#gos2022

[lycheesodas]

Gift exchange for @hennethgalad as part of @gatesofsummerexchange ☀️

Just a young Thranduil chillin' by the pool 😌 He’s probably bailing on stuffy princely duties, watching Oropher stomp through the grounds looking for him in all the wrong places lol

It's been an unusually rainy summer for me, but I hope this piece has sufficient sunny vibes for you hehe

[sauroff]

My Gift for @senalishia​ for the @gatesofsummerexchange​ ♥ I know I asked about the russingon, but I changed my mind. There is a lot of russingon out there, but not as much of these 3 :) I’m leaving an alternative version below the cut 

[sweetteaanddragons]

We’re All on the Same Page (of Completely Different Books)

@athlai for @gatesofsummerexchange - I hope you enjoy!

Gil-Galad did not want to be having this conversation. He felt instinctively that being king meant he ought to be able to delegate this conversation, and also any other conversations that would end with that bright, expectant look crumpling and then being firmly swept into blankness on Elrond’s face.

Unfortunately, Cirdan had convincingly taught him that being king actually meant that he was absolutely the one who had to start this conversation.

So he would.

In a moment.

“Elrond,” he said, for what he had a sudden suspicion might be the third time.

Elrond’s bright expectation hadn’t vanished, but it was starting to get amused around the edges. “Yes, my king,” he repeated.

Oh, hang it all.

He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I know your feelings about the Feanorians are . . . complicated.”

“I’m very fond of them, yes,” Elrond said, amusement still present but sharpened.

Gil-Galad winced. “Not those Feanorians,” he said. Not Celebrimbor and the remnant of Celegorm and Curufin’s followers doing who-knew-what in Eregion; not the rabble of all the rest of the Feanorians’ followers who had shown up in the early days of Lindon and convincingly sworn oaths to Elrond and conveniently tap danced around swearing oaths to Gil-Galad that were anywhere near as convincingly thorough.

Not those.

The two that had last been seen with blood drenched swords and two Silmarils.

“I’m very fond of them, yes,” Elrond repeated, eyes sharper than ever.

“You have complicated feelings about them,” Gil-Galad said over the top of that, because he was going to hang onto one shred of plausible deniability if it killed him. “Which is why I thought you might want to know that there’s been a credible sighting of Maglor.”

Elrond’s hand tightened slightly on the arms of his chair. “Oh?”

“Here in Lindon. Specifically, last night. In the palace.”

Elrond had gone very still. “When you say a credible sighting - “

“Me,” Gil-Galad interrupted. “I saw him. Briefly. He moved incredibly quickly for a man with a limp, and considering he was armed and I was not, I thought long and hard about whether or not I wanted to catch up to him.”

Elrond winced.

“Now I am sure,” he said with intentional emphasis, “that I have no idea where an injured Feanorian prince might be trying to get to in my palace. And I am equally sure that no one else is going to see him. Particularly no one from Doriath who might happen to be visiting at the moment. In the interest of upholding that, I feel certain that any fugitives I might have seen will be gone very soon.”

Elrond had frozen briefly during that little speech with the polite blankness Gil-Galad hated. Now he was in motion once more. “My king - “

“Especially,” he rolled onward, “since by many definitions, hiding someone currently held as an enemy of the state could be construed as treason.”

“My king, I really haven’t seen him - “

“Good,” he said briskly. “That’s certainly what I’ll be telling Celeborn if he catches wind of this.” At least he’d have a good excuse to offer if anyone tried to press for a search of Elrond’s rooms; the Gondolindrim, Feanorians, and Sindar would for once all be united by the offense to their much fought over heir, and it would only be worse if anyone even mentioned treason.

“But I really haven’t - “

“Elrond. Just - go handle this.”

It was a clear dismissal, and Elrond took it as one, standing and departing with a bow.

Gil-Galad watched him go with more than a hint of uneasiness.

He stood by what he said.

But he did a feel a flicker of uncertainty at the genuine hurt he’d seen in the peredhel’s eyes.

. . . 

Lauriel caught up to Elrond before he was two paces from the king’s office. She’d been engaging in a staring contest with the king’s own guards.

Not, Lauriel thought virtuously, that she was a guard. Of course not. Elrond didn’t have guards, and if he did, they certainly wouldn’t be Feanorians because the Feanorians were of course still obeying the restrictions on them possessing weaponry.

She had just happened to run into Elrond in the hallway an hour ago and would continue to follow him until Anufin happened to run into him two hours from now.

And if anything untoward happened to occur in those three hours, she would just so happen to find that a knife must have, at some point, accidentally fallen into her boot.

Possibly multiple knives had fallen into her clothing, actually. Who could say?

“All well?” she murmured when she thought they were ought of earshot.

She expected an exasperated reminder that he did not, in fact, need a minder at all times. Instead, she got Elrond pulling her into a curtained alcove and looking at her with an expression that was startlingly young.

She saw it for only an instant before he rubbed his hand over his face and looked imperturbable once more.

“Maglor trusted you the most of the remaining captains,” he said.

She straightened. “Thank you, my lord.”

He winced. “So I am trusting you to tell me if this gets out of hand.”

Lauriel was used to things getting out of hand.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure what, specifically, she had been supposed to be keeping an eye on. She had thought she had kept the weapons acquisition from getting out of hand, but on second thoughts . . . “My lord?”

“If the wound shows the slightest sign of infection or poisoning, come to me at once. I don’t care what orders he’s given you. If there’s a fever that lasts for longer than a few hours - “

Lauriel was starting to get a little alarmed. “Who, my lord?”

Elrond looked deeply disappointed in her. It shouldn’t be possible for that look to shrivel her soul quite so much when three successively bloodier massacres hadn’t, but. Well.

Here they were.

Her mind connected the pronoun to its only possible antecedent. “You’ve found the prince, my lord? He’s here?”

Elrond searched her face for a moment before coming to some conclusion and slumping a little. “He’s been seen,” he said grimly. “But he didn’t come to me. If he didn’t go to you . . . ?”

“I’ll talk to the others,” she promised, mind whirling. “Discreetly.”

They’d lost all their healers aside from Elrond. If he hadn’t gone there, and he hadn’t trusted her -

She didn’t know. She itched to search.

After, of course, they bumped into Anufin.

. . . 

“I ought to hurl you off the palace roof.”

Maglor looked doubtfully at his leg. “That seems like it would involve stairs.”

A jar of healing ointment was slammed onto the side table near where he was slumped into an entirely too comfortable chair. “I ought to hurl you out of the window here.”

He snuck a peek at the busy courtyard below the bedroom’s window. “That seems like it would invite questions.”

A roll of bandages joined the ointment. “I ought to inform Gil-Galad immediately.”

He winced as he tried to ease the boot off his very swollen leg. “I remember when you used to threaten to go running off to Grandfather,” he said wistfully. “Really, Nerwen, threatening to go tell the children seems like a step down.”

Artanis’s blazing eyes suggested that he might want to be a little more careful about pushing her too far.

He raised his hands. “Just a thought.”

“I still don’t know why you’re even here,” she said acidly, drawing a knife and all but shoving it at him.

He winced before reluctantly cutting the boot leather. It was inevitable at this point. He’d have to try to steal new ones on the way out. “Pardon me for thinking you might want to know that the orcs are gathering under some new leader.”

She froze her fevered pacing for just a moment.

“There’s details,” he said, exhaustion starting to creep up on him. “In my pack.” Finding anything to write with had been . . . troublesome, but it had been worth it. There had been too high a risk they wouldn’t give him time to speak.

Elrond would have, he was fairly sure, but he had no right to impose on Elrond. He had seen a few flashes of Feanorian red in the city, but he had no right to impose on them either, not after having abandoned them for all these years.

But Artanis. He could count on Artanis to at least want to very thoroughly give her opinion of him before she struck the final blow.

“I would ask that you read it first before throwing me out the window,” he said, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “Just in case you have questions.”

The knife was abruptly torn out of his hand. He expected for a moment to feel pain, and there was.

Unfortunately, it was just the pain of his agonized leg finally freed from the leather of the boot.

“Your nephew threw me out of my own city,” she informed him frigidly. “You do not get to die until I’ve had the pleasure of personally throwing you out of this one.”

His mouth twitched, just slightly. “Just as long as it doesn’t involve stairs.”

[miriel-therindes]

...Faelivrin, which is the sheen of the sun upon the pools of Ivrin.

✧ @gatesofsummerexchange gift: Charithra Chandran as Finduilas Faelivrin for @arwenindomiel

I hope you like it!!  💖

[middleearthpixie]

The River

Happy summer, @lathalea!! Here is the your story that I wrote as part of the @gatesofsummerexchange Tolkien Summer Exchange! I hope you enjoy it! 💜 💜 💜

Summary: Pre-Quest for Erebor

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Dwarf Reader

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield 

Warnings: Some fluff, some angst

Rating: T

Words: 2,983

***

“Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse?” 

~ The River, Bruce Springsteen, The River, Columbia Records, 1980

The river held a special place in your heart and always would, even if sometimes, when you looked back upon it, the memory of it could and did hurt like a thousand small blades cutting into your skin at once. You sat there, just listening to the rush of the water, so harsh when it slapped against the rocks, when it washed over the downed tree limbs, and whisked along all of the other debris that found its way into the waves, but then it calmed once more and carried everything its swift currents as it wound around the bend and out of sight. 

“There you are.”

You looked up as the shadow fell over you and you smiled as Thorin sank onto the ground alongside you. He looked more disheveled than usual, with bits of leaves and twigs in his hair, his dark gray henley spattered with dirt, with more dirt smudged across his face as well. “Did you meet up with a pack of orcs between here and the village?”

He responded with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. I was thrown from my pony, actually.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“Something spooked him and before you ask, I’ve no idea. He threw me, then bolted and I can only hope the fool finds his way home before much longer.”

“Are you all right?”

“I had the wind knocked from me and my shoulder took the brunt of my fall, but I’ll be fine. Just a bit sore.”

“Do I dare hope that means you’ve changed your mind?”

