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child-of-the-nights · 10 months

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Various characters on your birthday

A/N: So this is very self indulgent because yesterday was my birthday (yippee!) but I wrote some headcanons with a few of my fav characters from the fandoms I write for. Anyway have fun reading!

Warnings: none

Characters: Aro Volturi, Emperor Belos, Elrond, Shadow Weaver, Thranduil

Aro Volturi:

Now, celebrating birthdays in the vampire world is a little bit different. Since most people at the palazzo have been alive for centuries, they don't really celebrate their birthdays every year. It's more like every decade or even every 100 years.

However, if Aro's mate is still human or a newborn vampire, they can expect to have a big party thrown for them. Even if they prefer solitude, they can expect to at least have the family invited. That being Caius, Marcus, Athenodora and Sulpicia.

Aro obviously gets his mate the best gifts. He can, after all, see their deepest wishes with a single touch. His mate had seen something online and thought "wow, it would be nice to have this"? Aro had already added it to the list of possible birthday gifts.

Obviously he would buy them more meaningful gifts as well. For example, maybe the mate absolutely loves a certain book series, well Aro would commision someone to make them a special edition of the books.

His mate can expect to find love notes and poems all over the place on their birthday. Aro is a gifted writer and he makes sure to capture all the things that he admires about his mate. Which is pretty much everything. Seriously, he can barely name anything he doesn't like.

The entire day is planned carefully by Aro and he intends to go through with his plan unless something absolutely crucial needs his attention. In that case, he promises his mate that he'll make up for being away.

Aro will ask them to dance with him to their favorite songs. Whatever the song may be, he would find a way to dance with them.

It brings him great joy when he sees how his mate has so much fun. Especially if they are holding his hand while doing so. Aro loves it when he can bury himself in their mind.

When the day is coming to an end, he takes them to stargaze outside of Volterra, somewhere not that affected by light pollution. They both would look at the stars and hold hands while doing so. Aro would whisper sweet nothings in their ear, possibly slipping into other languages while doing so.

His mate can definitely say that their birthday was amazing, if not the best birthday they ever had.

Emperor Belos:

When it comes to Belos and celebrating birthdays, he actually prefers to not have a grand party for his beloved. He just thinks it would serve no reason and a private dinner or something similar means far more than anything else.

That being said, he is actually... hardly torn away from doing his Emperor duties. He must prepare for the Day of Unity after all. But after enough begging, he decides to humor his partner for a while.

I'm not saying that he didn't get them gifts, because of course he did. Belos is the type of person to hand-craft presents instead of buying them. He just feels it's far more personal that way.

Belos being the old fashioned man that he is, he writes them a heartfelt letter. As heartfelt as Belos can be of course. He would reminescence of their first date and the moment Belos realised he loved them.

Somehow the entire castle found out of their birthday, so the s/o can expect getting birthday wishes from most of the guards. Some (like Lilith, Kikimora and Hunter) even give them presents. Lilith and Kikimora just want to suck up to Belos of course, but Hunter's is more personal. After all, it's his uncle's lover.

As much as Belos denies it, he loves having matching things. So his beloved would get something for their birthday that matches something he owns. Perhaps it's a gadget he uses often, or a piece of clothing that he loves; he would get them something similar.

This day is the ONLY day he would allow them to wear his emperor outfit. Belos would watch them try to imitate him and would laugh along. After the day is over though, he makes sure to tell his s/o that they got their emperor-outfit-wearing priviledges revoked.

Obviously Belos knows everything on the Boiling Isles, which means that he knows all of the secret places that are just absolutely mesmerizing. He might just surprise his beloved with a trip to one of these places.

I believe at night, once the both of them are in bed, Belos would share some of his fond memories. That is probably the most sentimental his s/o had ever seen him. It's sort of a birthday present of sorts I suppose.

Now, if his lover REALLY wanted to have a big party, he might be convinced. He would use that to manipulate the Isles into believing that he is a kind man, but he would also just want to make his beloved happy. Belos is just a tiny bit twisted like that.

Absolutely the type of man who would ask for their s/o's hand in marriage on their birthday. I can just totally see that happen.

Elrond:

Oh Elrond, beautiful Elrond.

Now birthdays are a bit questionable for elves as well since... well, they are immortal. But, whenever Elrond and his beloved would celebrate their birthday, the elven Lord would make sure to make it unforgettable.

Elrond plans the whole day of course (if his s/o agrees into the planning).

First, they would wake up and receive breakfast in bed. Elrond would stay with them the whole time, smiling down at them as they eat. After that he takes them on a walk in the gardens where they would talk for hours.

If someone happens to "accidentally" play some music in the distance, Elrond would ask his lover on a dance. They would talk while doing so and laugh along when they accidentally trip and fall in the grass.

After the walk in the gardens, Elrond takes his s/o back to the main halls and leads them to a room that is decorated just for them. There awaits them Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen with smiles on their faces. All of them would give Elrond's beloved a gift while the Lord waits patiently.

Elrond's gift wouldn't be too grand but it would be meaningful. Most likely it is something he made with his own hands. Like if his beloved wears jewellery, he would make them something out of their preferred materials. Since courting is taken very seriously for elves, I believe they wouldn't commision anyone for a piece like that like humans would. The elves make important gifts themselves as it's more meaningful that way.

After a joyful lunch with music involved, Elrond brings his s/o outside to celebrate with the rest of Rivendell. It's a very carefree party where the elves play music and dance around with or without the s/o.

Once nighttime comes around, Elrond will get them away from the party and bring them to a clearing where they can watch the stars in peace. The stars are very important in an elf's life, so why not spend the last hours of their birthday looking at them.

Elrond would tell his beloved how much he loves them while in the comfort of the stars. He would also describe their relationship using great many metaphors.

At the end of their birthday, they walk back to the party and dance the night away.

Shadow Weaver:

We all know how Shadow Weaver loves gardening, right? Well, she would obviously put together a lovely bouqet for her s/o. It consits of their favorite flowers, or if they don't have any, flower in their favorite colors.

Shadow Weaver would wake her lover up by gently caressing their face and wishing them happy birthday once they open their eyes. After that she let's them eat breakfast before giving them the bouqet. It has a little note attached to it that is enchanted so it sparks little fireworks once it's opened.

Now, the sorceress is actually not that sure how to act in this situation because, let's be real, she did not partake in many relationships before. So her s/o will have to excuse if she's being a bit awkward.

She would get her beloved a cake, as suggested by Glimmer. It would be their favorite flavor and most likely would have frosting that is their favorite color.

Because Shadow Weaver is not very big on letting her feelings show, she wouldn't really give her s/o a speech about how much she loves them but she would try to write some of her feelings out in a form of a letter.

Once the s/o is ready, she will take them to her garden that is decorated just for them. It's more colorful than usual, but it still stays in the theme of the sorceress' taste.

Shadow Weaver would then lead them to a table that is decorated by candles. They would drink tea or something her beloved likes while talking. While outside, some residents of the castle would walk by to wish them happy birthday, especially Glimmer.

Once they're done with the little tea party, Shadow Weaver takes them out to a clearing in the Whispering Woods. There she reveals a picnic set up just for her s/o. While sitting and eating, Shadow Weaver finally gives them their present. It's something very personal.

The rest of the day consists of Shadow Weaver and her beloved watching the sunset and enjoying their picnic.

Thranduil:

Once again, the elves are a bit different about birthdays but Thranduil sure does throw a big party. Wine for the whole realm and dancing all night.

But before he gets to that, he makes sure that this day is the best day his s/o has ever had.

Thranduil wakes his beloved up by whispering to them and wishing them happy birthday. He let's them have breakfast in bed, while he eats beside them. After the breakfast he gives the plates to a servant while they stay in bed for some more quality time.

When they finally get up, Thranduil takes them on a stroll in the garden. They walk around, simply talking. Once they found a place where they could sit down, Thranduil gives them their first gift. It's a very personal gift that he made himself (much like Elrond).

While his s/o is looking at the gift, Thranduil whispers in their ear in elvish, explaining just how much he loves them. They stay there for some time before heading back to the palace.

