You have to understand. I watched the movies maybe once as a kid when they came out twenty years ago. I've somehow avoided learning like anything about these books my entire life. Literally everything about these books was a complete unknown and surprise to me. Totally blank slate going on. I barely even knew how it ended.
Frodo didn't complete his task. Sam literally carried him up Mount Doom. And when he got to the end, he couldn't throw the Ring away.
But for Gollum biting it off with his finger, it wouldn't have been destroyed.
So Frodo's journey saved the world nonetheless.
And it broke him.
It was too much for him to bear. He could no longer live in the Shire or live in Middle-Earth. He wasn't of the world anymore. He had to go to the Undying Lands.
He took on the task that no one else would. He saved the world. Everyone got a happy ending. Aragorn became King, Sam rebuilt the Shire, Merry and Pippin became heroes. They all lived in renown.
But Frodo had the hardest task of all. No one else would do it. A simple hobbit who came by the Ring by chance. Not a King, not an immortal. Not a wizard. No power save his will and his friends. And he did it and saved everyone.
And he never got to rest. He never got to remain in peace. The task destroyed him. It was too much.
But there was no other way. Nobody but a simple hobbit could bear the ring all the way to Mount Doom and resist its power so long. Not a man, not an elf, not a wizard; they would have succumbed. Gandalf knew this, which was why he chose the hobbits in all his designs.
It's amazing that one of the precedent setting works in the fantasy genre holds up so well because it subverts what ultimately became the genre's core tropes. The hero was not the King, or a chosen one. In fact, the hero not being the King was a key point that allowed Aragorn to distract Sauron and allow the task in the first place. The hero was someone unassuming but courageous, who did the thing because no one else would, even though it was just by chance he came upon it.
But Frodo couldn't resist the Ring completely. He wasn't superior to anyone else in that way. And in the end it left him broken. The burden crushed him. No one else could do it, and in the end, he couldn't either. He wasn't so special that he was invulnerable.
It's been a week and I'm still not over this, I'll never get over this.
Something that I've been thinking about, as I struggle with depression and anxiety and *another vague gesture at everything* is that LOTR does not criticize Frodo for being broken. It does not shame him or deny him what he needs.
The task was too much and it broke him and that's okay. His friends nonetheless take care of him and let him go with understanding. The book doesn't treat it as a bad thing.
This seems to be a theme throughout the books. The characters rest and heal. They spend time recovering in Rivendell, Fangorn, Lorien, Ithilien. It's treated as good and necessary. They don't heroically endure endless torment from the second they set out until they're done.
And in Gondor's march from Minas Tirith to Mordor, Aragorn recognizes that some of the very few men he's taking with him don't have the heart to go to battle against the Enemy. And he says that's okay. He gives them other tasks the they can do. They hold other strategic points. They aren't shamed for not going all the way, or kicked out, or told that they aren't manly or whatever. Their limitations are recognized and respected. The task was too big and it was okay that they couldn't do it.
I don't know man. I've held on through some absolutely crazy shit. White knuckled through mental health crises when my doctors were begging me to take a break, to go to the hospital before I hurt myself. My therapist has tried to slow me down and tell me that I've been going through it and it's understandable that I am feeling some kind of way. Even one of my colleagues remarked that I've had an absolutely fucking wild career and that I've seen more as a lawyer of seven years than she has as a lawyer of forty. But I've gotten it into my head that I have to be strong, I have to be independent.
Fuck me, man, I'm currently white knuckling through life and hanging on by a fucking thread. A few weeks ago I was about an hour away from checking myself in to a mental health facility until my best friends swooped in to help me. And then I went right back to work.
And then I read this book. This fucking brilliant and beautiful book written by a man who had seen the horrors of war and spilled it all over the page. And I read it for the first time as an adult with full understanding and experience of what it all means. And it hits me like a fucking truck.
And it says that you can't endure everything. That at some point you need to rest and heal. That if you take on too much you will break. And that all of that is okay.
How am I supposed to move on with my life after reading this?
Certainly there are many messages within Lord of the Rings, but you have to think that Tolkien would have been happy that this message in particular was still being conveyed all these years later.
Frodo turning up at Imladris half-dead and fully-traumatised after having spent several years worrying about his elderly uncle’s wellbeing and whereabouts, only to find Bilbo Baggins snoring away in the middle of an elf club night, writing poetry about Elrond’s fucking dad and pretty much forcing Elrond’s kinsmen to rate said poems out of ten:
Pairing: Legolas, Thorin, Fili, and Kili (x reader)
A/N: I YEARNNNN
--
Legolas
There isn't much that scares Legolas in waking hours, so his nightmares are not terrifying in the sense that he might be chased by Mirkwood spiders or consumed by the Balrog. Instead, his mind grapples more intricately with the concept of loss, especially of his loved ones and you.
His nightmares rarely manifest physically while he sleeps. If anything, his fingers might twitch and his brow might furrow slightly. It's hard to tell when he's actually dreaming because he lies so still.
He also won't wake abruptly or shoot up from bed gasping for air. His eyes will instead slowly flutter open as he lays paralyzed, heart racing, unsure of where he is or what's real. That anxiety will take hold in his chest and his stomach and it takes a few minutes of blinking in the dark and becoming aware of his senses for him to realize it wasn't real, that you're still here, that everything's okay.
His hands will slowly slide across the sheets to your side of the bed, seeking your sleeping form to make sure you're still there. When he feels the curve of your body, still breathing softly and rhythmically, alive, he releases a breath of relief, trying to calm his racing heart.
You might stir only a little when he gently presses himself up against your back, sliding an arm around your waist to hold you, and you might feel the thumping of his agitated heart against your spine. Not completely aware that he had a nightmare, you'll just pull his arm tighter around you and scoot back into him more before exhaling deeply and going back to sleep -- but that's enough for him to feel better.
But usually, his nightmares go unnoticed and he never speaks of them. He doesn't need your comfort (although you've reassured him many times that he can wake you if he has a bad dream), all he needs is to know that you're alive and safe and within his reach.