“About heading to the Iron Hills?” He shook his head. “No. I’ve not changed my mind about that at all. I thought you understood that.”

“I don’t understand any of it,” you told him, looking back out at the water. The late afternoon sunlight sparkled across the surface, made it look as if the waters themselves were precious diamonds rolling off into the distance. A hint of summer hung in the air, carrying on it the soft sweetness of the honeysuckle and jasmine that grew throughout the forest.

He’d told you of his plans to leave Ered Luin and travel to sit down with his cousin in the east and from there, to head toward the Shire, where he was to meet up with a wizard and a hobbit, of all creatures. He had a plan, he’d said, to reclaim his ancestral home of Erebor from the northern firedrake who’d stolen it so many years ago. You tried not to think about it, but as the time for his departure loomed imminently now, it was the only thing you could think about. 

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“No,” you said without thinking, “but you expect me to wait for you.”

He offered up a long look, but said nothing. Instead, he rose abruptly, striding away from you, away from the village, following the river as it wound like a diamond-studded black ribbon across the earth. 

“Thorin, wait!” You scrambled to your feet to give chase, and caught up with him just where the river rounded the bend. Grabbing his arm, you tried to stop him, digging your boot heels into the ground for traction. 

He stopped. “What?”

“Can you fault me for being upset?” You reached up to finger the small sapphire he’d woven into your hair only three nights earlier. No one knew it was there, and that was how it would stay for now. No one knew you and Thorin had moved beyond friendship, that he passed the last seven nights in your bed, loving you beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond anything you ever thought possible. 

“I thought you understood.”

“I do,” you nodded, meeting his pale blue eyes to hold his gaze, “but I don’t at the same time. I told you, whether you are king or blacksmith, I don’t care. I want you, regardless of what title you hold. And I thought you wanted me the same way.”

“I do.” He caught your hands in his and your heart leapt at the first touch. His hands were huge, with thick fingers. Hands trained to kill, but hands that knew how to be gentle, how to touch you in ways that made you feel as if you were the most delicate thing he’d ever stroked. “But, there is little future here for us, and if I can give us something better, something brighter, I have to try.”

“Thorin…” Your heart beat so hard against your ribs, you’d swear he could hear it as well, “our future here would be fine. It’s you who won’t be content, not me.”

He eased one hand free to curve it against your cheek, his thumb moving lightly along your chin, causing the beads in your beard to clack softly. “I have to do this. You know I’d not leave you otherwise.”

Your eyelids grew so heavy with each pass of his thumb against your skin. Until the previous week, you could only imagine what it would be like to be loved by him. And now you knew, and now you had to let go of him. He’d be gone at least a year, possibly longer. And it was entirely possible he would not return—a thought to horrid to contemplate and yet to real to ignore. 

Your eyes stung, and the last thing you wanted was to let him see you cry, so you gave into the urge to close your eyes. As you did, he caught your face in both hands and tilted your head to meet his kiss.

His lips were sinfully soft and moved with exquisite slowness against yours. At the gentle probe of his tongue, you parted your lips, welcomed the sensual invasion, your toes curling in your boots as his tongue glided along yours. He kissed the way he did everything else, wholeheartedly and with enthusiasm, and you let your hands curved about his wrists as he drew your tongue into his mouth now to taste, to savor, to stroke. 

You slid your hands along his forearms, up over the bulges of his biceps. Your fingers slid through the tangle of his dark hair, and when your fingertips brushed his nape, he shivered softly against you.

He drew back and smiled down at you. “Come with me.”

“Come with you where?”

He didn't answer, but led you down a narrow trail, back to the river, south of where it bent and vanished beyond Ered Luin’s borders. His blue eyes danced with the devil as he murmured, “No one will trouble us here.”

Another sweep of his lips against yours and he stepped back to strip his henley over his head. The late afternoon sunlight brought a golden aura to his skin, highlighted the swells of muscle along his shoulders and wrapped down his arms, across his broad chest. It glinted off the dark hair that curled away from his firm skin from just below his collarbones to his navel, and from there, it narrowed into a trail that vanished beneath the waist of his trousers. He held your gaze as he kicked off his boots, loosened his belt, shed his trousers and your mouth went dry at the sight of your powerful dwarf naked and aroused before you. 

He was beautiful. Just so very beautiful, indeed.

But he gave you no time to admire him. Instead, he laughed, brushed your lips with his, and whispered, “Join me,” before turning to the water. Three long strides and he dove in, cutting into the water like a scythe, causing barely a ripple along the river’s surface. 

He was a third of the way across the river when he surfaced, droplets clinging like molten silver to his skin, his hair, his beard, beaded across his barrel chest. His laugh rang out as he called, “Are you shy, amrâlimê? It’s nothing I’ve not already seen, remember.”

“You are an ass, you know.”

Another booming laugh echoed, loud enough to startle birds from where they nested in the trees. You kicked off your own boots, shed trousers and tunic, and walked with a purposeful stride toward the water, a sense of headiness surging through you at his growled, “Mahal, you are stunning. And all mine.”

The water was cold, especially against your already-heated skin, but you bit down on your bottom lip and threw yourself into it, letting the icy chill devour you all at once. When you surfaced and swept your streaming hair from your eyes, he was there with you, and snaked one arm out to catch you about the waist.

His lips found yours, beaded with water, hot and cold at the same time. You wound your arms about his neck, your legs about his waist, and caught his soft moan in your mouth. His arms tightened about you, pulled you hard against him, and as his body met yours, you shivered against him this time. 

You drew back as he swept a kiss down over your chin and along your neck, your head lolling back as he flicked the tip of his tongue into the hollow of your throat. He lifted you easily, to kiss his way down your breastbone, along the inner curve of your right breast. Down along the supple swelling, and up to capture your nipple with his lips.

The tip of his tongue flicked across it, fluttered back and forth until it tightened into an aching pebble. You twisted your fingers in his hair, rocked gently against him, unable to hold back your sigh as the friction of coarse hair against your sensitive flesh created a delicious sensation rippling through you. 

You slid one hand free, let it graze down through that damp hair, along his belly, into the swirling depths of the river. You found him, hard and proud and when you curled your fingers about him, he let out a sigh against your breast, tightened his arms about your waist.

He shivered and you knew the river water had nothing to do with it. It was your touch, your caress, that had him moaned softly into your wet skin and trembling against you. With gentle teeth, he nipped your breast, whispering, “Amrâlimê, have you any idea what you do to me?”

“I’m fairly certain the answer is yes,” you murmured back, smiling as he pulled back, his eyes smoky with desire and heavy-lidded with need. You loved when he looked at you as he did right then. He made your knees weak even when you weren’t standing, and made your bones feel as if they’d gone to jelly. 

You bent to meet his kiss and with the hand wrapped around him, guided him into you and with a low moan, he thrust to fill you. You joined him in that soft moan, linking your fingers at his nape as you moved with him. Water sloshed around you with each slow, teasing thrust he offered, and when you met his gaze, you melted from the inside out.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I will be back for you. I promise you this.”

“You had better,” you whispered back, a slow tremble taking root deep inside you. The end bore down upon you, you felt it in the tension winding through Thorin’s body, in the knots that twisted so sweetly within your core. You were nearly at the summit and once you reached that… there was no going back.

He thrust harder now and you couldn't hold back your smile as you said, “And I do love you back, Thorin. Nalish.” 

You tightened your legs about him, rocked hard to meet him, and when his lips found yours again, you shivered in his arms, arched hard against his body, and sighed deep into his mouth as your release came upon you. The muscles in his arms bulged as he moved harder against you, as he lifted and lowered you against him, and then…

“Amrâlimê… oh, yes…” He moaned, shuddering and arching hard against you as he surrendered to his own release. 

You sank against him, nuzzling him as you whispered, “Promise me you will be careful, Thorin. It’s such a dangerous thing you will be doing.”

He trembled in your arms, pressing a tender kiss into your shoulder before murmuring, “I will be fine, mesmel. And when I return, you will be my queen.”

You lifted your head, which still spun from his attentions, and stared. “What?”

A slight smile played at his lips. “If you will have me, that is.”

“Thorin…?”

“Say you will marry me, and let me carry that with me on my journey.”

Your heart beat faster against your ribs, your eyes searching his even as you managed to reply, “Do you mean that?”

“I do, yes. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when you were nothing more than a wee pest following me about with my sister, always underfoot and wanting my attention.”

“It worked, though,” you replied with a smile, “for I now have your undivided attention.”

He tightened his arms about you. “You’ve not answered me, you know.”

“Do you think I will say anything other than yes?” You caught a long black curl to tuck behind his left ear. “Of course I’ll have you.”

His smile stretched into his pale eyes, brightening them as he drew you in for another soft, lingering kiss. 

You lay entwined on the river bank, in the soft grass, your head on his chest, his heart beating softly beneath your ear. His fingers coursed lightly along your hair, and the only sounds were those of the forest getting ready to settle down for the night. As the sunlight died, twilight crept in, stars spangling the purple-streaked sky, and a soft breeze danced over your bare skin. Without thinking, you trailed your fingers through the soft hair curling away from his broad chest, and as you lay there, you thought you could spend the rest of your days just like this, lying in his arms, in tranquil peace.

“I wish this night would never end,” you whispered. 

“As do I,” he said. Grass rustled softly as he shifted onto his side to gaze down on you with sleepy eyes. “But unfortunately, time halts for no one, not even lovers.”

“I don’t want you to go, Thorin. I know you feel you must, but I wish you wouldn’t. I have such a terrible feeling about this, that something terrible will befall you.”

“You need not worry.” He came over you, forearms braced in the grass on either side of your head, his broad body blotting out the remnants of sunlight that still streaked through the sky, tinging the indigo with pale coral and soft pink. His eyes glittered softly as they held yours and his lips were gentle when they caressed yours. Your eyes closed at the soft scruff of his beard against yours, and they stung when he murmured, “I will be back for you, amrâlimê. Trust me.”

“I do trust you, so you had better come back or else.” 

“Good.” He reluctantly pulled away and stood, gilded by the dying sunlight and more beautiful than you’d ever seen him look. “Now, as much as I hate to see this wonderful day end, we both need return to the village before gossips run wild.”