Legolas would wish them happy birthday of course. If he likes them enough, he might make them a little carving of sorts and give it to them.

Thranduil showers his beloved in other types of presents as well. If they like wearing jewellery, he would get them something that matches his. Perhaps his s/o would like another sword? Something that fits them perfectly but also just so happens that matches Thranduil's weapon?

Once Thranduil and his lover had finished with the gift giving, he takes them to the dining room where an exquisite lunch/dinner is prepared for them. Some elves are playing music while they eat.

When they finish, they go to celebrate with the rest of the realm. Thranduil opens up the wine barrels for everyone to drink and all of the elves dance around while singing songs.

The Elvenking obviously would ask to dance with his s/o while most likely already drunk. His partner can also expect to hear a speech from him that is adressed to the entire realm. He talkes about how important his beloved is and expects everyone to respect them as such.

If his lover is more anxious, then he swoops them away from the party to dance alone in a more secluded area. After all, he only wants them to feel great on their birthday.

The day most likely ends with the drunk couple entering their chambers and laughing as they fall on their bed. Alternatively, if his lover isn't one to drink, Thranduil still gets pretty drunk and his s/o can deal with a far more affectionate King.

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welikeimagines-andfandoms · 3 months

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LOTR/ The Hobbit Preference: How You Met (1/4)

(2) (3) (4)

Fili

Fili and you met one day when he was in Dale, doing business with his uncle and King Bard. You were a new merchant in town and he saw you unloading boxes for your store.

“Please let me help you with that.” You heard behind you as you took a box off of your cart to bring into your new store.

“I’m alright, little darling, I can manage. I’m a tough girl who can carry her own stock boxes.” You reply jokingly as you look down at the sweet dwarf.

“I don’t doubt your strength, my lady, but it is rather cold and many hands make light work.” He replied, trying to joke with you.

“So you want to keep me warm, little darling?” You smirk down at him.

Though he hated to admit it he couldn’t help but smirk at your flirting teasing.

“I bet your hands could do more than make light work, darling.” You whisper down to his ear.

Turning away with your box you leave a very flushed and speechless dwarf prince.

Glorfindel

Glorfindel and you met one afternoon when he found you practising archery. You were a new guest in Rivendell, Lord Elrond taking you in after a rather nasty orc attack. Glorfindel had been away for the some months you had been recovering and had just returned to hear of the new guest.

Walking out into the field that he was told you were practising in, he slowly approached you from behind. You’d heard many things of Glorfindel and with the field being so quiet you could hear him approaching.

“You know your stance is a little off.” He said in your ear standing right behind you, his body lightly pressed against yours.

“Is that so? Does rubbing yourself against me and not so subtly wanting to kiss my neck help with my stance?” You ask smirking as you let the arrow go, it landing right in the middle of the target.

“I guess your awful flirting attempts helped.” You turn around to him with a smirk and a wink.

Haldir

Haldir met you when you and the fellowship arrived in Lothlorien, seeking refuge. First meeting Haldir he seemed so stoic and confident but you managed to catch the way his eyes averted yours and the slight blush on his cheek.

When the fellowship was granted access to safe refuge, you decided to find the blushing marchwarden. You’d had run ins with elves before and knew they were very difficult to sneak up on, but with this particular elf so distracted you seemed to manage.

“Do I make you nervous, marchwarden?” Your abrupt announcement surprisingly scaring him, as he whips around suddenly, although quick to fix his demeanour.

“No. Not at all.” He replies, staring at you blankly.

Knowing you wanted to have fun with this, you slowly walk to meet him, managing to push him against a tree. Leaning in closely, your breath lightly tickles his ear, making a light shudder and whimper run over his body.

“Well it seems from the way you blush and can’t meet my eyes that I do.” You gently whisper in his ear, making sure to blow cool air onto his ear, knowing what it does to elves.

The cool air causes the elves strong form shudder and grind against your touch.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing though.” Again you whisper, continuing to torture him by now lightly kissing the tip of his ear.

#lotr #lord of the rings #lotr imagine #lotr preference #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings preference #the hobbit #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit preference #Fili #Fili imagine #Fili x reader #Glorfindel #Glorfindel imagine #Glorfindel x reader #Haldir #Haldir imagine #haldir x reader

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meluiloth · 8 days

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For @silmarillionepistolary day 7, Remembrance and New Beginnings! Artwork at the bottom.

Night has fallen. The lamps have been turned low, the house cleaned, the bedtime routine completed; all Maglor and Maedhros have left to do is tuck the twins and read them their customary story.

They look so small wrapped in the red wool blankets, like two little birds in a crimson nest. They are quiet, too, waiting patiently for Maglor to ask his routine question: “Now, what story would you like tonight? Or would you rather hear a song?”

“I want the one about the Sun and the Moon!” Elros pipes up, scrunching the blanket in his hands eagerly.

Maglor smiles. “Is that what you want as well, Elrond?”

Elrond, the quieter twin, looks bashfully down before murmuring, “I’d like to see the picture book…”

Maglor shares a confused look with Maedhros. They did not own any picture books. “What do you mean?” Maedhros asks.

Elrond tips his head. “The one in your study,” he says. “It’s got gold string around it and lots of pictures on every page.”

Maedhros frowns. “You know you are forbidden from entering my study,” he reproaches.

Elrond bites his lip. “Yes, I know … I just saw the pictures and thought they were pretty.”

Maglor sees the telltale signs of a lecture in Maedhros’s expression, so he swiftly says, “Perhaps we can excuse it this once, if you promise to ask before you touch our things.”

Both Elrond and Elros nod emphatically, and Maglor leaves the room to search for the ‘picture book’ in his brother’s study, which is packed with volumes, scrolls, and papers. Maglor thinks it will take him forever to find the book Elrond described, if it exists at all, but surprisingly he easily locates it in the first bookshelf: a worn book of red leather, tied with a fading gold ribbon. It is familiar to him, but he cannot recollect why until he brings it back into the twins’ room. Maedhros’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Grandfather’s sketchbook? I thought that was lost ages ago!”

“It was in a box in the back,” Elrond supplies.

Maglor looks down at it, a stab of nostalgia and old grief passing through him. “I thought we never even brought it,” he murmurs.

“Can we read it?” Elros asks, leaning forward curiously.

Maedhros frowns, his reluctance clear. There are many memories neither of them want to relive, the life and death of their grandfather among the most heartbreaking. But many of the memories Finwë recorded in his beloved sketchbook were his happiest, from both his life and the rest of his family’s. And the two young children looking up at Maglor are also Finwë’s family … and he wants to share something of his life that is not just the blood on his hands.

The spine of the book cracks softly as he opens it, and the yellowed paper releases a small puff of dust, but the artwork on the inside is still as lovely and life-filled as the day he penned them.

Maglor explains each piece as he showed it to the twins, and lets them look as long as they like. Even Maedhros sometimes asks him to wait a little longer on certain pages, the heavy, dark look in his eyes brightening when he remembers his childhood in Valinor.

It is well past midnight by the time they reach the last pages, and all of them are surprised to see that they are all in full color, when all the previous pages have been only graphite sketches.

“Who are they?” Elros breathes, tracing his finger delicately over the meticulously painted faces.

Maglor swallows, his throat and his eyes clogged with tears. His brother, too, is at a loss for words.

“It’s them,” Elrond says, looking up at the Fëanorians and then back down at thd drawings. “Maglor and Maedhros are right there … but Maedhros looks different …”

It was true. Maglor and Maedhros, along with all of their brothers - still alive and smiling radiantly - and their parents. On the other pages, their cousins and uncles and aunts, before any of them had suffered the horrors of Morgoth.

“That is us,” Maedhros murmurs. “That was us then. We were so happy..."

“What was it like … then?” Elros ventures.

Maglor smiles. “I will tell you.”

“Tomorrow night,” Maedhros interrupts. “It is very late, and if you are to understand a word we say, you must be well-rested.”

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wilwarin-wilwa · 6 months

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have the urge to ask about your thoughts on maedhros, particular or otherwise

*vibrating with giddiness* where do i even start!!!!

it's no wonder that he's a fan-favorite. it's not just about him being good-looking and tragic (because that applies to most of the characters haha) but it's about how well-written and compelling his arc is. it's the embodiment of this part of the doom of mandos: "to evil end shall all things turn that they begin well".

from the moment he ALONE refuses to burn the ships to the time he ALONE searches for elurid and elurin, he stands out among his brothers as The Good Feanorion. his defining characteristic throughout almost the entirety of the silmarillion is that he tries to be an honorable person, to do things the right way, to fix what his father broke and minimize the harm of the oath. he holds on to that determination for so long, but despite his best efforts, he fails and fails and fails.

and then the third kinslaying happens and maglor has a mom-said-it's-my-turn-on-the-moral-compass moment and it's like the last remnant of goodness in maedhros has been snuffed out. he has no more hope or willpower left in him. and it is SO !! because there used to be so much of it in him!!! but he's the one who willingly lets go of it. he becomes convinced that everything good he ever did was in vain (i want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him that it is NOT) so there's no point in trying anymore. it pains me that he thought it impossible that eru could release them from the oath or that their crimes could ever be forgiven. his despair became his downfall, and that ties in well with the recurring theme of hope in tolkien's works.

i'm not sure if you might be referring to this post of mine but here you go anyway: i like to imagine a scene in which maglor snaps at maedhros after the second-kinslaying. he resents maedhros for agreeing to it and letting it happen in the first place, and he resents maedhros for leaving him to deal with the aftermath of it (e.g. burying the dead) while maedhros himself goes on his hopeless search for dior's children. i guess it was a moment of weakness for maglor in which the combination of guilt, grief, horror, and anger overwhelms him, and he takes it out on the nearest target. he can't take it out on celegorm, who came up with the idea, because celegorm is dead. and i think that after the third kinslaying, maedhros envies maglor. he envies maglor for being able to save elrond and elros (unlike his own failure to save their uncles) and he envies maglor's ability to still experience hope and compassion. but the only reason maglor still has those things is because he wasn't the one trying and trying and trying and experiencing soul-crushing failure every time.

#maedhros #maglor #wilwarin-wilwa.txt

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thesummerestsolstice · 2 months

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Headcanon Crafts for Everyone I Missed Last Time:

Idril: a sculptor. She worked with every kind of stone imaginable, and often went looking for new material in Gondolin’s mines with Maeglin. (Look my Maeglin head canons are complicated but they should get to be friends the narrative has hurt them too much already) She actually preferred not to make elvish figures, instead focusing on strangely beautiful stone landscapes and various animal-like figures. She was actually responsible for Middle-Earth’s version of the gargoyle, having carved several to stand guard over Gondolin. Several elves swore that the statues moved, but she never addressed those rumors. She also liked to paint her work with bright colors, which would’ve been seen as odd back in Valinor, but fit right in in First Age Middle-Earth.

Maeglin: a smith, but his craft was more in-line with Avarin practice than Noldor practice; with much less focus on the idea of making gems and heavier focus on understanding natural geology and the properties of various gems and metals. He knew the mines of Gondolin better than anyone, and wrote plenty about the the earth under the earth. His work also had fairly significant Dwarfish influences. He liked to make mechanically complex pieces, with moving parts or even some internal gear work.

Finduilas: a hunter. Her and her father were both nature people, just in very different ways. She was silent, with all the grace of a dancer, and quick enough to outrun most of what she hunted. She preferred to go after more aggressive animals– wild boar, wolves, bears, even wargs– and leave the deer and rabbits be. She was born in Beleriand, and had never met the Valar, but sometimes, privately, offered up prayers to Orome. She liked to imagine she could’ve been in his hunt, if things had turned out a bit differently.

Celebrimbor: a smith, in the very traditional Noldor sense. Gemworker, specialized in jewelry, made various famously beautiful pieces, etc. Was never quite happy sticking to hairpins and necklaces. Longed to try his hand at imbuing his work with real power, but always talked himself out of it. A whole binder of concepts for works of power sat locked away in a chest in his workshop for centuries. He never talked to anyone about it. He was as ashamed of his feelings for his craft as he was of his feelings for his family. By the end of his life, he’d made peace with only one of those things.

Earendil: a mariner? Alright, he was definitely a mariner, and he loved the ship life– he even built a few boats of his own, in a similar fantastic style to Turgon’s architecture– but he also had a longstanding fascination with the natural world, and filled volumes and volumes of journals with information on various plants, animals, and minerals. But natural lore isn’t a recognized Noldor craft, since it involves learning but doesn’t really produce tangible results. Still, it was a passion he got from afternoons spent learning about geology with “Uncle Mole,” and one he shared with Elrond. Researching the beauty and wonder of nature gave Earendil something to do with his immortal life, and was a big part of the reason Elrond chose to be immortal at all.

Gil-Galad: a king. No, really, he’d been the high-king of the Noldor since he was a child, and hadn’t really had time for trivialities like “finding a life purpose” or “having fun.” He was too busy learning how to stay alive in late stage Beleriand (read: hell) and learning to rule the least cooperative group of elves imaginable. He wanted to be a painter, and while he found enough practice time to get good at his chosen craft; because of how long detailed paintings can take, he almost never had time to actually make anything. He tried not to let it bother him too much. He didn’t always succeed at that.

Elrond: in a bit of a weird spot. Elrond is most associated with lore and healing; but, as discussed, “lore” isn’t considered a craft. And, well. Healing had to be Elrond’s craft, right? He’d been doing it since he was seven, and just about the only person in Amon Ereb who could still use healing powers. And it was good work, and it was rewarding, even if it often left him feeling so burned out and worried that he forgot to eat or sleep. It took him a long time to admit to himself that healing for him was what fighting was to many other elves: a necessity. Truth be told, he’d rather be gardener, working with the earth to create a place of peace and beauty. Also, Elrond is basically a nature spirit. So. It was something he began to explore in the peace of the early Second Age. He found that his Ainuric powers had all sorts of interesting effects on plant life. He also learned how to breed new varieties of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Still, he never really considered that it could be a proper craft for him. At least, not until he first saw the valley that would one day become Rivendell.

Headcanon Crafts for Finwe and his Children, the House of Feanor, the House of Fingolfin, and the House of Finarfin.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #house of finwe #noldor #noldor crafts #idril #maeglin #finduilas #celebrimbor #earendil #gil galad #elrond #elrond peredhel #eldritch peredhel #I have feelings about elrond and gil galad #they had to grow up so fast #they deserve peace

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mynameisjessejk · 2 months

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Stories of the Past

Maedhros regarded the blanket-lump on the sofa for a moment.

Maglor, at his harp in the corner, shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t stop the slow, sweet tune he was coaxing from the instrument.

Maedhros supposed, by the slightly wavy dark hair ruffling up from the edge of the blanket, that one of the twins was having a bad day. He’d had plenty of those in his life, and he understood the urge to bury oneself in blankets and ignore the world a bit.

The buried twin made a soft acknowledging noise when Maedhros rubbed his back, and he turned into his arms when Maedhros wedged himself onto the sofa behind him.

Maedhros pressed his grandson into the back of the sofa and tucked the dark head beneath his chin. “When your father was a child,” he murmured.

Maglor plucked a cheerful chord, abruptly swinging the mood of the tune he was playing around the something more playful.

Their grandson made an approving noise and nuzzled deeper into Maedhros’ embrace.

“The watch captain at Amon Ereb at the time was an edain woman named Beldis,” Maedhros continued. “And she came into my service because her brother had been killed and someone needed to protect her law-sister and her nephew. As far as she was concerned, the funniest thing in the world was watching Elros sass me.”

“He did, too,” Maglor agreed, playing an emphatic chord.

“Powers, he sassed me,” Maedhros said. “First thing he ever said to me was to call me rude.” Maedhros hummed in harmony with Maglor’s tune for a moment, and then said reflectively. “One day, Beldis decided to teach your father and your uncle to shoot the reflex bow favored by her people.”

“Oh I remember this,” Maglor said, and the tune changed again, something lighter, lilting, an echoing memory of childhood laughter in a dark time.

Maedhros closed his eyes and picked up the tune, Singing softly.

It was hard not to think of the grandson in his arms as young, though he was older than Maedhros had been when he’d followed his father across the sea. Still, there was an innocence about him, a sweetness and warmth, that made it difficult for Maedhros not think of him as boy.

The boy cradled to his chest turned his head so he could watch Maedhros’ memory of Elrond and Elros play out across the rug.

Maedhros closed his eyes as he Sang, better to feel the memory his Song was bringing to life, of Elros, snapping himself with the bowstring, of Elrond trying to care for his squirming brother’s welt, of Beldis, chiding them to keep trying, and the swear words Elros spewed when he snapped himself again.

Elros had utterly refused to say where he’d learned some of the words, a few of which were so vulgar no one had dared say them in Maedhros’ hearing in centuries, and Beldis had been laughing too hard to back Maedhros up when he tried to discipline Elros.

Maglor had offered to wash the young peredhel’s mouth out with soap, as their mother had done the first time she’d heard Celegorm say a swear word, and Elros had replied, “Try.”

This had only made Beldis laugh harder.

Maglor had taken the twins to their room, grounded and about to get a stern talking to.

Maedhros had turned to look at Beldis. “Just like my nephew at the same age,” she replied to his arch look.

Maedhros let the memory and the Song fade. “Truth is,” he murmured into the dark hair against his shoulder, “I was only annoyed at Beldis because her laughing made it so hard for me to keep a straight face.”

Maglor, fingers stilling on the harp briefly, said indignantly, “You! I had to actually be the one to yell at them!” He scoffed. “I had to be the one to explain to Elros that he wasn’t allowed to call his bowstring a void spider’s eggsac.”

Maedhros snorted. “Never did take,” he said reflectively.

There was a soft sigh against Maedhros’ neck.

Maedhros stroked his back tenderly. He let his voice turn lilting and low. “Elrond had a look that could pin you in place and make you feel like even your ancestors should be embarrassed. Elros just swore. That was always the easiest way to tell them apart. Even when they were trying to be confusing Elrond never remembered to swear enough.”

Maglor picked back up the soothing background music.

Maedhros hummed along for a while, feeling his grandson start to drift to sleep.

#jessewrites #maedhrosmaglorweek #maedhros #maglor #fanfic #tolkien #gen #Elladan or Elrohir #day 7: storytelling

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runesandramblings · 11 months

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Dance With Me

Word Count: 2300

Pairings: Kili x reader

Warnings: None

Description: A company of thirteen dwarves interrupts a peaceful afternoon for the niece of Lord Elrond.

Requested by @dreaming-doodle 🩷 Took a few liberties but I hope you enjoy!

“Lady (Y/N), do you require anything more?”

You lounged back in the crystal tub as the warm water washed soothingly over your body. The flower petals and oils in the water mingled together beautifully, making the air smell sweet. A goblet of your favorite elven berry wine rested on the edge of the tub, and through the open window you could hear light strains of string music drifting in.

“No, thank you. That will be all.” You smiled kindly at the elf handmaiden as she bowed her head and disappeared from the room.

“I could get used to this.” You mumbled, slipping down further into the perfectly drawn bath and closing your eyes.

Your uncle, Elrond, was the Lord of Rivendell. It was typical for you to come on an extended vacation to visit him and your cousin, Arwen, during the spring months. You lived a simpler life with your family in another elven kingdom. The luxuries of Rivendell were never lost on you. Every time you came to visit, your uncle tried to persuade you to stay. Although it was tempting, given the exquisite treatment you were always given during your stay, you never did. You had family back home, and it didn’t feel right to leave permanently.

You lost track of the time as you lounged in the tub, sipping the wine and listening to the faint music you could hear coming from below. As you went to take another drink from your goblet, you jumped at the sound of clanging and crashing coming from the courtyard below your window. Your eyes flew open. What could that have possibly been? You paused for a moment, straining your ears to hear the source of the commotion. Just as you moved to lean back against the tub again, you heard another loud clash and clank.

“What is going on?” You muttered, annoyed that your peaceful bath had been disturbed. You stepped out of the tub and threw your silk robe around your body, not even bothering to dry off first. As you stormed out of your private bathroom and out into the hall, you were greeted by your uncle standing apologetically by your door.

“Uncle Elrond, what is that insufferable noise?” You asked, gesturing backward toward the balcony that ran from your bedroom to the bathroom. “It’s coming from the courtyard. Is everything alright?”

Your uncle looked unbothered, as he usually did.

“Everything is fine. We have some unexpected dinner guests.” He said simply.

You felt an eyebrow raise curiously.

“Dinner guests?” You questioned.

“Yes.” He continued. “A company of dwarves traveling through. Will you join us?”

An hour later you were dressed for dinner and heading down the stairs. Your bathrobe had been replaced by more appropriate dinner attire, a light green velvet dress that hung off of your shoulders and flowed out into a short train behind you. The handmaiden Elrond had left to attend you had styled your hair and placed a delicate silver headpiece, very similar to the one your uncle and cousin wore, atop your head.

As you rounded the corner into the dining space you could hear the ruckus of several voices speaking over one another. It drowned out the pleasant strains of the harp and flute players that often accompanied dinner. You’d never met any dwarves in person, but they certainly seemed like a rowdy bunch.

You felt all the eyes of the room turn to you as you entered. Without giving any of the guests a second glance you made your way to the table Elrond sat at, along with a shorter, bearded man you took to be the dwarves’ leader. And…

“Gandalf.” You said, smiling widely at the wizard. “Uncle Elrond didn’t tell me you were here!”

Gandalf stood, smiling in return as he took your hand and planted a delicate kiss on it.

“My dear, you look as lovely as ever. Elrond did not tell me you were here either.”

Your uncle and the dwarf both stood as well, and as you turned your attention to the much smaller man he nodded tightly, not bothering to reach out and take your hand.

“(Y/N), this is Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin, this is my niece.”

Thorin nodded once again as Elrond made your introduction, still not bothering to so much as shake your hand. Something told you that dwarves were not ones for pleasantries.

You nodded politely in return as Elrond gestured for one of the servants to bring an extra chair. You quickly lifted your hand as well, indicating that it would not be necessary.

“It’s no trouble, uncle. There is a free seat over there. I’ll make some new friends.”

You could feel several pairs of eyes following you as you moved to sit at the last remaining empty seat at the longer table. It was between two younger of the dwarves, one blonde with beaded braids woven into his hair and mustache, and the other a brunette with a strange hat and twisted pigtails. You smiled kindly at the two as you approached.

“Is this seat taken?”

Both stared at you momentarily before they each shook their heads, indicating that you were welcome to sit.

“I’m (Y/N).” You said, offering an introduction as you settled into your seat.

“Bofur.” Said the one on the right with the braided pigtails.

The one on the left offered a cheeky grin as he took your hand in his.

“Fili, my lady. It’s an honor to meet you.”

You looked across the table at the dwarf who sat before you. He appeared to be young as well, with long dark hair and stubble in place of a full beard. He was looking at you uncertainly, with a shy smile across his face.

“And you?”

“M-me?” He stuttered out.

You giggled.

“Your name, sir.”

“Oh. Uh, Kili.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kili.”

The table remained deathly quiet as everyone ate. You were well aware of the tensions that existed between elves and dwarves; mostly due to the distant Mirkwood elves, who were known to be quite unwelcoming. You hoped their experience in Rivendell might be a good one. Hopefully they’d leave with a better opinion of the elves.

“So…” You finally started “What brings you this way?”

The confidence of your question finally opened the floodgates from the others. They began speaking, mostly over the top of each other, as they clamored to tell you of their quest. As they spoke you caught a glimpse of Thorin over Kili’s shoulder, glaring at the table. You weren’t sure they were supposed to be telling you the full details of their journey, but they certainly didn’t shy away.

The youngest dwarf sitting across from you had particularly piqued your interest. As you spoke with the others he watched you, joining in the conversation occasionally, but mostly watching as you spoke. He had soft, gentle eyes and a kind smile.

Before you knew what was happening you saw Bofur jump up from his seat beside you. You’d partially overheard some of the dwarves complaining about the music.

“Alright lads, there’s only one thing for it.” He said, running around the table. He jumped up on top of a smaller table and began to sing, stomping his foot along to the music.

The others joined in immediately, clapping in time or banging the table along with the beat. You found yourself jumping in as well, clapping along and laughing as several of the dwarves began hurling food at Bofur’s head. You enjoyed their merriment, their carefree attitude. Many elves were high strung, often too concerned with proper etiquette and manners. The dwarves did not seem to care what anyone around them thought.

As Bofur launched into a second song a few members of the company began to stand up and dance. You beamed at the opportunity, as you also got to your feet. You grew up dancing in your homeland. It was one of your favorite things to do. Although the beat Bofur was stomping out was a little more fast paced than you were used to, you were sure you could keep up.

You saw Kili watching you shyly as you stood, and you felt a small flutter in your stomach at the young dwarf’s longing stare. You circled the table to stand beside him and extended your hand.

“Dance with me?”

He beamed in return as he took your outstretched hand in his.

“I’d be honored, my lady.”

As he stood you remembered the small height difference between elves and dwarves; the top of his head came to rest just at the tip of your chin. Neither of you seemed to mind, as Kili’s beaming smile never faltered. He tugged on your hand and led you away from the table, to a clear space on the floor where you would have room to move. He placed one hand on your waist as you rested yours on his shoulder, and with your free hands you held each other’s. Kili quickly walked you through the steps to a dance the dwarves seemed familiar with. You were a quick learner, and within moments you were expertly moving back and forth with Kiil, your footwork matching his exactly.

You danced together through many more of Bofur’s upbeat songs. The pure joy radiating from Kili’s smile made your knees feel weak, and you couldn’t help but wish to know the dwarf better. There was a pull you felt toward him, and you were saddened by the fact that he was to leave in the morning.

As the dishes began to clear away and Bofur stepped down from the table, Thorin came back around to stand in front of his company.

“Everybody, get some rest. We set off early tomorrow morning.”

You felt a pang of sadness as you realized the evening was over. Thorin seemed like a strict leader, and you were certain he would not allow Kili to remain in your company while the others went off to their rooms.

Or, would he…

You caught a glimpse of your uncle from over Kili’s shoulder. He had a knowing smile on his face, as if he’d noticed the budding friendship between you and the young dwarf you danced with. He gave you a subtle nod before turning to Thorin and catching his attention. As soon as he turned his back to the company, who had slowly begun to filter out of the room, you turned back to face Kili.

He gave you a wistful smile as he turned to walk away as well. Without thinking you tightened your grip on his hand, and he turned around to look at you curiously.

“How do you feel about a walk?” You asked quietly.

He grinned mischievously in response. He glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure Thorin was not watching, before turning back to you.

“Lead the way, my lady.”

While Thorin’s back was still turned you quickly slipped Kili down the stairs and in the direction of one of Rivendell’s many gardens. It was your favorite, and always had been. This garden in particular held Elrond’s collection of rare plants and flowers, items he’d picked up from all over Middle Earth and replanted. Most did not have the skill to care for foreign plants, but the elves had their ways.

You led him down the paths of exotic blooms, showing him your favorites and explaining where each one had come from. You felt his eyes mostly on you as you spoke, and not the plants. As you walked together the conversation drifted from the garden to yourselves. He spoke of his family, it turned out the angry elder dwarf was his uncle, and his purpose in joining the quest. You told him of your home and your reasons for visiting your own uncle. You exchanged stories for what felt like an eternity and no time at all. It wasn’t until you realized it was too dark to see the flowers around you that you remembered the time. Kili had been gone for a while, and you were certain Thorin would not appreciate your kidnapping of his nephew.

“I should probably get back.” He said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Thorin has enough reason to distrust the elves without my disappearance adding to them.”

You nodded in agreement as you began to steer the two of you back in the direction of the rooms in which the dwarves were housed. Kili insisted on walking you to your chambers first, and as you neared your bedroom door you felt your steps begin to slow. You had only just met, but already you hated the thought of him leaving.

As you turned around to say goodnight you saw Kili holding a flower in his outstretched hand. A delicate, pink and white bloom with spiky petals. You recognized it as a favorite of yours from Elrond’s garden.

“For you, my lady.” He said as he placed it gently behind your ear.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to pick those.” You giggled, accepting the flower nonetheless. You reached up and tucked your hair around it to keep it in place.

He took your hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing a delicate kiss against your skin. His touch sent goosebumps across your arm, and despite having just met him you felt yourself longing for more.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N). Should our quest end successfully, I might be inclined to pay a visit.” He smiled and gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he stepped back, walking backward for several steps in order to keep his eyes on you a little longer.

You felt another flutter as you leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he slowly disappeared from sight.

“Please do.”

Maybe you’d stay in Rivendell a while after all.

#kili durin #the hobbit #Kili #kili x reader #kili x you #kili x y/n #kili imagine #the hobbit one shot #the hobbit imagine #an unexpected journey #kíli #kíli x reader

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ass-deep-in-demons · 4 months

Note

Can I please get a headcanon of Boromir having a crush on Gandalfs apprentice who looks after the hobbits like their mum? Boromir is kinda their dad/cool uncle so they both grow close together.

Also Boromir, apprentice and hobbits falling to sleep in a big cuddle puddle 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻

Girl (gn) thank you so much for this awesome ask! I get the feeling that you had something slightly different in mind, but I suffer from a plotter's disease and I created an entire plotline in these headcanons and also two mini-fics. There's some angst, but there is CUDDLES, as requested :D Hope you will like it :)

Boromir x Gandalf's Apprentice

headcanons and two ficlets

Found Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, rated G, 4250 words, she/her pronouns for OC, TW: canon Moria events & aftermath

I ✦ The Pupil ✦

Gandalf has been around for thousands of years. The peoples of Middle Earth tell different stories about him, but in every corner of the known (and unknown) World one of his many names has been heard.

During his travels, nobody knows exactly when or where, Gandalf finds a young one with magical talent. He does not know what strange anomaly might have caused a child to be born with arcane affinity, normally reserved for the Ainur such as himself, but… stranger things have happened on Arda. Perhaps the Illuvatar himself willed it. If so, it would be unwise to leave the child to its own fate.

At first he visits her home from time to time and shows her his fireworks and his pipe smoke magics. Her caretakers find him strange, but he pays them no heed, comes and goes as he pleases.

His suspicions are confirmed - the child can be taught to replicate some of his simple tricks, proving she is able to tune in to the Song of the Ainur. Her power is not great, barely a wisp of magic compared to Gandalf’s own, but still, it is worth cultivating. Gandalf deems it his duty to take the fledgeling under his wing and make her his pupil.

Gandalf tells his Pupil about his travels and about the secrets of Middle Earth. In time, as she grows, she starts yearning to leave her home and go exploring with the Wizard.

When the Pupil is old enough, Gandalf takes her with him on a journey. They spend years travelling together. Keeping up with Gandalf is not easy for the Pupil, but she perseveres.

With the Grey Wizard, the Pupil visits the Western Kingdoms, the Elven Realms, and Eriador. She helps Gandalf with his quests and meets many new people.

Later, when she is more experienced, Gandalf deems her ready to spread her wings and have her own adventures. She travels doing errands and fulfilling quests that her Master assigns her.

She spends some time studying under Saruman - from him she learns the basics of arcane knowledge. However, Saruman fails to appreciate her quiet, subtle talent. He is not pleased with her progress, nor is she with his teaching methods, and they part ways on non-too-amicable terms.

Her stay in Mirkwood is much more fruitful. From the Silvan Elves, she picks up the basics of scouting and learns how to read the signs of the Forest. She is fascinated with Radagast, and dedicates time to assist him in his tasks as the Guardian of the Woods - learning about the powers that lie dormant in the ancient trees. Radagast teaches her how to care for animals and heal what is broken. Nurturing and patient by nature, the Pupil responds well to the Brown Wizard’s tutelage.

The Pupil is present in Mirkwood when Aragorn brings Gollum there for safeguarding, and later when Gandalf comes to question him. She learns of the Ring and of Sauron’s return.

Gandalf assigns her a mission to go to Erebor, to enlist the help of the Dwarves. She arrives at Rivendell with Gloin, Gimli and the rest of the Dwarven deputation.

She is not deemed important enough to join the Council of Elrond, and besides, Gandalf has other plans for her. He sends her forth to scout the gap of Rohan, in case they need to pass there on their way to Mordor.

After the Council and the period of preparations, the Fellowship sets off. The Pupil finds them on the trail further South. She is able to clear any doubts for them: the Gap of Rohan is overrun with Saruman’s spies, and so the passage is closed to them.

They decide to go through the Redhorn Gate. Gandalf orders his Pupil to return to Rivendell, but to his surprise, for the first time since he took her as his ppprentice, she defies him. She wants to travel with the Fellowship, intent on helping her Master in any way she can.

Faced with her obstinacy, Gandalf finds a task in which she can indeed be of use. He’s been growing more and more irritated with the Hobbits’ mischief. They are loud, impish, and unused to living in the wilderness. “So long as you keep the Hobbits from pestering me, you may travel with us. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, my stubborn Pupil,” he grumbles.

The Pupil, who is of a gentle and giving nature, but also stern when she needs to be, quickly forms a familial bond with not only the Hobbits, but the entire Fellowship.

She has met Aragorn during her earlier travels with Gandalf. The Ranger knows he can rely on her scouting, and is relieved to have someone beside himself and Legolas who knows their way around the woods. She helps Aragorn gather herbs and imbues his mixtures with her subtle healing spells.

Though she’s met Legolas in passing during her Mirkwood days, she only becomes better acquainted with him during the Fellowship’s trek south. Legolas is glad to know someone who is well acquainted with his home, and shares his love for the woods.

Because of her earlier mission to Erebor, and the shared journey from the Lonely Mountain to Rivendell, she is well acquainted with Gimli. The dwarf teases her for being “too elfy” and a “tree lover”, but he is very grateful for her kindness and her efforts to ease tensions within the Fellowship.

Frodo has long known her as Gandalf’s Apprentice, and the rest of the Hobbits warm up to her quickly. They are delighted to be around someone, who, like themselves, isn’t so strongly focused on the topics of warfare and survival. Istead, they bond over their shared appreciation for a good meal and a good laugh. Tasked with keeping them out of trouble, she often mother-hens them, especially Merry and Pippin, who are the youngest.

Boromir is the only one who, not knowing her prior to their meeting on the trail, has some trouble trusting her at first. He is generally suspicious of magic users, and also a little bit jealous of how quickly she builds good rapport with the Hobbits (though he will not admit it).

That being said, he might not be so immune to her caring touch as he thinks…

II ✦ Soup for the Soul ✦

I should not let them fall asleep like that. True although it was, this realisation came to Boromir rather late.

After their failed excursion through the Redhorn Pass, the Fellowship had descended to once again take shelter under the canopy of the woodlands of Eriador. They now had only one route open, through the Mines of Moria, and all save for the Dwarf did not take well to that prospect. They were travelling South, slowly and reluctantly, still recovering from the snowstorm that cut their path.

Earlier today, once they had set up camp, Boromir had organised a fencing lesson for Merry and Pippin. He had hoped that some light exercise would speed their recovery and help them regain some of their lost strength. Even Frodo had joined on this occasion, which gladdened Boromir. Their journey had not lasted long, but the first signs of wear and discouragement could be already seen on the young Baggins.

After their sword practice (sword being a generous word for the dirks that the Hobbits carried), they all sat down under a tree to sharpen their blades. Pippin had trouble with maintaining the angle, and asked Boromir to show him how it’s done. As Boromir expertly whetted the dagger, the three hobbits leaned in on him, supposedly to better observe and learn. Boromir was none the wiser, and only Meriadoc’s loud snore made him finally realise that the three Halflings had fallen asleep, using his padded shoulders and arms as pillows. Now he was stuck under them, not wanting to disturb their sleep - not when Frodo was peaceful at last, after several nights during which Boromir had heard the Hobbit toss and turn.

Tired and hungry, Boromir resigned himself to his fate. As he could not move without waking the little ones, and it was gradually getting dark, he quietly observed the Fellowship’s campfire from a distance. Gandalf was sitting on a log by the fire and smoking his pipe, clearly content to have some peace and quiet. Samwise was busy cleaning after the meal - a stew which Boromir did not have the chance to taste yet, and probably wouldn’t now, not while it was hot at least. Gimli had been assigned with securing the perimeter - it was his turn to scout the surrounding forest and make sure they were safe for the night. Aragorn and Legolas were seated together some distance away from the campfire and discussing something in hushed tones - likely their strategy for approaching the Gates of Moria. Boromir was rarely included in their talks, which sat ill with him. Not for the first time he regretted their less-than-optimal introduction during the Council in Imladris.

There remained one more member of their party - the woman who everyone except Boromir seemed to already know. They called her the Pupil, likely because of Mithrandir. My young Pupil this, my clever Pupil that, my stubborn Pupil, my silly Pupil... - the Wizard would always say, and it stuck. Boromir could not tell her age - she looked neither old nor young. She did bear elven nor dwarven features, nor orcish for that matter… and yet he could not be sure she was wholly of the race of Men. Boromir did not know what to make of her.

Right now she was crouching next to the campfire, her back turned to Boromir, so he could not see what she was doing. He had not trusted her, at first. She hadn’t been part of their original team. She did not seem proficient in combat, nor very sturdy. He had been angry when she had declared they couldn’t travel through the Gap of Rohan, as he himself would have preferred that route to any other. And yet her intel had proved correct. She was also useful in other ways. During the snowstorm atop Caradhras, he had witnessed her magic - not flashy, like the Wizard’s fireworks, but rather slow and subtle. Mithrandir refused to light a fire for fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention, but she had used her quiet talent to keep the little ones from freezing with potions. She had imbued Boromir’s leather grieves with some sort of a warming spell, too, even though it had seemed to sap at her strength. He had to assume she was loyal to the Grey Pilgrim, and so, by extension, loyal to the Ringbearer’s mission.

He noticed that she stood up, then. Instead of addressing the Wizard, she turned around to face Boromir, and he noticed a bowl in her hands. He then guessed what her purpose by the fire had been: she was heating up the leftovers of the stew. Slowly, carefully, so as not to spill anything, she approached Boromir and the Hobbits’ resting place under the tree.

She kneeled and set the steaming stew on the forest floor beside them. Then, once their eyes met, she touched her lips with her finger signalling him to remain quiet. That he could do. She noiselessly stood up and scampered off back to the campfire, leaving Boromir once again. The smell of the stew reached his nostrils and he cursed quietly. Some help she was, leaving him to smell the meal, but without the means to taste it! Not without disturbing the Hobbits, at least.

But he was not left to pine after the stew for long. Soon she returned to him, carrying a bundle that she then unfolded to reveal a chunky warm blanket. She covered them with it, Boromir and the three sleeping hobbits, tucking the edges in gently. It did help to ward off the evening chill, Boromir admitted.

Then she plopped down to the forest floor next to Boromir, sat cross legged and picked up the bowl once again. Is she going to make me watch her eat it? Boromir thought and felt a surge of irritation at her inconsiderate behaviour. She scooped up a hearty portion of the stew with a spoon, but, to Boromir’s alarm, she did not bring it to her mouth. Instead, she directed the spoon surely and smoothly to Boromir’s own lips.

In that moment, Boromir would sooner open his mouth from sheer shock than for the sake of any sort of cooperation. He was a Man grown! It has been… nigh to four decades since he had let anyone spoon-feed him last. He turned his head away firmly. The Pupil, however, would not give up so easily. She reached out with her free hand and gently swept Boromir’s hair away from his face.

The gesture made him flustered. It has been… quite some time since any woman has touched his face. He was thankful for the shroud of dusk. He had nowhere to run however, and he felt her nudge his lips with the spoon, urging him to open his mouth. He was forced to meet her gaze once again.

What he found on her face was not amusement, nor condescension, but rather... gentle pleading. She really was only trying to help.

"Let me", she mouthed silently.

He shook his head and pursed his lips even tighter.

Then, as if his own body wanted to play tricks on him, they both heard his traitorous stomach give out a loud growl.

The Pupil raised her eyebrow at Boromir.

Well? Are you going to deny that you’re hungry now? her expression seemed to demand.

He rolled his eyes as a universal way of saying whatever, I care not, and finally opened his mouth.

A spoonful of warm stew finally landed on his tongue, and he felt the most delightful warmth spread through his body. He had to fight an urge to growl at the pleasant sensation.

The Pupil smiled.

There. That wasn’t so hard, Boromir read from her content face.

This was a good idea, after all, he thought after the second spoon. He had been ravenous, he realised, and the stew was doing wonders for his mood. It was surprisingly nice to have someone take care of him that way. For too long a time he had been only attending to the needs of others, not accepting any help for himself.

He met her concentrated gaze, as she continued to feed him the stew, restoring his strength with each spoonful.

“You did good,” she mouthed silently and Boromir furrowed his brows, confused. “With the little ones,” she added, and vaguely indicated the sleeping Hobbits with her head. Oh, she means the sword-practice, he thought, and felt no small satisfaction from her compliment.

He was reminded of how taking care of Faramir was always a duty that filled him with joy and pride. This was not dissimilar, he realised, and it was nicer still to have someone help him and share some of that responsibility. He felt contentment at what they’d accomplished together: Pippin breathing deeply, with his head resting on Boromir’s arm, Meriadoc snoring quietly slumped against his friend, and Frodo - looking strengthened and at ease, sleeping soundly propped against the tree on Boromir’s other side.

Is this how being a father feels like? What if I had a child of my own one day? he asked himself. But this thought of parenthood that came to him, perhaps for the first time in his life, was so strange and foreign, and so surprising, that he dared not dwell on it any longer. Instead he resigned himself to the gentle care of the strange woman, who turned out to be… not so strange, after all.

III ✦ Picking up the Pieces ✦

Boromir was sure he would never forget the moment Gandalf fell.

He remembered the unearthly heat and the fumes of sulphur that wafted from the hellish chasm. He remembered Mithrandir’s white knuckles, holding on to the collapsed bridge’s edge, and the Wizard’s desperate last message to the Fellowship: Fly, you fools!

But what he remembered the most, and what was was going to forever haunt him, was the cry of Gandalf’s devoted Pupil. Her broken, desperate wail, the kind that a mortally wounded animal might give out, as if her very heart was rent out of her chest and thrown into the fiery pit.

She wanted to jump in after her Master, and would have, but for Boromir’s interference. Unmoved by her screams of protest, he had hoisted her up over his shoulder and heeded the Wizard’s last bidding. He ran.

He ran after the others, despite the army of orcs upon their tail and despite her angry trashing in his grip. He ran to the open sky and to safety, so that they both could live to fight another day.

But right now it did not look like she had any fight left in her. They were, all of the Fellowship, cooped up on the border of Caras Galadhorn, the elven realm of Lothlorien. Aragorn and Legolas were currently negotiating their safe passage through the woodlands with the elven Marchwardens. It was a heated dispute in Sindarin, of which Boromir could catch only certain words, but he understood enough to know they were not likely to face a warm welcome.

The rest of the Fellowship had been allowed to rest. They were, all of them, in foul spirits. Gimli had been quiet ever since he had learned of the tragic fate of Balin’s Kingdom, and Boromir could only surmise that the Dwarf needed his space to fully take in the bad news. He was loath to intrude upon his friend’s quiet contemplation. Frodo and Pippin were weeping openly and Sam was trying to offer them whatever comfort he could, mostly by wiping their wet cheeks and noses time after time.

The state of Gandalf’s Pupil worried Boromir the most. Since he had carried her away from the danger, once she stopped resisting the rescue, she went completely still and quiet, her eyes unseeing. She had not spoken a word, not responded to any attempts at conversation. He could only suspect she was in some sort of shock. He’d seen it on the battlefield enough times to recognize the signs. It made sense; as Boromir understood it, Mithrandir had been a father figure to the woman, someone she considered family. In a way, with the Wizard, her entire life had fallen down that chasm. He felt helpless; he wanted to console her, but the sheer magnitude of her loss left him overwhelmed.

He felt a tug at his gambeson and looked down. It was Meriadoc.

“Go to her,” the Hobbit whispered.

“I… I would not presume. I do not know what to say to her,” Boromir confessed, dejected.

“Then do not say anything,” Merry insisted. “Just go there and hold her,” he added. “Trust me, it will help.”

Boromir took a hesitant step in her direction. Then another. He spared a thought to his appearance… he was bone-tired, aching and covered in goblin ichor head to toe. Not exactly conducive to physical intimacy. Then again, she was in a similar state, and, really, vanity was the least of their concerns.

Tentatively, he sat next to her on the wooden platform. Up close he could see that, although she was sitting motionless and staring ahead, her eyes were damp. The tears had washed away the dust from her face, forming clean streaks down her cheeks.

He had long since stopped regarding her as merely Gandalf’s Apprentice, or just an ally in a dangerous quest. Instead, upon seeing the state she was in, his heart wept with her…

Gone.

Her mind could not comprehend it. Everything she had learned about the Wizard during their life together contradicted this truth. Her Master could not die, he was simply too powerful, too wise, too… godly, for the mundane laws of life and death to apply to him. And yet, what had happened - happened. She’d seen it with her own eyes and his fall would now play out in her mind again and again, each time shattering the ground that she had built her life on.

Such kindness, such wealth of knowledge as her Master’s would never again grace Middle Earth, she was sure of it. And now that light was gone. Extinguished forever with a mere flick of a monster’s whip.

What shall I do now? Wherever shall I go? she wondered. Was she even welcome in the Fellowship anymore? Ever since she could remember, she had been Gandalf’s Pupil. And now that there was no Gandalf, who was she? A nobody. Aragorn and Frodo likely had no use for a nobody. But such thoughts were too painful to bear in her current state. So, instead she let them go and simply drifted in the darkness of her inner world, that was now forever marred by grief. She did not know where she was, or how much time had passed. A million years wouldn’t be enough to mourn her Master.

The first thing, the first sensation that managed to break through the dark shroud that surrounded her consciousness, was that of the warmth of another. Someone’s arm was on her back, rubbing gentle, soothing circles. Then that very same arm encircled her form and drew her into a hug. She had no wish to be consoled, she didn’t want any comfort. She wanted to cry, to wail and to tear at her clothing… But then she felt Boromir’s familiar presence. Him, she could let close. He had been a comfort to her during their travels many a time. She relaxed gradually and let her head fall back to find support against him.

Slowly but surely, his steadying touch made her come back to her senses and to the present moment. She was seated on the forest floor, she noted, in Lothlorien most likely, if her geographical knowledge had not failed her. Boromir was seated next to her, his back propped against one of the giant trees. He was also holding her in his arms, close to his chest and stroking her shoulder soothingly. His cheek rested atop her head. She had no strength nor care left in her to wonder what this closeness could mean for the two of them. She was just… immensely relieved and thankful for the comfort that his arms offered. She was at her lowest and most wretched, and yet he was willing to share that moment with her. For that, she would be forever thankful.

Boromir’s compassion moved her and tears spilled down her cheeks once again. Against her wishes she started sobbing. She felt the Man next to her stir. For a moment, she thought he would let go of her and leave her to her sorrow. Instead, Boromir tightened his embrace. Then he gently but surely pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“...mise me you’ll never do that again.” She realised he was whispering something to her halfway through his sentence.

“Never do what?” she asked.

“You… Back at the Bridge… at Khazad-dum,” he said quietly, “you wanted to jump after him, didn’t you?” This was no question. “I couldn’t bear it,” he said simply. “Promise me you’ll live.”

“What reason to live do I have left?” she asked. There was no bite to her words, just a simple statement of the facts, as they appeared to her.

“I could help you find a new purpose, if you would but let me,” he whispered to her ear and held her fast in his embrace. Against her better judgement, and despite their tragic circumstances, her heart did a flip.

“Boromir, I…” she began, but her sentence was cut short when she felt a firm shove upon her side.

“Oi! Move!” a voice sounded from behind her. She turned around and saw the four Hobbits standing next to the tree. “Make some space for us! We all need a hug, and you’re hoarding all the best cuddles to yourself,” said Pippin and sniffed.

She regarded the Halflings: their red, puffy eyes and their wet cheeks. They were grieving too, no less than she was. Even so, Pippin was making an attempt at levity. For her sake, to help her bear the pain, she realised. The little ones had the gift of laughter, and it would not fail them even in their darkest hour.

Suddenly, her purpose became clear to her anew: Gandalf had bid her to take care of the Hobbits. And so she would continue to do that. Her Master might be gone, but his legacy yet lived. It lived through her, through the Fellowship, and their quest. She would not abandon them now.

“Of course, Master Peregrin,” she said, her voice creaky from all the crying. “There is cuddles enough for everyone.” And so Meriadoc weaselled his way between her and Boromir, and the rest of the Hobbits piled up atop them like hens on the roost.

“Do you think we ought to wake them?” asked Legolas. The Elf and Aragorn were back from their negotiations with the Marchwardens. The Lady of the Golden Forest had intervened on their behalf, and so not only the passage was now open to them, they would be provided rest and comfort in Caras Galadhorn. What the Elf and the Ranger did not expect was the sight of all their companions, even the Dwarf Gimli, passed out from grief and exhaustion atop one another in one giant group hug.

“Let them rest a while,” said Aragorn gently. “After what we've all been through, I’ve half the mind to join them myself.”

[fanfiction masterpost]

#lord of the rings fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #lotr headcanons #boromir #boromir x oc #gandalf #[arda]#ass deep in demons #ass deep in asks

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aeondelirium · 4 months

Text

Here is my gift for the White Oliphaunt event! Have a lovely, healthy, happy new year. ❤️

Frodo had been intrigued by the elf since he first saw a glimpse of his injury; a thin sliver of greyish flesh spotted between the the cuff of a sleeve and the trimming of a glove. Illness was rare among the elves, and it had begun to make a small loneliness in Frodo’s heart that grew as Bilbo went from old to ancient and he himself was getting on in years. Master Elrond was a healer of great skill, nor was he the only one eager to see to the comfort and health of the hobbits; still he could not halt the march of time. Frodo felt that it pained the elves to witness the slow failing of their mortal bodies. More than once he had seen their neighbours flinch or quickly avert their eyes when Bilbo struggled to rise from the bench outside his home, or when an indrawn breath gave away a sudden pain in his joints. Frodo felt reminded of an old yellow tomcat who had liked to sleep on the warm cobblestones by the well outside Bag End, and the way he had flinched to see him limp away in the evening as his days drew near their end.

The elf with the injured hand drew similar looks of mingled pity and distaste, though Frodo had been made to understand that he had earned the latter. He found it difficult to picture soft-spoken, withdrawn Maglor either as a joyful minstrel or a ruthless warrior; rather he felt as though an invisible hand had plucked kin strings in their souls, and loneliness sung in both of them.

One afternoon, Master Daeron’s beautiful harp had been carried out to the shore by no fewer than four strong elves, and the hobbits had spent a delightful time listening and singing until Bilbo’s rhymes reduced most of the audience to tears of laughter. Frodo’s smile had grown somewhat fixed when he found he was no longer certain that the merriment stemmed from his uncle’s cleverness, rather than the jolly nonsense of his wandering mind. Frodo’s gaze lingered on Maglor, who had not laughed along with the others.

“Does it hurt still?” he found himself asking. Maglor did not turn his eyes on him, but his burned hand twitched inside its glove.

“The hurt is less a thing of the body and more an ache of the soul” he said softly.

Frodo nodded. “I’ve some of those hurts myself.”

“I miss my harp” Maglor confided, his eyes still fixed straight ahead as though he were speaking to himself. “That is perhaps the greatest hurt of all.” There was a silence. Frodo knew no comfort to give the elf.

“Pimpinella Bracegirdle”, said Bilbo beside him, stirring from a brief rest against his shoulder, “loved to dance.” He fixed his watery old eyes on Maglor with an intensity that finally forced the elf to turn his head and acknowledge him. Bilbo manoeuvred himself upright with a huff and a puff and wet his lips, ready to spin yet another yarn.

“Now the trouble was”, he continued, “her dear Hugo was lame in one leg whenever the weather was about to change, an old injury from when he was a lad … I seem to recall he’d stepped on a bee and rolled down the hill up near Sandson’s farm …”

Frodo felt a slow flush creeping up his neck and put a gentle hand on his uncle’s arm, hoping to dissuade him from his tale. Bilbo, however, was undeterred. Maglor simply looked at the old hobbit, his face betraying neither amusement nor disdain. He listened with the careful attention of a minstrel.

“Now, a little further down Bagshot Row lived a hobbit who didn’t care much for dancing, despite having two good feet at the end of two good legs. We called him Daddy Twofeet, if you can believe it, for he’d more sense in his toes than that foolish head of his, heh. So on every other feast day, if the weather was about to change, and Pimpinella wanted to dance, Hugo would limp over to Daddy’s hole, and borrow his good right leg, on the condition of course he’d have it back by morning. And then he and Pimpinella would dance the night away, and they didn’t care who knew about it.” The old hobbit finished with a snort and a shake of his grey head.

“Oh Bilbo”, Frodo sighed.

His uncle bristled. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young hobbit! Hugo and Daddy were my neighbours for many years, and every word is true.”

“Bilbo-”, Frodo began, but the old hobbit shook his hand from his arm.

“Why, I ought to send you to bed without your supper!” he sputtered, now truly querulous in a way only the elderly can muster.

“To bed, yes”, Frodo agreed wearily, and made to rise. “Perhaps it is time for bed.”

“Perhaps you ought to listen to your uncle, Master Baggins.”

All three of them stopped and looked up to where Daeron was watching them, a twinkle of merriment in his bright eyes.

“I think there is some wisdom in his tale”, he went on, and raised a graceful hand in beckoning. Beside the hobbits, Maglor stiffened where he sat, not unlike a rabbit hoping to elude the hunter’s searching gaze.

“Come, Maglor. Sit with me.” Daeron’s voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument. Maglor rose, but doing so cast a sideways glance at Frodo, who could not help but feel he had done the elf a bad turn.

“Show me”, Daeron said as Maglor settled himself on the smooth rock next to him. He opened his hand in invitation, and received Maglor’s own in return. None around them spoke or even shifted as Daeron gently peeled the glove away, a shadow of pain passing over his features at the sight of the marred flesh.

“The skin has hardened”, Maglor said in a voice barely above a whisper, forcing the words out quickly as though they hurt him. “The fingers are too stiff to play.”

Daeron hummed a soft note of agreement, turning the hand over and gently extending the scarred digits. “Yes”, he said at last, “that hand is hardly fit to pluck my harp.”

His finger’s tightened around Maglor’s wrist to prevent him from drawing away. Daeron removed from his shoulders his own lovely blue scarf, and, resting Maglor’s hand in his lap, gently pulled the soft fabric over it.

“Between the two of us we have three good hands to play.”

The tune was halting and strange at first. Taking half of two famed minstrels did not, Frodo thought to himself, make a whole one of outstanding skill. Yet there was not a face in the audience that did not smile, or shed a tear, or both.

Beside him, Bilbo rested his wizened head back on his shoulder. An elf maiden draped a soft woollen blanket around him against the evening chill. And when the old hobbit begun to hum along in his faltering voice, the music was sweeter than any that had been heard on that shore in a long time.

#wo2023 #had to double-check white elephant rules weren't strictly enforced #because lord knows i don't know how to do funny #i hope you enjoy! i haven't written anything that wasn't a comic in forever #silmarillion #maglor #not gonna tag daeron bc i think that's also a house of the dragon character now?

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