#elvish childhood

[ladysternchen]

Headcanon explained/character study- Elu Thingol, part 1

Alright, MY elf at last (this is going to be long. Very long). First things first though, I know that he’s considered a controversial character, and many don’t like him, which is fine, I’m not trying to convince anyone to change their mind. I always read him the way I’ll describe/base my headcanon/fics on, knowing that many disagree. I neither can nor want to judge who’s right. I’m just saying that I do not agree with fanon here, I don’t see him as a racist, prideful idiot who mistakes possessiveness for love and who’s ultimate downfall is his greed and his not listening to his wife. (Just no. So if that’s your opinion of him, this post is not for you. It’ll just annoy you and I do NOT want to annoy anyone.) Oh, and maybe second things second, I’ll probably answer the question of why Elu is my elf, why I identify more with him than with any other fictional (or real) character (in any book I’ve ever read, or movie I’ve ever watched): I just know that feeling so well of trying to do it right, and still failing in the worst possible way. I can relate to one’s mistakes somehow always weighing more heavily than others’. I can also relate to not belonging anywhere, and -frankly- to change being one’s arch-enemy. He is my brother at heart, the to whom I flee in my imagination when reality is just too freaking much. Am I mad? Hm, yeah, perhaps. That doesn’t bother me one bit, though. But enough waffling, on to the headcanon. Elwë was born by the waters of Cuiviénen as the last prince of the Nelyar that was descended in the firstborn-son-to-firstborn-son-line from Enel and Enelyë (though nobody knew it then, obviously. Tata’s line was broken with Maedhros dying childless, Imin’s probably still continues, but certainly did until Ingwion). He was a quiet, shy child, but once he warmed up a bit, he would eagerly join the games of the other children, would sing and dance just like everyone else, so his being rather withdrawn bothered nobody, and once Olwë was born and he the big brother, that shyness vanished entirely. From birth on, his cousin Nowë (I headcanon Círdan’s father to be the brother of Elwë’s mother, though canon of course does not specify ‘close kin’) was his friend and his protector -Nowë took great pleasure in being the older and wiser one and have his little cousin toddle after him and look up at him in utter admiration. Their friendship would persist throughout times, as would their roles in it. To Elwë, Círdan would always be the advisor, and to Círdan, Elwë would ever somehow remain the little elfling that sat beside him by the water’s edge, trying to catch the stars that were reflected in the smooth surface of the lake instead of the boats crafted from bark and leaves that Nowë had made for his amusement. Nowë was mildly annoyed by that back then, but he did get his eager disciple when Olwë was born, while Elwë had by then befriended Finwë as well. Those two soon became inseparable and -frankly- unstoppable. Finwë’s and Elwë’s relationship might be worth a post of its own, so I won’t go too deeply into this now, but they were each other’s perfect counterparts. Where Finwë was reckless and too quick to judge, Elwë was the more considerate, the one to reserve judgement until he could truly assess the situation. And where Elwë was unwilling to move even a quarter of an inch out of his comfort-zone and would keep to himself rather than face his insecurities and engage with others, Finwë encouraged him and kindled his curiosity. They often lay, hands firmly entwined, and swore that they would never abandon the other, that they would always stay together. Where you go, I go. They were both perfectionists to a fault, Finwë in his crafting, Elwë in living up to responsibilities, but soon, and for reasons truly known to nobody, those two had built themselves up a following consisting of all the children of the Tatyar and the Nelyar, or at least those that didn’t prefer to join Nowë and Olwë in their exploring of boat-crafting. They would get themselves into all sorts of adventures, and be loved and admired by the younger children. There was only one incident during the year of his childhood that Elwë did not particularly like to be reminded of (and still ironically was constantly reminded of, at least for the rest of his life in Middle-Earth), and that was his infamous fall into the lake, that had resulted in his uncle -Nowë’s father- to fish him out and, chuckling, wrap him up in his cloak. Tall and lanky as Elwë had always been, he still was very much a child then, and the mantle covered him head to toe (which he was quite glad about then, because the hood hid the tears of humiliation that ran down his face), which lead to Nowë calling him teasingly ‘Greycloak’- a name that stuck with him, and that, in the course of the following millennia, he came to love and hate in equal measure.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Trying to transliterate Leara's name into Quenya, and it somehow becomes, uh,

Lëarra

Which basically means "You Sealion!"

And I'm just, "Oh yes, this is That Sealion Woman, and she can breathe fire, as all sealions do."

If Leara, for any reason at all, needed an actual Quenya or Sindarin name for any fun Elvish shenanigans, we'll just use Calairie/Calearil, which is "Light of the Sea" in Quenya and Sindarin, and what Leara actually means.

[scion-of-kings]

//Tag drop

[isilrina]

🌙👑 Isilrina - Unveiled 👑🌙

Happy Art Monday! This drawing serves as the second part of the Isilrina diptych, representing the concealed side of myself that remained hidden from the world until last year. "Masking," a coping mechanism prevalent among non-neurotypical individuals, becomes a means of self-protection in an unsupportive environment. Only a select few were privy to this concealed facet until now – trusted individuals with whom I could authentically be myself, free from societal expectations. It resulted in many burn-outs along the years until I finaly decided to put down the mask for good. Now I'm only showing this unveiled side of me when I meet new people so they know what to expect. Because I realized it isn't real friendship if people are only friends with your mask.

It took me a long time to realize that but I think I had to come to terms with not being able to be friend with everyone, before I understood this. And, looking back at it, in the end, it is a relief, because I also realized I had spend so many energy and years of my life trying to fit in other people's idea of friendships that didn't aligned with mine, and I can never get that time back either for myself or for the people I care for. In the end, I'm incredibly thankful for those who embraced and accepted me without judgment during this journey, and for those who helped me recognize and understand my ADHD.

[welliguessimin]

Now listen here you little rock devil, Your mom.

[strangersteddierthings]

Childhood friends AU Idea

Steve and Eddie are best friends who make plans to learn the elvish alphabet from The Hobbit so that they can pass notes without worrying about other people reading them.

The end of the school year (Eddie in 6th, Steve in 5th) brings a sadness to the two. Eddie's going to middle school and Steve's not yet, but they can hang out on weekends, and they have all summer so no worries. (Also, it gives Steve a little more time to learn elvish, since it'll be a whole year until they're in the same school again.)

Except yes worries because two weeks into summer, Eddie vanishes. When Steve bikes to his house to investigate, the whole house is empty. Packed up and gone. Steve goes to Wayne for answer and all he gets is a smile that doesn't really reassure and words of "his dad got a job opportunity, had to move on short notice. But don't worry, kiddo. I'll get you the number to their new place so you can call."

He learns elvish anyway. It's harder without Eddie to help but he's determined. Eddie might return, or maybe he'll get an address one day. Send a letter to Eddie in full Elvish.

Steve never gets a number or address. Summer ends and sixth grade comes. He doesn't want to forget all the elvish he's learned, just in case. So, he decides to keep a journal. He can write all about everything that's happening and when he sees Eddie, he can give it to him. It's a double win. Eddie will know everything he's missed out on AND it'll help Steve practice elvish.

Sixth grade ends. Eddie doesn't return. Steve did make friends with Carol Perkins though, so he's not as lonely. He hopes Eddie made a new friend, too. But not a new best friend. That's Steve's position, always.

Seventh grade brings Tommy Hagan, but still no Eddie. It brings a growth spurt and sports. Steve likes the easy camaraderie that comes with sports teams. It's like having a lot of friends, which Steve will only admit to needing in his journal. Needing many little connections of friendship to hold together the big hole Eddie left behind.

The summer between seventh and eighth grade brings him a Bruce Springsteen concert. He'd never thought of a boy kissing another boy until he'd witnessed it on stage but he thinks about it a lot after. The end of that summer brings an awaken he refuses to shy away from even if he has to hide it

Eighth grade brings popularity. Steve's good looking, rich, and liked among his peers. It brings the first (and last) time his dad says he's proud of him.

(Steve will spend the rest of his high school career chasing his father's approval.)

Freshman year brings Eddie back, but he's different. His hair is longer and his clothes are darker and he's distant. Defiant and angry. Steve would recognize him anywhere, dressed in anyway.

Eddie doesn't want his friendship anymore. Avoids him in the halls and cafeteria, but Steve is nothing if not persistent. He writes a full letter in elvish to slip into Eddie's locker, but Eddie catches him. Shoves the letter back, unopened, unread, with a harsh whispered, "Don't you get it Harrington? I don't want to be your friend. Fuck off."

Steve doesn't understand why. Not until the table top rants start. Conformity and jocks and brain-dead rich kids who get by on favoritism.

It hurts. Steve feels his heart break the day he finally gets the not-so-subtle messages drilled into his mind. Eddie hates sports, and rich people, and stupid people. Eddie hates all the things that Steve is.

Eddie hates him.

Sophomore year brings Steve a lot of things. It brings the acknowledgment that he was probably in love with Eddie, the way his heart twists the day he sees Eddie flirting with a girl in the hallway, the way he wants the lights out when hooking up with someone so he can imagine a different person pressed against him, the way he gravitates towards brunettes with brown eyes and the flickering hope it might make Eddie jealous. (The way he'd said the wrong name when Brent went down on him, too absorbed in the fantasy of someone else to get it right. Brent hadn't been offended by it, he'd been thinking of someone else, too. Steve finds solidarity for a little bit, until the school year ends and Brent leaves Hawkins.)