You both dressed slowly, neither one of you in any hurry to return to reality. But it was unavoidable, as he was right. Time would not halt for either of you no matter how much you wanted it to.

As you made your way back toward the village, at the edge of the woods, Thorin turned to you, his massive hands coming up to cradle your face as he murmured, “I will miss you.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you managed to hold them back. Come the morning, when he departed for the Iron Hills, you would be allowed to do no more than wish him well and offer up a smile that only he would understand. You’d see his emotion in his eyes, but wouldn’t be able to bring any attention to it.

But now? Now you were able to anything you wished, and so you slid your arms about his waist, and closed the space between you to let your head come to rest against is chest. “I will miss you as well, you know. And I will worry endlessly.”

His arms came tight about you, he pressed a kiss into your head, and then his cheek came to rest upon it. “Do not worry for me. I am taking my best men and will be fine when all is said and done. You need only worry about planning the celebration to end all celebrations when Erebor is ours and we announce our betrothal.”

You looked up at him. “Hurry back.”

“I will.”

He bent to you then, his kiss long and lingering and unlike any other kiss he’d ever offered. Passion. Desire. Love. Lust. All were rolled into his kiss, and when you parted, an icy finger seemed to trail down along your spine. You couldn't put into words the fear that swirled thorough you, and it was just as well, for you knew he’d just reassure you that all would be well if you were able to voice that fear.

You parted then and as he disappeared over the crest of a hill toward his house, you stopped and turned to look at the river once more. It would always hold a special place in your heart, even if sometimes the memory of it could and did hurt like a thousand small blades cutting into your skin at once.

***

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @ggfamert @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

[the-red-butterfly]

I Heard A Cry Tonight

Legolas & Thranduil (Tolkien Universe)

Pages: 1-2 l 3-4

Organized by the lovely people @gatesofsummerexchange I present to you all the first half of my gif for @blueberryrock . My dear person I hope you enjoy this hot can of garbage I'm serving you right now.

I have, once again, to the surprise of no one, bit off more than I can chew. I've only managed to finished these 2 pages out of the 4 that there are (the 3rd is half way there), I beg you have a little patience with me, this little comic WILL be finished soon. Many sorries and a happy Gates of Summer!

.

Open for Commissions

[lathalea]

Gates of Summer 2022 - The Rescue

This is my entry for this year's @gatesofsummerexchange event. Thank you so much for making it happen, Mods 💙

Hello @the-red-butterfly! This is my gift for you - I hope you'll enjoy it!

Imagine if Thranduil, in deep mourning after the recent loss of his wife, had to rescue his baby son kidnapped by orcs.

Imagine if help came from the most unlikely place - as he pursued the kidnappers through the wilderness, brave archers from a village of Men helped him take care of the orc filth. His Little Leaf was safe.

Imagine if Thranduil stayed in the village for a while before returning to the Woodland Realm, healing the wounded and using his ancient magic to make sure the harvest would be bountiful as a gesture of gratitude.

Imagine if the presence of the Elven King and his babe woke the curiosity (and awe) of the local women. Imagine how – after the initial shyness – they doted over them, perhaps even spoiling Legolas rotten a tiny bit. Even the great Thranduil had to smile every time he saw a girl singing a lullaby or playing a melody to his son, perhaps reminding him slightly of the warm memories of his wife.

Imagine if – during the stay in that village – Thranduil learned to accept kindness. He not only started coming to terms with the death of his beloved, but also learned that the people of Men were more worthy than he expected them to.

Imagine if, years and years later, Legolas' favorite good luck charm was a little wooden horse given to him by the village carpenter. The Elven Prince took it with him to the Council of Elrond and kept it with him until it was time to sail off to the Undying Lands.

Happy summer! 🔆🔆🔆

[theelfmaiden]

🏖️GATES OF SUMMER 2022!!! 🏖️☀️

Yes. YES. YEEEEEEEEES!!! It's here, and it's QUEER!!!

Dear @maglorslostsilmaril, as it's quite apparent, I was your @gatesofsummerexchange ✨Fairy✨, and these gorgeous sapphics, Arwen and Éowyn, are my gift to you! Ding ding ding!!! 🥳🥳🥳

I had great fun drawing these beauties, and I know you'll take great care of them.

Have a beautiful Solstice Day, and Happy Pride Month to you, too! 🏳️‍🌈❤️

[loothientinooviel]

Gates of Summer gift for @an-eldritch-peredhel

Concept: the Sindar royal family (and guests) go to an amusement park and some bite off more than they can chew on the rollercoaster.

Front row: Celeborn, Galadriel. Second row: Daeron, Luthien. Third row: Melian, Thingol. Back row: Finrod

@gatesofsummerexchange

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

This is my gift I made for @toasterpapa​ for @gatesofsummerexchange​. This was my first time participating, and I really enjoyed it. 😁 Fi asked for some Fili and Kili shenanigan's, and me being me, I had to add some feelings to it as well. 🤣 In all seriousness, I do hope you enjoy your gift!!

Rating: G

Characters/Pairings: Fili & Kili, Fili & Bilbo, Fili & Thorin, minor established Bagginshield

Summary: Fili and Kili have been a little much lately. Their latest escapade: damaging the newly rebuilt Upper Markets that were scheduled to be unveiled to the public that night. However, uncovering Mahal’s Anvil seems to be the answer to all their problems...until it turns their hobbit uncle to stone.

Words: 6930

Feel free to read this story on AO3 using this link.

It had taken some time for the hobbit to adjust to life inside the mountain. Living out of the reach of the sun amongst carven stone. Each day dedicated to getting the broken kingdom back towards the glowing gem it once was. However, Bilbo really felt he had come to flourish in his role as Consort, which came with the best perk of being married to the love of his life. Thorin seemed to be more at ease letting Bilbo handle the public relations aspect of his job while he focused on the more physical tasks. Many of their newly returned citizens were immediately shocked by their King dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, digging out tunnels and toiling away in the forges for the necessary building materials. It had done well to win Thorin the public’s opinion.

On the flip side, any that had a single reservation about a non-dwarven Consort were immediately silenced or had changed their opinions after Bilbo took it upon himself to see every dwarf fed, clothed, housed, and needs completely met upon arrival. His strength lay in talking to people, hearing their concerns, and meeting with dwarves in higher positions to do something about it. 

Favor for royals had never been higher. Princess Dis even stepped into the role of Master of the Council which saved her brother a lot of headaches. Other members of the Company had also seamlessly assumed jobs and responsibilities that earned them respect and prestige. And then there were the princes.

Bilbo had thought they would have grown out of a lot of their shenanigans by now. Especially after that horrid battle before the mountain where he feared he was going to lose them all. However, almost as if the need to rebel now outweighed their common sense, Fili and Kili were more childish than ever.

There was the “werewolf hunting” incident that Tauriel assured them was nothing more than a lone, rather large warg. Still put the entire kingdom on edge for weeks. The time they managed to almost put out the fires in the great forges when they caused an overflow in the river dam. And Bilbo wasn’t even going to get into the stampede of rams through the Great Hall. He loved his nephews to death. But he had almost come to dread them coming around with sheepish grins and their innocent…

“Say, Uncle Bilbo?”

The hobbit just barely resisted the urge to bang his head into his planner.

“What have you two done now?” He groaned.

“I take offense at that. We don’t always bother you just because we’ve managed to get ourselves into a…predicament.” Fili said.

“Yeah, sometimes we just want to visit our favorite hobbity uncle.” Kili agreed with a much too wide grin.

“Really, because the last time you visited, I had to help you clear rats out of the pantries. Or would you rather me go back all the way to the troll incident?”

“You really ought to give that one a rest. It all worked out fine in the end.” Fili scoffed.

“We were almost eaten and I was covered in troll snot.”

“Almost being the key word.” Kili pointed out.

Bilbo did hit his hands to his face that time as he slowly rubbed circles around his eyes.

“You two are grown dwarves, when are you going to act like it?” Bilbo complained.

He almost missed the sour and bitter looks that stole across the princes’ faces at that. However, it was gone far before Bilbo even had a chance to comment. The sheepish and mischievous smirks the duo were known for returning in full force. Bilbo made a mental note that they all, Thorin and Dis included, needed to have a sitdown soon.

“Fine, I’ll play along. Why are you here?”

“Well you know how Uncle Thorin gave us that super important job of decorating the Upper Markets for the grand opening tonight?” Fili asked, his words dripping in honey.

“We may have encountered a slight problem.” Kili hissed in false sympathy.

Words Bilbo was uncomfortably familiar with at this point.

“Lead the way.” He ordered with a sigh.

Thorin seemed to think Bilbo was too soft on them. Allowing them to use Bilbo to help clean up their messes. Bilbo just saw it as an opportunity to make them do the job themselves instead of another poor dwarf. However, he did have to admit. It wasn’t quite the determinant he had hoped it would be, but Thorin’s idea of giving them stupid tasks so they couldn’t mess anything major up wasn’t exactly helping either.

Until this point they had only been making use of the Lower Markets. Back in the day the Lower Markets were for foreign trade where the men of Dale and elves of Mirkwood would bring and sell their wares. The Upper Markets were set up with personal forges and gem cutting stations. Bilbo had learned that the entire metal and gem making process was something of a spectacle to dwarves, and finally having it cleaned up enough to open it up would go a long way to getting their culture back in Erebor. Plus, Bilbo was looking forward to watching his husband shape melt with the sleeves rolled up over his stout forearms, and the heat causing sweat to glean on his skin…

“Here we are!” Fili announced, shaking Bilbo from his daydream.

Bilbo looked up only to cry out in aghast. There were loose rocks everywhere. And the nice, new marbled floor was cracked in places where some of the larger stones hit. Banners haphazardly held to the columns by arrows and knives painted a clear picture of what happened. Bilbo’s idiotic nephews were messing around in their task and caused a rock slide. 

“You just…I can’t…what were you even thinking?!” He swore.

Kili opened his mouth to answer, and Bilbo held up his hand.

“Nope!” He denied, not wanting to hear excuses.

