alightindarkplaces

[alightindarkplaces]

Thither, eastward, unwilling his eye was drawn. It passed the ruined bridges of Osgiliath, the grinning gates of Minas Morgul, and the haunted mountains, and it looked upon Gorgoroth, the valley of terror in the Land of Mordor. Darkness lay there under the Sun. Fire glowed amid the smoke. Mount Doom was burning, and a great reek rising. Then at last his gaze was held: wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, black, immeasurably strong, mountain of iron, gate of steel, tower of adamant, he saw it: Barad-dûr, Fortress of Sauron. All hope left him.

And suddenly he felt the Eye. There was an eye in the Dark Tower that did not sleep. He knew that it had become aware of his gaze. A fierce eager will was there. It leaped towards him; almost like a finger he felt it, searching for him. Very soon it would nail him down, know just exactly where he was. Amon Lhaw it touched. It glanced upon Tol Brandir - he threw himself from the seat, crouching, covering his head with his grey hood.

He heard himself crying out: Never, never! Or was it: Verily I come, I come to you? He could not tell.

[alightindarkplaces]

Also, if you think about it in terms of the multiverse, the canon ending is one of the rare ones. Most of the time, Sauron probably gets the Ring one way or another.

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Things would not have gone well if Faramir had gone to the council instead of Boromir. If he had, he would not have been there when Frodo and Sam were found in Ithilian, and I don't think there is any other man alive in Gondor who would have chosen to let them go...

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A sigh as soft as spring slipped past Frodo's guarded lips and left him feeling cold. Deep was the wound left in Boromir's absence, as large as his presence, and as potent as the love seen only in hindsight. Faramir's touch was the only warmth he could feel, so Frodo pressed ever closer, driven by a quiet desperation for anything that might resemble wholeness.

He spoke, trembling, into the darkness where his face was buried against the rich fabric of Faramir's tunic, just below his waist. The left hand gripped with desperate affection at the small of his back, while the right remained clutched close to his own chest, shielding the still-tender wound and the loss that came with it. "I would tell him," he began in a shaky voice, "It was not his fault- and I do not blame him... I never have..."

Faramir held him more closely then, a gesture that was neither pity nor obligation, but tender as snowfall over broken ground.  He bowed his head, and nothing.  He did not need Frodo’s words to know the weight he carried.

Many times, grief was rendered in language that failed to hold it.  Names recited in funeral dirges.  Letters sent into silence.  Words, always words, but the dead could not answer.  It was left to the living to try, always try, to speak into the chasm where love had once been received and returned.

He looked past Frodo, to the carved arch of the doorway, to the heatless light upon the stone.  The air smelled faintly of cold iron and dried lavender.  Bouquets nailed into lintel – already grey, already crumbling.

Sometimes love was the body beside one’s own in a chamber of the dead, breath warming grief-wrung skin, fingers laced not out of lust but out of longing not to be left alone.  His palm moved up to cradle Frodo’s head.  Fingers slipped into his hair – mussed, soft with sunlight and salt – and he arranged the curls gently, not to neaten, but to know them.

[alightindarkplaces]

I wish to see more artisits depict Frodo with an ass...

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Frodo is very much not wife material (unlike Sam or Faramir.) He's a heartbreaker, he's a slut, he never does the dishes, or the laundry, he's not skilled in any craft besides writing, he's not at all nurturing or doting or delicate in any notable way... He's not really husband material either, tbf, but he does kinda have that distant father figure smoking his pipe by the fire aesthetic going on.

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Just going to point it out here (and someone find me a quote and correct me if I'm wrong,) but to my knowledge and memory, Tolkien never said Hobbits have large feet- only that they have thick soles and wooly hair like that on their heads.

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The fact that Frodo is trans is not a throwaway fact, nor something I want to be ignored... Of course, it won't generally come up in the course of your everyday interactions, and there are many who would be unphased or unconcerned, but I want to encourage those with a muse who would notice/care/disagree/find comfort in this fact, to speak up and let it become part of the interaction.

He is not the most "passing" individual, though I can say from personal experience that it matters less how you look or sound than how you dress and present yourself, but it's very possible for your muse to clock him, if they are the sort who would. And of course, if things get spicy, there is really no hiding the fact of his biology, and yes, Frodo would let you get to third base and find out the exciting way, though I don't recommend anyone do that in real life, since it can be unfortunately dangerous... Having been extremely sheltered, Frodo doesn't consider it a risk.

All this to say; don't feel like you have to ignore the transness, embrace it. I really want to do more with other characters reactions and I would absolutely welcome conflict or even outright transphobia, though I understand there's probably not too many people willing or wanting to write it. But just in case ...

[alightindarkplaces]

@alightindarkplaces ♡

[alightindarkplaces]

Reblog if you’re willing to do threads that involve more than 2 muses

For some multi-muse blogs, they may have two muses who are always together or may want to introduce another muse partway in the thread to shake things up.

[alightindarkplaces]

1 part actually writing together :: 2-3-4 parts talking about them:tm:

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It had been a lovely ceremony, though not as grand as Frodo imagined a royal wedding would be. The halls echoed with laughter and tears held each in their turn, for all the people of Rohan felt deeply the loss of their Lady Éowyn. The whole affair left a bittersweet taste.

For his own part, Frodo could not help but feeling both glad for them, and a little envious. There would be no handfasting for him- no wedding nor party for the union of Frodo and Samwise, nor any other. Just as there had been none for his first love, there would be none for any that followed after...

It was all for the best. Or so he said to himself as he stood on the balustrade looking out into the midnight sky, darkened in preparation for the dawn. His time on earth would soon be at an end. He felt it as surely as the coming of winter. It was not fair, but it would be worse to pretend otherwise.

He sighed into the wind and let his sorrows drift away with it, though there was now never a time when he did not feel at least a little mournful.

An unfamiliar voice called him back from the dark of his own mind, and Frodo turned his face up to meet him. Éomer, he knew from the talk of his friends, and recognized the face at once.

"My Lord Éomer," he greeted, bowing in formal fashion with his right hand at his breast. "You flatter me! But there is no need for remorse. I am only one of many, and yours is the greatest of all burdens this night." He had known already from the talk surrounding this ceremony, and again from the open window of his green gaze. This was a man who lived in earnest, bearing forth with all the glory and folly of his own heart spread out on wide wings for all the world to see.

Frodo was reminded of Boromir, of whom he often thought, and smiled more sweetly for the memory of him.

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His sister's wedding was overwhelming. The loss of both Théoden and Théodred was still fresh, a wound that still bled, and Éomer was now king, entirely unforseen. Now Éowyn was going to leave the Mark, to live with her husband in Ithilien and Éomer mourned the loss of the family around him. Éowyn was not dying, on the contrary, she was now beginning to truly live judging by the looks of love and elation she shot Faramir, but to him it still felt like a loss.

When hazel eyes met the bright blue ones of who must be Frodo Baggins across the room, they were damp with tears. Though they were salty, they were not only born of sadness and grief. He was happy for Éowyn, truly. Her happiness was also his and he knew that she and Faramir truly loved each other deeply. She was going to live a joyous life with him and he was going to treat her with the honour and respect she deserved, which was a comfort.

After long hours of merrymaking and far too much ale, Éomer somehow managed to stumble his way into his bed. He fell asleep but woke two hours later. It was still dark outside when he gazed through the window but the stars were already pale and the sun was already a gentle whisper on the edge of the horizon.

Deciding that he wanted to ride out with Firefoot to clear his head, he got dressed and made his way through the corridors of the keep. Outside he took in the comforting scent of dew and grass, and spotted surprising but not unwelcome company.

"Master Baggins?" Éomer came to stand in front of the Hobbit and bowed his head in polite greeting. "I apologize for not approaching you during the celebration." He had not been in the right condition and had appreciated that his friends had kept most people away from him. "I see you too have yearned for fresh morning air."

[alightindarkplaces]

Hobbits do not have a centralized religion, nor do they worship any specific deity or idea, but they do celebrate the seasons and pay homage to the power of nature. They simultaneously hold many cultural practices and superstitions while claiming not to.

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@saltuary. pinterest

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The land of Imladris was stunning in its beauty. Red and gold mingled under the soft autumn sun and painted the trees with warm radiance. Leaves rustled under a gentle breeze carrying the scent of memory, and Frodo felt his heart ache for the familiar comfort of his own hearth. His hand went to his breast, and felt beneath the soft satin of his tunic the cold weight of gold hung from his neck. Since the moment he learned the truth of its making, he felt a sense of impending doom. It followed close at his heels and dogged his every step, yet still he held fast to the vague hope that it would not remain his burden for much longer.

A voice from behind startled him from his thoughts, and he turned swiftly to see, even while trying to hide his surprise. With wide eyes, he blinked at the lovely visage before him, and hurried into a low bow. "My lady! There is nothing to forgive. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I am flattered you saw fit to meet me at all." He smiled shyly, worry touching at the edges of his eyes. His hands came together to keep themselves occupied, and drew away from that which lay hidden at his breast.

Celebrian approached with quiet steps, silver gaze looking curiously at the hobbit. Elrond had told her they had a visitor, but she had not yet introduced herself, preferring distance by which to hold her observations. She had seen him, overlooking from balconies and across the open halls, and something in her heart felt sadness for him.

Unseen by the world, yet borne all the same, was a weight that only he seemed to feel. Celebrían understood that intimately.

The quiet clink of dishes upon the nearby table, teapot and saucers and cups, a small plate with sandwiches, they were her greatest allies and her most used possessions. They bridged gaps between the quiet and the lonely, between the tired and the somber, for comfort lay sloshing in the porcelain, and she sat in the chair a few feet beside him to begin her little ritual of greeting.

"It is a sad horizon this morning. But at least the mist has left the air quite crisp." Celebrían said by way of greeting, setting out two cups. "You are Frodo, are you not? I am Celebrían, Elronds wife. You must forgive that I have not introduced myself sooner, but quiet moments are far better than public ones I think."