Junior year turns Steve's life upside down (pun intended) with monster's coming out of walls. There's probably a lot more he should write about but his journal's pretty empty this year. Too traumatized to document. (Too afraid of what Eddie would say because Steve still writes in his journal like he plans on sending it to Eddie one day. Better to write nothing than sound crazy.)

And halfway through his senior year (don't think about how he's in it with Eddie, about the 4 classes they share, about how Eddie still won't meet his eye) he wants to fade into the background. Nancy and he break up. She's with Jonathan and he hears the whispers of how pathetic he is to be eating lunch with his ex and the guy that 'stole' her. Steve knows that's a lie, Nancy made her choice, and no one can say otherwise, but it hurts to hear. He can't be bothered to try and make new friends. How would he explain the nightmares? The skittishness. The fear of the dark, of pumpkin patches, of his own damn pool now that he's had time to process last year?

Then, the next year brings him Robin. Well. First it brings him an embarrassing uniform and then Russian torture (don't think about it. Don't think about how he'll shorthand the stock list by writing it in Elvish sometimes. Don't think about how the Russian's almost believe they just work for Scoops until they find the stock list in his pocket. Don't think about how they don't believe that the strange script they can't identify isn't proof he's a spy), but in the end he gets Robin. A Platonic Soulmate who understands the hidden side of him. She asked if he was ever in love, and he thinks of the Eddie he used to know, longs to know again, and describes her instead. She rejects him in the softest way possible and then confesses about Tammy, and he confesses about Eddie in turn.

1986 brings Eddie back into his life in the worst way possible. With a bottle to his neck and them both acting like they've never spoken before. It brings twisting guts as Steve lies awake thinking about Eddie alone in a boathouse instead of sharing a bed with him like they used to in elementary school. It brings Steve leading them to Skull Rock (popularized as a make out spot but started as a set of boys' favorite place to play pirates during the summer). Dustin and Eddie make references Steve pretends to not know, despite his own copies of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings and the numerous amounts of notebooks turned journals with elvish scrawled throughout.

There's a trek through the Upside Down. In another universe, Steve imagines he and Eddie talk. In this one, Robin sticks to his side like an extension of him (which she is), and glares at Eddie every time he looks in Steve's direction. Robin knows everything, knows it all, because there are no secrets between them.

They make plans to stop Vecna, once and for all, and Robin confesses she has a fear. That it won't turn out okay this time, but they have to try anyway. Steve clinks his bottle against hers and looks across the field to Eddie and Dustin. The stakes feel so much higher this time.

"I'm going to talk to Eddie if we survive. Make it right," he says.

"No. He's going to make it right because you didn't do anything wrong," Robin says, which is more support than he thought he'd get given the grudge she holds in his favor.

Eddie said make him pay and Steve does. Nancy advances, shotgun shot after shot and Steve's bounding down the stairs. Vecna beats him to the ground floor but not by much.

A hatchet's not the best tool to remove a head with but he manages. When he looks up, Nancy and Robin are looking down, both approving.

They find Dustin sobbing over Eddie and- and-

Steve's certain he's broken several of Eddie's ribs but he's breathing again, Nancy finds his pulse beneath all the blood, and Robin's retrieved the cut sheets to make bandages out of. Nothing is clean in this world, infection could kill him later, he might not save Eddie like he wants, but fucking Christ, at least if death claims him, it'll be on the right side of the world in a hospital.

Dustin, Robin, and Steve are at Eddie's side when Nancy leads Wayne into the room. They knew she went out looking for him (Steve was going to but Nancy had shoved him back in the chair with a look that left no room for argument) but even so they're startled by him.

Wayne has always been stoic and reserved, so it's no surprise to Steve when he just lets out a low whistle and says, "of all the people I might see here, you weren't one of 'em."

Steve swallows thickly and says, "well. I am. Here, I mean."

And Wayne gives him a watery smile and crosses the room. Pulls Steve into a hug that Steve thinks he probably wants to give to Eddie instead, but Eddie's not awake and standing and Steve is. But then Wayne says, "I told Eddie he couldn' chase ya away. That if he just talked to ya, you'd understand. He tried so hard to make ya hate him, and for what? For ya to be at his bedside anyway."

And Steve sobs. Loud and ugly and suddenly Dustin's there, and so are Robin and Nancy, and it's probably the most awkward hug for all the others but it's the best hug Steve's had in years. He doesn't even care that he's crying because how can he? Wayne's all but confirmed that Eddie doesn't hate him, maybe never hated him. That Eddie has an explanation, a reason for it all, and all he wants is Eddie to wake up and tell him.

Steve finally gets his apology two days after Eddie's release. It's the first time they've been alone together since- well, since elementary school. Wayne drove him here then lied about needing to check on something and said he'd be back in an hour or so before abandoned them to the awkward silence in Steve's living room.

"I'm sorry, Steve!" Eddie blurts out loudly, then looks startled by his own yelling.

"I know. I forgive you."

"You shouldn't."

"I know. Still do anyway. Would like to know what happened, though."

And Eddie tells him. How his father's debts came calling and they ran. How his mom got sick real fast, and his father's crime spree and prison sentence following her passing. How Eddie discovered the same thing about himself that Steve did but didn't have the same acceptance of himself. Hated that another thing marked him as Other. Freak.

He tells Steve how he couldn't let Steve back in because he was afraid of losing him again if he ever learned.

"I didn't think you'd be okay being friends with a faggot," Eddie spits the word out, dirty and mean and directed at himself.

Steve makes a decision then. "Follow me." And he helps Eddie up the stairs and into his room. Eddie sits on the bed and watches as Steve digs out notebook after notebook after notebook, until they're a tower on his bed. Then he topples them over in his search for the first.

Eddie takes the offered notebook with confusion on his face, looking from the cover, where 1978 is written on it. The summer Eddie vanished from Steve's life.

"Open it."

Eddie does and gasps. "Steve. Is this-"

"Every single one of these notebooks was written to you. For you. About you. I read The Hobbit for you. The Lord of the Rings. I learned elvish for you. I think I've been a little bit in love with you since the day we met on the playground on my second day of first grade."

"Steve," it comes out breathless and awed.

"Eddie," Steve repeats back to him, just as breathless as Eddie tosses the notebook aside and reaches for Steve instead. Hauls him in to kiss him senseless amongst the proof of Steve's devotion.

[moth-mimic]

Suffocating

‣ pairing: Legolas x Maid/Healer!reader

‣ words: 1639

‣ content: basically childhood friends, unbalanced power dynamic, Legolas is a littleee jealous and petty (as in like… a lot), Legolas being too clingy and a little questionable, suggestive near the end, pleading men <3

──────────────────

‣ summary: Legolas had chosen you to be by his side from first glance. Even before he could wield a bow, he saw through your status and deemed your soul the same as his. However, his affection for you can be a bit… suffocating.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Legolas had claimed you before he even knew your name. Call it fate if you will, but something indescribable had seized him the moment you were presented to his father. Like a ripe fruit you had been plucked from your cozy orphanage and displayed in front of the king. At the time you were not sure why you were in this place, a grand castle decorated with exquisite, flourishing fauna and marble cleaned so well it glinted in the sunlight, yet the prince very well knew. A nobody you were— simply an Elven child of mixed blood who had been found abandoned in Mirkwood’s forests— yet your excellence had soon shown itself in your healing. With a few whispered prayers and hands delicately placed, a wound could vanish within minutes. This is why you were here.

Mirkwood was exceptionally skilled in archery, but what was gained in one area was lost in another. The kingdom had healers, like many, yet none that could heal a wound with their own hands. So it was a surprise that you, an unassuming child, had been blessed with the gift of life. It did not take a council to decide that your gift must be fostered and taken care of like the most delicate sprout.

Although your skill was doted on, you, however, were not. You were an elf of mixed blood— the classic story of a rebellious Elven man who had seduced a human woman before vanishing for The Undying Lands was not unique. The story between an elf and human royalty was one that was respectable, yet this was not yours.

Although your royal guidance was intended to help you grow in your healing abilities, it became increasingly obvious your current job was not to heal the innocent. Instead, you were frequently assigned the task of assisting the prince after his rebellious endeavors. From healing his scraped knee after he hurled himself off a tree to even pouring his tea, you were practically his maid at this point.

However, Legolas did not see it as this— you did a lot for him, yes, but he found himself frequently getting into trouble and calling upon your help purposefully, simply longing for your care and attention. He did not have many other young elves to involve himself with, and you were perfectly fine as company. He even admired you, in fact, especially as he watched you use your healing gift on him. You both were taught basic skills such as how to wield a bow and how to analyze Elvish texts, yet you were oftentimes dragged away for additional training in your healing. Times like these he wondered if he was too dependent on you.

And now the prince, far past his coming-of-age ceremony, still wondered the same as he scanned the halls for your presence. His boots could be heard clicking against the pristine floor from even a man on the other side of the castle as he paced the area. Elves from Rivendell had arrived to discuss matters on the group of dwarves headed to reclaim their home from Smaug, and you were nowhere to be seen. Embarrassed to make his affection for you so obvious, he excused his worry as simply making sure you were not late to greet the guests.