“In our defense, it was an ingenious idea on our part…until we hit an unstable mark.” Fili went ahead and argued.

Bilbo whirled around on them, blood pounding in his ears, making it hard for him to hold back this time.

“LOOK AT THIS!” He demanded. “And I’m not even talking about the rocks right now. Look at the banners! Is that something you think the people of Erebor can be proud of?!”

Fili and Kili both looked up and stared at their sloppy work even as one string of flags began to droop. The expression in their eyes was guarded and unreadable which was unusual for them. Eventually they gave half-hearted shrugs.

“We’re sorry, Uncle Bilbo.” They declared in unison with the most monotone voice Bilbo had ever heard.

The hobbit resisted heaving a large sigh. He merely shook his head.

“I just don’t understand this selfish behavior of late. I really don’t.” He murmured.

Kili immediately dropped his head like a kicked puppy, but Fili bristled at the insult.

“I don’t think the hobbit that only holds power from marrying our uncle gets to pass that kind of judgment.” He spat.

Kili flinched, his eyes wide at Fili’s biting remark. And even the golden prince himself looked shocked at the bitter words spoken. Something sharp lodged itself in his heart, and Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to say anything for a long moment.

“Bilbo, I’m…” Fili attempted to apologize, but Bilbo wasn’t having it.

“You two start piling the bigger pieces over there. I’ll find a broom.” He declared before he marched back down the hall. 

Just in time before the first tear slipped down his cheek.

***

“That was…unnecessary.” Kili admitted as he and Fili worked.

“I don’t like when people talk down to me.” Fili tried to defend with no bite. “I get enough of it from Thorin. I don’t need it from his Consort.”

“Bilbo.” Kili corrected with a hard look. “Bilbo, our friend and also our uncle. You hurt his feelings, Fi.”

“I’ll…make it up to him later.” He grumbled.

Kili shook his head, grateful not for the first time, that Tauriel was visiting Legolas this week. Fili had been in a funk for awhile now. He had tried to help distract his brother in the best way he knew how, but even he could see that there was a line that they seemed to be flirting with lately. Bilbo has always been their friend even before he was their uncle, and probably one of their last true allies. He didn’t deserve Fili’s ire. 

Kili went to grab another rock to add to the growing pile when he spied something metallic below. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary. After all, Erebor was the city where gold ran like veins through the stone. However, this was iron. Shaped iron to be precise. He grabbed another medium sized boulder and another as he worked to unveil the object. When it finally started to take shape in his mind was when he decided to call his brother over. 

“Fi! What do you think this is?”

Fili let the rock he was carrying drop as he slowly moved closer, a furrow between his brow. He was standing beside Kili now, helping to shift more rock out of the way when at last, they could identify it.

“An anvil?” Kili questioned.

Fili shrugged. “Not that unusual for the Upper Markets at least.” 

“Yeah, but clear over here?” Kili scoffed. “Besides, Smaug wouldn’t have buried it in this pillar like this. No, this was built around it.”

“What are you saying?” Fili raised an eyebrow. “That some dwarf hid an anvil like it’s…”

Fili and Kili’s eyebrows rose skyward at the same time before they declared in unison:

“IT’S MAHAL’S ANVIL!”

Legend had it that when Mahal sent his first creations out into the world, he left them his hammer and anvil. The hammer, supposedly lost amongst the other treasures of Khazad-dûm, was said to have the power to level mountains with a single strike. It was without a doubt the most destructive force in their world. In contrast, the anvil was supposed to heal any ailment, any structure, and any stone with a single strike. However, only the most worthy of dwarves could hear its powerful ring. It had long been the brothers’ dream to go out on their own someday and find both. Honestly, it was almost a little disappointing how easy finding the anvil was. Discounting the fact that they first had to get Erebor back from a dragon, it was a bit underwhelming to have it just randomly buried in the walls of the Upper Market.

“Do you know what this means?” Fili exclaimed.

“We can rub in Thorin’s smug face all the times he teased us for still believing in fairy stories.” Kili smirked.

“Well that goes without saying.” Fili grinned. “But more specifically, he can’t get mad at us about this any longer.”

Fili gestured around the still ruined room around them. Kili fought to hide his grimace, wanting to remain upbeat for his brother. His eyes slid over to the hobbit who was slowly sweeping away debris with his back to them.

“I don’t know. It still looks pretty bad, and I don’t think Bilbo’s going to let us off easy this time.”

“Don’t you remember the stories though? Mahal’s anvil can heal any structure…We can use the anvil to fix it! What if we can use it to fix all of Erebor?!”

Any reservations Kili had were wiped away in his budding enthusiasm. 

“We can most ASSUREDLY use the anvil to fix everything! After all, who’s more worthy than a son of Durin?”

“Exactly, Nadad (brother)!” Fili encouraged. “Quick! Do you have a hammer?”

Kili felt around on his person, but came up empty. Fili also was patting himself down in all his knife hiding places, but the younger could tell from his frustrated expression that he wasn’t finding one. That’s when it hit him. They were in the Upper Markets. There were forge stands all around them. Surely one of them had to have a hammer. 

“Be right back.” He mumbled as he already started to walk away.

Kili tried to keep his steps light and even despite knowing their hobbity uncle would surely catch him with his ears. However, he never once turned, even as Kili snuck a hammer out of one of the drawers lining the stand. It was as he turned back to Fili that he heard the sniffle, and he knew why Bilbo didn’t notice him. Kili stopped in his tracks as he looked over his shoulder at his uncle with a frown. The hobbit’s shoulders were drawn tight, but he could see the subtle shaking that came with silent sobs. 

He opened his mouth to call out to him when Fili gave a low whistle. He looked over to see his brother animatedly waving him back over. Kili could feel his heart ripping in two as he tried to decide on what to do before eventually releasing a soft sigh and running back over to Fili’s side. They would fix things with Bilbo as soon as they used the magic anvil to fix their first mess. With great reluctance, Kili passed the hammer over to Fili, and the excitement radiating from his face made it all worth it.

“Go on then.” Kili cheered, almost bouncing in his excitement.

“Alright.” Fili chuckled. “Give me a moment here. It’s almost a little disappointing to not have a warhammer. It feels wrong to hit it with this little forge hammer.”

“It’s a forge anvil.” Kili pointed out, shrugging.

Fili shrugged back as he raised his arm ready to bring it down on the solid iron surface. However, just before he could, Kili held up both his hands.

“Wait!”

“What?”

“It’s still in the pillar. So when it starts to heal itself back…”

“Good call.”

Fili set the hammer in his belt as they each took an end and carried the anvil out into the open a bit more. Satisfied, Fili took position once again.

“Alright. Now. Let it ring!”

The hammer collided with the anvil sending a shockwave that sent Fili and Kili flying backwards. Kili landed in their pile of rocks, and Fili landed against the pillar where they unearthed the anvil to begin with.

“Did you hear a ring?” Kili coughed as he slowly righted himself.

“I think my ears are ringing, but no I didn’t hear anything.” Fili groaned his response, rubbing the back of his neck.

They both looked around the space only to fall in disappointment. Nothing had been fixed. It was still the same after the rockslide. 

“Maybe we were wrong.” Kili finally admitted. “Maybe it wasn’t Mahal’s anvil.”

“Yeah, because normal anvils send us flying after a single strike.” Fili pointed out, staring at it bitterly. “Clearly we weren’t worthy.”

“Well…let’s not give up.” Kili smiled weakly. “We could have Thorin try…”

A scowl formed on Fili’s face at their uncle’s name, and Kili quickly felt the need to backtrack.

“Or Bilbo! Who’s more worthy than our little hobbit?” Kili gasped.

It was the perfect opportunity to heal the rift anyways. 

“Hey Bilbo…!” He called out.

However, as he turned around, he noticed Bilbo was standing there awfully stiff. Kili winced. Or maybe they were in more trouble. 

“Bilbo, we’re sorry.” Fili hummed half-heartedly. “We won’t mess with it anymore.”

Still, the little hobbit refused to turn or even acknowledge them. Kili raised an eyebrow at Fili who shrugged. Dusting themselves off, they decided to make their way over to him. Bilbo was notorious for his silent moods after all, but who could resist Fili and Kili? Especially when they turned on the pouting faces.

The closer they got though, the more they realized something was truly wrong. Closing in on the last few feet in a run, Kili almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He stood there, blinking and blinking again as the blood drained away from his face. However, no matter how many times he tried to will the image away, it never changed. Bilbo. Their friend, their uncle, had been turned to stone.

***

Fili was doing his best not to panic even as a vice squeezed around his heart. By Mahal, what had he done? His fingers lightly traced the tear tracks that had been solidified as well, making him feel that much worse. What had he done?! 

“Thorin’s going to actually murder us this time.” Kili gaped, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Fili hadn’t even thought that far, but Kili was right. This wasn’t just their usual pranks and mischief. They turned his husband to stone. 

I just don’t understand this selfish behavior of late.

I don’t think the hobbit that only holds power from marrying our uncle gets to pass that kind of judgment.

Fili’s breathing quickened as the grip on his heart tightened. What if what he said was the last thing he would ever get to say to Bilbo?! He didn’t mean it! Honestly, he didn’t! There was a roaring coming from somewhere! WHY COULDN’T EVERYONE BE QUIET AND LET HIM THINK?!!

“Fili? FILI!”

“WHAT?”

Kili flinched at his harsh tone, and Fili immediately came back to himself.

“What do we do, Fili?” He asked quietly.

Fili ran his hands down his face, pulling on his mustache slightly. Right. They needed a plan, and that was his job. He came up with the plans. But how did you bring someone back from stone?!

“We…need advice.” He finally admitted. “But discreetly. We don’t need to alert anyone else just yet. You take Balin, and I’ll ask Ori.” 

Kili nodded enthusiastically. “And what about Bilbo?”

Fili looked back at the stone hobbit with his hunched shoulders and pinched expression. Fili closed his eyes against the image.

“He should be fine. But we’ll stop by his rooms and pick up a cloak to cover him up. The important thing is no one else has to know about this. We’ll figure out how to fix it, and everything will be fine. Okay?”

