewards, Artifacts, "fealty with love, valour with honour, oathbreaking with vengeance"'.
Thank you for the prompts! I also wrote this in an hour before coffee so I make no promises as to the quality.
Word Count: 1,118
Relationships: Gen
Rating: Also Gen
Summary: A character study about Beregond
a place of loyalty, fic below cut:
Beregond used to be a child. And like most young boys who lived under the flag of the White Tree, he had aspirations. And like his father before him, he wished to be blacksmith, to follow in the footsteps of the family trade and live a simple life. As simple as he could, anyway, when the shadow and gloom of Mordor crept ever closer towards Minas Tirith.
Beregond used to be a young man. As he grew older, growing with him was the knowledge, deep down, that he would not be able to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers. It was less of a sudden realization and more of a slower understanding over time, though that did little to soften the blow. Then again, young men all over the White City — and beyond that, Gondor as a whole — were having their dreams and hopes dashed.
The reason for that was something simple, something that didn't have the right to such a logical explanation. The reason was war. Or, more accurately, the threat of war. Was a terrible thing more or less terrifying when you were expecting it? Was it better for the horrors to creep up to you, catching you unprepared, or was it better to wait and prepare, and all the while your courage was fading?
Of course, when he and so many other young men his age were recruited to be soldiers or rangers, the full reality of his new life hadn't yet crashed down on him. Perhaps some part of him believed that this was some sort of dream, or, failing that, that this was only a temporary thing. Soon, he'd be able to return home to live, not just for the times he was on leave. Maybe his father would let him resume his apprenticeship at the family smithy. Just after everyone realized that there was no need to be so cautious. Then everything would be fine.
But as the years grew on, as Beregond matured and became an adult, the situation did not improve. In fact, it was the opposite. Orcs started to launch raids on border settlements; Ithilien and Osgiliath seemed to be their preferred targets. And while the forces of Sauron did indeed sustain heavy losses, it was not limited to only orcs. Many men of Gondor had given their lives to defend that very realm; some of the people Beregond had known since youth were gone, no more, their bodies either mauled by orcs or simply lost to all who would try to find them, buried under their enemies. The soldiers who had given their lives were denied their dignity in death. And for everyone who had tried to defend their homeland, it was a good death.
Except, was that truly right? Beregond was of the opinion that there was no such thing as a good death, only death. And had they truly given their lives? How many of them, on the ride out to countless sites of battle, had known that they would have been killed just hours later? And if they did, if they had some anticipation of it, would they have wanted it, or would they have fought it — trying their hardest to survive, to get back to their friends, their family? No. They hadn't given their lives. Their lives had been taken from them.
That was largely the reason why Beregond gave his duties his all. Consequently, he rose through the ranks of the soldiers quickly, faster than usual even for a time during which many men were being hastily promoted. Perhaps his raise in rank was to fill the position of someone who had recently left the position empty, but what of it? Beregond owed it everything, if only in honor of those who hadn't been as fortunate to have the chances he did. And not only to them, but to all the people now bereft of a son, or a father, or a brother. And if it was to be his own family deprived of a son, then ... well, at least they'd be told it was a good death. If that was such a thing.
Still, it was a surprise when Beregond found out that he was to be in the service of Lord Faramir. Well, technically, when he was first recruited, he had automatically been in the service of the Steward of Gondor, and thus by extension, his two sons. But to be assigned to be an actual member of the guard of Faramir was both a duty and an honor that he hadn't even dreamed of. Which meant that, now more than ever, Beregond had to put in the most effort. And if he was already doing that as he was — well, he would just have to raise his own standards.
As it turned out, Lord Faramir was just like the rumors. Kind, wise, and gentle, yet strong, too, when necessary. Those qualities alone would have made Beregond admire him, but even beyond that, despite the fact that Faramir was a captain and Beregond was only a soldier, Faramir respected his station; never once did he pull rank. As the weeks turned into months and the months turned in to years, it felt like, beyond respecting his knowledge and judgement, Faramir considered Beregond a friend. And who would Beregond be to deny him? After all, that was his duty; to remain loyal, both to Gondor and the White Tree, but to their people. He'd sworn an oath, after all; valour and fealty were essential.
And it was out of that place of fealty that he fought for Gondor, lived and breathed for Gondor, and the defense of it. When it was Mordor and not yet Rohan who went to the gates of Minas Tirith, it was Beregond who fought them back from the upper levels. But, as always, his service was to Faramir — and beyond him, it was to the Steward. At least, that was in times of peace — or at least, in times were they weren't directly fighting — and so it was with no small degree of desperation that he fled his post when the halfling told him that, against all odds, the Steward was burning his son alive.
Beregond's soldiers, despite being under his command, would not let him into the tomb of the stewards, no matter how much he tried to tell them that disaster was nigh. There was no chance of getting them to listen, and he knew what must be done. For the first time, blood was spilt in those hallowed halls, but as he rushed in, rushed towards the flaming pyre, it was not out of a place of loyalty, but a place of friendship.
Warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, angst, references to past torture and sexual assault, family conflict, threat of execution. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
I am so sorry I'm so late with this! This was hard to write, not for the same reason The Inspection was hard to write, there's just a lot of drama, lots of moving parts, extra characters, extra everything in this one! There is plenty of smut too, though! I hope you enjoy!
“You have come for her,” Mairon said, his voice cold and haughty, scrubbed clean of feeling. “Take her. She is free to go.”
[LOTR characters + how you comfort each other after a nightmare]
a/n: this was requested by ME! yay a bit of hurt/comfort, long time no see! sorry that Legolas' is a bit short but i mean he doesn't sleep like a human😭 enjoy and remember - comments+reblogs+nice asks=very happy motivated fic writer! ❤ posting some requests soon :)
disclaimer!! never have and never will use AI in my writing, this shit is from the SOUL!
⋆˙⟡ ARAGORN
he does wake up from nightmares most times, but it really varies – sometimes it’s just a quiet, deep breath to steady himself, and sometimes he all but jumps out of the bed wielding a sword at an imaginary ghost from the past
90% of times that does wake you up as well, especially the serious ones
he will get startled when you initially touch him, even though it is a confirmation that you’re alive and well and right there
so you are very light and careful and speak in a quiet voice until you can see he’s breathing normally again
he looks so distressed and almost tearful that it breaks your heart but you are at least happy you can provide comfort ❤️
Aragorn refuses to talk about his dreams, never wanting to burden you and especially not in the dead of night, and you have learned to let it go – as long as you can hold each other, that is all the relief he needs
it’s in those moments that he loves to feel your hand in his hair, literally visibly relaxing at your gentle movements
when you suffer horrible dreams, he is often awake before you even open your eyes because he is very attuned to your needs, even asleep – if he can hear you breathing differently it will alert him
so he is right there in your face with arms already securely wrapped around your panicked form
the low and loving way he speaks to you is mostly enough to quiet your erratic thoughts as you reach out to touch his face suspiciously, confirming that he is indeed real
sometimes he will ask if you want to talk about it, always willing to lend an ear and at least to try and offer some sound advice if you are up for it; but if you want to say nothing he absolutely understands
holds you close so you can focus on his steady heartbeat and breathing pattern. and also even if you can’t fall asleep afterwards that is alright, he will stay up with you and provide you with anything you may need 🥰
⋆˙⟡ LEGOLAS
so let’s start off with the fact that he doesn’t actually sleep? so sorry to everyone involved 😭 he does rest and hang around while you are sleeping and he likes to look at you and observe you though
therefore he will very easily notice if you are disturbed even while still sleeping, his eyebrows furrowing in worry as he reaches out so gently it’s almost featherlight
he will touch you carefully to try and wake you up but simultaneously not scare you to death
as your eyes snap open and you gasp, he will continue softly cradling your face and brush your hair away to comfort you without even needing to speak
he will very earnestly ask you what did you dream about because he would listen to you talk about just anything, let alone something that obviously upset you; would definitely reassure you immediately that whatever you dreamed about will never come to pass and that he will always be there to protect you
soft kisses all over your face to distract you and make you smile
if you don’t feel like falling asleep afterwards, he is secretly a bit happy because that means quality time, and that you can go out on the balcony and look at the stars as he tells you all sorts of things about them
he doesn’t physically let go of you or move away in any capacity until he is sure you are 100% alright and calm
⋆˙⟡ BOROMIR
on his part, it doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, you are guaranteed to wake up along with him; he shoots up, ragged breathing, damp hair going every which way and, if nothing else, the mattress shifts with his weight
at first he is very unnerved, so much so that he sometimes gets startled when you touch him, which is an incredibly rare occasion
so you make sure to firstly comfort him verbally and then physically and you always emphasize that you’re both safe, alive and well, and at home together; and whatever it was, it was merely a dream
when he dares to make eye contact with you and take your hand to confirm you are indeed real, he can exhale at last, but he’s still unsettled and likes it when you talk to him so he can focus on your voice and not on unpleasantly loud thoughts
bonus points if you run your fingers through his hair!!
