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Dating Fíli Headcanons

More headcanons, lucky you!! I figured before I get too big of a collection I might want to post some content about the namesake of this blog lol.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 0.4k

- Y'all ever heard of The Belly (TM)?

- Literal heaven on earth cuddling with this man

- He is THEE best cuddler because: 1) bear 1a) belly 1b) hairy 2) he bathes regularly and makes an effort to smell good (look at that face and tell me he doesn't smell like lavender and thyme)

- He's more likely to fall for dwarrowdams than his brother, probably because he's just always been more appealing to his own folk

- He prizes how interesting and captivating a potential partner is over their rank, much to his family's chagrin (cue Kili aggressively cheering him on)

- He's a very diligent student, and the more cautious of the two brothers

- That's why he takes a while observing you from afar and making sure that he won't be wasting your time if he asks to court you

- That same studiousness makes him very attractive to you

- If he didn't know before, he quickly learns to cook at an artisan/Bombur level to impress you

- He plays the fiddle very skillfully, though he relies on you to come up with new tunes for him to serenade you with

- He loves to read, and if you do too, he will fall HARD when you can discuss the books you read together

- He learned to dance to impress at balls, but he takes to twirling you and waltzing with you in hallways, often early in the morning or late at night when no one else is around

- He definitely spends most of his time forging, however--where do you think all those knives came from?

- You'll have a whole collection before you even get married, with a few gauntlets/bracelets/necklaces in there somewhere

- He gets a huge confidence boost from you oohing and ahhing over his muscles, which thankfully you do often

- One form of affection you both share is playing with each other's hair--it's a perfect way to get each other to relax after long days

- Naps naps naps naps naps naps

- Once again, I cannot emphasize this enough: most ideal and best pillow because he is warm and soft and also he loves you what more could you ask for

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This is exactly how I feel about how I met my Significant Other/(dare I say!) Soul Mate . . .

It happened a mere seven months ago. Having spent the past 10 years in an "I guess this is as good as it's gonna get for me" relationship that had stagnated with no prospect for further growth, I finally decided in a fit of frustration to get on a dating app. You know; just to see whether or not "I still got it". (NOTE: for those of you about to decry me as an unabashed Cheater . . . this relationship was Ethically Nonmonogamous to begin with. Not that it helped much in the long run.) Within a week I was meeting the Love of My Life for our first date.

My Love (let's call them T.) had spent 13 years in an abusive marriage and had just gotten up the courage to leave. T. found me on said dating app, and (as they tell it) was immediately smitten. We met for happy hour on a freezing November afternoon just after Thanksgiving . . . And we hit it off brilliantly. What ensued over the following weeks and months was nothing less than magical: the best real-life Rom-Com you could ever hope for! (Seriously. We once got locked in a park after midnight because we were too busy making out in the car to notice that the park rangers were closing the gates!)

But what struck me was how RIGHT it felt, from the very beginning. T.'s life story astonished me: because of their lived experience, their trials, their pain, and the struggles they have overcome, T. is everything I could have wished for and so much more (including some things I didn't even know I needed!)

Meeting when we did was no coincidence. We each had to be ready and receptive for the other: like two puzzle pieces individually shaped to fit perfectly together. And without the sum total of our lives up to that point, we would not have been who we were when we met. Yes, sometimes the years that prepared us to love each other felt excruciating. ("When is it gonna be MY TURN?!?!?" I would scream to the cosmos when another one of my friends or family members got married, or had a baby, or celebrated a landmark anniversary). But the waiting was so, SO, *SOOOO* worth it! T. and I are madly, hopelessly, stupidly, irreversibly head-over-heels in love with each other: despite the fact that both of us are WAY past the age when Romance is "supposed" to happen.

If there's a "point" to this rambling (other than that I feel compelled to crow my joy to anyone and everyone who will listen!) it is this: don't despair if you haven't found "true love" yet. Life doesn't have a script. Its twists and turns will always surprise you. And when the Wonderful Unexpected Thing suddenly turns the corner and bumps right into you, well . . . ! I guarantee it will take your breath away. Because up until that moment, you won't be able to see how your mistakes, triumphs, struggles, and stumbles were actually shaping you into the perfect puzzle piece. Then suddenly, out of the blue . . . *CLICK!*

#middleagedlove

“Two souls don’t find each other by simple accident.”