“Okay.” Kili nodded.

“Okay.” A third voice agreed breathlessly.

Fili and Kili whipped their heads around to see Gimli standing there, pale as a ghost. Not that either of them had much room to talk. Fili wasn’t really thinking as he sprinted over to the younger dwarf, shoving him up against the wall behind him. Gimli hardly reacted, his wide eyes still glued to Bilbo.

“What are you doing here?” Fili hissed. 

“Your mom sent me to remind you that they plan to open the markets in two hours. Why is the Consort stone?!”

“We found Mahal’s anvil.” Kili piped up from behind him.

Fili didn’t think it was possible for Gimli’s jaw to drop any lower, but he was somehow proven wrong.

“That’s so cool! Did you strike it?! What was it like?”

“Yes, we struck it and it TURNED BILBO TO STONE!” Fili screamed, shaking Gimli in the process.

“Okay, okay.” Kili interjected, stepping between the two. “This will be good. Gimli can keep a lookout while we go find a cure.”

Fili looked back at his brother before looking over at the ginger dwarf who was nodding enthusiastically. It wasn’t a terrible suggestion, but Fili would feel better about it if Gimli didn’t keep trying to sneak awed looks at the anvil and Bilbo. Fili looked back at Kili, who was now nodding as well.

“Fine!” Fili growled. “Keep Bilbo safe, and don’t let anyone but us back in here. Also don’t you dare touch that anvil. We don’t need anyone else turning to stone around here.”

Gimli slapped his fist against his heart. “You can count on me!”

Fili had to accept that as good enough. “We have less than two hours. Learn what you can and meet back here. We can’t let Uncle come down here and see Bilbo like this.”

Gimli whistled. “I didn’t even think about that. You two are dead where you stand if the King finds out about this.”

“Thanks Gimli.” Kili grumbled. 

Fili could feel the beginning of a rather large headache taking shape at this point. He could only hope Ori would actually provide him some useful information, and he knew exactly where the former scribe would be. 

***

“Sorry, can’t help you.” Ori shrugged as he continued to stack his books on the shelf.

Fili felt like white hot metal about to explode at any second.

“What do you mean you can’t help me?” He demanded, trying to hide his aggravation. “You’re the HEAD LIBRARIAN! You’re the only person who could possibly know about Mahal’s Anvil.”

Ori stopped just long enough to fix Fili with a raised eyebrow and a twisted scowl.

“You’re talking about an object that most dwarves don’t even believe exist!” He complained. “Of the maybe five books in here even on that subject, I doubt even one of them goes in detail about the powers or the anvil or how did you phrase it again? How to ‘undo an act made by someone unworthy’? What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“Well…” Fili fidgeted. “What if someone hit the anvil and it didn’t ring and it didn’t heal? What if it did something else?”

“Like what…?” Ori questioned slowly in the same suspicious voice that Fili knew he had to have learned from Dori. 

This was where Fili was hitting some dangerous territory. If he was too specific, Ori would know something was up. Not that he wasn’t already cluing in on that as it was.

“Well, I just mean, the Hammer had the ability to crush stone with a single swing, correct? Isn’t it possible the Anvil could…turn people to stone?”

Ori put a finger to his chin, his need to debate a hypothetical issue stronger than his suspicions.

“I suppose.” He finally shrugged. “After all, Mahal was said to have crafted his children from stone. It’s entirely possible that part of the ‘healing’ of the anvil would be to return dwarves back to the stone they came from.”

“So they wouldn’t be dead?” Fili sighed, the relief almost physically bringing him to his knees.

“No…I wouldn’t say so. Probably just a comatose state.”

“And how would such a process be reversed?”

“I don’t know, Fili. Do I look like Mahal to you?! Why are we playing hypothetical about a magic anvil anyways?”

“Just…curious I suppose.” Fili sighed. “Do you mind if I look through those books you were talking about anyways?”

“In the mythology section.” Ori sighed, pointing to the left as he went back to his task. “You’re not going to find anything though.”

Fili rolled his eyes as moved in that direction, pulling said books off the shelf. However, after forty stressful minutes of skimming the old legends, he had to admit defeat. Ori was right. There was nothing there even remotely useful. It was time for him to go back and hope Kili got something more from Balin. 

His hopes were dashed as he saw Kili and Gimli using a green shawl to try and hide as much of Bilbo’s stony vestige as possible. 

“Gimli! You’re supposed to be keeping watch!” Fili complained.

“I was!” He defended. “And then Kili asked me to hide Bilbo as much as we can.”

“No luck?” Fili asked grimly.

“No…” Kili admitted, still engrossed in his task. “I had to ask Balin what would happen if a non-dwarf was turned to stone by Mahal’s Anvil, and he got pretty suspicious after that. Higher, Gimli! I can still see his ear!”

“That’s just great!” Fili complained. “Now what are we going to do?”

“Gimli and I figured, if we cover Bilbo up, everyone will just think he’s feeling under the weather.”

Fili sputtered trying to find words for how ridiculously idiotic an idea that was. For one thing, that wouldn’t explain his inability to talk or move! Never mind when Thorin, sop that he was, decided to pick Bilbo up and carry him back to their rooms…actually, how heavy was Bilbo now that he was stone? Nevermind, it wasn’t important. What was important was they had just under an hour to figure out a way to fix this, and they were no closer to an answer than they were earlier. 

“There, what do you think?” Kili asked as he and Gimli stood back.

The shawl just barely covered Bilbo’s head and face before falling down to lay on his arms still holding the broom. Otherwise, from the waist down, he was still very clearly and obviously stone.

“I think we’re so dead.” Fili grimaced.

“THERE YOU TWO ARE!”

The three of them jumped with a small squeak as Kili quickly moved to stand in front of Bilbo, blocking him from Dwalin’s view. Fili shot Gimli a look that the younger could only return helplessly. Nervously, he spun around to face the guards’ Captain as he stormed in with his usual fierce scowl. 

“Are you knuckleheads done yet? Thorin’s ready to have people start streaming in here…”

Fili really had to fight hard not to hang his head like a misbehaving pebble as Dwalin trailed off, his eyes moving to the mess behind them.

“He’s going to kill you.” He assessed. “This wasn’t even a hard task! How could you have possibly messed this one up?”

Fili frowned. “It was drudge work. It wasn’t even a real task!”

“Yeah! And look what you did!” Dwalin continued, confirming Fili’s suspicions. “Do you know how long it took the masons to replace the marble on this floor the first time? And just what are you two hiding over there?!”

Gimli and Kili both flinched as they tried even harder to hide Bilbo from Dwalin’s line of sight which only seemed to make him more suspicious. 

“It’s…um…it’s…” 

Words would not come forth no matter how much he tried to summon them, not that they seemed like they were going to stop Dwalin in the slightest.

“Bilbo is sick!” Kili interjected, giving one last ditch effort.

Dwalin blinked over at him before he looked down at the clearly stone hobbit feet. Fili could feel his stomach plummeting as Dwalin’s jaw dropped, ripping the shawl away. Curses and prayers fell from his lips with ease, growing more heated the longer he looked upon Bilbo.

“What in Mahal’s Great Forge did you do?” He demanded, his eyes still glued to the frozen hobbit.

“I-It was an accident…” Fili tried to explain.

“What. Did. You. ACTUALLY JUST DO?!” Dwalin roared, finally turning around on the three of them, fire burning in his eyes.

“They did.” Gimli immediately denied, pointing at Fili and Kili.

Fili shot the younger dwarf a glare before turning back to Dwalin who seemed to be only a couple of seconds from decking them and then dragging them back to Thorin by their bootstraps. A vivid threat he had used on them many times before. 

“So…it all started when Fili bet me I couldn’t hit that pillar…” Kili began.

It didn’t take long after that for Fili to cave, and both were explaining in great detail how they caused the rockslide and went to go find Bilbo. How when they were cleaning up, they happened upon Mahal’s Anvil and decided to try and make it ring. Kili had stared at Fili when he glossed over his fight with Bilbo, but didn’t speak a word about it. Dwalin remained unnaturally quiet through the whole story, even as they finished with trying to find out how to change him back with no results. Dwalin turned back to Bilbo, his eyes softening as he took in the hobbit’s miserable expression.

“Do you think it pained him?” He asked softly.

Fili flinched, but he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to even begin thinking about that. 

“What should we do?” Kili asked tentatively. “To fix him, I mean.”

Dwalin closed his eyes, his chin dropped to his chest, and his arms crossed tight. Even though it held the baring of annoyance, it was a sight that filled Fili with hope. This was his ‘commander poise’ and the tactical brilliance to follow would surely reveal a path he had previously overlooked. After a few more seconds, Dwalin looked up and squared his shoulders determinedly. 

“Maybe you just didn’t hit it hard enough.”

Fili’s jaw dropped as Dwalin started to make his way over to the anvil, pulling out his warhammer in the process.

“Just didn’t hit it hard enough?” Fili questioned, over Gimli’s excited cheering. “That’s your solution?! Last time, we turned our uncle to stone. Do you really want to try this?”

“You said it’s supposed to ring right? How are you supposed to get a good ring using a dinky forge hammer anyways?”

“It’s a forge anvil.” Kili defended once again.

“Might as well give it a shot. What’s the worst that can happen?” Dwalin demanded.

“WE COULD ALL TURN TO STONE!” 

The older dwarf shrugged as he hefted his hammer high. “Worth a try.”

In one fluid motion, he brought the hammer down hard on the iron surface creating a faint, flat ‘clang’. Fili’s hopes rose thinking he might have actually done it. Not even a second had passed before Dwalin went flying clear across the room, and the wave of pressure hit into the rest of them as well. 

“BILBO!” Kili gasped.

Fili pushed himself up far enough to see the stone structure rock back and forth before tipping backwards. Horror kept him frozen and mute. Luckily, Gimli dove under the falling statue just in time. Fili rose to his feet ready to congratulate his friend on his quick thinking, when there was a loud ‘crack’.

“No. No, no, no, no, no!” He started chanting as he ran over to Bilbo’s side.