“Y/N! Y/N, where in Middle-Earth have you wandered off to now?” He shouted, perhaps to himself. The maids rushing down the hallway did not give him a mere glance. His worry for you was not only typical, but also a frequent point of gossip. He let out a loud sigh and turned, frustrated, finally giving up in his search. He would definitely receive a scolding from his father at this point. Perhaps it would be worth it if only to share the burden of being late between the two of you. He hurriedly retraced his trail to the entrance of the castle, hoping the guests would still be there, yet he abruptly stopped as laughter floated through the halls.

He peered around the wall and outside into the garden, which held the source of the sound, and scowled at the sight he saw. You and one of the Rivendell elves— pale-skinned with hair various shades of hickory, undoubtedly one of Elrond’s sons— sitting on a bench and chatting— No, flirting. It was obvious with the way he was leaning into you, your face lit with joy at the jokes he charismatically threw. The sight was enough to make Legolas seethe with jealousy.

“Y/N.”

The unexpected sound of your name prompts you to jump a bit before looking towards the blond elf. You smile at the familiar face. “Legolas! Where have you been? The guests are already seated.”

“Well, that I would not know. I have been looking for you since I noticed your absence,” Legolas makes his way towards the two of you, eyeing the dark-haired elf as if he were goblin trash. “I see you have acquainted yourself with one of our dear guests.”

You rub the back of your neck apologetically, oblivious to the stare-down happening between the two. “Ah, I apologize. I was at the entrance long before they arrived, although I should have noticed you beforehand to ease your worries.”

Legolas is the first to break the glare, quickly changing his expression to one more gentle, more suitable to one as pure of heart as you. He crouches down to provide you comfort. “Of course. My worry for you is natural, yet it’s nothing to burden yourself with. May I?” The Elven prince takes your hand and holds it firm before you can even respond, almost as if the other may rip you away.

“Yes, but—“ You begin to protest as you look back towards the Rivendell elf, but he is the one to speak next.

“No worries, it is time we all join each other in the dining hall.” He huffs, clearly defeated. It is the prince of the kingdom he is visiting, after all.

And with that, Legolas guides you with him to the dining hall. The other merely trails behind in surrender.

With the rest of the night, Legolas is strangely distant. As you make your rounds offering tea to each elf, Legolas holds his hand over his teacup without so much as a simple “No, thank you.” Instead of contributing to the council like a respectable prince, he stays oddly silent and tightens his jaw in what seems to be annoyance. After a considerable time of him being obviously troubled about something, you follow his incomprehensible glare across the lengthy table to the elf you were speaking to earlier. You observe from the sidelines, expecting his glare to waver, yet it lingers. The other elf just seems to uncomfortably avoid eye contact. Even Thranduil notices enough to make an occasional irritated side glance at his son.

You simply excuse it as a harmless quarrel between princes.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

As the moon exudes her care across the darkened kingdom, Legolas can not seem to quiet his mind as he lays down to rest. His eyebrows tense and his chest tightens at the image of the Rivendell elf practically courting you, and you enjoying it. The thought of you being carried away back to Rivendell by this elf seemed none other than a nightmare. And perhaps it was still possible— the Rivendell group had settled for staying in the guest chambers tonight— perhaps he was making his way to your chamber at this moment. He would knock on your door, gently, as to not startle you, the way Legolas had done so many times before— you would answer, dressed in silk, hair ruffled by your pillowy sheets. In a heartbeat he would confess his attraction from the moment he saw you. You would fall into his arms and he would hold you, softly, as if the dream could break. You both would join lips in a passion, and soon enough you would be his.

And soon enough Legolas is making his way to your door— not too far of a journey, considering your chambers are right next to each other. He pauses for a moment, and two, before he gathers the courage to lightly knock on the wooden door. He awaits your presence, a burning inside his core threatening to swallow him whole. As he waits, his mind trails to his previous nightmare. Perhaps he is too late, he thinks, perhaps this is a mistake—

And soon enough you are there, in front of him, dressed in silk and your hair ruffled from your pillowy sheets. He stands there for a moment, silent and flustered.

“Well?” You sigh sleepily, rubbing your eyes at your interrupted slumber, “Are you alright?”

He sighs. With eagerness or longing you cannot tell. “Tell me you do not want him.” He bluntly states, his mouth moving faster than his brain. He grips both sides of your doorway, leaning towards you, keeping himself from joining you into an embrace. You can see his knuckles nearly turn white.

Your eyes are wide now, confused. “Who— sorry?”

“The Rivendell elf. You do not want him. He is an adventurer, he knows no home. He is not right for you, I assure you, he knows nothing about you. You are just a pretty face to him, but I— I…” He pauses, gasps for air as if he has almost drowned, and completely stops at a loss for words.

You stare at him a moment, his eyes wild and pleading. From the soft gazes he’s given you when teaching you how to correctly hold a bow to the seething glare you saw from him last night, this is unlike anything you’ve seen.

“Legolas…” you begin, but words cannot fathom what you want to say. Instead you lift your hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his pointed ear, gazing at him with newfound vulnerability. The back of your hand trails down his neck before resting on his chest. “He is not the one I want.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

ok dang it’s like 1 am now. anyway sorry for cutting it off so abruptly I was starting to cringe a little and I just couldn’t do it. also thinking about adding 2 more parts to this but idk if I’ll have the motivation 🤕

[kitcat22]

Another funnier option would be that neither of them found out until after Elros’ marriage when some confusion arose between Elros and his Wife. Elros then frantically writes to Elrond to ask him what sex is and how it works. Elrond, who has no idea what Elros is talking about, brings this up to Gil Galad, Galadriel and Celebrimbor after a council meeting at which point all three remember, with no small amount of panic, what they forgot to discuss with the twins. This results in one of Gondor’s archives/museums having a stack of letters adressed to Elros Tar Minyatur sent by several famous historical elves. Unfortunately due to the age of the letters and the fact they were written in ancient elvish no one can read them but its is assumed they were important diplomatic messages. If they could read them, the scholars of Gondor might be a little suprised and confused why the adult King of Numenor had received multiple, quite lengthy letters detailing how sex works.

[solibrie]

something has been bothering me ever since the discourse regarding marcille being conservative ir2 gender started rolling around. it doesn't bother me that it was said; it's obviously true based on the shapeshifters chapters. but people trace it back to her elvish background, and i think this is a sort of misunderstanding of elvish gender?

elves see themselves as androgynous and are interpreted as feminine by Everyone Else. there doesn't seem to be a very strict "feminine" or "masculine" presentation that elves must adhere to- mithrun is a manly ass elf. otta is a masc elf lady. lycion is a fem elf dude. the only thing i can imagine would possibly gender their presentation is their hair length (and boobs i guess? notably cithis and marcille are the only elves i can remember that really have a rack. anyways). this is a gender role in it of itself- androgyny without flexibility can and will be its own shackle. BUT this isn't the gender conformity that marcille reinforces!

marcille's childhood was incredibly lonely, and her closest friends for like 30 years were her parents. her parents, of whom were her tallman father and her elvish mother. her elvish mother who left elvish society to be a court mage for a tallman. her elvish mother who in ALL of her appearances is doing Housewife Things.

as an aside, don't you think it's interesting that falin considered accepting a proposal from someone she didn't even love because she feared it would be the only shot she had at getting married, implying that being married would make her more desirable? don't you think it's interesting how in laios' nightmare, his mother is pressuring him to have children? don't you think it's interesting how it's gender roles that are familiar to us are the gender roles that marcille seems to be trapped between?

marcille's problem is that she's applying that good ol' fashioned elvish superiority to tall-men gender roles.

[another-lost-mc]

Rubies in the Dark LUCIFER x gn!Reader 4.9k Words | NSFW | Medieval Fantasy AU | Dubious Behaviour Content Warnings: Dark Elvish Prince!Lucifer x Alchemist!Reader. Contains descriptions of monsters, magic and blood/gore/violence; minor injury; implied stalking, breaking and entering, invasion of privacy; dream magic, dream sex, mutual masturbation, implied somnophilia. (Also, shameless references to Warcraft lore because it inspired the worldbuilding for this story.) A/N: This is my fic for @bizarrebankai's 1k Follower Collab! 💙

It’s been nearly five years since you left your family’s small farm to create a new life in Hillsbrad Foothills. You didn’t have any weapons' training and you weren’t magically gifted. Some of your childhood friends were, and they were able to move away to pursue new adventures, leaving you behind. Your family expected you to accept your boring country life, but you knew you wanted more. Disappointment and heartbreak finally motivated you to pack your meager belongings and set off on your own adventure.

You might not be a warrior or mage, but your new freedom gave you the opportunity to explore and study your true passion for alchemy. Your small cottage is located in one of the villages near the Alterac Mountains. Most of the villagers are hunters, gatherers, or tradesmen.

You make a comfortable living trading your alchemy creations to the other villagers. The foothills are an abundant source of some of the most useful flowers and herbs for crafting utility potions and healing elixirs. You don’t like to let things go to waste; the discarded plants you can’t use are milled and turned into ink that you supply to the local constable and village leaders. 

In exchange for your services, they provide you with clothing and food and other useful goods. Your life is lonely, but it’s comfortable. Time has healed old wounds and very rarely is your mind plagued with doubt and regret; you know you’re better off without your unsupportive family and the weak-willed ex-lover you left behind.