— Jorge Luis Borges

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This looks like perfect drabble fodder . . .

I just unearthed this from the pits of Pinterest and it’s doing things to me 😭 he looks so comfortable

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I saw a post saying that Boromir looked too scruffy in FotR for a Captain of Gondor, and I tried to move on, but I’m hyperfixating. Has anyone ever solo backpacked? I have. By the end, not only did I look like shit, but by day two I was talking to myself. On another occasion I did fourteen days’ backcountry as the lone woman in a group of twelve men, no showers, no deodorant, and brother, by the end of that we were all EXTREMELY feral. You think we looked like heirs to the throne of anywhere? We were thirteen wolverines in ripstop.

My boy Boromir? Spent FOUR MONTHS in the wilderness! Alone! No roads! High floods! His horse died! I’m amazed he showed up to Imladris wearing clothes, let alone with a decent haircut. I’m fully convinced that he left Gondor looking like Richard Sharpe being presented to the Prince Regent in 1813

*electric guitar riff*

And then rocked up to Imladris a hundred ten days later like

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Saving for later so I can stalk - er, I mean peruse! - the blogs on this list which are new to me!

I absolutely adore all your thorin works,, especially blame it on cider can you recommend me other good writers who write for as well? I'm not a veteran in the fandom so i'm still exploring, thank you!

Hello Anon! <3

First of all, thank you so much for reading my stories! It warms my heart to know that you enjoyed them :)

As for other writers who focus on Thorin, there are quite a few good ones. I'm going to spam you with some blogs now, but these are not all of them because I'm forgetful AF (my brain = Swiss cheese). I bet that the second I post this reply, I'll recall a dozen of awesome Thorin blogs anyway.

Check out these blogs (in random order) for some good Thorin content (watch out, some of them may contain NSFW fics):

@technoelfie @scariusaquarius @fizzyxcustard (thanks for helping me out with this <3) @legolasbadass @legolaslovely @i-did-not-mean-to @deepestfirefun @rattyoakenbitch @xxbyimm @dumbassunderthemountain @crazytxgradstudent @fromthedeskoftheraven @kibleedibleedoo @thewarriorandtheking @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @averil-of-fairlea @shalinizhara @gwen-ever @luna-xial @shethereadinghobbit @elisethewildwolf @middleearthpixie

Happy reading, liking and commenting, Anon! I'm sure those talented writers will be happy to know how you liked their fics :)

P.S. If you're reading this, you're a Thorin writer and I haven't mentioned you here, I'm sorry, I suck and there's no excuse. Please DM me or send me an ask! I'd love to add you to this list, share your works with the fandom and spread the word about your awesome fics! <3

[saucyminxbrainspill]

• An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television, getting drunk, and smoking cigars.

• A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly.

• A bar was walked into by the passive voice.

• An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening.

• Two quotation marks walk into a “bar.”

• A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite.

• Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything.

• A question mark walks into a bar?

• A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly.

• Papyrus and Comic Sans walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Get out -- we don't serve your type."

• A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud.

• A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.

• Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart.

• A synonym strolls into a tavern.

• At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar -- fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack.

• A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment.

• Falling slowly, softly falling, the chiasmus collapses to the bar floor.

• A figure of speech literally walks into a bar and ends up getting figuratively hammered.

• An allusion walks into a bar, despite the fact that alcohol is its Achilles heel.

• The subjunctive would have walked into a bar, had it only known.

• A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph.

• The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.

• A dyslexic walks into a bra.

• A verb walks into a bar, sees a beautiful noun, and suggests they conjugate. The noun declines.

• A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert.

• A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.

• A hyphenated word and a non-hyphenated word walk into a bar and the bartender nearly chokes on the irony

- Jill Thomas Doyle

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[saucyminxbrainspill]

Beyond These Stars teaser photoset - Fili

Find out more and follow here. You can find the Kili photoset here.