“It’s alright.” Gimli grunted. “It was just the broom.”

Sure enough the wooden handle was splintered in two. Fili was not satisfied until he and Kili had Bilbo standing upright and inspecting every surface inch on the hobbit. Once it was clear there was no danger, did he release a sigh of relief.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Dwalin wheezed as he slowly got to his feet again. 

“I tried to warn you.” Fili pointed out.

“Hey! You did heal the floor though…sort of.” 

Everyone looked over where Kili was standing to see that the marble had pieced itself back together leaving only the spiderweb effect from where it was impacted. The brothers shared a look at this.

“Maybe all we need to do IS hit it harder!” Kili gasped.

“If we go get one of the really large forge hammers…” Fili agreed.

“Nope. Not doing that again.” Dwalin grunted as he limped over to them. “Besides, your uncle will be here shortly. He can decide what’s to be done about this.”

Fili couldn’t even believe what he was hearing.

“Tell Thorin?! NO! That should be the absolute last thing we do. In fact, Gimli, since you’re supposed to be keeping. Watch. You should distract Thorin to buy us some time if he gets too close. It won’t be any hardship for us to loosen a few bolts, and then we can…”

“And then you can what?”

And just like that…Fili was dead. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn around even as Kili and Gimli straightened up a bit further.

“King Thorin is here.” Gimli announced.

“Keep watch. That’s all I asked. What was so hard about that?” Fili moaned before deciding it was time to face the executioner’s block.

Thorin had a face when he was truly mad. Bilbo hadn’t believed Fili and Kili at first thinking he had seen the worst Thorin Oakenshield could bear on the quest. Then he had tried to throw the hobbit from the ramparts under the influence of the gold sickness, and Bilbo never doubted them again. His eyes went wide making the white all the more prominent, and a little half-smirk formed from the twitch in his jaw muscle from where it was straining. It was a look Fili had only seen twice before, and even then this was the first time it had ever been aimed solely at him. It succeeded in immediately making Fili feel half his age as his eyes dropped in deference.

“You know, when I heard reports of a rock slide in this general area, I thought surely not. Surely, my nephew, my supposed heir, had more common sense than that.” Thorin began, his voice tight in the effort to remain calm.

“Thorin…” Kili attempted to defend. 

“Atkât (Silence).” He spat. “Then, rather than coming to me, your King, about what I hoped to be incidental and in no way directly your fault. I hear that you went to anyone BUT me. To my Consort, to Balin, to Ori, spouting off about Mahal’s Anvil of all things! And you wonder why I can’t trust you with more responsibilities. Why I give you tasks below your station and below your abilities. If I CAN’T TRUST YOU TO…”

There was no sound beyond the heavy pounding of his heart for several seconds, and Fili didn’t understand right away what had stopped Thorin in mid-sentence. But the uncertainty was short lived, and the moment Fili realized what happened, his eyes were up and locking desperately on his uncle’s who just realized there was a member of the group frozen in stone. Thorin’s eyebrows pulled together as his lips twisted around the word ‘no’ soundlessly. His steps slow as if he could prolong the truth before him. 

“What is this?” Thorin whispered, the vulnerable edge to his voice threatening to undo Fili completely.

His hand shook as it reached out to caress Bilbo’s cold cheek, jarring him completely.

“I ASKED WHAT IS THIS?!” Thorin roared.

They all flinched back a step. Even Dwalin watched grimly, unable to utter a word as a sob seemed to choke out of Thorin. A sound so heartbreaking and raw that Fili knew he would rather endure Thorin’s rage a hundred times over than have to hear that sound ever again.

“Kili and I found Mahal’s Anvil.” Fili began, his voice somehow so loud and not loud enough.

Thorin’s back was to Fili, so he had no idea if his uncle even heard him as he continued.

“We thought if we struck it…it would fix things from before the rockslide. But then…”

“You turned him to stone.” Thorin accused, his voice cold. 

“It wasn’t on purpose…”

“You turned Bilbo TO STONE!” Thorin snapped, pinning Fili under a hate filled gaze. “My Consort…my markhel (shield of all shields), amrâlimê (my love)...”

There was a dam burst inside Fili, and he knew he couldn’t hold back any longer as a lone tear tracked its way completely to his mustache before it was joined by more.

“I don’t know what to do.” He admitted, brokenly.

Thorin only stood there, staring back wide eyed, and the flood took control.

“I don’t know what you want me TO DO!”

Fili let his breathing ground him knowing if he was going to say this, he wanted to be heard.

“When we talked of taking back Erebor, years ago back in Ered Luin…I was supposed to be ruling at your side. I knew what you wanted of me, what you expected of me as a Crown Prince. Then you married Bilbo, and honestly I couldn’t be happier for you, Uncle. I truly couldn’t. But he slipped into my place. Do you understand? Everyone else has a place. Amad, Dwalin, even Kili heads the hunters so he can spend more time with his elf.”

Fili could see his brother flinch, but he didn’t move his gaze away from Thorin. Who seemed to have fallen into a neutral expression to keep Fili from reading his emotions. 

“I don’t know what to do.” He repeated again with a helpless shrug. “Just like I don’t know how to fix Bilbo. But…I know a good place to start.”

Fili pulled out a knife, and before anyone could stop him, he cut the braid declaring him a prince of Erebor. Kili released a whine, but Fili ignored it as he stepped forward to press it into Thorin’s hand.

“My behavior today was dishonorable. Those tears on your Consort’s face? They are because of me. I spoke words to hurt him out of anger. I don’t deserve to be a prince anymore.”

Thorin was staring down at the blonde braid in his hand when Kili stepped forward. With one swift movement, he cut his braid as well and placed it on top of Fili’s. Fili looked at him askance as Kili leveled Thorin with a straight face.

“I could have done something. I could have alerted Bilbo. I came close, but in the end, I did nothing. If Fili doesn’t deserve his title, neither do I.”

Thorin looked down at the braids, lost to his thoughts. Fili noticed Gimli starting to step forward, but Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from interrupting. When he turned his attention back to Thorin, his uncle was piercing him with an icy glare. The braids clutched tightly in his fist.

“If I made you feel like your place in Erebor had to be earned, either of you, then I have failed as your uncle and king and it is no one’s but my own braid I should hold.”

That was all the warning they had before Fili and Kili were wrapped up in a massive bear hug. Fili didn’t even hesitate as he buried his head into Thorin’s shoulder, gripping him back just as tight. The dwarf that helped raise him alongside his Amad, and he was crying into his surcoat like he was twenty again. Assurances and apologies were mumbled in his ear, and Fili held them close, letting them burrow into his heart. It was at that moment, the sharp perfect ‘ting’ of metal striking an anvil sounded, and a gasp was released from behind them.

All at once, they spun around to see Bilbo, wonderful, perfectly hobbity Bilbo, looking around in confusion with tears still tracking down his face.

“Thorin?” He sniffed. “What’s going on…?”

Fili didn’t give his uncle the chance as he launched himself at the hobbit with a cry, pulling the smaller male into a bone crushing hug.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo. I’m so sorry.” He mumbled.

“Fili? Oh my dear boy, it’s okay. There’s nothing to forgive. Don’t cry.” 

Fili wanted to laugh at Bilbo’s kind words if for nothing else than it was so Bilbo to be crying himself and trying to soothe him.

“I knew you were too soft on them.” Thorin laughed as well before pulling Bilbo just far enough out of Fili’s reach to plant a firm kiss on his lips.

After that, the four of them moved into one giant group hug that they ended up pulling Dwalin and Gimli into as well, laughing all the way.

“My word! I’m not quite sure what it is that I missed, but I can’t say I’m displeased with the result.” Bilbo remarked with a grin.

“Fi! Do you know what this means?” Kili asked, almost bouncing in excitement.

He raised an eyebrow waiting for Kili to enlighten him.

“You must be worthy now!”

Fili’s jaw dropped. That was right! No one had struck the anvil so it must have accepted Fili’s first swing as worthy after he fixed things with Thorin.

“We should try it again.” He stated, wanting to see the miracle of Mahal’s Anvil firsthand.

Before he or Kili could race over there, Thorin stopped them both by latching onto the collars of their tunics.

“Perhaps…that’s enough for today?” He pleaded. “I still don’t know how I feel about this magic anvil business without you two bringing the mountain down around our ears with it.”

“But Fili’s worthy now.” Kili tried to argue.

It was Thorin’s pained expression that had Fili taking pity on him. 

“Come on, Kili, Gimli. Let’s get this thing down to the treasury. We can decide what to do with it afterwards.”

“You know it’s not Mahal’s Anvil, right?” Gimli asked as they hoisted it up.

“What?!” Kili demanded.

“It’s says ‘Property of Narvi’ right there on the side of it.” 

“Wait. The Narvi of Khazad-dûm. How do you think it got here?” 

“Why is it magic?” Fili questioned.

“What else do you think it can do?” Kili continued to list.

Dwalin, Thorin, and Bilbo could only shake their heads as they watched them carry the anvil off. 

“They’re your heirs.” Bilbo reminded.

Thorin’s hand tightened on the braids still in his hand, his other slung around Bilbo’s waist.

“I know.” He sighed. “And I’m going to do better about making sure they realize it too. I need to stop treating them like children, and let them grow into the princes I know they can be.”

Bilbo looked up at Thorin sharply. “Seriously? What did I miss?”

Thorin shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know if I can explain it myself.”

“I don’t know what they were going on about.” Dwalin complained. “It was clearly my swing that finally got the stupid thing working again.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Well whatever it was,” Bilbo sighed. “If it keeps me from having to hear ‘say, Uncle Bilbo’ again, then I dare say the worst is behind us.”

Thorin and Dwalin had just enough time to give the hobbit an unimpressed, flat look. And trio of ‘WE’RE SORRY’ was issued right before hundreds of angry screeching bats filled the chamber.

[mxmia]

dear future bilbo; it's me, bilbo

Rating; G | No Warnings Apply

Characters; Bilbo, Thorin Oakenshield & Co.

Relationships; Gen | Bilbo & Company of Thorin Oakenshield

Dear future Bilbo,

It’s me, Bilbo. Today was an average day, I am afraid. The King has been brought to the healing tents, and I’ve been helping around as much as I can.