He'll fall back asleep with his nose buried in your hair, the familiar smell of your scalp and hair products soothing his nerves.
Thorin
His nightmares are violent and terrifying. They're often of horrific battle scenes where he feels helpless and terrified -- often reflecting how he felt when he was younger and Smaug took Erebor. In his dreams he relives the pain of loss, except sometimes instead of his grandfather being killed, it's you. This particular one recurs sporadically, and every time it involves your brutal death followed by his own, all at the hands of Azog.
In his dream he'll hear himself scream or cry out, not realizing that in real life it comes out as low groans or whines. This is what usually wakes you up.
You'll sit up in bed to see him writhing slightly in his sleep, his features showing a pained expression while little sounds escape his lips. His chest will heave with strangled breaths as you lean over him, gentle shaking his shoulders, touching his face, trying to get him to wake up. You'll say his name over and over again until finally, tearful blue eyes open to meet yours in the dark, and his hands close in tight fists around your arms like an anchor in reality.
You whisper reassurances to him as he comes out of it, watching as his eyes flit around the room and blink in the dark, trying to process that it was just a dream. Slowly, he'll release his iron grip on your arms, apologizing if he hurt you. Then you'll notice the tears that slip from the corners of his eyes, and the way his voice breaks when he speaks.
His nightmares affect him deeply, and you attribute it to how mentally strong and stoic he's forced to be in his daily life as King. So when he cries, you just melt into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you bury your head against his. Hushing the gasps and whimpers, running your fingers through his raven hair, thumbs soothing the lines left by hot tears.
You turn onto your back and pull him to lie on your chest, where he lays a heavy hand on your belly and any remaining tears melt against your collarbone.
It's hard for him to get sleep after this, but you're happy to stay up and talk with him for a while until you eventually drift off to sleep again. He promises you that he eventually does too, but when you wake in the morning he's usually gone. You're pretty sure he doesn't often go back to sleep at all and just decides to get an early start to clear his head.
Fili
He has nightmares of making mistakes so fatal that he loses everyone and himself. Whether it's a wrong move in battle, or a wrong decision as future King, he's terrified of having blood on his hands or being turned against by his people and his family.
He doesn't explicitly tell you what the dreams entail, but he wakes with a start, heart beating fast as he grapples with the guilt he felt in his dream.
He'll quietly slip out of bed so as not to wake you and sit by the fire to try and calm himself down, hands buried in his undone hair as he tries to breathe slowly.
The lack of warmth from his side of the bed wakes you, and soon he'll feel soft warm hands slide over his bare shoulders as you hug him from behind, then move around him to sit in his lap.
When you ask him to tell you what happened, he does, explaining the amount of fear and pressure he feels to never fail, to always act a certain way, to never falter in his duty. And the fear of making a mistake so fatal that he causes the loss of everything he loves. And he explains how terrified he is of you leaving him if he did make such a mistake. You hold his face in your hands and promise him that you would never leave him, reminding him by he's surrounding by loyal family that wouldn't ever abandon him for not being perfect.
You stay bundled up in his arms for a while, quietly watching the fire with him as his heartbeat slows down. Eventually you both doze off, not making it back to the bed before dawn, but you're too comfortable on the couch by the fire to move again.
Kili
Kili often has nightmares about his injury from the orc arrow. He relives the pain and fear of dying in his dream, and sometimes he even watches himself die and leave behind everyone he loves.
You'll know he's having a nightmare because he attaches himself to your body, squeezing you so hard you're afraid you might pop. His iron grip is unrelenting as little whines echo in his throat, muscles twitching as the nightmare worsens.
It's hard to do anything to help him in these situations, being that you can't move. So you resort to moving your free hand to his forearm, gently stroking his warm skin as you whisper soothing words in Khuzdul to him, trying to help him through the nightmare while he's still asleep. Tracing your fingers up his bicep, his shoulder. Eventually, your soft ministrations seem to work and he stops breathing quite so heavily, and you feel his tensed muscles relax against your back.
He doesn't quite release you from his hold, but if it makes him feel safe to take you hostage for a night, you're okay with it. Besides, it's not the worst thing ever to be held tightly in his warm embrace all night long.
He rarely wakes up from his nightmares, but if he does, it's hard for him to get a good night's sleep afterwards.
The pain of the dream is often too much to bear, and he'll crumble weakly in your arms if it was bad enough to wake him, quiet sobs escaping his lips as he trembles.
You hold him for as long as he needs when this happens, stroking your fingers down his spine, massaging his shoulders, running your fingers through his hair, just anything to help him calm down. But most of the time he just needs to cry it out, so you let him, reassuring him that you're here, and you won't let him go.
Prompt: They pull you into an alley to steal a kiss.
It was the night in which you celebrated the light of the moon, the feast of Starlight being in full swing; everybody enjoying all the food and wine, dancing to the music that never seemed to stop playing. A smile graced your face for every single moment of it; you did not think you could get any happier than you already seemed to be with the ambience your fellow wood-elves seemed to bring.
Your guard was down, so you let out a yelp as a hand grabbed your arm and pulled you into a quiet hallway when you made your way through. "I have been trying to get a moment alone with you all night," You looked up, finding Legolas to be holding you.
Your hand came down to smack his shoulder. "Do not scare me like that," You scolded him, pouting slightly, before a smile made its way onto your lips as Legolas pressed his to yours. You cupped his face with your hand as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.
When you pulled apart, he connected his forehead to yours and looked down into your eyes. "I just needed to do that."
──── 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 ˊˎ -
⊹₊ masterlist / rules
꒰ pairing: Legolas x Reader ꒱
꒰ word count: 1k ꒱
꒰ c.w: mentions of death ꒱
ᯓ✩ 𝒑.𝒔: i started writing the reader mourning and then remembered that elves don't actually die lmao so i had to go back and edit it. For my top supporter @teddynoir last month!
Legolas finds you in the ruins after the battle. You’re curled up in a corner, out of sight, sobbing and smudging the tears from your cheeks with your fingers. All around, elves, humans and dwarves alike are tending to the wounded and dead but you’ve escaped from the blur of it all to steal a few moments for yourself.
Legolas doesn’t need to ask what’s upsetting you to know what’s caused your tears. Elves are immortal beings, their long lives filled with years upon years of familiarity that could eclipse a mortal’s lifespan in the blink of an eye. You’re used to routine, to continuity within your company. But now, in just a matter of hours, so many familiar faces lay lifeless around you, their endings far too abrupt. Death is almost a foreign concept to the immortals of Mirkwood.
“Hey…” Legolas approaches you, his voice soft as he crouches down by your side and ever so gently places his hand on your shoulder, “It’s okay, it’s over now.” He reassures you. It might not bring the dead back, but it can at least remind you that there will be no more battling today, no more lives lost with the flash of a blade or the swing of a club right before your glassy eyes.
“I know that, I just-” You draw in a ragged breath, trying to calm yourself now that you’re in the presence of your friend and Prince. “It’s… centuries of friendship and now they’re… gone. Just like that. And I know their fëa is sent to Valinor, but… everything they’ve built here is gone and they won’t be coming back. I won’t see them again until I-” You cut yourself off, not even finishing the thought out loud and instead closing your eyes against the possibility of it.
“That day may come-” He begins, his voice gentle and reassuring to steady you, “-but it will not be anytime soon. You have plenty of years left here in Middle Earth.”
“Plenty of years stuck with you?” You turn your glassy eyes up towards him with a sniffle, trying to lift your own spirits with humour. He laughs at your joke but then his line of sight falls to the ground and he draws in a deep breath.
“Actually… I’m leaving.” He sees how your chin lifts suddenly, your expression both surprised and worried.
“Not- not back to Valinor, just… outside of the kingdom.” He begins. He sets his bow down and perches atop a crumbling stump of a wall’s remains. “I need to go out, to see more of the world, what’s happening. Our forest is sick but it cannot be the only place that dark forces are targeting. I fear this is the beginning of something much greater.” He sighs, going silent for a few moments as he bites the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t meant to break this news now, not while you were already upset. But he couldn’t lie to you either.
“Oh…” Is all you can say as you think of returning home after so much loss, your best friend not even by your side.
“Perhaps… it could be good for you to join me?” He suggests tentatively.
“Join you?”
“I mean… we’ve all lost a lot today. You- the change this has brought about clearly unsettles you, returning home without so many lost loved ones. Perhaps you should just take the dive and embrace it.”
You become pensive and he watches as you bite your lip, contemplating his offer. Maybe it could be good for you?
“Maybe.” You murmur, “I just don’t know if I could do it…” Fresh tears bud in your eyes again at the heavy feelings weighing on your chest, just at the mere thought that so many of your dear friends are now laying lifeless across the battlefield, that you won’t see them for millennia perhaps, not until you return to the west.
“Hey…” He speaks softly and leans in to wrap his arms around you in a comforting embrace. He feels how you tremble, how you bury your face in his neck, your tears wetting his skin. His palm splays across your back to gently rub soothing circles against you while his other hand cradles the back of your head, keeping you wrapped up in his arms. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Breathe.” His fingertips rub at your scalp, threading through the strands of your hair. He squeezes you a little, pressing you flush to his chest.
“You don’t have to make up your mind right now. I just wanted you to know that you’ve got options, that I’d love to have you by my side when we go.” He speaks as though you’re made of glass and the slightest sound could shatter the fragility of your emotional being. You nod your understanding that he’s not trying to rush you or pressure you into making a decision right away. Instead, you’re content to simply take this moment of calm after going through the hurried horrors of battle, to steal a moment away from trying to recover bodies and treat the wounded so that you can simply be cocooned in the embrace of your dear friend.
The steady thump of his heart and pace of his breathing brings you ease, the world around you seeming to slow down and fall away if only for a little while as you steal this moment for yourselves.
“I’ll think about it.” You reply ever so quietly, Legolas lets out a hum of acknowledgement, glad that you’ll consider joining him.
“Good… there’s so much more out there to do than return to a home that’s emptier than when you left.” He murmurs. You finally slip out of his embrace with a sniffle, dashing away your remaining tears. To better blister your composure, you draw in a deep breath, really filling your lungs to remind yourself that the worst of it all is over now at the very least.
“Many may have been lost but there are still those who cling to life. We should go help them.” He nods his agreement and stands up, offering his hand to you.
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The Fellowship tumble out of the Great Eastern Gate on to a grassy sunlit hillside. Sam, Merry, and Pippin fall slowly to the ground, sobbing. // Frodo slowly turns, a look of numb shock on his devastated face. The Fellowship marches on.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING
dir. Peter Jackson | 2001
During their quiet vacation at Bag End, Bilbo realizes just how fascinated he is with Thorin's ears, and his piercings.
@acorn-and-oakleaves prompt: "The worst part is you didn't even notice."
TW: minor descriptions of, yk, piercing. But nothing crazy!
"Enjoy the bath?" Bilbo peered up from his book.
"I did. Though I could have done with less flower petals." Admitted Thorin as he walked along the end of the bed, running a comb through his damp hair. The petals were hardly the worst part, not after the bubbly wash that had him smelling of colorful florals he couldn't even name. He preferred it much more on Bilbo than himself.
"Oh, come now, it's good for you."
Thorin raised a brow to the hobbit. "How so?"
Bilbo's lips turned downward as he searched for his answer, now truly wondering why exactly he had those petals in the first place. "It just... is. And use a towel for goodness sake, your dripping all over the carpet!" He waggled the book in his hand to emphasize the severity of a soggy carpet.