FiKi December Challenge - Day 11ish

      MY OTHER EDITS

[saucyminxbrainspill]

Day 2: An Excuse to Kiss

💚💖💙 Today's fic was prompted by @sketch-and-write-lover's request (I'm not putting your whole ask here, not wanting to spoil all the other prompts yet!):

No worries, my lips are sealed! ;) Here's a little something about boyfriend!Fili in a modern AU setting.

Fandom: The Hobbit Relationships: Fili x Reader Rating: G Warnings: Modern AU, romance, fluff, Kili being Kili

You met Fili for the first time on a rainy afternoon when you bumped into each other, trying to find shelter away from the deluge. Your clothes were soaking wet. He offered you his umbrella and smiled – and then your heart made a flip. After Fili walked you home, you invited him for a cup of hot, aromatic tea. Since that day, you would spend more and more time together.

Soon after you started dating, you learned that Fili was raised by his mother in an old-fashioned way, like a true gentleman, respectful of women. He would open the door for you, pull out a chair and help you sit when you’re at a restaurant, help you carry heavy things, and make sure you’re comfortable at all times.

Dates with Fili included evening cinema dates, dinners at nice restaurants (nothing too fancy, though, he was not a big fan of very formal settings), or a night spent on a hill outside of the city - a place where you could clearly see the stars and he would tell you stories about them. Fili liked hiking in the mountains and you would often spend a weekend in nature.

It was you who initiated your first kiss. Fili was that type of a man who knew the meaning of consent. Even though he was very attracted to you right from the start, he never crossed the line, so you had to help him a bit. As soon as you showed him that you were interested in a bit more than holding hands, he showed you how he enjoyed your closeness.

You enjoyed all the time you were spending with Fili and you knew what you felt for him, but for some reason he didn’t speak about his feelings towards you. On the other hand, he was attentive and you knew you could trust him. It was clear that you were important to him, and yet those three little words you hoped to hear never left his lips.

After dating you for several months, Fili asked you whether you’d like to meet his family. Of course you agreed, glad to see him take another step. First he introduced you to his brother Kili. It turned out that you had a lot in common and Kili became one of your good friends in no time, sharing the most embarrassing stories about Fili from their childhood. Needless to say, Fili was not quite amused, but he bravely accepted the challenge, telling you equally embarrassing stories about his younger brother.

December came and Fili invited you to spend the winter holidays with his family and you said yes. His family home at the outskirts of the city was very cozy and full of Christmas decorations. You met Fili’s mother Dis, her boyfriend Dwalin, his uncle Thorin and even Fili’s grandparents: grandmother Sigrun - an elderly, but very witty lady with a great sense of humour, and grandfather Thráin - a retired businessman with an impressive moustache.

During the Christmas dinner Sigrun was not-so-subtly hinting at the fact that you were the first girlfriend Fili had ever introduced to them, then you had a nice little chat with Dís when it turned out you liked the same music genre, and after that Thráin tried to convince you to go winter fishing with him at the lake at dawn of the next day. Thorin, a well-known fantasy writer, was glad to hear that you read his latest book about dragons, Kili was making sure his girlfriend Tauriel had a full plate, and Fili… Fili kept looking at you, a wide smile never leaving his face. When his bright blue eyes met yours, your fingers intertwined with his under the table. "Come with me. I want to show you something," he whispered into your ear and you followed him to the terrace overlooking the snowy garden. Fili put his jacket around your shoulders before the cold winter air reached you.

"What did you want to show me?" You asked.

"This," Fili pointed at the low wooden ceiling above you.

You looked up and saw a bunch of mistletoe hanging above your heads.

“I didn’t know we needed an excuse to kiss,” you giggled.

“We didn’t,” he murmured, cupping your face with his hands. “But I needed an excuse to take you here so we could be all alone.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

His gaze softened as he replied, “Because I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

Your kiss was sweet and tender, like marshmallows and fresh snow, and you never wanted it to end.

“This is the best Christmas gift I could ever wish for,” you admitted, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Merry Christmas, my love,” Fili smiled and pressed his forehead against yours.

“Merry Christmas, Fili.”

Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💚💖💙

🎁 The Hobbit Advent Calendar 2021 Masterlist 🎁

Do you like my writing? Would you like to read more? Feel free to show your support by having a Ko-fi with me! Thank you 💙

Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @justfollowtheroad @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @tschrist1@nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry @shalinizhara @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames @emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512 @ragsweas @enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @elliepie1226 @middleearthpixie @laurfilijames @guardianofrivendell

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Fern Flower

This is a comfort fic with Kili and a gender neutral human reader bonding over their insecurities during the Quest.