it’s 50/50 whether he will share it with you or not, more likely that he does it the following day if it seems to still be important somehow
absolutely doesn’t fall back asleep afterwards so in most cases you two end up in the bath together (yes, in the middle of the night) having a relaxing time and exchanging tender kisses and caresses
which is also what happens if you wake up from a nightmare, if that’s what you like 😌 it ends up being a sweet ritual between the two of you, complete with calming fragrances and candles
he will legitimately carry you back to bed afterwards if you want to return to sleeping and you very much have no objection to it
will keep holding you as close as possible (you’re definitely the little spoon on those nights) for the rest of the night as you fall back asleep and he will admire your beautiful face until the sunrise
⋆˙⟡ FRODO
as heartbreaking as it is, him having nightmares is quite a regular occurrence and poor soul feels so horrible about it, but you make a point never to let him apologize for waking you up – as if he can choose what to dream about and how to react to it
usually he will wake up with a startle, sitting up and panting, or he will mumble something in his sleep with a frown; either way you definitely hear it every time but you’re glad that at least you won’t let him handle it all alone in the dead of night
open the window to let in some fresh air and see the stars better, it makes him breathe easier
soft physical touch is a must: you hold his face in your hands and meet his gaze, it anchors him back to reality and back to being loved and safe 🥺
unless you really really plead, he won’t tell you a thing about the dreams – he thinks it’s enough of a burden that you must lie awake with him, let alone listen to the horrors from his mind – but you can estimate pretty accurately what the dreams are about
he actually prefers that you talk in those moments while holding him close, he can listen to your steady heartbeat and your voice, and let his thoughts focus on happier things
whether you whisper repetitive and calming sweet nothings, or meander about a random mindless topic, it really doesn’t matter, he appreciates it all the same
of course he is incredibly loving and sweet if you get woken up by a horrible dream of your own
you get wrapped in an immediate hug and he presses kisses all over your face, and kiss your fingertips, until your tears are replaced by a smile, making him smile in return
he will light that candle that you particularly enjoy and he won’t even try to coax you into falling back asleep, he has no problem staying up with you for as long as you need
⋆˙⟡ SAM
the first time he woke up from a bad dream and realized you were still sleeping, comfortably curled up, he snuck into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and then just sit and ponder
but alas, the second you felt the lack of warmth in your bed, you had to go and explore, very concerned
then he explained he didn’t want to disturb your sleep because you looked so comfy and that he could handle his own troubles, but the way you POUTED at him, crossing your arms, made him seriously reconsider his choice
the deal was sealed when you wrapped him in a hug from behind and muttered that you would much rather be woken up in the dead of night and comfort him, than let him calm down by himself and for the one thousandth time in your relationship you emphasized the fact that he could never, in any capacity, be a burden to you, especially not in vulnerable or stressful moments
that does make him feel infinitely better
sometimes he will tell you about the dreams if you pry a little bit, he doesn’t want you to feel like he’s keeping secrets! then you two will usually stay up to chat a bit before winding down again, but usually he will fall back asleep peacefully if you cuddle him (of course you do) 🥰
when you’re the one who wakes up with a gasp, he wakes up right after, horrified at the possibility of something having happened to you
he will very gently cradle your face and mutter sweet nothings and wipe or kiss away any tears that might occur
offers to make you a cup of something warm and calming, but also won’t move from the bed if you don’t want him to so it’s definitely your choice, he just wants you to feel safe and relaxed!
⋆˙⟡ MERRY
essentially incapable of admitting he had a nightmare, he will try to ignore the pounding of his heart and the disturbing thoughts in the aftermath, but you know when he turns his back to you in bed out of nowhere
so you need to cuddle up to him and you don’t believe it one bit when he says it’s alright; the first few times you have to give him a little talk along the lines of ‘but it’s perfectly fine if sometimes it’s not alright’ and you know he tears up slightly at that
very slowly and stubbornly he will begin to believe you, but it upsets him because he is convinced he is supposed to be stronger and braver out of the two of you (even though nobody has ever claimed anything like that), hence not bother you with his nonsense at 3 am
so over time he learns to let you in during those vulnerable moments even though he will NOT speak about the dreams. but he will very happily get hugged and get his hair petted 🥰 and trust me lots of emotions are felt in those hugs
sometimes falls back asleep, but other times you two go and sit in front of the fire wrapped in a blanket
HOWEVER. when YOU wake up panting from a dream he takes it very seriously – like, how dare anyone upset his baby even in dreams!! 😠
he sits up, pulling you closer until he’s almost cradling you; touches your face or hands a lot because it grounds you, and then he just rambles on about whatever to get your mind off of evil things – it relaxes you when he goes off on a random tangent, but is still very much aware that you need a gentle physical presence which he’s more than happy to provide
and you most likely end up falling asleep because it’s so cozy and he’s brushing a finger down your cheek, in the midst of a story about some nonsense that happened at his 14th birthday party or something
⋆˙⟡ PIPPIN
there are very few things that can wake him up fully from a deep, peaceful sleep: first, if you move away or get up, he is instantly awake – you have no idea how. second, a horrendous dream, which hadn’t really been much of an occurrence for him before the whole quest ordeal
when he bolts up from a dream, there’s no way you can miss it or sleep through it; you would hear that panicked breathing from a different realm if needed be
half the time before you even have time to react properly, he all but launches himself at you, instinctively searching for the warmth and security in attempts to draw the line between the world of traumatizing dreams, and the actual reality of you being alive and well and right there
high chance of unintentional tears on his end 😔 but as long as you mutter repetitional words of assurance and love into his hair, all will be well
since he shares basically everything with you, he will also talk about the dreams more often than not – it feels better to get them off his chest and put them somewhere between the two of you; he trusts you unconditionally
afterwards he will be unusually quiet for some time but won’t move an inch away from you and he likes it when you touch his hair
doesn’t like falling back asleep after a particularly vivid dream so you will just hang out and snuggle and hold hands and maybe even have a snack
if you wake up from a bad dream, he won’t always necessarily hear you and wake up, but if you move away from him in the slightest, that’s what gets him awake and he frowns immediately when he sees the disconcerted expression on your face
his ultimate life goal is to make you smile and laugh as much as possible so he pulls out all the stops – from reassuring you that he will always be there for you, to making up a song that will make you grin
won’t push you to talk about it, but he likes it when you tell him things
will literally wrap himself around you to give you maximum comfort and closeness
my most esteemed beloved taglist ( @ anyone feel free to lmk if you wanna be on it) @sweetheartrosesz @stars-n-spirals @emmathefanficgal
(if you saw me use this same GIF yesterday no you didn't)
Written for Day Three of @gondorweek: 'The Rangers of Ithilien, Nature, "By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!"'
Thank you for the prompts! I dug this out of my drafts this morning, so I hope it's good, but some nice fluff.