I am feeling very tired now, so I am off to bed.

[Or, Bilbo takes notes for his book that aren't actually notes while Erebor is rebuilt.]

Written for @sunnyrosewritesstuff for the @gatesofsummerexchange! Sunny, I really hope you like this!

Read on ao3!

[senalishia]

Here's my @gatesofsummerexchange gift for @esmeblaze! Happy Solstice!

I GOT TO DRAW FIN-GALAD!!! In fancy hanfu!!! I was so excited when I got you as my giftee, I hope you like it!

[mai-sau]

“Aren’t you the lucky one?”

húrin is blessed with some melkor quality time <3 in this @gatesofsummerexchange gift for my dear partner @outofangband! 

this month has been filled with secrecy and shenanigans trying to keep this hush-hush and I’m so excited to finally post the surprise!! love you darling link to full image here on ao3

[avantegarda]

Some Small Atonement: A Gates of Summer Exchange Fic

Happy @gatesofsummerexchange ,@the-seaworthy-muffin! I'm your gifter for this delightful event. You requested something involving Glorfindel, Maglor, and Elrond's sons, and while I'm not sure you meant this, I have written Maglor and Glorfindel dealing with some old grudges (with encouragement from the youngsters).

Glorfindel was, by nature, a forgiving person. When one had lived as long as he had, holding petty grudges was, at best, an utter bore. 

That said, even he had trouble letting go of some things.

As beautiful and peaceful as his new home of Imladris was, and as much as he adored Elrond—the great-grandson of his former lord, and grandson of one of his dearest friends—he did not quite care for some of Elrond’s friends.

Well, one friend, really.

Or, according to Elrond, his father.

Glorfindel, in his previous life, had never spoken to any of the sons of Feanor. He’d glimpsed them from time to time at the camp around Lake Mithrim, but had always been guided firmly in the opposite direction by his mother. “Those ruffians who caused your father’s death,” she would mutter in disgust. 

Glorfindel’s father had died on the Helcaraxë, not in the Kinslaying, but the boy took his mother’s point anyway. Had Fëanor and his sons not started a revolution, there would have been no ships to burn, and no ice to cross. And now one of Fëanor’s sons was here, in Imladris, being called father by Elrond.

The trouble was made worse by the fact that Glorfindel’s beloved honorary nephews, Elladan and Elrohir, adored their adoptive grandfather. As they grew older, they also grew more and more aware that Glorfindel did not adore him.

They finally got up the courage to raise the subject at the age of twenty-two, during one of Maglor’s unscheduled visits to the valley. 

“Why don’t you like Grandfather Maglor?” Elladan demanded, climbing onto Glorfindel’s desk gracefully. “We think he’s excellent.”

“He gave us knives from Harad,” Elrohir chimed in. “Proper ones. Even though they aren’t sharp.”

“I do like him,” Glorfindel said unconvincingly. “He… makes your father very happy.” Though Varda alone knows why.

“But not you,” said Elladan. “You look at him as though he’s an… an orc.”

“And what do you know of orcs, young sir?” Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “Let alone how I look at them.”

“I know enough,” said Elladan with a shrug. “Saw a picture in one of Father’s books once. They have horrible eyes and they’re covered with blood and filth, and…”

“That is quite enough,” Glorfindel interrupted. “You’ll put us all off our dinner. Your grandfather is not an orc, that much is very obvious. Still, I will admit we have some unfortunate history.”

“What’s that?” asked Elrohir.

“That is something you will need to ask your father about,” said Glorfindel. “It was all… a very long time ago. But some things are difficult to forget.”

Elladan frowned. “Have you ever talked to Grandfather about it? If you’re so cross with him, you shouldn’t keep it all inside. That’s what Mother always says.”

Glorfindel very briefly entertained an uncharitable thought about Celebrian, before pushing it away firmly. “Your mother is… very wise. However, she may not quite understand the complexities of this situation…”

Elrohir rolled his eyes and gave Glorfindel’s shoulder a push. “Go on,” he said. “Go see Grandfather and talk things over. It’s horrible, seeing you hate someone. It’s like seeing a fish walk on land.”

“I am not a fish,” Glorfindel said primly. “And I will not go and see Maglor.”

--

Glorfindel did, of course, go to see Maglor.

He still did not particularly want to, but it seemed like the honorable thing to do. If they could have an honest discussion with each other just once, perhaps any tension could be eased before it started to hurt Elrond.

Maglor sat quietly on a bench on a high balcony, looking up without surprise when Glorfindel entered. He had changed out of the rough traveling clothes he usually wore—probably at Elrond’s request—and now looked reasonably presentable in a burgundy tunic. Still, there was something about him that seemed distinctly wild.

“Good afternoon, Lord Glorfindel,” he said mildly. “How are you today?”

“Well enough,” said Glorfindel. “Are you…” He cast about for a suitable question. “Enjoying your time in Imladris?”

“Very much, as always. Elrond and Celebrian have worked wonders with this valley.” Maglor looked out across the balcony, golden in the sunset, smiling wistfully. “Reminds me of home.”

“Likewise,” Glorfindel said quietly, although he was fairly sure he and Maglor were thinking of different places when they said home.

What did home mean to Maglor these days, anyway? Glorfindel couldn’t help but wonder. Tirion, perhaps, or the old lands of Beleriand?

Not that Glorfindel cared.

“The uncharacteristically fierce look on your face,” Maglor commented, “makes me think you have something on your mind.”

“So I do,” said Glorfindel. “So I do.” He hesitated, before taking a seat on the bench. “I believe it is only fair for me to state the truth: it disturbs me, seeing you here.”

“If it helps, I doubt you are alone in that,” said Maglor, not noticeably offended. “Nearly everyone here who was alive in the First Age must want to throw me into a well every time I drop by.”

“So why do you keep coming back?” Glorfindel demanded, the words sounding harsher than he’d intended. 

“Why don’t I sod off and leave this nice respectable valley alone, you mean?” Maglor grinned. “No need to look shocked, I could read your subtext. Your job is to protect Elrond, thanks to some promise you made to my densest and most boring cousin, and having me about the place is undoubtedly corrupting his soul. How close am I?”

“I’m unsure why you feel the need to mock me,” Glorfindel said stiffly. “I do wish to protect Elrond, and there is nothing unreasonable about that.”

“No, there certainly is not,” said Maglor. “Forgive me, mocking was not my intention. But I haven’t yet answered your question.” He sighed, and looked out over the valley again. “Elrond has lost so many people, Glorfindel. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. And for whatever reason—I have tried to talk him out of it, believe me—Elrond does not want to lose me. Perhaps it would be better for me to disappear entirely, But I can’t bring myself to hurt my son like that.”

Glorfindel winced slightly at the words “my son” — Elrond was Earendil’s son, damn it all, Glorfindel had known Earendil! —but nodded. “I suppose I can understand that.”

“I hoped you would.”

“I must admit,” said Glorfindel, “that I had a vague idea of finding you today and asking you to leave Imladris. I had even considered a bribe.”

Maglor snorted. “And what, exactly, did you plan to bribe me with?”

“I never quite reached that part of the plan. Besides, the point is moot now. I find I have… changed my mind.”

“Have you?” asked Maglor. There was a faint smile on his face. “My charm won you over, then?”

“I’m afraid I must be impervious to your… brand of charm. However, I think I may slightly understand by now why Elrond cares for you.” Glorfindel stood and yawned. “I believe I’m in need of a drink before bed. Care to join me?”

Maglor’s eyebrows went up in surprise, but he nodded. “If you like,” he said. “Despite being a famous villain, I can promise that I will not poison you.

--

It was no surprise that Maglor and Glorfindel ran into Elladan and Elrohir on their way back through the house. The little imps seemed to be everywhere at once. At the sight of the two older elves not only walking together, but conversing, both boys’ eyes widened in delight.

“Uncle Glorfindel!” Elrohir exclaimed. “Are you and Grandfather friends now?”

Glorfindel and Maglor looked at one another hesitantly, before Glorfindel slowly nodded. “I suppose one could say we are becoming friends. We are at least getting to know each other now.”

Obviously relieved, Maglor nodded as well. “An excellent way to put it.”

“Oh, good,” said Elladan. “Can you play Find the Flag with us, then? It’s not nearly as fun with only three people. Especially because Elrohir always cheats.”

“I do not!”

Glorfindel turned to Maglor, a wry smile on his face. “Well, it appears we’ve been challenged. That drink will have to wait. Shall we choose our teams?”

Maglor grinned and half-bowed. “After you, my friend.”

[violecov]

Happy @gatesofsummerexchange everyone!!!

(I'm a bit late, sorry😅)

Anyway here is my gift foooor the marvelous... @anki-of-beleriand !!! Hope u like it Anki!

So this is a lil comic I did for u that is a small ending scene of.... This amazing fic Anki made!!! Anyone who hasn't read it, I highly recommend it.

Anyway, thank u soo much to the mods.

Love u all, and have a nice summer.

[greyelven]

songs for the end of the world | a Daeron/Maglor fic [AO3]

a gift for @polutrope for the @gatesofsummerexchange

Summary: Daeron and Maglor meet on the edges of what used to be Beleriand to talk stories, the weight of the past, and whether either of them has a future.

Beleriand was gone. Daeron was retracing the footsteps of his ancestors to Cuiviénen when the tremors started, too far east to feel the earth being devoured. But even there, rumours began to reach him, travellers with strange tales of destruction on a scale that could only be the work of the Valar.

Before he had time to think what he was doing, Daeron turned his feet in the direction he never thought to go again. There was plenty of time to stop himself on the long journey home, as he walked without resting through days and nights, but he trusted his instincts. He had little else to guide him.

Soon he began to feel the ground stirring beneath him, waking him as he slept and occasionally knocking him off his feet. Everyone he passed was fleeing in the opposite direction. He stopped the odd survivor here and there, the ones travelling in twos or threes or by themselves, as he always was, taking care to avoid anyone with the familiar lilt of a Iathrim accent.

He was not in hiding, exactly. He just wasn’t ready to go back to them, not yet. There was freedom in anonymity. Though his reputation had spread far beyond his native land, the stories were vague enough that none would think to attach them to him. He listened now, more than he sang, and spoke in tongues not his own. Unless he was alone, when he sung Lúthien’s name to the hills and the stars that kept it safe.

He struggled to make sense of what he heard on the road. The people who lived to tell of the cataclysm were those on its furthest edges, and their accounts were often second or third hand. Doriath was gone, that was agreed upon, but some said dwarves and some the sons of Fëanor and some said the sea had swallowed it up. The dwarves muttered curses at Thingol’s name, but were more preoccupied with talk of mountains crumbling and their cities in ruins.

Daeron didn’t truly understand until he passed into Eriador and saw for himself the broken skyline of Ered Luin. The spaces where whole peaks were missing. He had intended to scale them and look to the west, but his desire to tread on the dust of fallen mountains was stronger. He found himself by the sea, a gulf so new it had no name yet. He peered over cliffs raw and jagged, and trod on shorelines that had yet to settle in one place.

There was no need to climb anymore. To the west there was only sea.

The desolation robbed him of all words. The land was silent too, the birds and beasts fleeing as the people had. He snared the occasional rabbit, but for the most part had to rely on roots and berries to keep himself fed, until the cliffs came to an end and he could walk right down to the shore. There, he hooked sleek silver fish and cooked them over a driftwood fire.

One such night, as he sat on a rocky beach turning the fish on a spit, he found himself with company. Someone moving beyond the light of the flames. Their tread was light, but their shape hunched – he couldn’t tell if they were Eldar or Edain, or something else entirely.

“Greetings, stranger,” he said. “Come and warm yourself, and share my meal. I have more than I need.”

He didn’t, but he was tired of silence. It had been weeks since he’d seen another soul.

“And does that offer extend to the likes of me?” the stranger asked, materialising out of the shadows.

Not a stranger, after all, though his face was much changed. Daeron fought to hide his shock.

“So you did survive, kinslayer. I confess I thought that poetic licence.”

Maglor flinched.

“I saw the fire, and thought… I will go, if my company is distasteful to you.”

“I bade you welcome,” Daeron said sharply. “That still holds.”

Maglor eyed him warily, but his gaze kept slipping, drawn to the roasting fish, and eventually he sat. The flames between them lit up the hollows of his face.

“So. How did the last son of Fëanor end up lost and alone, on these strange shores?”

“Haven't you heard the stories?” Maglor said. His voice was hoarse, as if the song had been burned out of it.

“Fragments,” Daeron said. “You are the only one who knows them in full.”

Maglor didn’t answer.

“Nothing to say for yourself, kinslayer?” Daeron said.

“You’ve already made up your mind about me,” Maglor said. “Why should I give you more ammunition? So you can taunt me, and feel better about yourself?”

“It’s a lonely life out here, kinslayer,” Daeron said. “How long can you bear the weight of your mistakes alone?”

“How long have you borne yours, Daeron the faithless?” Maglor shot back.

“Ah, but my tale is known far and wide,” Daeron said. “I can forget, if I choose; others will remember for me, and tell me anew should I wish it. Yours, though… I can see it consuming you already. Your skin clings to your bones. In ten years there won’t be anything left of you.”

“Unless I entrust you with my deepest secrets?” Maglor’s smile was bitter. “My life has left me with only one thing: the telling of it. I will not surrender it, not to the likes of you.”

“Perhaps you are stronger than you look,” Daeron said. “Here, this is ready.”

He held the spit out. Maglor reached to take the fish off the end, and Daeron drew back involuntarily.

He had overlooked a crucial detail. Maglor’s hands were ruined, burnt black, the skin cracked and blistered. Hands that could no longer pluck strings or dance over a pipe – or grasp a sword. He held them gingerly, fingers curved like claws.

No wonder he was hungry.

Daeron took the spit back, pulling the hot flesh into pieces before offering it to Maglor again. It was gone so fast it felt cruel to watch. He gave him the second fish too, and that disappeared just as fast.

“What happened to you?” Daeron said softly.

Maglor held his hands up to the firelight, turning them so Daeron might see the full extent of the damage. They were mesmerising, in their way, something that should have belonged to a corpse rather than a living creature. Daeron had never seen anything like it.

“Gruesome, aren’t they?” he said conversationally, and Daeron jumped, ashamed to be caught staring though that was clearly what Maglor had intended.

Maglor’s mouth twisted in something that might have been a smile. “I spent five hundred years pursuing a treasure I was no longer worthy of. Now I am punished for it, from the moment I wake to the moment I sleep. Is that the kind of story you wanted to hear?”

His eyes were fixed on Daeron, and Daeron could not look away.

“How about the one where your beloved’s son and all her kin perished at the hand of me and mine? Or how I stole her last descendants but could not make them my own? Would you like to hear of that?”

Daeron opened his mouth to reply but Maglor was shaking his head already.

“No. The only things I’ve created are grief and song, but now I’ve lost the songs too, and -”

He stopped abruptly, horror flickering across his features, but it was too late.

“Your voice is gone, isn’t it,” Daeron said.

Maglor had no answer for a long time. He bowed his head to hide his face. When at last he spoke, he was still staring at his hands, resting in his lap.

“I’ve never known such pain,” he said. “I screamed for days and days, it seemed, and when at last the burning began to fade a little, I couldn’t utter a word. I didn’t know if I would ever speak again.”

“Happy news for you,” he added, lifting his head. “Now you have no equal.”

“No,” Daeron said, “no, I cannot be happy at beauty being lost from the world.”

“Why?” Maglor said. “Why are you not repelled by me? You have no shortage of reasons to be.”

“It’s a lonely life out here,” Daeron repeated.

“No, there’s something more than that,” Maglor said. “I’m not the only wanderer in these parts. The Laiquendi still dwell in their woods at the feet of the mountains, the Casari deep in their caves – either would welcome you. But here you are, on a cold beach with a kinslayer who can offer you nothing.”

“Everyone has something they can offer me,” Daeron said. “I’ve been to the south, where there is little but sand for endless miles, east where the Morben still speak the first tongues of our people, north to the frozen wastes where mortal men hunt bears as white as the snow, and everywhere I have found music that I have never heard the likes of. Stories I thought lost to us forever. Like this -”

He reached for his harp, and plucked a lively tune.

“This is a drinking song of the people of - ”

He checked himself as he glanced from the flames to Maglor’s face, and saw anew the despair in those sunken eyes. He let the harp fall into his lap.

“Maybe you want to let your grief destroy you. I won’t get in your way. But there’s still a lot to see, Maglor son of Fëanor. I bid you stay because I thought you might join me. Help me collect the songs of all the people in Ennor.”

“What good would I be, when I cannot play?” Maglor said.

“The remembering is what matters,” Daeron said. “But this is not the time for you. I can see that now. You are not ready to leave your story behind. You can’t even give it to me. No, I will leave you to your own wanderings. Some day I will find you again, if it’s not too late, and then I will hear of your life.”

“Wait,” Maglor said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “I can offer you my music. All that’s in here.” He tapped his temple clumsily. “Take it, only promise you will play it. For me. For whoever you meet. It’s no use to me anymore.”

“I will take it gladly,” Daeron said. “And consider it a great honour. But not tonight. You are in no shape to be giving away your heart and soul.”

“I am not likely to get better,” Maglor said.

Daeron raised an eyebrow. “If we continue for much longer, you will lose your speaking voice as well. A night of rest and a good breakfast, and then we may begin.”

The fire had burnt down to embers, so they left it to die as they headed up the beach in search of a spot to sleep. It was still risky, being so close to the sea, but Maglor hadn’t the energy to go far and so Daeron chose a hollow just inside the treeline, cushy with moss and sheltered from the wind.

Maglor was careful to keep an arm’s-length between them, but when Daeron awoke he found the other elf had inched closer and closer to him until he was tucked behind Daeron’s back, smelling of salt and woodsmoke. He left Maglor sleeping and ventured deeper into the forest. Close to shore, the harsh sea air had withered the soft undergrowth, but further in he collected an array of mushrooms and ferns.

He sat cross-legged in the hollow, laid them out before him and waited for Maglor to wake. Before he let Maglor eat, he explained how to identify each one and where it could be found.

“I can see you haven’t been eating,” he said, silencing Maglor’s half-uttered question. “I won’t have you die on me.”

It took months for Maglor to teach Daeron all he knew, though Daeron was a quick learner, picking up even the most complex melodies from Maglor’s tapped beats and broken humming. When Daeron showed no less interest in the music of other Noldor, they branched out into that, too, and even the Vanyarin choral pieces that were traditionally played at festivals.

“This one, we would only perform if an important delegation came to Tirion,” Maglor said.

With nobody there to sing the harmonies to Daeron’s melody, it was lonely but unexpectedly beautiful, and Maglor found himself speechless when the last notes died away. The tip of Daeron’s finger brushed his eyelashes, and came away wet.

“When was the last time you heard that?” he asked.

“At Formenos,” Maglor said. “I tried to sing it with the Ambarussa but they were horribly off-key and wouldn’t stop laughing. Moryo – Caranthir – said it was so bad we would’ve been thrown out of Tirion all over again.”

Daeron began to play something similar but with unexpected notes intruding, until by the end they had transformed the song into something Maglor only just recognised.

“What is that?” he said.

“An old Telerin wedding song,” Daeron said, smiling. “Sung with a two-part harmony, usually, to the Vanyarin five, but with striking similarities, wouldn’t you say?”

Maglor nodded, only half-listening.

“Can you play the original again, for me?”

“Original?” Daeron mused. “Who can say which came first?”

“The Vanyarin one. Please.”

Daeron obliged. This time Maglor closed his eyes and let the tears trickle down his face, and Daeron gave him the lightest of kisses at the song’s end. Maglor held onto the feeling as long as possible, only opening his eyes when he could no longer feel the ghost of Daeron’s lips upon his own.

“What was that for?”

“Because you have given me a gift, and so I give one to you.”

“Your music is gift enough,” