#ropunderdog2025

[valar-did-me-wrong]

ROP Underdogs Day 6: Light/Dark @the-southlands

My other memes

[the-southlands]

Hello there.

These are the prompts for the ROP Underdog Edition event dedicated to minor and/or normally overlooked characters and ships.

They are hopefully generic enough to leave a lot of wriggle room for interpretation.

As for the contributions, they can be anything and everything, and they are not limited to creative works.

You can share your paintings, drawings, gifs, stills, videos, fanfics, meta, memes etc., but also compile song lists, write posts gushing over a character or ship, share your head canons, fic recs or your favourite art - whatever you can think of.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to post them in our inbox!

Adult content is fine, just take care to tag it as #nsfw.

See you on 15 May 2025!

The event tag is #ropunderdog2025

[hikarielizabethbloom]

Rop underdogs

Day 2: Loss @the-southlands

Eärien says goodbye to Isildur

[queenmeriadoc]

ROP Underdog 2025 -> Day Two: Victory/Loss -> Valandil

[elvendreamsfics]

"But kids don't stay with you if you do it right.

It's the one job where, the better you are, the more surely you won't be needed in the long run."

barbara kingsolver

a quote to celebrate this good, loving, albeit stern stepmother : Marigold Brandyfoot

[finrodsketchbook]

Mirdania feels alone

prompt of today for rop underdog week (solitude)

@the-southlands

[justavoiceinthevoid]

ROP Underdog Event: Day 1

Prompt: Hope/Despair

Character: Camnir (hints at Camnir/Elrond)

The room is small, stifling, some ways off from the healers' main chambers. A simple cot is tucked into the corner, his cloak and map-case tossed atop the covers. Camnir resists the urge to pace. It would only make a mess - his boots are still caked in mud and grass. He has adamantly refused to remove them.

He's starting to feel uncomfortably like a sullen child.

"I don't understand. You know I'm fine, you saw it yourself. I ran all the way back here with you, did I not?"

Elrond leans against the doorway, a not-so-subtle obstacle to the exit.

"The healers still need to monitor you," he says firmly, "Just in case." He's set to leave within the hour, with the urgent task of reaching Khazad-dûm in time. Camnir knows he intends to go alone. It is - frustrating.

He tries to keep his tone in check, not let it dip too close to a whine. "The healers have far more important things to do, as do we!"

"Camnir - "

What would I tell them, anyway? The truth?" That he had felt his own wound knit back together, watched it heal before his eyes?

A grimace. Camnir had not realised the extent of Elrond's distrust of the rings, but it's more than obvious now. "If you must. But you should remain here regardless."

Camnir's frown deepens. In truth, there is little he can do. He has known Elrond far too long. Behind his eyes, he has already decided.

Camnir drops his gaze. "I wouldn't slow you down. I can keep up, I promise."

There is a pause, before a warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

Elrond's voice has softened. "I know you can. This..." He sighs. "If I am honest, this is more for my sake than yours."

"What?"

"We could have lost you out there, mellon."

Camnir blinks, and for a moment he feels sharp, staggering pain, hands pulling him down, covering his mouth.

He breathes through the memory. "I'm fine - "

"You almost weren't." The words slide towards pleading. "Allow me to be selfish, just this once."

It's hardly fair. Elrond asks for so little, it is near impossible to refuse him when he does.

In all this time, Camnir has never managed it.

"You shouldn't go by yourself," He says anyway, though he is sure that Elrond can sense his resignation. "Not after what we just saw."

"I have made the journey many times, I know the safest route. And I am less likely to attract attention on my own."

Elrond reaches up, both hands on his shoulders now, and he walks Camnir backwards until they reach the cot. With all the obvious reluctance he can muster, Camnir lets himself be pushed down to sit on the edge. He can feel himself starting to pout, and quickly reigns it in for the sake of his dignity. At least Elrond doesn't feel the need to mention it. He just steps back slightly, lets his hands drift down to clasp Camnir's.

"I must go," he continues, "I need to speak with the High King again before I leave." His grip tightens briefly, before he moves to head for the door.

Camnir cannot stop himself. "My liege."

Elrond turns back, his expression edging into exasperation, the way it always does when Camnir uses the title. Camnir worries at his lip. The bubbling unease he's been forcing down since they returned to the city is crawling back up his throat.

"Do you think - " he stutters, starts again. "The orcs are already so close to Eregion. Should the Dwarves refuse to help us, what are we -"

"Put that thought from your mind," Elrond cuts in swiftly. "Prince Durin is a steadfast friend of the Elves. I trust him with my life. Together, our forces can drive back Adar before he ever breaches Ost-In-Edhil's walls."

He draws closer, waits for Camnir to meet his eyes.

"Trust in this," He says, softer. "We can still protect Eregion, I know it."

The words ring with such certainty, Camnir has no choice but to believe them.

***

There are stars overhead by the time he reaches the survivors' encampment. It is sparse, even more so than he expected, the barest of essentials cobbled together for the trek to Khazad-dûm. Camnir threads his way through the group as quietly as he can - many are trying to sleep. Those who aren't watch him go, the tear-tracks on their cheeks painfully clear by the firelight. Camnir cannot hold their stares for long.

He finds Elrond near the boundary line, bent over a fallen tree like a war table, studying a rubble-stained map alongside an elf Camnir doesn't recognise. Their words are hushed, the lines of their faces harsh in the torch glow. There is a dark smudge of something like mud or oil under Elrond's cheekbone.

The other elf notices him before Elrond does. He has a warrior's stance, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. The carving of his armor is not a design Camnir has ever come across in Lindon. He looks up at Camnir, his brow slightly furrowed. At his pause, Elrond lifts his head.

His lips part in surprise.

"Camnir," he breathes.

Camnir swallows. His hands are shaking. "My liege."

Silence stretches. Camnir cannot find the words to fill it. He should try, he knows, he should try for them both, but it is too much. He doesn't know how to start.

Elrond's companion looks between the two of them. "This can wait until morning," he says quietly, gathering up the map. Elrond jolts at the movement.

"I - that is -"

"The night is upon us. I think we have talked long enough. Come find me before we set off." It is hard to read the elf's eyes, but his expression seems to have softened.

"Yes - yes, of course." Elrond's voice hitches, almost a stammer. "My thanks, Arondir."

Arondir's lips press up, not quite a full smile. Tucking the map under his arm, he turns to leave, giving Camnir a nod of acknowledgement as he goes. Camnir hurries to return it. He watches the archer carefully weave his way through the huddles of survivors, before Camnir's gaze is pulled back to Elrond.

He looks so tired.

Even so, he speaks before Camnir. "What are you doing here?"

"Bringing help and supplies."

"From Lindon?"

He nods. "Some of the healers were determined to ride out to you." He allows himself a sad sort of half-smile. "It is a dangerous journey. I offered to escort them."

It's the wrong thing to say - Elrond is staring at him. Camnir does not like the hollowness he finds in his eyes.

Elrond shakes his head weakly. "That was reckless," he starts, and Camnir lets the smile drop. "You're not a soldier, Cam."

That hurts more than it should. "I'm as much a soldier as you are."

"You don't -"

"What would you have me do?" he says, sharper than he intends. His voice trembles and he hates it. "Stars above, Elrond. Where else should I be, if not beside you?"

"You should be somewhere safe! Far away from -" Elrond bites back the words, but Camnir takes a step towards him.

"Away from what?"

"Away from me."

Camnir cannot hold back his flinch.

He stands frozen, searching for some kind of reply before the unbearable silence seeps back in. He doesn't mean - surely he doesn't mean -

But then Elrond's lower lip quivers, and his chest heaves suddenly on a breath, and the sob he chokes out has Camnir rushing forward, arms around him before he even realises what he's doing.

"I failed."

The words come cracked, halting, as Elrond clings tight to Camnir's cloak. Camnir pulls him closer, forces back his own tears.

"No, you didn't."

"I failed him. I failed them all."

Camnir winds a hand through Elrond's curls. "This wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. No one could ask for more."

It is not enough, not nearly enough, but it is the only answer he has. Everything else is too tangled in untouched anger and pain.

"It wasn't your fault," He says again, gently tugging Elrond towards the crook of his neck.

"Camnir."

Elrond sobs again, and Camnir tightens his hold.

"I'm here. I have you. I'm here."

[helenvader]

I haven't had time or energy to participate in our ROP Underdog event, but I thought I'd at least honour today's prompt - Company/Solitude - with sharing an excerpt from my WIP, which has Mairon bonding with none other as the old woman he devoured in S2E1. She sure fits the "minor character" category. :-)

---

He wakes up abruptly, registering somebody's presence. He finds himself on the floor in front of the cold fireplace.

“Sorry for waking you,” says Hilda. “You passed out like a babe. The others didn't want to rouse you.”

She grins.

“I, for one, think that seeing you roused must be a sight for the gods.”

Mairon remembers he is supposed not to understand a word and thus panic-blushing is out of the question. He opts for a confused look.

“Forgive this silly old woman,” says Hilda, “It's such a joy to tease young men. They're always so delightfully flustered. One of the gifts of advancing age.”

She takes off her shabby headscarf, revealing a knotted mess of ginger hair.

He points to his own, then to hers.

“Same colour,” she nods.

“Same colour,” he parrots.

“Yours is so much more pleasing to the eye, though,” she adds in genuine admiration. “So smooth. One would think you've just combed it. Elf magic? But then, your companions look much more weatherworn.”

His lip-corners turn slightly upward.

Vain as ever.

Hilda discards the topic of Elf magic and circles back to the hair colour discourse.

“It runs in the family,” she says. “All of us are redheads. Even our cats were all gingers.”

She attempts translation by pointing her finger at herself, and her hair; then mimics a baby in her arms and meows, pointing at her hair again.

“I miss braiding my girls' hair,” she says. “Would you mind…?”

The words are followed by another series of signs.

Why not? The last time somebody braided his hair was when he still apprenticed with Aulë. Even fiery Maiar are not keen on setting their hair on fire while forging; that necessity gave rise to the tradition of braiding each other's hair, which, inevitably, led to a fierce competition for the most beautiful creation.

Mairon's own were never held in high regard; not that they were ugly, but unlike some others, he never lost sight of the actual reason for the braiding. If practicality was required, he always chose it over aesthetics.

Of those who never failed to comment on it, Curumo was the worst. He never had a reason to find fault with the Admirable One’s forgework, so it naturally followed that he grasped the opportunity to berate him for something with both hands. His annoying habit of dispensing what he saw as sage advice made Mairon the perfect target for his helpful tips. Oh, and how he loved the sound of his own voice!

Ridiculous as he was, he was never as foolish as to believe Melkor's lies. Maybe he was, in the end, sage indeed, or Melkor simply never tried to recruit him.

Mairon never gave it much thought. At that time, he was too busy being ecstatic to be the chosen one. The best, the beautiful, the beloved. Melkor never found anything wrong with his hair-braiding techniques.

And that's what? A redeeming quality?

He feels Hilda’s eyes on him; she is quietly waiting for his reply.

So he nods. And meows.

She gives him an amused look.

“Why do I have a feeling you understand every word?”

He dons a perfectly innocent face.

“I know that look,” she says. “All our gingers wore it when plotting some mischief. Which was most of the time.”

“You sort of even look like a sweet kitten,” she continues. “It's the ears… and that cute nose… and that glint in the eye. I bet you're full of mischief, too.”

You are a remarkably observant woman, Hilda.

He meows again.

She giggles.

“I won't pry,” she says. “None of my business. If you let me braid your hair, I’ll be content enough.”

Armed with a whalebone comb, she reverently sets to her task, softly singing.

The roads are a-covered Under the blanket of snow Alone in the whiteness How can I find my way home?

The coldness is heavy Heavier though is my soul My sweetheart has left me How can I go on alone?

He catches himself humming along. The experience is oddly comforting; he feels a pinch of sorrow when it’s over.

Presented with a mirror that has seen better days, he is surprised at the intricate nature of the braiding. He would have expected something simple.

But then, when were you ever interested in the hairstyles of mortals? Or mortals as such?

“Can I return the favour?” he asks, throwing all caution to the wind.

Hilda refrains from commenting, but her face is the very image of triumph.

He carefully loosens her braid and starts working, humming to himself. It's not a spell - he has forbidden himself to use his power ever again - but it helps him to concentrate on untangling all the knots.

Once he is finished, Hilda checks the result in the mirror and gasps.

“You learned it after seeing it once in this battered thing?”

He raises a roguish eyebrow.

“I possess many skills.”

“That I never doubted for a moment,” she grins.

And, in an improbable turn of events, he discovers that harmless flirting with an old innkeeper is, after all, a delightfully refreshing experience.

---