Today was surprisingly busy and you were in your alchemy lab all morning. The weather started to turn and you saw clouds rolling over the hills when you peeked out the window. You glance at your herb reserves hesitantly and wonder if you have enough time to gather some more before the storm comes.

One of the village’s recent hunts ended bloodier than usual–there weren't any deaths, but more hunters were seriously wounded than normal. You were more than eager to provide them with potions to accelerate their recovery, but most of your supplies have run out as a result.

The wildlife in the foothills has become exceedingly aggressive. There aren’t many visitors to these quiet lands. There are rumors circulating the village of suspicious travellers conducting experiments with local animals and plant life along the region’s uninhabited borders. They talk about rabid animals and foliage overrun with disease, but you’ve been fortunate not to come across anything like that yourself.

The foothills aren’t easily accessible and are used mainly as a thoroughfare to other regions. There’s only one main road travelers can use to bypass the mountains: the eastern road leads into the valleys and the sea beyond; or the western road that winds up through Silverpine Forest, a thick and dark place nestled along the mountain range.

You’ve heard stories about Silverpine Forest, too–or the Demon’s Forest, if suspicious townsfolk are to be believed. Some people say that monsters hunt along the road at night. If the legends are true, they capture weary travelers and unsuspecting hunters and drag them to their demise in the dark, never to be seen or heard from again. This land might be home to magical and wondrous things, but even you doubt that the stories are true.

Regardless of what you believe, you try to be cautious when you go out to collect herbs on your own. You attach a long knife to your belt before you slip on your cloak, although it is more useful for trimming leaves and brances than for protection.

You bite your lip and glance nervously at the sky. The clouds overhead threaten rainfall, but you think you have enough time to restock some of your depleted resources. You slip out of your little cottage and follow the stone path to the main road heading west.

Today’s harvest is productive and uneventful. These foothills are an excellent source of Briarthorn and Silverleaf, some of the most potent herbs you use regularly. You’ll be able to provide the local healers with more elixirs with extras to spare.

You don’t normally venture this close to the western border, but you naturally follow the most abundant patches of herbs and it led you there. You haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary, but you’re still eager to return to your cottage before it gets too late. 

You set along the path that will lead you home when a strange sound carries on the wind and catches your attention. It doesn’t sound human, but you recognize the whimpers and whines of a creature in pain. You take a hesitant step off the main road, and then another, until you’re walking slowly, carefully, through the grass towards the noise.

The unusual sounds lead you down a deep, sloping hill towards one of the region’s abandoned mines. You shiver from the sudden drop in temperature–something about the air in this area feels unsettling and desolate, and it sets your nerves on edge. The pained noises come from just inside the opening of one of the mining tunnels. You peek around the corner carefully, and you spot some sort of wounded animal.

At a first glance, you think it might be a type of bear, but it’s hard to tell without getting closer. It’s stuck in a tangled mess of thick, white webbing that pins it to the ground. The beast raises its head when your leather boot disturbs some loose stones, and its eyes–or is that two pairs of eyes?–blink at you. The beast is still whimpering in pain, but a low growl echoes around you now, too.

You hold up your hands and show the beast you mean it no harm. It sniffs the air curiously and the growling fades, which you interpret as a sign that it’s safe to approach. You kneel at the beast’s side and examine the webs trapping the poor animal in place. You stroke its furry back soothingly as you slowly cut away the thinner sections of webbing, but the thicker ropes along the beast’s back are too tough for your knife to hack through.

You’re so distracted by your task that a new sound startles you and makes your blood run cold; the beast starts to growl louder and more menacing than before. There’s a hissing noise approaching you from deep within the mine. The flurried sound of skittering limbs echo off the stone walls. Dozens of yellowish eyes seem to float in the darkness further down the tunnel from you and the beast.

It appears that the mines are home to a nest of overgrown spiders. The spiders are nothing like what you’ve seen before: they’re nearly as tall as you are and much wider. They have gnarly limbs and strange, pulsing growths jutting from their backs.

You have no weapons except for your knife, and it’s a poor substitute for a proper sword or axe–not that you could wield either of those successfully, even if you had one. The beast struggles to break free of its bindings next to you, but its limbs are still immobilized by the webs.

You don’t want to run and leave the beast to a bloody fate, but you don’t want to be devoured by the monsters approaching you either. You’re paralyzed by indecision and fear. You remember the stories of suspicious individuals creating abominations from nature in their wake. You didn’t want to believe the rumors were true; you didn’t think this is how you would die.

Something knocks into your back, and you yell in fright as you’re pushed aside. You’re afraid that a monster ambushed you from behind, but instead you see a tall figure wearing leather hunting gear underneath a long, dark cloak.

Whoever it is stops and examines the beast closely, and a male voice speaks to it in a strange language you don’t understand. He pats the beast’s heads–all three of them– before he approaches the swarm of spiders. He doesn’t hesitate to draw a long steel blade, and you stare in horror as he marches towards certain death.

“Hey, wait, don’t–!” you try to warn the stranger. You realize very quickly that your warning was not wanted or needed.

It’s not a battle so much as it is a slaughter. His movements are graceful but quick, and they’re difficult for you to follow. He darts a path through the monsters, his sharp weapon slicing through the air and cutting them down effortlessly. Frenzied, monstrous shrieks and hissing fill the air; the sound of flesh slicing and squelching blood makes you nauseous. The musty mine air grows heavy with the hint of copper. You clench your eyes shut and cover your ears.

Eventually, the sounds of carnage fade into nothingness, and all you can hear now is the wild thumping of your heartbeat. When you open your eyes, the hooded stranger is standing near the beast’s side once more. His sword drips black-red ichor from the slain spiders, and he wipes the blade clean. He cuts through the webbing so the beast can finally stand up properly. It reminds you of an enormous dog as it shakes its dark fur. Its heads each try to lick at the stranger’s face, and you hear a soft huff of amusement; it nearly makes you smile, despite everything you’ve just gone through.

The stranger finally seems to remember your presence and turns to face you. Most of his face is shrouded in darkness with his hood still up, but you know he’s staring at you. His attention feels weighted, almost suffocating. His aura is intense and you’ve seen for yourself he’s capable of ruthless bloodshed, but for some reason, you don’t feel afraid.

His head tilts questioningly. “Why?” his smooth voice asks quietly. “Why did you stop to help him?”

“I wanted to,” you reply honestly. You cringe when you realize how naive it sounds. You could’ve died, and you probably would have died, if not for the traveler’s excellent timing.

You don’t know what to say, and neither does he judging by his icy silence. Something catches your eye when you take a better look at his clothing. There’s a gash on his arm, and the thin material of his tunic is already soaked with blood from the wound. “You’re hurt,” you point out worriedly.

He looks at his arm like he didn’t even notice he was wounded, but he startles when you approach him without hesitation. “What do you think you’re–?” the stranger demands, but he only makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away from you.

You shake your head to silence his complaints and focus on his injury. You normally carry a small assortment of bandages in one of your pouches, pre-soaked with healing elixir, and you unwrap one and press it to his arm. You wrap it around the wound as gently as you can.

“I make these myself,” you explain to him quietly. You move the ripped fabric of his shirt aside, and your fingers brush against his bare skin. You hear a sharp intake of breath, and you pause tying the bandage in place. “Is it too tight?”

Even with his hood up, you can tell he’s shaking his head. “No, no–it’s fine."

When you’re satisfied with your work, you step back and give him some space. The man seems to be focused on his arm now, and the strange tension between you makes you nervous. Before you can think of anything else to say, rumbling thunder booms in the distance outside the mine and you look over your shoulder. The sky is even darker now, and only the barest hints of sunlight peek through the clouds.

You suddenly feel the tingling sensation of magic in the air. You turn around to ask the man if he lives nearby and what his name is, but he and his beast are gone. You scan the tunnel as far as your eye can see, but nothing else remains except for the plagued spider creatures the traveler killed to save you.

More thunder booms, louder and closer than before, and you rush from the mine. You see no sign of the man or his beast, but the storm brews on the horizon. You have no choice but to continue the journey home as quickly as you can and hope that they’re safe now too.

The villagers are on high alert after you inform them of the monstrous spiders you encountered near the western border of the region. You leave out the details of meeting the cloaked stranger and his three-headed beast.

Your thoughts drift to them often in the days that pass since that tense encounter. The traveler must be a gifted magic user if he was able to teleport them both away so easily. You feel the pang of envy when you think of your nonexistent magical skills, but you remind yourself that you’re an accomplished alchemist instead. You’ve honed your talents and found your own purpose in life; you don't need anything else.

Sometimes when you walk to town to buy supplies, or when you tend to the small garden of herbs near your cottage, you feel uneasy. You glance around nervously when the sensation of being watched makes your skin break out in goosebumps. You call out nervously and ask who’s there, but no one answers. The silence feels anticipatory somehow, and you wonder what it means.

The next morning you stumble tiredly from your room after a restless sleep. You think a warm cup of tea will help, but you freeze when you realize there’s a man in your house. His back is facing you while he looks over the alchemy texts and storybooks on your shelf. He turns to you properly when he hears your startled yelp of surprise. 

The man looks like no one you’ve ever seen before. Black hair streaked with grey falls over his intense ruby-coloured eyes. He wears a silver circlet adorned with black opals. His black regalia is perfectly tailored and looks expensive. The dark fabric is accented with gold and red threads that almost seem to glitter in the sunlight shining through your window. His cloak is lined with fur, and his black leather boots are shined to a high polish. He clears his throat and tugs on the cuff of his gloves, almost like he’s nervous. Whoever the stranger is, he looks regal and important and painstakingly out of place in your humble cottage.

You should be afraid that a stranger broke into your home and looked through your belongings while you were sleeping in the next room unaware. However, there’s something familiar about him that you can’t place at first. You suddenly think of a three-headed beast and the cloaked stranger that saved you both, his pale, sharp jawline peeking below the shadow of his hood–

You realize the man before you is the swordsman from the mine, and he nods his confirmation when you ask him if he's one and the same. Your gaze lingers on his intense red eyes and the pointed tips of his ears, and he explains that he lives deep in Silverpine Forest with the elves. He tells you that he’s the crown prince of his kind, and he’s here because he owes you a debt of gratitude.

He looks visibly irritated when you tell him repayment of any kind isn’t necessary. Shouldn’t you be repaying him since he saved your life? But there’s a pink flush blooming across his cheeks despite his offended expression, and all he says is that it’s complicated. Apparently, risking your life to save elvish royalty–or his pet–is a big deal.

You rub your arms nervously and ask what he means. You’re expecting him to offer some sort of compensation, like gold or rare goods, and you plan on refusing all of it. What you don’t expect is for him to ask permission to court you. His eyes are serious and they blaze angrily when you burst into laughter at his proclamation.

(He doesn’t tell you that his brothers noticed his increasingly distracted behaviour the days following your fateful encounter. He washed the bandage you gave him and kept it for sentimental reasons he can’t even articulate properly. He can’t look at Cerberus without remembering how close he came to losing his beloved companion, or how brave you were to try to save him yourself. He thinks of how kind you were when you tended to his wounded arm and how gently you touched him–no one's ever touched him like that before.

He thinks about the spies he sent to your cottage to learn more about you, and how he grew too eager and started watching over you himself. He thinks about your reputable alchemy skills and kind nature, and how respected you are in your small village. He thinks about your potential, and how he can offer you so much more, if you’ll give him the chance.)

In the awkward silence that follows, you realize he isn’t joking and he's waiting for your response. You don’t mean to offend him, and you apologize profusely, but he can’t seriously expect you to accept such a proposal so easily, right?

But you think about your quiet isolation with only fleeting acquaintances among the townspeople to keep you company. You think about the world beyond the foothills that you pretend doesn’t exist. You’re not sure how you’ve ended up in another isolated prison of your own making.

Were you craving a sense of adventure when you let a strange beast’s cries lead you astray from the safest path home? What could someone like an elvish prince offer someone like you?

The world, a treasonous voice whispers in your mind. Judging by the mischievous gleam in his eye, you’re not sure whether that voice was yours or his.

You explain to him as gently as you can that you can’t accept such a bold offer of courtship, but you would be happy to accept an offer of friendship instead.

He readily agrees with your counter-proposal, and you wonder what you’re missing that makes him look so pleased; he looked ready to attack you for wounding his pride only moments ago. He refuses your offer to stay longer and visit, but he assures you that you’ll see him again soon. You stop him before he leaves when you realize you don’t even know his name.

My name is Lucifer, he tells you warmly. There’s an unreadable smile teasing his lips, and he offers you a murmured farewell before he disappears in a ripple of magic.

You ignore the curious voice inside your mind that wonders how long he'll make you wait before he visits again.

It’s been nearly a week since Lucifer visited your cottage and turned your world upside down. You haven’t seen him since, but you’ve made a mental note to ask him what friendship means to elvishkind. It almost seems like he completely ignored your rejection of his offer to court you.

Each morning when you wake, you find some sort of gift in your sitting room: a vase of rare wildflowers, silver jewelry fashioned similarly to the circlet he wore, a new cloak lined with soft fur that looks suspiciously like his own.

You pick up today’s gift–a heavy, leatherbound book about plants and herbs with blank pages at the end for keeping notes. You recognize some of the drawings on the pages: those plants don’t grow in the foothills, but you know they grow in abundance within Silverpine Forest where Lucifer lives, that cheeky devil.

These tokens feel too intimate for the early stages of blooming friendship, but you suspect he knows that. Is he so arrogant that he thinks your affections can be won so easily despite your initial protests?

(Or does he know that despite your protests, you enjoy all his thoughtful gifts? He’s so considerate of your interests and passions. It’s difficult not to be flattered that someone as interesting and handsome as him would be determined to impress someone like you.) 

Your cottage starts to feel different as it fills with gifts the elvish prince brings you while you sleep. It’s almost like he leaves hints of his unique magic on purpose for you to find. You catch whiffs of the smoky-sweet fragrance he wears as you walk through the halls, and you can't help but think of him when you do.

Sometimes you still feel like you’re being watched, but the sensation feels friendlier somehow, rather than invasive and alarming. When you look out your window in the evenings and stare into the thicket behind your cottage, you can almost imagine the flash of blood-red eyes staring back at you.

You’ve been using the book Lucifer gave you as a type of journal. It’s become an intimate confession of your wonder and your fears and doubts. You write about regret and hope and opportunities for new beginnings. You think about friendship and the potential for more, and you wonder how it might feel to wake up in a bed warmed by someone that loves you. You haven’t wanted these sorts of things in a very long time. You’re not sure whether to thank or curse the elvish prince for filling your head with such desperately beautiful ideas.

The next morning, you wake up and find another gift: a glass jar filled with fragrant tea leaves. The unique blend smells earthy and herbal and slightly sweet. You hold the jar to your chest and glance at your journal on the writing desk. It’s open to the last page you wrote on, but you know you closed it before you went to bed last night. Realization dawns on you: Lucifer wanted you to know that he read it, and now he knows all your conflicted thoughts about him.

You boil water and make a cup of tea with the leaves he gave you. You step outside into the early morning sunlight and sip your drink thoughtfully. The familiar feeling of eyes on you returns, and you wonder why it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to.

You dream of Lucifer for the first time that night. It feels like your consciousness is floating amongst soft clouds. You feel weightless and protected and cared for. You can’t see him–not at first, anyway–but you know he’s there with you. His familiar scent is so strong you can almost taste it, and you recognize the deep, teasing timber of his voice when his quiet chuckle echoes all around you. You know it’s not real, but it feels like strong arms cradle you in a warm embrace and it feels so wonderful.

Wakefulness disturbs the tranquility of the dream, and you see one last flicker of red eyes before you sit up in your bed, wide-awake and breathless. You rub your eyes and squint as the morning sunshine filters in the gap of your curtain and bathes your room in light. Something catches your attention from the corner of your eye, and you realize he left his next gift in your room this time: a deep-red rose fully in bloom and tied with a black ribbon, placed next to your pillow while you dreamt of him.

Whatever is happening between you and Lucifer continues to grow more intense as days pass. Every night when you sleep, he visits you in your dreams like he knows your resistance to him is crumbling. His dream-self doesn’t really speak to you, except for deep sighs that sound like your name when he holds you against his chest. Sometimes his fingers trail lightly up and down your arm, and you can feel his warm, damp breath fan against your nape as his nose brushes against your neck.

His presence fades away when you wake up with the morning sun, and your new gift from him waits somewhere nearby. The traces of his magic seem to linger and grow stronger each time he visits you in your room. It almost feels possessive, like he’s leaving his mark on you so you can’t possibly forget him. It’s a constant reminder of who he is and what he wants from you.

His gifts become more intimate over time, too–a box filled with rare candied nuts and creamy chocolates, a bottle of rare fruit wine, a delicately woven blanket for your bed. Today’s gift is the most extravagant yet: a black silk robe with gold and red embroidery. It’s similar in style to the royal regalia he wore when he came to your home for the first time. The underlying significance of that doesn’t escape your notice.

You set the robe aside while you dress in your normal attire and carry on with your work for the day. Time passes in a blur as you grind herbs to make potions, and you mill the discarded parts into pigment for ink. When you head to the village to deliver the finished goods, you feel his intense gaze on you from somewhere nearby; he must realize by now that the bashful smile you try to smother is meant for him.

A strange feeling of anticipation has been building inside you all day. You get ready for bed that evening and take off your clothes. It’s almost like you can’t stop yourself when you slip on the robe he gave you in place of your usual sleepwear. The significance of wearing this to bed, and only this, doesn’t escape you either.

You don’t normally think about your appearance or attractiveness, but wearing something that he made specially for you feels like a type of seduction. The robe feels so soft and sensual against your naked skin, and you realize this is what it feels like to be desirable. The robe is loose across your chest and near the gap between your legs when you lay down. The thin fabric leaves tantalizing strips of bare skin exposed in the cool night air.

When you fall asleep, you realize immediately that tonight’s dream is different. You’re laying flat on something soft, and someone’s body cages you beneath theirs. You recognize the red glint of his eyes as the shadows fade away from his face. He braces himself on one arm while the other tugs at the fastening keeping your robe closed.

Mine, he whispers. His hand pauses, waiting for permission. 

Yours, you whisper back.

Once he has your consent, the restraint he’s been clinging to finally gives way to his primal instincts. He leans forward and kisses you as your robe falls open completely and you’re finally bare to him. His hands and mouth claim every inch of your body for himself. He’s gentle and slow as he explores you. The crimson eyes you once feared are molten with greedy affection for you and you alone. He makes a trail of open-mouthed kisses and small, suckled bruises across your skin.