For @jentaculargums - hope you'll like it! 💙💙💙

Special thanks to @guardianofrivendell for the prompts: blanket and mirror. ***

The surface of the forest lake is still and smooth like a mirror, only stars reflecting in it against the backdrop of the dark evening sky. Like diamonds on black silk. The air is filled with the scent of pines and bonfire smoke. Distant sounds of music and laughter come from behind you, echoing among the trees. After traveling for many days, the dwarves of Thorin’s Company have finally found a perfect place to rest for a few days before continuing their journey to Erebor. You have been traveling with them for a while now, enjoying their company and their lighthearted banter. You felt that special warmth in your heart whenever you sat with them by the fire, that warmth that chased away your loneliness for good. As a human from your world who arrived to Middle Earth, you were still learning how to survive, but the dwarves were always there to help you. Fili gave you one of his knives and taught you how to use it, Dori would always make sure you had an extra blanket when the night came, Bofur was always full of funny stories and Bombur would give you a full bowl of food even if the supplies were scarce.

And then there was Kili. The dark-haired dwarf who always had a smile for you. He and his brother were somehow always around you, helping you with your pony, sitting beside you at meals, joking or planning the next mischief with you. Soon after you joined the company, the older dwarves would refer to the three of you as “the troublemakers”, and you were secretly proud of that nickname, slowly starting to feel like you belonged right there, with that group of dwarves. But Kili was the one who seemed to understand you best, or perhaps it was the other way… or both. Sometimes you caught yourself looking at him, seemingly without any reason, and sometimes you would catch his glance, warm sparks dancing in his coffee-colored eyes. It felt as if you could understand each other without words, and perhaps that was why none of us had ever spoken about this bond that seemed to bloom between you.

But now your eyes are drifting to the sky above you and then to the glittering surface of the lake. You lower your gaze and see your own reflection in the water. You stretch your lips in a smile, but the happiness never reaches your eyes.

“I see you’re admiring a beautiful view,” you hear a familiar voice and quickly turn around.

“Kili!” you exclaim. “What are you doing here?”

“I got bored listening to Gloin talking about little Gimli,” he groans theatrically, “so I figured I could torment you instead.”

You chuckle, “Well, there goes my evening. Are you going to tell me that story about how you nicked some apples from that farmer who had large, angry dogs for the umpteenth time?”

“Not at all! I was planning to tell you that story about apples, the farmer, his dogs AND uncle Thorin being very cross with me and Fili for a week afterwards!” Kili grins.

“Your uncle Thorin is very cross at you now for scaring poor Bilbo, so I can imagine that part of the story very well!”

You laugh together and you are sure Kili is about to continue the banter when he speaks with a serious tone in his voice, “Are you okay, Fern? You have been away from us for some time now.” Fern. That’s how the dwarves decided to call you when they first found you in the forest, sleeping among lush, green ferns. Somehow you’ve grown to like your new name, it was definitely more fitting to the new world you found yourself in than your regular modern name.

“I needed some time on my own. It’s really beautiful here. And the silence… we don’t have that kind of silence in my world,” you say, thinking about the ever-present noise of cars, trains, lawnmowers and other machines. There were things and people you dearly missed but that was not one of them.

“Would you mind if I sat here with you for a bit?” Kili steps towards you hesitantly.

“Not at all!” with an inviting gesture, you pat the log you are sitting on. “I thought you came to fetch me.”

“Not really,” he sits down beside you and hangs his head, his dark hair covering his cheeks.

“What is it, Kili?” you turn to him, placing your hand on his forearm and feeling how stiff his muscles are under his shirt, his hand clenched into a fist.

“Nothing, really,” he mutters.

“Come on, Ki, you know I’m there for you.”

He lets out a sigh, but you can’t see his face, still hidden behind the curtain of his hair.

“Fern… Do you… Do you think I’m ugly?” his whispered words drift to your ears on an evening gust of wind.

“You? Ugly? Who on earth said that to you?!” you gasp in disbelief. Kili was many things, cheeky, funny, sometimes a little annoying, but definitely not ugly.

“The boys say… I’m like an elf. B-because of my beard,” he admits.

“What are they talking about? There is nothing wrong with your beard!” you say, and you mean it. You have grown to like that dark shadow of a stubble on his cheeks, as opposed to the heavy, braided beards of his companions.

“It… doesn’t grow as fast as I would like it to,” he sighs again. “What if it never grows longer?”

“Hey, Ki… look at me,” you ask him and, after a moment, he turns his head towards you. His eyes are shining with the reflected light of the stars above you. “I will still like the way you look, no matter if your beard grows or not. You can shave off all the hair from your head, and I will still like you!”

It’s quite dark, but you think you see how his cheeks darken slightly.

Kili clears his throat in embarrassment and soon you see the familiar cheeky sparks in his eyes, “Fern, I’m speechless! Shave my head? That’s an outrageous thing to say to a dwarf!”

“Ah, yes, I remember, you, dwarves, and your hair thing,” you nod. “I wish it was like that in my world.”

“Is it that much different from ours?” he wonders.

“For many people, having hair on your body is considered shameful. Some even think it’s disgusting to have hair on your legs, arms or other places, especially if it’s dark,” you explain with a frown.

“But… but how? It is a natural thing to have hair! That’s the way we are born.” he tilts his head. “Why is it so bad?”

“I have no idea. I just know I’ve been teased about my body too, I know how it hurts,” your hand moves to your forearm, checking whether it’s covered.

Kili’s eyes follow your gesture.

“Is that why you always wear long sleeved tunics and long trousers?”

“Is it that obvious?” you grunt, trying not to think of the shaving razor you left at home.

“Hey, I get it, I always wear too wide tunics to look more... bulky. My grandmother keeps saying I’m too thin for a dwarf,” Kili gives you a shy smile. “She says no dwarf-maid will like me…”

“And my grandmother says I’m too chubby for a human!” you smile back at him. Somehow, instead of feeling ashamed by the way your body looks, larger than the bodies of supermodels on the covers of the fashion magazines, you start feeling more at ease.

“You humans are weird. The way you look, you would make a perfect dwarf! If we were in Ered Luin now, both dwarven men and women would say you’re pleasing to the eye!”

“It’s because they haven’t seen my stretch marks. They are ugly,” you hear yourself say and wonder at how easy it is to talk with Kili about those things. Perhaps there is something in the evening air, something in the darkness that shrouds you both like a comfortable blanket, that makes confiding in each other so easy.

“What are stretch marks ?” he frowns, not understanding.

“You don’t know? You get them for example when you are young and your body grows quickly. Or when you are a pregnant woman,” you say, surprised at his words.

“Ah! You mean warrior’s scars !”

“ Warrior’s scars? ” Now you don’t understand what he means.

“We call them this way out of respect. Each of us has many battles to fight. Warriors go to a battlefield, mothers give life, our bodies change as we grow… Those marks on our skin are like letters on a parchment, telling the stories of our lives. That’s what Mother says,” Kili offers.

“Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” you nod.

“And she is right. It is a thing to be proud of, not ashamed of! Have I mentioned you humans are so weird?” he winks at you cheekily.

“And you dwarves are not, I imagine? With all those beards so long that you have to tuck them into your belts? And those braids! It takes forever to braid them! I’m still amazed by the fact that Fili can eat anything without drowning his moustache braids into a stew or eating them by mistake.”

“He keeps those braids because he’s a showoff,” Kili chuckles. Hearing his laughter makes your heart feel lighter. Friendly banter is what you’ve grown to like in the company of dwarves, and especially when it’s him you’re teasing with.

“And you’re not? You take ages washing and combing your hair!” you retort.

“Well, it’s not like my hair is as naturally beautiful as yours, Fern! I have to work hard to look the way I do!” He gives you a grin.

“Flattery will get you nowhere!”

“What a shame, I thought we could switch our guard duties. You know how much I hate waking up before dawn,” he makes puppy eyes at you.

“You hate waking up in general! I’m not taking your shift!” you giggle and then an idea strikes you. “But we can bribe Bofur to do it if you have some spare pipe weed…”

“I don’t,” Kili sighs sadly. “But I know who does!”

“Who is it?”

“My dearest brother…” a mischievous grin appears on his face and it’s all you need. It doesn’t take you long to come up with a convoluted plan on how to distract Fili and snatch some of his pipe weed supply.

“That’s great, Fern! It has to work. You’re a treasure,” Kili nudges you with his arm, flashing his white teeth at you. “I’m so glad we found you!”

“You better, because you’re stuck with me now,” you can’t stop yourself from sniggering.

“It’s good, because…,” he pauses and asks you suddenly, “Do you know why we called you Fern ?”

You whisper, “Because of the place you’ve found me at?”

He shakes his head and moves towards you a bit, looking deeply into your eyes.

“We, dwarves, have this legend about a fern flower. They say that it blooms once a year, on the eve of the summer solstice. The person who finds it will have wealth and fortune for the rest of their life,” he takes a deep breath. Something in his gaze softens as he gently presses his forehead against yours and whispers five words.

“You are our fern flower.”

***

Read it? Like it? Reblog it!

Taglist:

@fizzyxcustard @reblogunderthemountain @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307@anyaspidergirl-blog @justfollowtheroad @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @xmly-xo @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @yourqueenunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @nelleedraws @beenovel

[saucyminxbrainspill]

My dudes, Jesus wept. So did Aragorn. *mic drop*

Proving a point to my boyfriend.

PLEASE REBLOG if you (male or female) believe it is perfectly okay and natural for a guy of any age to cry

[saucyminxbrainspill]

The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | ...

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had  pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs. 

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier. 

“Look at his back!” 

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said. 

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.” 

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop. 

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice. 

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. 

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

 The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body. 

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal. 

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.  

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that  joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups. 

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with  wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice. 

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.  

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain. 

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head. 

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…” 

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin. 

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

 “We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

 A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again. 

“Help me understand this, laddie.” 

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes. 

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | ... 🌟

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[saucyminxbrainspill]

Humans Are Weird

So there has been a bit of “what if humans were the weird ones?” going around tumblr at the moment and Earth Day got me thinking. Earth is a wonky place, the axis tilts, the orbit wobbles, and the ground spews molten rock for goodness sakes. What if what makes humans weird is just our capacity to survive? What if all the other life bearing planets are these mild, Mediterranean climates with no seasons, no tectonic plates, and no intense weather? 

What if several species (including humans) land on a world and the humans are all “SCORE! Earth like world! Let’s get exploring before we get out competed!” And the planet starts offing the other aliens right and left, electric storms, hypothermia, tornadoes and the humans are just … there… counting seconds between flashes, having snowball fights, and just surviving. 

[saucyminxbrainspill]

I'd hit Dat.

An au where Frerin lived and joined the Quest of Erebor.

[saucyminxbrainspill]

Rough, quick one-shot-

word count: 757

-mild angst followed by mild happiness-

a/n: sorry not sorry, I didn't revise before posting 🤷🏻‍♀️

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“I think I am quite ready for another adventure.” Bilbo smiled excitedly as he moved to grip Elrond's hand. The Elf smiled brightly at the little hobbit as he carefully led him up the small ramp into the small vessel. 

Bilbo sighed happily as he leaned against his walking stick near the railing on the main deck.  The smell that was in the air was something so familiar to him that he couldn't hold a sigh of contentment.

Bilbo's memory may be slower and now fading at the ripe age of 129 but he could never forget that smell of adventure that came with the unknowing. It was a smell that brought Bilbo great comfort but also great sadness as he remembered his past fellow companions.

“My Lord Elrond.” Bilbo spoke gently, almost shaking as he looked up at the tall Elf. “When we arrive at our destination...What is it that we are expected to find?”

After spending a decent amount of time recently with the old hobbit, Elrond was quick to understand the true background of his words. “I do not know what all that awaits us, My Mellon. We can only hope for good things.” The hobbit snorted and Elrond raised a quizzical brow.

"Remember that saying that I told you when we first met?" Elrond smiled at the memory as he repeated that very saying. "'Go not to the Elves for counsel for they will answer both no and yes' Yes I remember fondly that phrase." 

"It was very well proven there."

Chuckling and shaking his head, Elrond didn’t get a chance to reply before Gandalf and Frodo joined the two.

Frodo, red-eyed, wrapped a tight hug around his uncle. The action made Bilbo smile waterly and rub a gentle tremoring hand on Frodo's back, as the younger hobbit spoke into his uncle's shoulder. 

“I didn’t truly realize how hard saying goodbye would be.” 

“Living with me, my boy, you should already know.”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“That goodbyes are nothing but ‘See you soon’ when it comes to true relationships.” Gandalf and Elrond smiled down at the two, a knowing glint in both of their eyes as their gazes met. 



With the final passengers on board, the sails were lowered and the final journey of the last member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company began. 

As former Ring-bearers, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins were granted the luxury only a selected handful of the free people of all Middle-Earth have been awarded. 

A trip to the closest thing to Heaven in all of Middle-Earth. 

A place in the Grey Havens. The place that could heal and strengthen many; however, there are some things that it can not cure or prevent… Death being one of them.

Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End went peacefully and quietly sometime in the late hours of the first night of his new adventure. Though he was alone at the time, ( something that Frodo had taken rather hard.), Frodo knew deep down that his uncle was not alone for long…

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"Uncle! Uncle!"

"Mahal's Beard, it was about time!"

"Shamukh!!"

"Bilbo's here?"

"I'll get the fire going!"

"MASTER BOGGINS!"

Grunting at the sudden total weight on his chest, Bilbo rolled and pushed at his sudden attacker. 

“Kili, would you-” Bolting straight up once he realized what he just said, Bilbo rubbed at his eyes cartoonishly as he took in the sight before him with his mouth agape. 

Sitting around the open fire as they all had done for many nights on their quest. Everyone smiled and waited patiently for the hobbit to register his surrounding. Like they had all down at various points over the years. Dori. Nori and Ori were on the longest of the logs, with Ori tucked happily in between his older brothers. Oin and Gloin were just across the fire from the three, sitting on the shorter one of the logs.

Turning to look over the rest of the camp,  Bilbo followed the line of amused faces of Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur, as they laughed in joy at seeing their hobbit friend. Bilbo didn't forget to catch Balin and Dwalin leaned up against the rock face that was on the back of the camp. The two older brothers smiled knowingly and nodded in acknowledgment as Bilbo met their gazes. 

All of them, Bilbo realized, looked exactly the same as they did when they all knocked and burst through his door at Bag-End that fateful night. Bilbo's mind shook as he moved to rub at his eyes. 

Speaking of not aging, next to the quivering hobbit there was Kili, kneeling and smiling so brightly at the bewildered look on Bilbo's face as he looked up at him. 

Kili was just as he remembered, as was Fili, who was not far behind his brother, currently shoving a taller dark figure whose back was turned away from the rest. Fili was practically jumping as he pointed and gestured over at Bilbo for his uncle to see.

Bilbo had never been so on edge then he was now, watching as Thorin turned to face him, but his nerves were pointless, as the young king smiled even more brightly than Kili. 

"Did you at least remember to bring your handkerchief this time?"

Bilbo scoffed.

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[saucyminxbrainspill]

@mikathemonster you might like my first Kili fic (which was also my first-ever fic!), "Heated Negotiations":

i need more kíli and fíli writers on here, bro. i’m rereading the same ten on here (don’t get me wrong, they’re amazing) and it’s so sad. we need more!

if you write for kíli or fíli, don’t hesitate to link your wares in the replies! i’d love to find and read more amazing stories.

[saucyminxbrainspill]

Fili is judging you...

Here are some of the best sassy Fili stares:

Ugh, stop being a bunch of Debbie Downers!

Great, I have to listen to another deranged wizard.

I hate you, elf.

This plan is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard…and I listen to Kili all day.

Thorin, please.

So what? I could have done that too. Show off.

What the…oh, HELL no!

I question your life choices, Thorin.

Fili vs. the Elves, Part 2: Sass Harder 

I would say you’re joking, but we all know you don’t have a sense of humor.

And there you have it: Judgemental Fili Glances…at a glance. Stay tuned for Confused Kili Faces (wait, what’s the size limit for posts??)