Word Count: 1,077
Relationships: Boromir & Faramir
Rating: Gen
Summary:
It was a cold, bleak day in the winter. A frost had swept over everything that was green, and a soft sprinkling of snow covered the ground. People all over Minas Tirith were just starting to wake up to the frigid winter weather that would keep them imprisoned inside for the day.
Most people, that was. There were two boys of the White City, one who had seen fourteen of these winters, and another who had seen nine, who woke earlier than usual upon that cold morning.
Snow Day, fic below cut:
It was a cold, bleak day in the winter. A frost had swept over everything that was green, and a soft sprinkling of snow covered the ground. People all over Minas Tirith were just starting to wake up to the frigid winter weather that would keep them imprisoned inside for the day.
Most people, that was. There were two boys of the White City, one who had seen fourteen of these winters, and another who had seen nine, who woke earlier than usual upon that cold morning.
The youngest one, of nine, was the first to wake, for his older brother had promised that this was the day that he would teach him to spar. And thus the youngest woke practically before the sun was up.
But where Faramir rose at the crack of dawn, today and on other days, Boromir was wont to sleep somewhat later, especially on days where he didn't have duties as the Steward's older son. Thus, upon jumping on Boromir's bed to wake him, Faramir found his older brother's reaction quite amusing.
"What in Eru's name?" Boromir sputtered, pushing himself up to blink owlishly at Faramir. "What are you doing?" This was most out-of-character for his brother, who, when he wanted something from Boromir, would usually at least wait until a more acceptable hour.
"When will you teach me how to spar?"
"When it's a decent time of day." Boromir glanced out of his window, seeing only the faintest hint of sun on the horizon. "Do you know what time it is, Faramir? It's not even sunrise. Go back to sleep."
"It snowed, though."
"I see that." And Boromir didd see that — there were little, barely visible flakes on the window, and of course there was the all-encompassing frost.
"So, when will you teach me?"
"You're not going to give up, are you?"
Boromir could hear the grin in his brother's voice. "No."
Now Boromir sighed, exaggerating the sound. "Find. Give me a minute to get changed, then."
Soon enough, Boromir was dressed in clothes more suitable to sparring, and a blunt sword was by his side. When he opened the door to his chambers, Faramir was waiting there, clad in a similar fashion, carrying a similarly blunt sword, and grinned again at the sight of Boromir. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I can be." Boromir gestured down the hallway. "Lead on, soldier."
The walk to a spacious courtyard, hidden in the depths of the White Tower, was not hard in itself, but sneaking through the tower, trying not to disturb any sleeping person, was. Eventually, though, the two brothers arrived at the small courtyard.
"Oh," Boromir said, looking around. "It very much did snow."
How so much snow had managed to fall overnight, Boromir didn't know. The covering was so thick that, as he took a tentative step forward, his leg sank up to his shin.
Faramir, waiting in the covered area that hadn't been snowed on, was watching Boromir, his sword arm slackened. "I suppose we can't swordfight today, then?"
Even though Faramir couldn't see him, Boromir grimaced. "I'm sorry. Probably not." Then a mischievous thought came over him, and, back still turned, leaned down and grabbed a handful of snow.
"Boromir? What are you doing?" Faramir called.
Standing back up, Boromir turned around and threw the snowball at his brother. He missed on purpose, but Faramir laughed anyway, dropping his sword and running into battle.
The thick covering of snow hindered the two somewhat, as did their lack of gloves and other snow-appropriate gear, but both of them went dedicatedly to rolling up balls of snow and throwing them at each other. Sensibly, Faramir created stockpiles of balls while being bombarded, but Boromir rashly created them as he went along.
After they had gotten tired of laughing and running about, they each made fortresses of snow. The walls were as high as they could be without collapsing, and once the castles were finished, each boy blew on his hands, warming them, before going back to throwing snowballs at each other.
Eventually, the watery sun was well and truly in the sky — albeit, a sky with no small amount of clouds — and both Boromir and Faramir were thoroughly wet, cold, exhausted, and happy.
After a sudden surprise attack of many snowballs — Faramir had evidently feigned "taking a break" — Boromir decided it was time to claim defeat. "Alas!" he cried, flopping onto the snow and feigning death. "I am killed!"
Faramir dashed to grab his training sword, holding it high over his head in victory. "Killed by Faramir, Captain of Minas Anor!" he declared, even though the effect was somewhat ruined by an ill-timed giggle.
"A mighty man of whom to be slain by!" the dying Boromir responded, feeling like he had gotten some part of that grammar wrong, and not knowing which part.
"Let this be a warning to the foes of Gondor!"
"I am warned! For ..." Boromir trailed off, sitting upright. Faramir, too, turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps.
In the span of a mere few moments, the footsteps materialized into a person. Particularly, a person with long and curly hair. Particularly, a person who didn't look very happy.
"Boromir, Faramir," their father said, disapproval leaching into his voice. "What is it, exactly, that you are doing?"
"We were swordfighting," Boromir responded, glancing at his brother. "Faramir won, Father."
"Swordfighting?" Denethor nodded at the snow. "In this weather? I think not. What were you doing?"
Upon receiving no answer, Denethor repeated his query.
"We were playing in the snow," Faramir muttered, all previous joy gone. "It was too thick to fight in."
"As I expected." Denethor looked the children over with a shrewd eye. "Boromir, I would have expected better from you. These times are not some in which to engage in such follies as ... snowball fighting. These are the times when real fighting is necessary."
"Yes, Father," Boromir responded dutifully. "I assure you that it won't happen again." Then, thinking of something else: "I promise that I will actually teach Faramir some more sparring skills later today."
"Very well." Denethor turned back around, walking away down the hallway he'd came from.
Faramir looked at Boromir. "It's a shame that we got into trouble."
"I know, Faramir." Boromir stood up, dusting off his clothes. "But you have to admit one thing."
"What's that?"
Boromir winked at his younger brother. "That, while it lasted, it was fun."
Written for Day Four of @gondorweek: 'Osgiliath, Grief and Conflict, "I love only that which they defend."'
(actually managed to hit two of the prompts, sort of)
Anyway, thanks for the prompts! This was a fun one.
Word Count: 1,077
Rating: Gen
Summary:
All children of Gondor were told the history of — or, at least, knew the history from books — the White Tree, and Bergil, son of Beregond, was no different. Of course, being only nine, Bergil had not yet seen the tree flower in his life; nor had most, if not all, of the people of Minas Tirith.
petals, fic below cut:
All children of Gondor were told the history of — or, at least, knew the history from books — the White Tree, and Bergil, son of Beregond, was no different. Of course, being only nine, Bergil had not yet seen the tree flower in his life; nor had most, if not all, of the people of Minas Tirith.
That was why it was quite the surprise when he saw the glint of something lighter amid the soil that surrounded the tree. Bergil thought himself to be an exceptionally cautious child, actually, especially given his age. Right now, though, while the cautious thing overall to do would probably be to leave the tree alone, he simply exercised caution by glancing around for his father, Beregond. No, the only soldiers around him right now were the ceremonial guards, and, well, how could they even see anything in their silver helmets, the wings extending out on the sides to an almost stupid degree?
Not caring of the fact that he was getting dirt under his fingernails, Bergil reached a hand into the soil, brushing the dirt away from that little slip of white. Then again, perhaps it wasn't quite white; more like ivory, yellowed with age. He held it up to the light of the sun; it was translucent, filament-thin. It could almost pass for a piece of ripped parchment, if it weren't for the faint crinkle to the surface and the barest hint of something that clung to it; dry, sweet, bitter.
Bergil took one last look around him. No one was watching, and so, thinking on the fly, he tucked the little dried petal into the pocket of his coat. Maybe he would give it to his father; then again, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he wouldn't share it with anyone.
He liked that. A little piece of history — a little memory — all to himself.
***
"Well, what's this?" Ioreth murmured aloud, staring at the little snippet of a thing on the cobblestones. Her knees popped and her back ached painfully as she leaned down to pick it up, and she squinted at it.
There had been two things on the cobblestones, actually; one of them being a button, something that could have popped off a coat or a pocket. By all accounts, it was a nice button, if Ioreth was looking for a nice button, but she was not. It was the other object next to it that caught her attention.
It could have been a dead petal of one of the many flowers that surrounded her in the Houses of Healing, were it not for the color of it; a faded ecru, darker around the top edge as if dipped in beige ink. It must have been a brilliant white at some point in time, and that point in time must have been many years ago, judging by brittle quality of it — if Ioreth held it the wrong way, she knew, it would break. But that was what happened with aging things, wasn't it? Yes, that was the risk that came with having one and being one, and Ioreth knew that all too well.
Still, no matter the age of the petal, there remained the mystery of where it came from. Or maybe the age was the real matter with it, but despite having spent many of her decades in attending the Houses of Healing, Ioreth had never once seen a plant that could have flowered to something white as snow. Except, even though it must have been, it was not now the color of fresh snow; it was more the color of half-melted snow that lay on the ground, full of dirt and twigs. A memory of a bygone thing, faded too far into unrecognizability.
Someone called her name. She had been gone from work too long, and, straightening fully, Ioreth closed her fingers around the petal.
***
Cirdil had heard hoofbeats many a time — in fact, he was usually the one on the horse — and the sound was familiar to him, near-comforting. Something about hearing horses clack against marble reminded him of home, both coming home and leaving home. He had much experience with both the latter and the former, had learned to contain his smile upon returning, somehow, and had learned how to put on a brave face when leaving.
Yet again was he leaving today, and yet he could not muster a resolute expression. How could he, when the very mission he was going on was doomed to fail? The other men, not to mention Captain Faramir, knew that; even the civilians standing around him knew that.
He'd never seen so many people come to see them off, never been handed flowers that he had to solemnly accept while his vision blurred. He was a man of Gondor — a soldier of Gondor, at that — and he was afraid.
A little flower floated down onto his arm, then another; so many people were holding flowers out to him and the rest of the men, and now those very flowers were raining down upon him. But — that was odd. Amid all the sunset pink and purple and blue, a different petal landed on Cirdil's arm. It was so small and brittle that he might have mistaken it for the wing of some insect, and yet there was something decidedly unusual about it; maybe it had once been white, but it was now so dried and shriveled that it couldn't have been from any of the bystanders watching. Perhaps it had floated down from one of the higher levels? Didn't the Houses of Healing use all manner of dried flowers and herbs? Yes, that must have been where it had come from.
The winding cobblestones turned towards the gate, usually so imposing, and yet today, it looked simply grim. The entire city lacked any of the life that it normally had — no happy children, no talking adults, no merchants hawking their wares. No harm had come to them, and yet desolation had already come.
The soldiers in the front ranks passed through the gate as it creaked open. Then the men in front of him, and finally, Cirdil himself. The hoofbeats sounded different on the outside of the city. More hollow.
He watched as they started to gain speed, as the gates started to close, and all the petals left him.
summary : The Feast of Starlight closes its crowded hands around you, and Legolas is nowhere to be seen. Yet you have lots of things to address, and a little too much elvish wine when he drags you away from the lavish party.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : mentions of blood, mentions of minor characters death, arranged marriage, graphic depiction of murder and lethal wounds, slight drunkenness, talks of dead parents, backstory and lore heavy, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
author’s note : it's been a month, dropping this bomb here, hope you like it :p things are getting serious
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
Cold and lingering like ghost-touch, the weight of your father’s hand and the distant ring of his voice days ago accompany you as you enter the ballroom. The Elvenking’s Halls are packed for the occasion, a sea of people lying before you. None pays you any attention for now, you hope it’ll stay that way. From the vault of the ceiling hang many lights hidden as decorations. Their steady glow warms up the atmosphere and magnify the flowing fabric of all the high-end apparels in the room.
The overall decorum is allowed to slip a little from its usual tightness, though it is still evident the gathering calls for high society. People laugh and chat merrily, their laughters can be heard at every corner of the room.
Upon taking your first step in the splendid Hall, you feel your heart squeeze. It is not the exuberant number of people which makes you nervous, it is the reason of their coming. It all makes you uneasy: the luxury of the decors, the lavishness of the buffet, the price of the wine. Such a feast must have costed a small fortune, but you know it is not one your father and king Thranduil are above spending for such an occasion.
Words about the Feast of Starlight have been spreading for as long as you can remember, both in elven and human realms. Those who cannot attend it like to dote and make assumptions on its greatness; those who have the chance to be counted as guests of the feast revel in generous descriptions of it to whoever cares to hear it.
This year, there is no doubt the descriptions will double in length.
Unfortunately, the decorations are no sweet enjoyment to you; on the contrary. They poke at your ribs uncomfortably. If today the care put in the Feast of Starlight is twice what it usually is to be, it is because it’s a very particular feast. One that requires your presence, one that will seal your fate.
In reality, you are already tethered right where everyone wants you by invisible bounds. The fabric of your dress at your collarbones scratches uncomfortably, you pull on it to ease the feeling. You hope it will not feel like bugs crawling on your skin or hundreds of all seeing eyes when they will announce the beauty you are sentenced with: young like you are, fair, golden haired. Immortal.
You gulp thickly. Back to the moment, you can’t drown right now. Your gaze skims over the assembly, a few guests have turned to you and send you warm smiles. You reply to them equally with practiced ease. Just like you rehearsed in front of the mirror. Your steps slowly take you across the room, into the crowd and eventually in front of your host. Slightly towering above the party on his pedestal, the king of the Woodland realm feels you coming his way before he sees it. When he appears in your line of sight, you notice he wears the finest robe you have ever seen: embroidered with gold patterns, so obviously above any of the guests’ attire.
You bow to him respectfully, then to your father who stands next to him. The traitor. Both of them. They look right, next to each other, two kings who betrayed their only child for lineage. A daughter’s life one parts with over politics; a son’s heart one compromises for greed. Some elves are greedy, it seems Thranduil may have started the tendency.
“Mesmerising, as always,“ the Elvenking compliments you without thinking too much about it. It is hard to tell if he even means it.
The smile you give him is pursed, he does not notice it. Already, his attention has departed from you. He searches something in the crowd behind you with a frown for a second, but settles for you again when he does not find it. You can easily guess what he was looking for. You have not seen Legolas anywhere.
“How do you like the Feast of Starlight, this year?“ Thranduil asks like you are a recurrent member of the party, but it is your first time participating.
“As much as I should, thank you.“
A polite answer, not a lie. You are enjoying this as mush as you should, which means not at all.
Thranduil sees right through your attitude. He does not mention it. The woodland king likes clever little things like you, he hopes you keep his son clever too.
A whirl of the crowd behind you catches the kings’ attention and cuts the discussion. On an upper loggia carved in the giant trunk of the tree that acts as the eastern wall of the room, an orchestra you had not noticed before begins to play. The music stops the Hall quiet for a short instant, before it rouses cheerful squeals from the people who order their scattering in rows and pairs for a dance.
In the rushed movement of it all, someone calls for the king’s attention and another presents you a plate full of wine glasses. You stare at the offer for a moment, watch your distorted reflection staring back at you in the red robe of the wine, before picking up a glass with a mouthed ‘thank you‘.
Around you, the room awakens as you step away from the royal throne and to a secluded border. One of the highest assembly in the world, elves of the finest kind, rouses in elegant dances and songs before you; yet you do not pay them the attention they deserve. To the human eye the sight would be heavenly, divine, almost too much to bear; to the trained, elvish one it is impressive and gleeful; to yours, however, it is nearly plain.
You have half a mind for festivities, and even if you keep on a princess’ facade, there is one fool you cannot play and it is you. The wine taunts you with affluxes of its scent: rich, supple, notes of vanilla and sweet spices you can pinpoint, the finish almost erotic when you taste it. Everyone around has a glass too, it is one of the only times in the year they are allowed to be careless.
You should not take this freedom for yourself too, but wine is too easy of a drink to abuse and the evening too stressful. It would not do you any harm if you took another glass. Once. Or twice. Or more than you ought to. You forget elvish wine hits harder than regular one, you forget it lets a funny feeling in your chest afterwards, like a flower blooming.
The lavishness of the party can do nothing against your irrepressible want to escape the boredom, to distract yourself to minimise the chance of any thought occurring. It works for a little while. Your mind swims a little in a haze every other guest shares, you feel more inclined to appreciate the joys of the feast. Alcohol is treacherous, and you are also more prone to emotions.
Your skin heats up as time goes on, your cheeks too though it is visible only to those who wish to scrutinise you.
Swiftly, the atmosphere changes and the noise mellows. The orchestra reverts to background music, people wander without rush, made slow and content by the liquor and food filling their belly. You notice the shift unlike everyone else; for them it is only the natural motion of the feast, to you it is the bell tolling.
Aimed at you like a spear slicing through the crowd is your father’s gaze catching yours. Your eyes advert as quickly as you can, your hands grow fidgety at the long sleeve of your dress. You step back, then aside when he still stares at you. Hurried, yet lacking their usual confidence, your steps take you right into the crowd where you can escape it.
You hide like a little girl in her mother’s closet. You hide like you did that same day with blood on your hands, and the violins of the orchestra grow louder.
Too loud.
Persistent. Like a warning, like a proof. You step away from the crowd and towards the nearest exit the moment your elbow hits a woman in the ribs and she grumbles, making you apologise profusely. When you finally reach it, you do not make motion to leave. Instead, you stay here, straight as ever, eyes wandering in the far, far away distance.
It’s like you want to know what will happen if you stay. If you whip yourself enough, will it make it more bearable? Can you tolerate to be stripped out of your life because someone decided your purpose was a prince? Immortal pain, immortal yet slain. If you bite, if you beg, if you howl, if you stab and strangle and hit–
A shoulder brushes yours, someone stops right next to you and it pulls you back to the glinting lights of the Hall.
When you pivot to turn to the trespassing presence, your head swims a little and it takes a second before you see clearly. In front of you, every gleam tangles in Legolas’s golden hair. They weave like jewels between his braids, emphasise the slope of his nose with curled shadows. Your fingers twitch at your side; his tunic matches yours.
Legolas needs a moment before he remembers to nod gracefully your way. You do not bow to each other anymore, a simple nod is enough: you know each other too well, share too intertwined of a fate for formalities.
You look at one another for longer than required, especially you. His own gaze lingers different than usual, more wandering. Less appropriate. It curls in the plush of your hips the dress marks, rakes up your belly until the plunging collar of your dress, studies the slope of your shoulders. The blue dress from the Farewell Feast was something, but now you are dressed in the colour of his realm and there is in Legolas an irrepressible urge to see you out of it. Because it is dangerous. He wishes you wouldn’t wear it so good.
A pale red dusts his cheeks, there is a glass of wine in each of his hands. He hands you one. Your fingers wrap around it too quickly to be casual, they brush his in the process and the feeling stays for a short while.
“You are the last person I wanted to see tonight,“ you try a snarky comment but it falls the wrong way, with more angst to its edge.
Legolas looks at you from where he stands, not with pity but with something far more devastating because it comes from him. He understands. You are both afflicted by the same grief, and it is so inconvenient that Legolas should be the one to understand your pain best. You have made it a point to keep him away from you or your good opinion for months now, yet for once this side of the story is not only yours.
You do not have the willpower to keep the face of your resentment on, it slips like your barriers under the spell of wine. It wouldn’t hurt if you let loose just this once, would it? It would not change the way of things, nor the dreaded passage of time. If anything, you think it would allow you less reserve to speak with Legolas truly, without filters of etiquette. He seems as tipsy as you: just a little bit, just enough to be true.
“And yet here we are.“
No, you really can’t hate him as much as usual when he takes all your mean remarks and never mentions them. He even smiles at you, the distinct upward twitch of his lips. Why are you looking at his lips?
“Join me?“ he points towards the exit behind you with his chin. “I don’t imagine you want to hear what they are about to say.“
You glance at the other end of the room where the kings stand, view partially obstructed by the head of people from the crowd, then at the exit behind you. Nobody looks at you, Legolas’s appearance did not shift everyone’s atmosphere, just yours. He came so furtively it is possible even his father does not know he is here, yet you doubt anything can go past Thranduil’s watchful eyes.
Legolas is right, you do not want to be here to hear people rejoice at the outcome of your destiny. One does not have to be very observant to know those things distress you: after all, you threw up after your first meeting with the prince when nothing had even been voice out loud yet. Of course, he does not know about this, but Legolas is far for a simpleton and he has seen the tension in your shoulders in each of these situations, how you lose yourself in a far away point in the void.
With a single movement of the head, you give him the answer he was hoping for.
“After you.“
His lips stretch without as much reserve when you accept his offer, and he steps beside you to lead the way towards the exit. On the way, you see him grab another cup full of wine; greedy, but tonight you have every right to be amongst sinners. You mirror the action, hoping salvation is a frayed mind. You know the thought foolish, but you are already imprudent following the despised prince down empty corridors.
In the back of your mind, the reminder that even your trusted ones like him awakens. You hope he won’t worsen the constant twist in your guts, that he stays as disagreeable as you think him to be.
The noises from the Hall become muffled enough not to be made out anymore just at the right time. You can swear you were beginning to hear Thranduil speak, and violins were no longer playing. You try not to imagine all that is being said right this moment, but it is hard to ignore it. It’s like you feel in your guts the moment it is said out loud, even though you cannot hear it.
You are now officially to be married with the prince.
You collar itches again, you pull on it and it’s like Legolas feels your anxiety. His steps suddenly stop at a turn, you take three more before remembering to stop too. He does not let you the time to question him. Instead, he gestures to his right to let you walk in before him. Under a partly hidden archway, a more luminous space expends, akin to a garden. You think you see a flowerbed thriving under a pool of clear starlight.
When you step in, Legolas’s hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades to guide you like the touch is natural. You do not mention it; the feeling is grounding despite your will. It coaxes you in until you are fully able to take in the place. Around you, all the riches of a luxuriant interior garden display. Ivy climbs to the stone walls, forget-me-nots pool on the green grass patches, the moonlight evens your traits.
You want to say something but all the words of every language feel wrong. Speaking of it would diminish the beauty of the place, without a doubt. It reminds you of the forest back home for the instant sense of relief it sets upon you. No longer do the stakes of the evening weight on your heart, you finally have a moment of peace. You crane your neck back to let your gaze wander above your head, where you expect to find a sky full of stars, but what you see exceeds everything the realm of your imagination could have thought about.
Right above you, falling in a canopy of the most beautiful kind, white wisterias hang. They rustle delicately with the low breeze, filter moonlight through sheer petals. The sight alone makes your heart swell, empties your head of remaining anger or stress. You see only the magnificent shrubs.
At your side, Legolas’s smile softens as your traits relax so visibly and your eyes go wide. He keeps for himself a chuckle when your jaw hangs slack, and turns his gaze to the sky. There is a newfound sense of pride in his chest upon seeing you so bewildered by something he showed you. You are not tense and on the edge like he has found you in the ballroom anymore, and he is the one who gets to see this side of you.
Legolas imagines the wine plays a part in this, and that your dominant loathing of him will soon return, but for the time being it is enough.
“It’s not much,“ he undermines, as if prefiguring you will find an excuse to hate this.
You do not.
“Wisterias…“ you whisper in a breath. Not for anyone in particular, but Legolas picks it up.
“Yes. You seemed rather fond of them.“
Your eyes meet for a moment, you try to decipher any trace of mockery in his tone but can find none. The elf-prince only looks true and ethereal, basket in the night. He looks unlike the boy you remember, less rough at the edges, more sweet on the tongue. Even his name has a different ring in your mind; one that does not induce hatred.
Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, Legolas.
Legolas in his fancy tunic that doesn’t even make him look phoney. Legolas with that small smile upon his face. Legolas through the crack of the curtain while you hid in his room. Legolas unkempt under you as you fought. Legolas blurry from a memory where he saves your life without ever asking for a favour in return.
Legolas that senses your anguish in a glance and takes you out of the Hall to the prettiest wisterias growing in his realm. Legolas that shares your torment and to whom you have been especially mean.
You lower your head to drink from your cup when he speaks again.
“My father never comes here, he avoids the garden.“
“How come?“
“It is too close to his heart, I suppose.“
You don’t understand what he means by that right away, until your gaze stops on a statue adorning the top of a small fountain. Ivy climbs to it, you make your way to the sculpture and push back the plants from its eyes like one would a stray lock of hair. As you stand in front of it, you have the underlying feeling of stepping in intimacy; like you are maybe not supposed to be the one observing the traits of a woman etched in stone and feel sorrow fill your heart.
Her features are fine, delicate like those of someone truly pure of heart. It’s like the passage of time does nothing to her. You imagine it was also the case in flesh and bones, because you begin to understand who she is. You recognise the cupid bow of her lips, the soft air about her.
Legolas joined your side quietly during your observation. He said nothing, but you know his eyes are fixated right where yours are. A weird feeling tugs at his chest, something he usually likes to avoid. The slight haze upon his mind makes it hard to do so, his heart opens to every emotion a little more.
The stone is cold and rough under your fingertips when you raise a gentle hand to trace the slopes of the woman’s face. They glide under your touch, you stare attentively as you try to ingrain them into your mind like they are worth remembering.
You wish you could remember his features as vividly before he died, not the grim, greenish complexion of his murdered skin. Maybe then he could visit you alive in your nightmares.
“My mother,“ Legolas introduces like it is not evident.
The prince has something of her very striking yet nameless. Something she grew in her belly just like him. Your forefinger falls from the tip of her nose.
“She was very pretty,“ you note.
“Yes, she was. It is a faithful rendition.“
“You look like her.“
“No, I don’t…“ his sentence trails, the rest comes after a sight. Legolas dislikes admitting it. “I look like my father,“ he says.
“Yes,“ you agree. “But she looks like she was a fair woman, and gentle.“
“She could be strict.“
The prince has a far away look in his eyes you have never seen before. It is a look you know far too well, and it pains you he should suffer it. Your eyes fall to his lips for a second, they glisten when he licks them wet.
“I was unfair to you,“ his eyes turn to you, not expecting it.
“So was I,“ is his only reply.
Short, hitting right where it is dangerous; coaxing compassion out of you. Compassion for the man whose sole existence binds you, is there a bigger joke on earth? Yet compassion nonetheless, and you do not push it away. How could you when he looks as equally lost as you? Tonight, you share something that goes beyond your instinctive resentment and all your mechanisms. Legolas allows you to see the cracks in his composure, a glimpse at what flesh strained by grief lies underneath.
You should too: let the naked truth replace hubris. As ugly as it is, as sickening.
Not just yet. The night has only begun.
“Come this way, we’re almost there.“
Just like that, Legolas steps away and you follow; closer than required, but the Halls would be a maze without him to guide you through them. He takes you up multiple flights of a spiral staircase, through a single gothic arched door, and your shoes clasp against the stone ground all the way. When you’re finally in front of an archway leading outside, the cool air wraps around your ankles again and seems to drag you where Legolas leads you.
Outside, it is more beautiful than in a dream awakened. The archway opens on a balcony, hanging right above the canopy so beneath you is a sea of white petals and above the night sky full of stars. For a moment, the view steals your breath and freezes you on the spot. Your eyes find the stars which shine brighter than usual, Legolas’s are already back on you, observing your reaction.
It warms something fuzzy in his chest when you cannot help a smile, illuminated by the cold light he likes most in the world. You step to lean against the railing, the soft wind ruffling in your hair all the beauty of the place. You don’t know what to say. Is there even something to say?
You believe there isn’t, and once you come down from your awe you let yourself turn to the prince and follow when he motions to sit down on the ground, shoulder against the wall to get more comfortable. Your dress pools around you a little, the stones feel cool against your legs. It anchors you when you look at the elf-prince, his hair going about with the wind. It’s strange seeing him in this light: untamed, made vulnerable by the alcohol. Already, you’ve learnt more in minutes with him now than you had in the past months.
You knew the look on his mother’s face, the traits he shared with her, the place he went for comfort. There’s a halo around his head made by the stars behind, and when you speak you do not think about what rolls off your tongue anymore.
“What was the quest of Erebor like?“ you forefinger runs along the rim of your cup, Legolas follows it attentively like it does something to him physically.
“Like running after dwarves: oddly hard to catch,“ you huff at this, almost a chuckle but not really.
“You were suspicious of me when they escaped.“
“I was.“
The silence does not have the time to settle, ruffling wisterias act as the only background noise. There is nothing bitter in the exchange, no blame you would cast on the prince or he on you.
“But you were the one hiding things.“
“We never really were in a partnership, you and I… You were the one advocating for their release only days before, you admit it was rather queer for them to break free like that all of a sudden.“
You nod. “Hm,“ Legolas is right. If it was him you wouldn’t have gave him the benefit of the doubt like he had given you. “And the battle?“
This time, Legolas thinks before speaking. You think you’ve already said something wrong when the words take their time to come out.
“Like death is supposed to feel. Wretched, a haze when you fight that never lifts off your eyes until it is too late.“
You know just the feeling. For once, the fact that he shares it with you makes you like him a little bit more. Or is it the look that he gives you, so deep and yet reassuring. Whatever you say, he will try to understand, and it’s the first time it happens to you. Your father never listened, never seeked to understand. He drew conclusions too hastily, just like you do.
“It was not lifted off my eyes yet when we met,“ he continues. You know what he means: his mother. “She... she died not two hundred years ago. Things have not been the same without her. The king– My father never talks of it. We never talked about mother, not before his whole folly about taking back the jewels. And I… saying I shrunk back would be a euphemism. But it is not the only reason I was deceitful with you. I had never been as ill-tempered as I was before coming to your realm. I believe you heard it time and again and understood it long before this, but the forest holds a malicious grip on us wood-elves. It does not excuse the way I acted, or my defensiveness, but I hope it can explain it enough.“
Your breath has slowed; you did not expect such a confession. It is not this you were looking to get out of him, far from it. But Legolas talked of the things that hurt naturally now, his glass long abandoned and empty on the floor beside him. He tells you what is inside his heart like you deserve to know. You can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the one one always has when talking of a long gone parent.
“The forest plagued my mind with anger, it would only rest when I walked through it. As if I was a part of it. But away from its magic, in your realm, there was such calm, something I had not felt in a really long time. I think, mostly, I was jealous of the serenity of your country. It allowed me to rest for a while, and it had been so long I had not rested. It scared me, irrationally. It felt so weird, all that peace around, like a con. I was unfair to you because I wished to avoid the possibility of finding solace away from my home; if you can find the heart to understand this.“
Unconsciously, you shifted on your spot, leaning in closer to better drink his words. In front of you, Legolas’s eyes seemed more alert to your every reaction, a small frown on his face. You knew all that, Gandalf had told you, but for him to tell you directly roused something else in your foggy brain. A confusion, because your heart should not flip inside your ribcage like that. Your eyes should not scan him so attentively that you could distinguish the grain of his skin, or the small cut on his upper lip.
Imperfect, for once. Unprincely with his hair disheveled and the very aware look in his eyes, like a deer who put himself in danger willingly and dares not move away from it. Legolas feels like he tests the limits of your calmness. How much can he say before you hate him, how many minutes before the atmosphere gets cold again? But you’re beginning to think maybe just like cold is only the absence of heat, hatred does not exist and is merely the absence of love.