When he's reached the edge of his control, he surges back up your body and captures your lips in another heated kiss. He slides his hand between your legs and teases the edge of your arousal. He nips gently at your skin when you bare your throat to him, and he smiles wickedly at the first soft sigh that escapes you.

He groans when you explore his chest and glide along his tapered waist until you find the hardening length grinding against your hip. His cock is hard and heavy in your hand, and he growls deep in his chest as you begin to stroke him. His fingers are relentless and you move together, stroking each other in a hot, desperate haze that threatens to consume you both.

He whispers sweet praise into your ear when you fall apart beneath him, and he gasps and moans your name when he comes too. Your hands are both stained as his release mixes with your own. The inside of your thighs are wet and sticky, and your chest heaves while you catch your breath.

He maneuvers you so he’s laying behind you. He wraps an arm possessively around your waist. It may only be a dream, but you swear you’ve never felt so good. You feel relaxed and content and your eyes slip closed.

Stay, you whisper into the strange, ethereal silence of the dreamscape. He grows still behind you for a moment, but he brushes a kiss against your bare shoulder and you know what his answer is.

Something suddenly jolts you into wakefulness. It’s still early in the morning and the sun hasn’t risen yet. You feel so warm, but you realize it’s because of a heavy weight against your back. A strong, muscular arm is draped over your waist and nimble fingers trace abstract shapes on your belly. The familiar tingle of magic and the scent of honeyed smoke surrounds you. The evidence of his desire for you still clings to your thighs, sticky and not quite dry.

“Mine?” his sleep-roughened voice rumbles behind you as he tightens his hold on your waist.

You relax deeper into his arms and smile when he nuzzles against you. “Yours.”

[thelordofgifs]

For the prompt thing, number 24 on the Silmarils list; choked with weeds and slime? IDK seems like a line you could do something interesting with.

Another one I’m answering a year late, but have some War of Wrath-era Elros and Elrond growing slowly apart! Thank you for the prompt 💕

“Just a little further,” Elrond says confidently, raising his torch. It does very little to illuminate the dank forest path ahead of them, but he does not seem deterred. “We’ll know it when we feel it.”

“Elrond,” Elros says quietly, trailing after him. He is not used to this position – not used to being the one to doubt. For so much of their lives it has been the other way around, has Elrond followed Elros charging head-first into wherever his will led them.

“You remember,” Elrond insists. “Naneth told us that the air inside Melian’s Girdle was cleaner and purer than any she had ever breathed since.”

Elros inhales, takes in the stench of rot and decay that clogs the forest, and thinks with longing of the clean salt air of the Sea. “The Girdle was fallen almost before Naneth was born,” he says. “It is not here, Elrond.”

“The forest will remember it, even so,” Elrond says. “Doriath was once the most blessed realm in Beleriand – and we its last heirs! It will remember us.”

Too often these days, in Elros’ view, does Elrond’s talk turn towards the power of memory. It makes him uneasy: he does not like to feel the edges of a rift between them, to understand so little the drift of his brother’s thought. Perhaps it is the knowledge of burned Sirion, and all that was lost with it, that haunts Elrond now – or perhaps the long shadow of Amon Ereb, that mausoleum in which they came of age, where the sons of Fëanor mourned the lost days of their glory, and Maglor’s every lullaby was half a dirge.

Beleriand was splendid once, it is true – but the land is breaking now, and the interminable war drawing into its final act, and Elros is more concerned with building something from the ashes than weeping for what was burned. But he does not know how to say this to Elrond, who is still leading him towards the forest’s heart, where Menegroth once flourished.

“Do you even know how to enter the city?” he asks instead. The path, choked with weeds and slime, clings unpleasantly to his feet and makes a squelching sound with every step. “The hidden entrance may now be lost.”

“Not lost,” Elrond murmurs, his voice losing a little of its bravado. “Perhaps it has forgotten itself – but we can call it back.”

“And how long will that take?” Elros argues. “Elrond, my men are waiting for me. I have not the time for a fool’s errand.”

Elrond turns back to look at him for the first time. For a moment Elros is oddly glad of that, that he might still capture his brother’s attention with a sharp word: but the thought is almost immediately followed by a hot flash of shame, for hurt flickers briefly in Elrond’s eyes. It is the sort of thing Maedhros used to do, in his worst moods – goad and goad until at last Maglor gave him some reaction, often too imperceptible for the twins to see. Elros does not want to be like Maedhros. Does not want to think of Maedhros, wants to shake off all the clinging ghosts of his childhood and look now to the world ahead.

But: “It ought not take long,” is all Elrond says, mildly.

They walk in silence, Elros breathing through his nose. He thinks again of the Edain under his command, whom he left waiting at their new outpost a little south of the forest. It has been long enough since he and Elrond last went away on an adventure of their own, for Gil-galad cannot often spare his brother from his duties, and Elros too is a commander in his own right. Besides, he did not think his men would understand their object: most of them have grandparents too young to remember Doriath before its fall. Still he does not like to abandon them, does not want them to think him just another elvish princeling, a stranger to mortal troubles and mortal woes.

But nor could he have let Elrond set out on this quest alone.

In the silence Elrond begins to sing a canto of the Lay of Leithian, of Lúthien dancing in the forest glades to Daeron’s music. Elros joins him, for their voices yet ring stronger together than apart – but he can put little conviction behind the song. The forest that his foremother loved is dead now, and so is she – they cannot resurrect her with their poems and their songs, necromancy dressed up as memorials, she is fled where they cannot reach her. Elros wonders if she was glad to do it.

Elrond’s eyes keep flitting between the dark, foreboding tree-trunks, as though he cannot quite understand why they do not become green and fair again under the influence of his song. At last he stops singing, a little frustrated now. “I cannot find a way,” he says, “it is all dark and rotten.”

“Well, there have been all manner of foul creatures crawling through these forests since Doriath fell,” Elros says sensibly. “I would be surprised were it not polluted.” 

“Why will it not cleanse itself?” Elrond says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why will it not remember how it used to be?”

Every two years or so Elrond will come to Elros with a plan to reach out to Maglor and his brother, and bring them before Gil-galad to face justice and redemption. Each time Elros tries to make him understand how impossible the idea is – and it works, for a year or two. 

He is not accustomed to thinking of his brother as childish – not accustomed to feeling so very old as he does right now, seeing the stunned bewildered hurt on Elrond’s face.

“It is tired, Elrond,” he says. “Let it sleep.”

For a moment Elrond’s face crumples, and Elros thinks he must weep; then he says, quite calmly and cheerfully, “Well then, we had best be getting you back to your men,” and sets his course for the forest’s southern border.

The victory feels hollow, to Elros: but then, they all do. 

[edges-of-night]

I just found your post and im in loove with your writing so o wanted to know if i could ask this.

What would the characters react if a Modern!reader has a scar or something from her childhood ( of theyre wild child like me) and would they though someone hurted her?

Kudos from Brasiil

Thank you, I’m glad you like the blog! Enjoy your post!

This one doesn’t have that huge bunch of gifs I’ve been using before – let me know what you like better, if you have a preference.

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Aragorn would treat your scars with great respect and never ask any questions about them, knowing they could potentially hurt you. It is no great deal for him though; he doesn’t think less of you for having scars!

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Arwen would have a silent fascination for your scars, as Elvish healing powers make it impossible for Elves to develop scars. She’d let her fingers ghost over them if you let her but never speak of them, unless you want to.

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir bonds over your shared scars. He’d tell you battle stories for every one of his. In turn, you could tell him yours. He’d find it charming to hear you’d been a wild child like he!

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

Elrond does not talk about your scars or even look at them, until you would initiate a conversation about them. He just accepts you have them, possibly thinking of the wounds they once were and how he would’ve treated them.

･ﾟ✧ Éomer.

Éomer would worship your scars, no matter how you got them – through work, fun, or battle. I like to imagine scars carry a deep meaning in Rohirrim culture. Éomer would go on and on about how Human they make you, as opposed to an Elf with healing powers. He would be sensitive if someone had hurt you, causing the scar.

･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.

Just like her brother, Éowyn would show great respect and admiration for your scars. But unlike him, she wouldn’t push the topic, knowing that you could have potentially emotional memories to them. If someone had caused you a scar by hurting you, she’d curse that person.

･ﾟ✧ Faramir.

Faramir is the kind of person to place deliberate kisses on your scars. He knows how insecure they can make one feel about their body, and he will have none of it with you – you’re gorgeous just the way you are ♡

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

Frodo has a very casual attitude toward scars. He accepts that you have them and doesn’t pull the attention onto them. He would probably ask you about them, after a long night you’ve had at the Green Dragon, but he’d always stay respectful and considerate – he’s a gentleman after all!

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

I imagine Galadriel having an almost morbid curiosity about scars and their place in the Human system of healing and mortality. She’d ask if she can take a closer look at them, talking about them, and even has clothing or headwear made for you that shows them off.

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf would casually ask you where you got your scars from, as an attempt to normalise conversation about them. If you signal him that you would rather not talk about it, he’d let it be, but otherwise, you could have a deep conversation about them with him. Should you wish to have it removed, he would cook up a spell that could do that.