Thorin had done so and slipped on his clothes for the night, wrapping his hair back in a low ponytail and making his way into bed. He sat shoulder to shoulder beside Bilbo, peering over to catch a glimpse of what he'd been so keenly reading for hours. The hobbit waved a hand at him to cease his snooping. "You've had your nose in that book all day."
"I've been reading up on crochet techniques, it's very handy when---" When Bilbo had looked up again from his pages, he'd just about dropped the book entirely at the sight he was met with. Thorin stared back at him in his usual radiance, though what caught Bilbo's eye were the small silver rings lining his ears. His ears. Bilbo hardly recalled spotting them on their journey, nor did he have the time to more often than not. Not to mention they were skillfully hidden behind his hair---which had been another thing in its own, as he rarely saw the dwarf styled differently. Yet upon seeing, he was absolutely taken by them. They were larger compared to hobbit's, more rounded and blunt and irresistibly endearing.
"Is something the matter?" Thorin asked, showing a face of natural concern as his partner blankly eyed him. He began to wonder if questioning that book of his offended him greatly somehow.
"Hm? Ah, no, no. It's only... your ears." He croaked, though it didn't seem to help Thorin understand what he was on about.
"What of them?"
"Well I... I've never seen them. At least not up close. And the---those rings? Can't say I've come across those either."
"Do those in the Shire not share the practice of bearing them?" Thorin didn't sound all too surprised, in fact---he was fairly amused by Bilbo's wide-eyed intrigue.
"Oh, no, certainly not." Bilbo shook his head, laughing at the mere image of his high-strung kin donning anything of the sort. "You'd never catch a hobbit wearing something like those. The thought alone would scare most to near death, I'd say."
"You are not like most hobbits."
"Suppose I'm not. May I... have a closer look at them? If that would be appropriate, of course." He quired, then feeling a sudden rush of giddiness strike him when Thorin nodded for him to continue. He snapped his book shut, placing it to the bedside table and inching himself closer to the other. He first laid a gentle finger over the cascading set of rings, which had felt like any he had touched before. Though some of them felt slightly bumpy, or jagged like a stone; upon further inspection, he spotted small and intricate gemstones settled inside.
"Do they hurt? Once you put them in, that is." He asked, turning his head to get a better look of the hollowed out spaces in his ear that allowed the silver hoops to lay. A quick chill ran down his back, surely knowing it must have been a painful ordeal.
"The first few, yes. I settled with the discomfort." Thorin explained. "They can be rather irksome to tend to, though you must to keep them from infection."
"Infection?" Bilbo teetered away, as if something contagious had been sprinkled in the air.
"Fíli and Kíli wish to have their own. I'm certain they would lose a whole ear each."
"They may have already. Now, wait a moment---when did you get these?"
Thorin cracked a telling smile. "Not long after I recovered."
"When you---" Bilbo's mouth dropped. "But that was months ago! Surely I... how--?"
"The worst part is you didn't even notice." Thorin teased, receiving a light smack to the shoulder. He caught Bilbo's hand as it fell back to his lap, his fingers mingling with the hobbits. "If I had known you would be so interested, I would have shown you them sooner."
"I blame this hair of yours," Bilbo took his free hand to tuck a few wayward strands of the dwarf's locks back behind his ear. As his fingers skimmed over, he softly brushed the top of the ear and the blank set of skin. "What of the other?"
"Not as many." Thorin turned his head to the side, where he only had a pair of two rings near the bottom. Bilbo simply frowned; even more he had failed to notice!
"Right, any more I should know of?"
"I'm afraid you will have to find out on your own."
"You are exhausting." Bilbo reached for the night table, being stopped soon enough by a hold of larger arms over his waist and under the open space between his back and the pillows---seizing him in a lazy embrace he welcomed the sudden warmth of.
"Must I compete for your attention against a book?" Thorin murmured as he leaned his head to the crook of his neck, leaving a small kiss there along with one to the hobbits bare ear.
"A book doesn't tease me nearly as often."
Thorin hummed a sound of acknowledgement, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the weight of Bilbo's head rest along his. It was then the question struck him, now elated with curiosity as the other had prior. "Would you consider having one of your own?"
"Have one of what?"
"The earrings."
Bilbo laughed. "I don't believe I'd look as flattering with one. Let's say, if all my goods from here make it to Erebor without a scratch, I'll get myself one!" Like that would ever happen, of course. How silly. He thought.
------
Erebor
"Ah, is the needle supposed to be that large?"
"Ey, this is the small!"
"The---oh my days," Bilbo swallowed hard, blowing out some air as he kept his eyes to the floor. Absolutely any single sight but that horrendous pointy stick.
"You do not have to do this," Thorin placed a hand to his shoulder, brows furrowing with visible concern. "In fact, I would have advised against it if I had known it would cause you distress."
"No, no! I will not back out now. I said I would do this, and I am a hobbit of my word." He proclaimed. "At least for the next few minutes."
"Bilbo..."
"I know what I'm getting myself into, Thorin. I'll be fine."
"Well, let's get to it then, shall we?" Said the dwarf in charge of the process. "I want ye' to take a deep breath in, then slowly out as the needle gets through, ye' see?"
"Yes, yes."
"I'll count to five. One---"
"No, no counting if you'll---"
"Anddd five!"
And that had been the day Bilbo Baggins, the first hobbit to date---had himself an earring, as they called it. Next thing he knew, he'd be wearing himself a tattoo to match. He was certain Thorin didn't have any of those to note, thankfully.
Retelling The Hobbit Chapter 16: The Song of the Lonely Mountain
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*crumbles into dust after finishing this* Thank you for reading! This The Hobbit webcomic adaptation thing takes a lot of effort to put together and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate every comment. I also really appreciate the people who’ve spread the word of this comic to their friends! <3
And finally, we’re at the Song of the Lonely Mountain!
Within Tolkien’s canon, The Hobbit is an in-universe book that was “written” by Bilbo Baggins, who occasionally lies/embellishes/exaggerates things. The tonal differences between The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings are explained by Bilbo and Frodo/Sam being different kinds of storytellers, with different relationships to “the truth.” This idea is the core of how I’m adapting the novel! Bilbo is an unreliable narrator who is literally ‘drawing’ from his own limited experiences; the different art styles reflect the different perspectives of other characters. The “dwarf art style” in this chapter is inspired by stonework/metalwork in general— but especially by a mix of art deco, Celtic art, and European folk art.
The central tension of the comic is between Bilbo and Thorin, who each have wildly different ideas about what kind of story they’re in. Thorin is in a grand fantasy epic, while Bilbo is in a lighthearted children’s book adventure. The tragedy is, obviously, that only one side of the story ever gets to be fully told.
On a sillier note, a few years ago I had my first gay crush on a lesbian who sang while playing the piano. This chapter is dedicated to the piano lesbian. I hope they’re doing well, wherever they are. XD
I think I might need a bit of a break but I’m hoping for the next chapter, titled “Dawn,” to arrive on January 13th. And your comments/support really do help motivate me to get more done! ^_^
a belated and messy little Turgon (he has a little mole on his lip and nobody can take it from me) for @nolofinweanweek — and a short excerpt from my upcoming Nirnaeth fic featuring Turgon on a rooftop alone, practicing in his head my favourite brand of speech, ie a eulogy + coronation address + intrusive thoughts. Keep an eye out for the fic soon to see what he ends up actually saying 😇
I never expected the dead to be so punctual in their visitations. But my brother Fingon returns to me every night, in the plural now, accompanied by a multitude whose names I cannot pronounce. They speak in old languages and strange dialects and dead tongues in turn, refusing in their way to be legible to those of us fated to live on. Fingon’s voice is now somewhere in that polyphony. It is no longer distinguishable, no longer mine to separate from this collective he has been joined to in death.
If I had even the slightest hope, I would reach past this land and towards the sea, searching for some old version of my Fingon, who exists outside the tragic tale l of the Noldor in exile, who can be mourned in isolation from all our other ghosts and all whom we helped make into ghosts. But my brother no longer exists in isolation. Death may have been his reward for a life well lived, but not his alone. Dirges must be orchestral or silent in war: there is no in-between. Perhaps we should indeed be silent. The other ghosts alongside him in the collective will remember not what we claimed we were doing or wanted to do but what we actually did after all, for dirges for the dead are the domain of the living.
But Fingon, how can I face my daughter now?
How can I tell my Idril, who will stand before me in but a few days time, of this new component to the concentration of ghosts already in her blood? That the rain which falls on her will now always sound like the rain on the night of the Nirnaeth, that she has inherited now not only her uncle’s absence but the whole shrouded procession of the anonymous unmourned who trail behind him? How can I convince her once more that despite all this—the dreams thick with dying and the spectral fingers reaching for her in the ice-edged dark—there might yet still be something wondrous in Beleriand that refuses to die even as we all try our best to kill it? This terrifying capacity to hope-without-sense, to look in the mirror and find a mirage, like as it is to a flooding well in a desert storm.
But is it truly hope? Where is the line between hope and ambition? Who is allowed ambition, and who must be content with hope? Might ambition cloaked in hope redeem High King Fingon even after the exile? Yes, I think so, though that isn’t saying very much. A man remains redeemable only insofar as the violence he hasn’t yet committed is vaster than the violence he’s perfected. We are but immortal after all, both slain and unslain, and so there are no bounds to the bloodshed we may yet wreak. And so, the most redeemable of the kindreds.
So here, then, is what remains: this small and futile hope-clad-ambition of Turgon of Gondolin, High King of the Noldor. That eventually, the rain will stop and the ground will dry. That my Idril, and her children after her, will not drown in an inheritance of unnumbered tears never theirs to shed. That even as the ground grows hotter and more unforgiving beneath our accursed race of stubborn stargazers, my brother's face as he hears my trumpeting host, thundering bright with feckless hope, will linger in that threshold between what we are and what we were meant to be and what we failed to become, holding the right door open for someone else to walk through one day.
Were I not a king.
Were I not a king, and the wounds to my heart not the wounds of a people, I might have the ability to understand my brother's death in a country we had no true place to die in, in a war that should have ended centuries ago. I would say it plainly and it would be enough. I would say something like, we must turn back, or we never should have come, or we were not born into exile and we do not have to die there. Something desperate and inadequate and embarrassingly earnest, because I am the High King’s little brother and I embarrassed him from the moment I was old enough to cling to his tunic and waddle around behind him, squawking for his attention. For him to look to me, yes, his face thundering bright with feckless hope, like he had on the morning all those years ago. When he told me what our father truly died for and the symbol he would craft him into. When I wasn’t listening because I was standing on a precipice once more, eagle-spun wind upon my face, counting the bones left behind at my feet.
⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ
𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 ⋆˚꩜｡
・He loves to take you on woodland strolls. Pointing out the difference in trees, herbs, and flowers.
・Always picks the brightest flower and puts it behind your ear.
・Everytime Legolas does this, it's a declaration of love. From him to you.
・His nicknames for you are always in Elvish, and he doesn't always explain them
・Only you know this, but he has a beautiful singing voice.
・You always ask him to sing while you're in the woodlands and he does. It makes you smile and Legolas would do anything to make you smile
・He also braids your hair; it's intimate, and he makes them match his own
・Love is new to him, but he knows he wants this forever. Andd he wouldn't let anyone take that away.
𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 ✧˖°.
・After a long day, when you're sitting by the fire together, Aragorn will pull your feet into his lap and massage them (whether you've asked him or not)
・There's quiet between the two of you. Never awkward or having to be filled with any type of talk.
・It's those moments of stillness that Aragorn yearns for with you
・After upholding his responsibilities, he craves to be near you.
"Meleth-nin," he says with a glint in his eye.
・Then moves as quick as a ranger and has you flat on your back, leaning over you
"Now this is much better," he mumbles.
・Admiring your face; gently running his fingers against your cheek. Leaning down and placing the softest kiss to your forehead
𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 ⋆˚꩜｡
・His hand constantly tries to find your own.
・Large fingers threaded through yours.
・When you're in public, his arm is around your waist, guiding you, especially through a crowd
・Whether you are feasting with others, or alone in your chambers, Boromir loves to feed you
・Perched either beside him or on his lap, he'll let you eat off of his own plate. Even before he's eaten.
・He's the type of man to remind you to drink water, to be in the sunlight
・When you ask about it he says:
"I look after you, I always will."
𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 ✧˖°.
・You have a ridiculous amount of inside jokes
・You two know what the other is thinking just by looking at one another
・Always expects your surprise piggy back rides.
・Arms out ready to hold you
・Helps you to dress every morning; buttoning up, slipping things over your head, tucking things etc
・When it's cold, he gives you his cloak no matter what. Even if he told you to bring something warm, he still gives his own to you.
・Gifted you, your own horse, a beautiful white pony.
"She hasn't been named yet," he says while holding the reigns. His gloved hands stroking the animal's neck.
𝑮𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍 ⋆˚꩜｡
・Tall and mightly, this man will fall to his feet if you asked
・Always stands up when you walk in the room when there's people around.
・Holds his arm out, just in case you may need it.
・Glorfindel is a brilliant dancer, and in your chambers, he dances with you. Holding you close, as he hums a tune.
・He is much, much taller than you are, so he has to bend down to give you a kiss
・Sometimes he sets you on ledges so he doesnn't have bend over
"What do you think you are doing?" You ask him, crossing your arms in mock anger
"Trying to kiss you," his words are like a whisper, sending chills down your spine.
𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 ✧˖°.
・Writes you little notes and hides them everywhere. From your cloak, to your pillow, or in your pants' pocket.
・He smiles whenever he sees you, as if you've been gone for a long time. And yet, it's only been 10 minutes.
・Faramir loves when you lean on him. Especially when you're both standing, looking out over Gondor.
・He'll wrap his arms around you and pull your back to his chest
・Faramir loves to stargaze, not many people know that
・But he knows the best places to see the stars
・On the very top, near the white tree, you two lay down on the stone pavement and see into the distance.
・It's in those moments that you are able to tell each other anything.
・It's where he said 'I love you,' for the first time and where he proposed
𝑬𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒓 ⋆˚꩜｡
・Is absolutely love-drunk. Always. Forever.
・Truly believes you two are soulmates (you are)
"Your smile is the most beautiful thing I have seen.""
・Likes to pick you up when he's bored. Carrying you bridal style wherever he wishes.
・Your relationship is literally two best friends in love
・You tell each other everything, even the things that you have been sworn to secrecy.
・His very soul seems to be tethered to yours and yours to his.
・Hugs you from behind and lays his head on yours.
・Loves playing with your hands, kissing your palm, each of your fingers.
"If we weren't married, I would marry you."
𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒏 ✧˖°.
・He remembers your favourite things
・Your favourite flowers (in vases around your shared chambers), your favourite food (made at least once a week by the cook), if you love books then he would build the biggest bookshelf
・If you like being outdoors, then he would be right by your side
・You are the light in his life, and you bring such warmth, that he fears losing you
・He wakes up at night, after having a nightmare that you left, or were taken from him.
・But then he finds you laying next to him and he starts to breathe again
・He might not be great with words, but Elladan does everything he can to make you feel loved
・Because if ever there was a time you didn't, then he would be devastated
Wait, oh my god. If you don’t mind, could you possibly write the oversized tunic prompt for Haldir, Legolas, and/or Thranduil?
Or possibly, their SO in their tunic?
Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir version below.
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
The flickering light of the hearth bathed the guest chamber in a warm, golden glow, the shadows of the flames stretching across the polished stone walls and draping the room in quiet intimacy. It was peaceful—until the door opened, revealing the imposing figure of Thranduil. He moved with effortless elegance, his long robes trailing in his wake as his sharp gaze swept over the chamber. For a fleeting moment, his expression was serene, his features carved from ice and marble, betraying nothing. But then his eyes fell on you.
You stood in the doorway, caught in the firelight, the oversized tunic billowing slightly as you shifted under his gaze. The garment—his tunic—hung loosely on you, its fine fabric pooling in some places and clinging in others, betraying the fact that it had not been tailored for you. The neckline dipped low, and the material had slipped off one shoulder, baring the curve of your collarbone and a hint of your skin. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, your every move revealing just how precariously it sat. Though the look was accidental, it carried with it an unintended allure.
Thranduil stopped mid-step, his ice-blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they trailed over you, taking in every detail of your appearance. His expression was unreadable at first, the practiced neutrality of a king who had seen and weathered all things. But then his lips curved into the faintest of smirks, a spark of amusement glinting in his gaze. “Is this…” he began, his voice low and smooth, laced with an almost imperceptible edge, “intentional?”
You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest under the weight of his scrutiny. “Intentional?” you echoed, heat rising to your cheeks. You felt your embarrassment bubbling over, but you did your best to keep your tone even. “You make it sound like I’ve planned this.” You gestured vaguely to the tunic, the sleeves so long that the cuffs nearly swallowed your hands. “I didn’t exactly have many options. My clothes are being washed, and this was the only thing I could find that didn’t reek of travel.”
Thranduil took a measured step forward, the soft sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing faintly. There was something predatory in his movements, though not unkind—a quiet, deliberate grace that left no room for misunderstanding who stood before you. His gaze softened slightly, though his intensity did not waver. “And you thought it wise to wear this?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as though the question were for himself as much as it was for you. “My tunic?”
You bristled, a mix of defiance and self-consciousness sparking in your chest. Crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself, you tilted your chin up. “It’s not like I expected you to walk in unannounced,” you countered, though your voice wavered slightly under his piercing gaze. “Besides, it’s not that revealing.”