Perhaps you did not hate him, but faced the impossibility to love him. To love him would have been against reason and everything you swore to protect. You search for something to say, maybe talk about your mother too, but it is not the same kind of grief. There is another thing. Something you tried to keep hidden but surfaced back with its own will like a monster because looking at Legolas sent alarms into your brain.
He was the face of your doom, always had been. Beautiful yet cursed to deceive you. Even right now, as he was pouring his heart out in hopes of gaining your good graces, he was bound to deceive you in the end.
“I was quick to resent you too,“ you say.
“You were quick to see what was going to happen to us. I think I was less perceptive.“
“I recognise patterns, that is all.“
“What do you mean?“
“I mean it is not the first time a wedding is forced upon me.“
The words fall heavy in the space between you. They extend it, Legolas leans back just enough for you to see. It almost makes you curl a bitter smile. Ah, the grieved widow archetype, he probably thinks. You wish it was this type of pain you suffered. Of course, Legolas does not know about it, the marriage’s echos were muffled by your family just after. To save you from disgrace and to avoid a conflict far greater than you. That’s why you can’t go about the world whenever you want anymore, there is always a risk that Arthedain still seeks for revenge. You could be followed, you could be ambushed, and so you had to be locked up in your ivory tower by the sea.
When your father had forced you to accept an engagement to the heir to Arthedain’s throne, you remember your world shattering like glass and slipping under your feet. You recall seeing your freedom torn away from you, and the underlying feeling that you were going to die in this marriage. It did not fail; but you died another way.
“You hope he died on the field, right? You hope I’m only a poor widow grieving, that would explain my behaviour towards you,“ you say, tone more aggressive than before.
Here it is, the hatred that comes back like second nature. Like a shadow following you around —and what an heavy shadow. But it keeps you going, this rage.
“I am not. I killed him for chaining me in silence.“
Quiet.
The aftermath of a bomb that dropped. Blurry, skin burning like you just slapped Legolas across the face. You murdered your late husband.
Perhaps the prince is a fool, downright deranged for not running away right this instant, but he does not. He stays here, sat next to you, and instead of backing away from the murderer before him, he leans in. Curiosity is a vice Legolas cannot escape when it comes to you. He feels no animosity towards you, no disgust. The elf-prince does not open his mouth to yell you’re mad, nor does he threaten you with the dagger he always has. He only does that weird, inconceivable thing: leaning in.
“I lay awake on our nuptial bad the first night. It had not been a full day we were husband and wife yet I felt… I felt myself drowning, suffocated. And it didn’t take more than a look at him for me to decide I was going to kill him.“
You want to scream, to yell at him to understand, to push you away, to burst into the ballroom and tell everyone you’re a monster. You want to limp behind him as he does so, to feel like your dress is soaked by blood again. You wish Legolas could know, could see the memory just like it plays in your mind: just like it happened. With you slipping the hunting knife you had stolen from under your pillow, crawling on top of your husband like you meant to swallow him. You remember the drag of your dress, hiking to your thighs as you straddled him, and the never ending wish that you would turn back.
Please don’t do that. Please go back to sleep. Close your eyes and pretend this never happened.
You could do that, you could sleep for the remainder of your life. You could turn into a quiet ghost, disappear because you were not needed.
Until his rough hands griped at your hips and you couldn’t anymore.
You felt he was going to be mean with it, whenever he asked for you. And your mind suddenly flooded with all that you could not take: being the queen everyone knows her husband cheats on with servant girls, watching people suffer and die because of his cruelty and not doing anything about it, observing life pass by in a black and white lens until it is too late. Letting go of Valinor. Never meeting your mother again.
It felt smooth like butter when the blade sunk in his chest, maybe a bit obstructed by the muscles and bones here. You only registered it had when you shoved it out of the cavity and held it up higher for another blow: harder, with more purpose to it. You felt your heart beat in your eardrums, and your breath turn ragged with every wound you created. One was not enough, neither was two, it had to be dozens until you could rest. The sound of flesh tearing beneath you in the dark would follow you every night from now on. It is a well deserved curse, for killing a man.
And so will the groans from the back of his throat. Monstrous, a breathy thing, bubbling with the blood he was coughing. It came from his parted lips, frothing with saliva, and in carmine bubbles from the stab wound perforating his lungs. The blood was hot, burning when it splattered on your face in small geysers each time you removed the blade. Then it stopped erupting when you stabbed again. And again, and again, and again, until what was left of him was his fingers twitching at his side, limp on the soaked mattress. You stabbed until your mind stopped racing and the anger in your chest loosened.
When it did and the world around you didn’t whirl anymore, you leaned forward, using your bloodied hand as leverage against his chest to reach for the oil lamp and open it. The skin beneath your palm squished, your hand made slippery by the amount of blood. When light filled the room, the sight was pure horror.
Face contorted underneath you, Arthedain’s heir laid dead in his own blood. The white linens of the bed where no longer pristine but reeked the atrocious odour of the fluid coating them: turning a rusty brown in the places where there was still not enough of it for the blood to stop being able to be sucked by the fabric. You tried a single glance at yourself, enough to mistake you for the corpse.
Your nightgown was equally soaked, and blood even clogged in your hair, on the tip of your eyelashes and in your brows. On your cheeks, it was still hot enough that you could feel it by the warmth, but soon it was going to dry and flake on the skin.
You climbed off of him, sat on the opposite edge of the bed and waited here until morning. When your father found you and you saw the look of sheer horror on his face despite his little girl looking dead inside in front of him, that’s when you understood you killed a man. And not any man.
A life for a life had never been so vivid of an imagery: it was him or you, one way or another.
“Is that what you’re planning with me?“
Legolas’s voice startles you, you forgot you were at the Starlight Feast and not back in that bloodbath. His tone is low, a genuine question judging by the way he looks at you. How is he not horrified? How can he ask so simple a question like you didn’t tell him you killed the last man who tried to marry you? It’s like he lets you be mean and show the ugliest side of yourself just so you won’t have anything else to scare him with in the end. And it’s you it scares. It’s frightening, actually, to have someone who knows your ugliest sides yet still decides they can work with them; accept the rot and cradle it until it smells sweet again.
Your lips purse in a thin line, you catch his gaze to see anything that would make sense in it.
“You’d kill me before my stroke fell. That’s why it frightens me so. I could never escape from our marriage once they trap me in it.“
The prince must be crazy, or terribly unaware, to not see what is utterly wrong with you. Your knees brush with how much he leant in, pulled by the vicious orbit of your crime. It’s uncanny and it is wrong how much more he want to know about you after this, but it is the emotions which his heart is submitted to.
It’s the wine. It probably is the wine, but the thing is Legolas starts to yearn for the part of you he does not know. Deep inside, he thinks of all that you have not said, of all the repressed emotions you have yet to let out and of how he could soothe them down if you let him.
“I never intended to trap you,“ he says. Alcohol made people delirious, it makes Legolas considerate.
“Not you,“ you sigh. “I didn’t see the situation you were in, I only saw you as an enemy.
“I am one to your liberty.“
“Yes. Yes you are.“
It hurts to say, but it is the truth. He doesn’t back down either way, just stays here in the silence with his knee grazing yours, his untamed golden hair and the light flush on his cheeks. You both take the other in in utter silence, as if to let the weight of your confession wash away. His eyes rake the hills of your figure without shame, uncaring of whether you see him or not. You do.
Legolas doesn’t mind. He is too preoccupied by the green mush of your dress, how it hugs your form just the way that makes him lose all bits of sense he has. It happened once at the Farewell Feast, it was worse last time when he stumbled upon you in the forest. The scene still plays in his mind, how could it not? You in that sheer white gown, soaked to the bone and looking at him with relief like you didn’t just tell him you were praying for him to be safe.
The prince doesn’t know if he ever felt so transfixed by someone in his whole life. Not in an improper way, no; he felt starstruck, blessed by all gods, but not hungry. The hunger would come next, when he laid down alone in his room and kept drifting to the indecent amount of skin he had seen. Showing through your gown, you weren’t even aware of the situation and yet Legolas felt mortified, like he would combust the next second if he kept on trying not to drift away from your eyes. He failed, of course he did, and guilt is not even the right word to describe how bad he felt the moment he glanced down at your chest. Your chest peaking under transparent fabric that came back to torture him every time he thought about you too much.
Lord, did he think about you.
Now the feeling is different, but it doesn’t make less of a mess of him. The Woodland prince feels his insides rearrange the longer he stares at you, because he knows what the fabric hides. He wants it bare, he wants it unabashed and his; he wants to take the time to learn every slope and hill, to map it with his eyes closed by the tip of his fingers only, to watch the flesh bounce if he presses his palm into it.
It’s bad. It’s the alcohol. You hate him, but wine knows nothing of hate, it understands only truth. And the truth is you are promised to one another so you cannot give this union reason and appreciate each other; even if both of you feel you would have, had the circumstances been different. Legolas feels it stronger than you, perhaps.
The heavy silence is broken by the prince, but as soon as he speaks you wish he could have kept the thought for himself.
“I like this dress on you.“
Is it just you or does his voice seem more syrupy?
For a second, your mind goes blank. You are left to blink at him in confusion, wondering if you heard wrong. When it is clear you have not, because he looks at you funny like he expects an answer, you manage one, beginning cracked as you swallow.
“Oh…,“ you clear your throat. “Uh… Yes, it was chosen most carefully.“
In front of you, Legolas holds back a chuckle. His lips curl only cause he cannot help it, and his eyes drift to the floor you are seated on. You follow his gaze, heart squeezing in an odd, foreign way. His hands reaches your way but your mind is too foggy to push it away, you can only watch it get dangerously close.
His fingertips find the soft flesh on the inside of your wrist, you stare at it dumbly as it trails on the tender skin. The touch is cold, sends small electric shocks up your arm and a warmth in your belly, similar to the wine’s. Delicately, he slips down to the base of your hand, flat against the ground to support your weight, and you look at him trace the bracelet that rests here. Thin, linking you to another kingdom. This is bad, Legolas is too perceptive for your own good.
The wind blows a gush harder than the others, and you snatch your hand away from him suddenly, breaking the magic. In an instant, you are up on your feet and panting like you just fought with the prince; your disheveled look reinforces that impression. Or the impression that you just made out, which could be true too given the tipsy heat of your cheeks matching his.
“I should go.“
“You can stay,“ he offers, though he is not motioning to stand.
“I’d prefer not to.“
It falls quietly and Legolas nods, yet you do not go. You stay here, eyes boring into his, the scent of wisterias taken to your nose by the breeze, and it bugs you you always hesitate with him; always turn back, always double think. It compromises everything you mean to do. Wine cannot even make you forget the inescapable end of this whole affair, neither can the lips of a good looking prince you so blatantly stare at, so why are you rethinking this?
Character(s): Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Gandalf, Ivriniel, Faramir
Rating: G
Word count: 8k
“Are you going to ask me to be your spokeswoman?” she asked.
Gandalf raised one bushy eyebrow. “Are you offering?”
“No,” said Finduilas. Gandalf saw something shift in her expression, faint ripples on the surface that could be the only mark of a much deeper shift in the depths. “That is Ivriniel’s sort of thing. I am the wife of the Steward, after all.”
Their wives are grown a lot more well-behaved, of late. A friend of his in Pelargir had told him that a few years ago over a bottle of wine. They got sick of scandal, I reckon. The last two wives have been docile and innocent as lambs. They go quietly. No fuss.
Yet Gandalf wondered if there was not a touch of resentment there. Directed at her husband, herself, the world in general, maybe at no one at all, and that was in a way worse.
“You are trying to look through me,” said Finduilas. Her voice was gentle, that tone adopted by Gondorian ladies of high rank. He thought he remembered talking to some scholar who noted that a gentle voice was the mark of a woman of good stock. The look on his face when Gandalf remarked that Gondorian courtesans must be of exceptional breeding in that case was well worth having to contend with the prurient rumours about himself later.
“And I am finding it rather difficult,” said Gandalf. “Your walls are steep and your watchtowers most secure, my lady.”
The Alacritous Defenestration of Sense (Otherwise Known As Dwalin’s Ring Solution)
(41144 words) by Cupcake_Princess
Chapters: 6/?
Fandom: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Jackson Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dwalin/Nori (Tolkien), Gimli/Legolas Greenleaf, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli/Ori (Tolkien), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Characters: Dwalin (Tolkien), Nori (Tolkien), Gimli (Tolkien), Legolas Greenleaf, Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins, Ori (Tolkien), Fíli (Tolkien), Kíli (Tolkien), Glorfindel (Tolkien), Galadriel (Tolkien), Gandalf (Tolkien), Balin (Tolkien), Thranduil (Tolkien), Sauron (Tolkien), Smaug (Tolkien), Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Thorin Oakenshield's Company Members
Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Quest of Erebor (Tolkien), Quest of the Ring (Tolkien), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst and Romance, did I mention the angst?, Nori is a Little Shit (Tolkien), Dwalin is So Done (Tolkien), BAMF Dwalin (Tolkien), POV Multiple, Minor Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Fucking with the Valar, Unreliable Narrator, The Author Regrets Nothing, Jealousy, For a while at least, Survivor Guilt, Bilbo Baggins & Dwalin Friendship, Dwalin Needs Therapy, Emotionally Constipated Thorin Oakenshield, Miscommunication, Thorin Oakenshield is Shortsighted, Thorin Oakenshield is a Disaster, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Dwalin needs a Hug, Kíli Ships It (Tolkien), Slow Burn
Summary:
On the morning of the twenty-sixth of February in the year ninety-one of the Fourth Age, Dwalin, Son of Fundin, died.
On the evening of the twenty sixth of April in the year two thousand nine hundred and forty-one of the Third Age, it became quickly apparent that death was only a minor inconvenience.
Dwalin has another plan this time around. One that involves returning a certain piece of evil jewellery directly to sender before Sauron gains a foothold on Middle Earth. Maybe it’ll save a few people he cares about. Maybe he’ll get a little longer with his husband.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one doing this a second time over.
Split POV, plenty of Nwalin, Gigolas and Bagginshield.
"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."
-- The Hobbit
Thanks once again to the lovely @valandhirwriter for all her help!
And with that certain pair of Hobbits, I present you with Longbottom Leaf by @captbexx! It's such a fun piece, and really captures the two of them so well!
(Also, I found this piece of Merry and Pippin with Faramir and Éowyn, which is just SO PERFECT for how this chapter ended, but I can't find the artist!!! If anyone knows please let me know so I can credit them properly!!!)
Faramir and Éowyn are just so cute together, I seriously love writing them so much!
(Also I'm posting it like this pecause tumblr is being stupid and I spent 15 minutes trying to get it to accept the chapter link as an actual link before giving up)
CHARACTERS : Éomer / Lothíriel
RATING : G┃ WORD COUNT : 850
SUMMARY : Éomer does not like heights, and Lothíriel tests his courage. (Lothíriel is a Swan Knight AU).
For @gondorweek Day 5: Dol Amroth, Cultural Differences, "the great stone city, vaster and more splendid than anything he had dreamed of"
Read on AO3
PREVIEW :
He glimpsed what lay below – people like ants, alleys like pieces of string, steeples like pikes ready to pierce him. His stomach twisted as he grasped the mossy stones. He tried to stagger back but his legs turned to jelly.
I've got a few fics up and hoping to write more! So far I've got works for Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillian, and the Guardians of Childhood/Rise of the Guardians.
I will likely write for more in the future, but I would love to have some people come on over and check me out!
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
discoholicmusic
gracieabrams
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
origamiaround
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