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

Dwarves think highly of scars, as they symbolise both brashness and hard work. Gimli is no different. Should you ever feel insecure about your scars, he’d happily show you his and assure you that there is nothing shameful about them, with a big grin!

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Haldir avoids even glancing at your scars. He is both polite enough to not stare and troubled about the implications – Humans cannot heal the way Elves do. He could lose you to a wound that wouldn’t even be an issue to an Elf, and he cannot stand that thought. He also wracks his brains about someone having hurt you, as opposed to simply asking about it.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Legolas would take the issue of your scars very lightly. That also means he could potentially bring up hurtful memories, since the concept is so new to him. However, if you told him that, he’d immediately apologise and distance himself from the subject.

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Merry thinks your scars are super cool! He’d be the first in line to say things like, “They make you look adventurous!” Depending on how sensitive you are about them, he’d tone it down, of course. Still, he’d rather have you with them than without.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

Pippin probably has a bunch of scars himself, being both clumsy and a troublemaker. He’d ask you about your scars in a way that turns into a ‘ping pong’ game, with you taking turns with the stories you want to share with the other.

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

Sam has a big scar himself that he is rather insecure about. Bonding with you helps him accept that part of his body – though he would still blush how he got it, having defended Rosie Cotton from some ruffian at the Green Dragon.

[shirefantasies]

Congrats on 100 followers!!

What are some of your lotr headcanons?

Thank you so much 🥳 Ooooooh good question 👀 lessee *cracks knuckles* I’m going to do some regular one & some romantic ones, enjoy 😘

Some of my LoTR Headcanons!

*General*

✧ Aragorn may have worn Boromir’s bracers, but he also kept a drawing he found in his pocket. Turns out Faramir had drawn it one day when they were boys and his older brother held onto it until the end of his days.

✧ Legolas is so soft around little ones. He tries to act all like a wise guide but devolves into letting them climb him and carrying them up to rooftops for starlight stories. Doesn’t even care if they grab his hair or his ears, he’s still smiling so gently at them.

✧ Pippin is what would be called in modern days neurodivergent, more specifically with autism and ADHD. His parents and Merry were the most understanding ones, the ones who knew what he needed to hear and how he would process it best when others didn’t always understand.

✧ Legolas and Aragorn had the habit of singing together at fireside, quiet elvish songs, until one evening Gimli decided to put a stop to it with a dwarvish drinking song. In the end, the others find it so funny they learn it and join in, all three of them leaving their troubles for one night of song.

✧ Lord Elrond? Elrond of Rivendell??? Makes the best cup of tea in Middle Earth, fight me.

✧ Faramir teaches Pippin his favorite childhood game, probably something akin to chess, not really expecting the hobbit to enjoy it but Pippin ends up beating him out of sheer luck

✧ Frodo, Aragorn, and Legolas could have totally talked some shit in Elvish to each other and I firmly believe they did

✧ Arwen thinks of Lindir as a friend, but he’s so formal that in his mind such a lady could never see him so casually, leading to comical differences in the way they address each other

✧ Pippin wants a shit ton of kids some day. Sam is happy with around three, Merry wants a boy and a girl, Frodo isn’t sure he even wants children at all, but Pippin? He’s down for five to ten no problem, and he will be best friends with every single one.

✧ Eowyn teaches Faramir a bunch of horse riding tricks and he falls in love with riding as a sport, smiling as he takes in an act he only performed in war during a moment of pure joy and prosperity.

*Romance*

✧ Merry and Pippin are both such passionate kissers. OMG you will be breathless

✧ Elrond is the gentlest lover, handling his partner so carefully as if they were like gorgeous blown-glass in his hands and could break.

✧ Boromir is the type to grab his partner’s booty when they’re kissing in private

✧ Frodo’s ideal partner is not the smartest person or the most well-read, but someone with lighter spirits than his, someone who can never fail to bring a smile to his face and a laugh out of him.

✧ Faramir absolutely adores surprising you with flowers, so get ready to find them everywhere.

✧ Legolas is incredibly shy, inexperienced, and unsure with romance, so he prefers you to lead so that he can respond in kind, learning and studying with each touch, each act. He discovers his favorite thing is tracing a hand up and down your spine as you embrace.

✧ Gimli likes to act so rough and tough for someone who, in modern terms, would be called a massive simp, practically rolling out a red carpet for his partner and worshipping the ground they walk on, kissing them almost reverently unless the mood shifted deeper.

✧ Eomer is so good at giving massages, his partner will feel like royalty whenever he helps them relax

✧ He doesn’t look it, but Sam 100% would be the type to hold you up against a wall as he kisses you

✧ Aragorn enjoys being little spoon quite frequently. Fight me.

[simplysslytherin]

Everyone thinks Astarion's insecure about his relationship with Tav because he believes they deserve better. That he's fearful of them one day realizing he isn't so wonderful, so they abandon him.

But, like…what if Tav's the insecure one? Like, maybe they're insecure because they're human. Perhaps they see Astarion conversing with other elves or vampires who are more remarkable than them, so they worry he'll someday leave.

Elves are unlike most races, you may think you are speaking to an adult but be speaking to a child. Elves dont reach full adulthood till they turn 100, then they shed their childhood names and pick a new adult name. Tav was not an elven adult. They weren't even a elven teenager they were 27. Astarion was from their math 239, a fully realized adult elf. While Tav was barely able to go and explore the world under the watchful eyes of their parents. However, they got scooped up by mind flayers and here they were. They wondered if Astarion noticed or realized it, Halsin had very easily. Calling them little one and offering father like protection. Tav liked that it was nice to look to Halisn and have him nod affirmation that yes this was a good choice.

The parent child relationship didn't come to light until Tav got sloppy and accidentally called Halsin "Da" in elvish during dinner one night. Shadowheart spit out her drink, Astarion looked relieved while the others looked confused.

Halisn sighed and said, "not long ago I prayed to the oakfather for a child and he delivered just not in the way I expected." He had put a large hand on Tavs shoulder as he said it, to Tav's embarrassment.

It added to Tav's worrys that they would all find out they were just a child blindly leading the group.

It especially stung when Astarion had to use his flirting skills to get the out of several tight spots. He could have anyone, he could certainly find a more capable partner, not just a convenient blood bag.

Tav had been anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop since Halisn had revealed their parent child dynamic. It had been weeks.

"For the love of the oakfather stop pacing child." Halsin's voice stoped Tav short.

"Da."

"What's troubling you. Come you can tell me."

Tav looked around before switching to Elvish, "Its Astarion, he says he has something to confess."

Halisn nodded for Tav to continue, "he must of found out that I'm not an adult. He's probably disgusted I've tricked him. And and he's gonna leave me." Tav started crying at some point.

"Astarion isn't going to leave you." Halisn said opening his arms.

Tav ran into them hiding their face. "You don't know that. He probably hates me know he knows my secret!"

A new voice cut through the air, "I could never hate you darling. If anything I'm worried you'll hate me."

"'starion?"

"May I?"

Tav was shifted from Halisn's arms into Astarion's. "Lets go somewhere a bit more private my love." Astarion walked off carrying Tav, "I don't want your parent to rip my throat out."

After he put Tav down he held their hands. "There is nothing you can ever say that will make me stop loving you. Nothing Tav. So don't be afraid to tell me what your secret is it can't be worse thsn mine."

"It is! I'm 27." Tav let the words hang in the air. Like a confused puppy Astarion tilted his head.

"127?" Tav shook their head, "you have so much time." He breathed.

"So much time to hate me for taking advantage of you. I had a plan a nice simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feeling so you would never turn on me. Then I started to genuinely feel for you, and my nice simple plan fell apart."

"Astarion, you don't hate me?"

"What!? No! Don't you hate me?"

"No. I'm upset with you but I coukd never hate you."

"I'm also upset you didn't think you could tell me your secret." Astarion hummed. "Perhaps a late night strole just the two of us could help make it up? And we can continue this conversation when you've dried your face."

"I would like that."

[isilrina]

🌙👑 Isilrina - Shrouded 👑🌙

Happy Art Monday! Isilrina is my artist name, but it originated as a high school nickname bestowed upon me by friends who, like me, were avid "Lord of The Rings" enthusiasts. It is Elvish for "Moon Crown" (or "Moon Crowned"), and I aimed to capture that essence in this piece. This drawing is the first part of a diptych—a two-piece artwork that narrates a story. While each drawing can stand alone, their true depth unfolds when they are experienced together. In contemplating whether to post them separately or as a pair, I reflected on the creative process. Despite being drawn separately, both pieces demanded an equal investment of time (roughly 8 hours each). Ultimately, I decided to share them individually, respecting their separate journeys. Interestingly, for the narrative's sake, this one is considered the first, even though I created the other one before completing this piece. The second layer of meaning delves into the concept of how we present ourselves to the world. It took me 36 years to comprehend where did my differences from most kids (and later, people) come from, leading me to adopt a certain facade to ward off bullying and teasing. This act of concealing oneself is referred to as "masking," a heavy draining coping mechanism frequently employed by non-neurotypical individuals in a society that is still not ready to accommodate them, despite them being key to survival before society as we know it was even created. This drawing embodies the face I presented to the world for many years, concealing my true self. The full diptych reflects the journey of self-discovery and the realization that it's perfectly acceptable to embrace one's authentic identity. Eventually, you will find your tribe, those who accept you for who you truly are. If people don't, it's their loss and your gain. More time to spend with people who accept you for who you truly are.

[anghraine]

I was just wondering with all the weirdness about Númenorian pregnancy and childhood how you think Denethor fits with this. Do you think he was considered a strange child? Was he especially ‘difficult’ for his parents? How does this in turn relate to Faramir?

Oh, interesting!

One of the finer points of the bizarre Elvish/peredhel/Númenórean pregnancies is that much of the difficulty derives from the nature of the child or children, rather than just being a characteristic of the parents. The idea is that there's something so remarkable about these people that biologically producing them involves significant physical and (especially) spiritual strain for both parents, though more for the mother.

(Thus, Fëanor drained Míriel's spirit more than Finwë's, while with Arwen in NOME, the emphasis is on the strain her power and uniqueness put on Celebrían despite Celebrían's relative youth. Even Melian bore the chief strain of producing Lúthien and was apparently like "never again, this is Too Much Materiality and Gender.")

So the logic is that the direct transmission of the parents' special qualities to the child(ren) is itself difficult, and in addition, the more exceptional the child, the greater the difficulty and impact of creating them on the biological parents.

And there are repeated suggestions that among Elves, peredhil, and on Númenor, this variable but always-present spiritual cost of producing such beings is so much a fact of life that they have established cultural institutions for accommodating the higher difficulty of reproduction among their peoples.

(Tangentially, I wonder about how relatively low reproduction rates coupled with extremely low child mortality rates would operate culturally on Númenor itself ... like, are there orphanages? Is there a need for them when disease and even injury are so rare, lifespans so long, medicine so sophisticated, and children so valuable?)

But anyway, Denethor! The point of all this is that I suspect this variable spiritual/physical strain on the parents, beyond the natural strain of childbirth, would have somewhat diminished by the late Third Age. But it's pretty clear from LOTR that there are still distinctive qualities being consistently transmitted to Númenórean children from their parents, and thus the strain of Númenórean reproduction would still occur.

We know, for instance, that Denethor showing signs of old age in his 60s struck Gandalf as alarming for any Gondorian Dúnadan, though particularly one from Denethor's family. But it would be unusual anyway; it's not just that Denethor is uniquely strange, though he's certainly exceptional (Gandalf: "He is not as other men of this time" / Appendices: "a proud man, tall, valiant, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of men").

Tolkien also explains Gandalf's "whatever be his descent from father to son" remark about Denethor as indicating that Gandalf doesn't know the particulars of the Stewards' genealogy but he can tell they're Elrosian. Imrahil's Númenórean-Silvan ancestry is also extremely visible to Legolas, who similarly doesn't know their family history but can see the sort of imprint of it on Imrahil (and now I'm thinking about Legolas's struggle with sea-longing, his rapport with the distinctly Elvish Imrahil, and Imrahil's sister longing for the sea...).

Okay, Elizabeth, focus. The point of all this is that you'd expect a certain difficulty with the gestation and delivery of ANY Gondorian Dúnadan even this late, and we continue to see the characteristic small families and general signs of Númenórean low fertility/low mortality. But Denethor is a markedly unusual child even by these standards. And he's implied to be the third of either three or four children, but is pretty clearly the only one who is that weird in his family, and possibly in the entire country, when he's young.

(The potential fourth child, a younger brother, is so comprehensively out of the picture by the WOTR that I suspect he was retconned out, but theoretically he could have been killed in battle without having children, or might be ineligible for war and inheritance for some other reason. To me it makes the most sense that he was retconned out, leaving Denethor as "the baby," but sometimes I imagine the younger brother does exist, and has a disability that keeps him out of both war and the succession according to the practices of Númenórean elites. I could believe that Gondorians would suspect that something "went wrong" with Denethor's brother specifically because Denethor is so exceptional, etc.)

I think Denethor being, in Tolkien's phrase, "almost purely Númenórean" would ensure that he seems normal by the standards of Gondorian Dúnedain at birth, but soon would head into full uncanny valley Númenórean child vibes (per NOME). On Númenor, there's a cultural expectation of children just being like that, but I suspect it would not be normal at this point, at least not to nearly so great a degree. And since Denethor is the third child, the contrast with the two older ones would make it all the clearer that something different is going on with him.

For all of Gondor's records, I suspect there's a lot about ye olde Númenóreans that has simply been lost by this point. I imagine Denethor became ultra-learned in lore both for its own sake, and to understand his own experience of the world, which would only diverge more and more markedly from other people's as he grew older. There's a lot of knowledge that simply has never been recovered and he would have had to figure much of it out by sheer strength of will.

I imagine that Denethor's parents, older sisters, and caretakers did love him, but he was strange and off-putting, and they couldn't give him ... it feels very therapy-speak-ish to say "scaffolding." But there used to be a common framework for understanding the development of Númenórean children as they once were that has largely dissolved. I think the people around young Denethor did their best, but it wasn't enough for anyone concerned.

It's come up a few times on my blog that when it comes to the "powers of mind" type of Númenórean abilities, it's a bit difficult to compare Aragorn with Denethor and Faramir, because Aragorn is so much subtler and more adaptable. He can turn the eldritch strangeness off and pass unnoticed when he wants to. Denethor and Faramir's own eldritch strangeness may not be as "remote," but with them it seems like it's always on and there's no missing them or their capabilities when they're present.

Maybe this just has to do with the particular abilities they favor, the bleedover of temperament and nature, etc. But it's also possible that part of the unobtrusiveness of Aragorn when he wants to be vs Denethor and Faramir's neon "Númenórean" sign blinking at all times is that Denethor and Faramir weren't raised by Elrond amidst a community of Elves who would be familiar with both a long line of Elrosian Númenórean children and with the oddities (and even cultural protocols) that Númenóreans mostly share with Elves in the first place, even if the pace is different.

But Denethor and Faramir have never been normal in their context. There was no Elrond for them. And while young Faramir at least had Denethor himself to instruct him and perhaps even model Númenóreanness for him, however fraught that instruction may have been, it's possible that Denethor didn't really have anyone at all.

(The fact that Denethor married late and specifically married and dearly loved the Elvish-coded sister of notable Weird Cool Guy Imrahil seems perhaps significant.)

I think that while Denethor values his own abilities and is very proud of who and what he is, this experience of the world would have been incredibly isolating even amidst the oddities of Gondorian Dúnedain in general. I suspect Gandalf is actually spot-on when he says that Denethor loved Boromir all the more because Boromir was unlike him. I also suspect it would be clear quite early, especially to Denethor and Finduilas themselves, that Boromir was very different—the "strain" would have been fairly light.

(Boromir is distinguished not only from the high-octane Númenóreanness of Denethor and Faramir and even Imrahil, but from Gondorian cultural norms in general. He is a Dúnadan without question, but as a "type" he has more in common with the Rohirrim and seems to have an especially strong rapport with them.)

I also suspect that if Faramir had been born first, he might well have been an only child. As it is, the actual process of his gestation and birth was likely an ordeal for Denethor and Finduilas to begin with, even if her physical health was not in question at the time (which I actually presume, given that she lived for five more years and her early death is in no way attributed to Faramir ever). But Denethor would have known from early on that Faramir is special in the way that he himself is special, that the weird isolating experience he's had, that it was such a relief to see Boromir spared from, will happen to Faramir. And I'm guessing they also would have understood that Faramir being so exceptional ensured there would be no other children.

Sometimes I wonder if Denethor's knowledge of the experience Faramir was facing actually contributed to their fraught relationship. He could be about as normal a parental figure to Boromir as the ruler of a desperate nation could ever be to his heir. He could have something that looked like the lives of other people in that specific context. But his relationship with Faramir was never going to be normal, could never be.

There was probably a really peculiar period for Boromir and Faramir as brothers when Boromir was maturing normally while Faramir was the weird kid absorbing information from lore, from Denethor, from true-dreams, from other people's minds. I can even imagine that the young Boromir's role as "protector" of Faramir was not just his powerful elder sibling energy but related to child Faramir being genuinely strange. But by this time there would at least be a framework for understanding Faramir's development and more bizarre qualities—he's like Denethor, oh, okay. Any way that he's not like Denethor could probably be attributed to Finduilas's own peculiarities.

The tension between Denethor and Faramir is so profoundly shaped by their commonalities despite their somewhat different philosophical conclusions etc that it's difficult not to see that as a factor. They love each other and resent each other and see through each other in some ways but not the basic fact of their mutual love. Denethor is anxious about Gandalf stealing Faramir's love and loyalty from him while Faramir likes Gandalf but presents his influence as distinctly minor and calls for Denethor as he's dying, etc. They're two of the most Númenórean people alive and their perspectives on Númenor, Gondor, the war, their political situation in general are extremely shaped by it.

But I kind of wonder if Denethor also saw a bit of Thorongil in Faramir—someone akin to him, with such strikingly similar abilities and appearance, who even thinks similarly to him in many ways, but whose circumstances ensure he's always had a context and framework for understanding why he's so different and guidance in handling it. Yes, it's Denethor's choice to provide that guidance, but still, it does mean that Faramir is never quite as isolated as the young Denethor likely was.

To us it can seem obvious that Ecthelion's favoritism of Thorongil above even Denethor is unconsciously replicated by Denethor with his own sons (with Boromir as "the Thorongil" and Faramir as "the Denethor" to Denethor's Ecthelion). But I suspect it looks very different to Denethor.