At that, one of his thick brows arched elegantly, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying his disbelief. “Not that revealing?” he repeated, a note of dry humor slipping into his tone. His eyes flicked down briefly, lingering on the exposed curve of your shoulder where the fabric had slipped, then lower, taking in the hem that rested just a little too high for propriety. “It barely clings to you,” he said plainly, though there was something warmer—something almost dangerous—beneath the cool cadence of his voice. “It is… distracting.”
“Distracting?” You scoffed lightly, though your pulse quickened under his steady gaze. You had meant it to sound dismissive, but the nervous edge to your tone gave you away. “You sound offended. Or…” You allowed a playful edge to creep into your voice, though you knew you were treading on thin ice. “Or maybe you’re just jealous that I pull it off better than you.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy between you, your words echoing in the chamber. Then, to your surprise, a deep, rich chuckle escaped him, the sound resonating low in his chest. His smirk deepened, his gaze glinting with what could only be described as admiration. “Brazen,” he murmured, almost to himself, though the amusement in his tone was evident. “Only you would dare to jest with me in this way.”
You took a tentative step forward, emboldened by the flicker of humor in his expression. “Would you rather I cower?” you asked, your voice soft but steady now. “Or apologize for borrowing something clearly too fine for someone like me?” The teasing edge in your tone was deliberate, but underneath it lay something more vulnerable—something unspoken, though not unnoticed.
Thranduil tilted his head, his gaze never wavering as you drew closer. When he spoke, his voice was lower, quieter, as if the moment demanded it. “I would rather you be more aware of what you provoke,” he said, his words measured but weighted with meaning. “For once tempted, I may not so easily let it go.” You blinked, the air in the room seeming to thicken as his words hung between you. He took another step forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. His hand rose slowly, hesitating just for a moment before brushing the edge of the tunic where it had slipped from your shoulder. The gesture was so light, so fleeting, it could almost have been unintentional—but the look in his eyes told you otherwise.
“It is not the garment I mind,” he said softly, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against your bare skin, his gaze locking onto yours with a startling intensity. “It is the thought that others might see you like this. That I might have to share what stands before me now.” Your breath caught, the heat of his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Thranduil,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, “it’s just a tunic.”
His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, though his gaze never softened. “Perhaps to you. But to me, it is far more than that.” His hand fell away as he leaned in, his face mere inches from yours now. His voice dropped lower, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a command. “Be more mindful of how you tempt me. You may not like where it leads.” Your heart raced, your words catching in your throat as his meaning settled over you like the heat of the firelight. “Who says I wouldn’t?” you managed to whisper, though your voice wavered with the tension of the moment.
For a moment, he froze, his gaze sharpening as if searching your expression for the truth behind your words. His hand, which had fallen to his side, tightened into a loose fist as though reining himself in. Then, slowly, he straightened, the icy mask of the elven king sliding back into place with practiced ease. “Be ready for supper,” he said, his voice cool and composed once more, though his words carried an undeniable weight. “And wear something less… distracting.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, his robes sweeping behind him as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you standing there, breathless and warm, the echo of his touch still lingering on your shoulder.
🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼
The quiet chambers of Mirkwood were bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the hearth, the light casting golden shadows on the stone walls. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest beyond the balcony. Legolas stepped through the carved wooden door with his usual Elven grace, the gentle creak of the hinges the only sound that broke the stillness. His sharp eyes, gleaming with the light of the fire, immediately sought you out.
You stood in the center of the room, hesitant, your fingers brushing nervously at the hem of the oversized tunic you wore. It was one of his—a garment you’d found folded neatly atop the guest bed, clean and soft but unmistakably his. The loose fabric hung down past your knees, its neckline slipping off one shoulder to expose more skin than you were comfortable with. The tunic billowed lightly with your every shift, and though it covered you, the way it clung in places and revealed too much in others made you feel distinctly… vulnerable.
Legolas froze mid-step, his crystalline blue gaze locking on you as if you’d stolen all the air from the room. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first, his expression flickering between surprise, concern, and something far more unreadable. He tilted his head just so, as though trying to make sense of the sight before him. “Is… is that my tunic?” His voice, usually steady and serene, carried a hint of bewilderment, the faintest quirk of his brow betraying his confusion.
You shrugged, trying to feign indifference but failing miserably under his piercing gaze. “I didn’t really have anything else to wear,” you explained, your voice quieter than usual. “My clothes were still drying from the river, and this was here, so…” You gestured vaguely to yourself, feeling the heat creep up your neck and cheeks. “It’s fine, right?”
Legolas stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. The flickering light of the fire danced in his eyes as they roved over you—not with judgment, but with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He stopped just short of you, his tall frame towering yet somehow gentle in its proximity. “It is not… improper,” he said carefully, though the faint flush blooming at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “Though I must admit…” He paused, as if searching for the right words, his gaze drifting to the exposed curve of your shoulder. “It is… revealing.”
You laughed softly, a nervous edge to the sound as you pulled the loose fabric back up your shoulder. “Revealing? Says the elf who walks around in robes with slits up to—” You stopped yourself with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at him. “I think your standards for modesty are a little… flexible.”
His lips parted in a soft exhale, and you swore you saw the faintest twitch of amusement tug at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his voice low, almost teasing. “But when it is you wearing my tunic…” He trailed off, his words hanging in the air like a string plucked on a harp. “When it’s me, what?” you challenged gently, meeting his gaze, though your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “Do I wear it poorly? Should I have asked for something less ‘revealing,’ your highness?” You added the last part with a playful lilt, trying to ease the tension that had settled between you.
“No,” he said swiftly, too swiftly, his tone softening immediately after. “No, it is not that. It is…” His hands twitched at his sides as if unsure whether to reach for you. “It suits you. Better than I expected.” You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Better than you expected?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You make it sound like I’ve been parading around in your clothes for weeks.”
“Have you?” he countered, his voice dipping into something teasing, his sharp gaze briefly flicking over you again. The faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips now, though his posture remained composed, regal. “No!” you said, shaking your head. “I just—” You sighed, gesturing helplessly at the tunic. “It was either this or sitting around freezing in a damp shirt. And it’s not like anyone else is here to see me.” You hesitated, catching the way his eyes softened. “Except you, apparently.”
Legolas tilted his head, his expression gentling further, the faint blush on his cheeks lingering. “I would not fault you for choosing comfort,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “Though…” He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric where it pooled loosely over your wrist. “I must admit, I am unused to seeing you so… unguarded.” “Unguarded?” you echoed, a small laugh escaping you. “I’m wearing your tunic, not armor.”
“It is not the tunic,” he said, his gaze steady and earnest. “It is… you.” His fingers brushed against your wrist again, feather-light but enough to make your breath hitch. “You wear it with a grace I did not know my garments could possess.” You blinked up at him, momentarily speechless, before narrowing your eyes slightly. “You’re just trying to distract me from the fact that you think I look ridiculous.” He smiled then, soft and genuine, the kind of smile that could break down even the strongest walls.
“Ridiculous?” he repeated, shaking his head slightly. “No, Mellon nîn or shall I say meleth nǐn.” The Elvish slipped from his lips like a melody, and though you didn’t know the meaning, it made your heart ache in the best way. “Far from it.” And for a moment, as he stood there in the firelight, his fingers lingering near yours, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever be able to look at that tunic the same way again.
🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻
The quiet serenity of the guest chambers of Lothlórien is broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. The golden light dances on the smooth, pale walls, casting flickering shadows that shift as if alive. Outside, the faint hum of the Elven woods persists, a sound so subtle and ancient it feels as though it could weave dreams.
Haldir steps in, his presence commanding yet measured, as always. His silver hair gleams in the firelight, and his sharp, discerning gaze immediately sweeps the room before settling on you. He stops short, and for a moment, the mask of stoicism that is his constant companion falters. His eyes widen, just slightly, betraying his initial surprise.
You stand there, clothed only in one of his tunics, which hangs loosely around you, brushing against your knees. The neckline dips further than you expected, the fabric slipping off one shoulder to reveal your skin beneath. The garment is clearly oversized, its looseness making it far more revealing than you intended. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, both self-conscious and oddly amused by the rare moment of silence from the Marchwarden.
“Haldir,” you start, breaking the tension. “I didn’t expect you so soon. I didn’t have time to… change.” Your voice carries an air of calm, though your heartbeat quickens. His gaze snaps to yours, his usual composure quickly returning, though a faint flush lingers high on his cheekbones. “I see,” he says, his tone carefully even, though there’s a tightness to it that suggests he’s restraining himself. He takes a step closer, his eyes darting—unbidden—back to where the tunic slips off your shoulder, exposing a sliver of collarbone.
“I trust,” he begins, clearing his throat as if to steady himself, “that you are aware how… unconventional this attire is.” His voice is low, calm, but there’s a tension beneath it—a mix of protectiveness and something more hesitant. “Such a sight might… cause distraction to others. Particularly in my halls.”
You arch a brow at him, crossing your arms over your chest, which only causes the tunic to shift further, sliding a bit higher on one leg and baring more of your skin. “Your halls?” you counter, a faint smirk playing on your lips. “And here I thought these were the halls of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.”
Haldir’s lips press into a thin line, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He takes another step closer, his voice softening but losing none of its authority. “You know what I mean. Such…” he gestures vaguely at your attire, clearly uncomfortable even addressing it, “an ensemble is not… fitting.”
You tilt your head, letting the smirk grow. “Oh? And who decides what is fitting, Haldir? You?” There’s a playful lilt to your tone now, and you can see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he’s torn between exasperation and amusement. “It is… unbecoming,” he insists, though his voice has lost some of its sternness. His gaze flickers once more to the slipping neckline, and he quickly averts his eyes, clearly wrestling with himself. “What if one of my brothers or the sentries had seen you like this?”
You take a step toward him, your bare feet silent on the stone floor, and tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “But they didn’t,” you say, your voice soft but teasing. “You’re the only one who’s seen me like this. Shouldn’t that be enough?” Haldir freezes, his breath hitching at your words. For a moment, the guarded walls he keeps so firmly in place seem to crack, and he looks at you—not as the Marchwarden of Lothlórien, but as Haldir, the Elf who feels so deeply yet shows so little. His lips part slightly, as though he’s about to say something, but no words come.
You take another step closer, your movements deliberate now, emboldened by his reaction. “Haldir,” you say, your voice softening, “you don’t have to pretend to be so composed all the time. It’s just me.”
He exhales sharply, as though your words have pierced through the layers of his restraint. “You test my patience,” he murmurs, though his tone lacks any real bite. There’s something almost tender in the way he looks at you now, his gaze lingering on your face, your eyes, before flicking back to the tunic once more. “You… shouldn’t wear things like this,” he says finally, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Not when you don’t understand what it does to me.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re both silent. Then, a slow, mischievous smile spreads across your face. “Oh,” you say, your tone light but pointed. “And what does it do to you, Haldir?”
He steps closer still, his composure unraveling further with each passing second. The faint flush on his cheeks deepens, and he looks at you as though you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever encountered. “It makes me forget my duty,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that is something I cannot afford.”
You reach out, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Maybe forgetting your duty, just for a moment, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” Haldir’s breath catches again, and for a moment, you think he might close the remaining distance between you. But then, with a deep inhale, he steps back, his usual composure snapping back into place like a shield. “You should change,” he says, his voice firmer now but still soft. “Before someone else sees you.”
You watch him for a moment, the tension still palpable, before nodding. “As you wish, Marchwarden,” you reply, a hint of teasing in your tone. As you turn to gather your clothes, you catch the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—a smile that’s gone almost as soon as it appears. But the way his eyes linger on you, even as he tries to compose himself, tells you that you’ve left him thoroughly shaken.
it was time for a lord of the rings sideblog @hir-vuin - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
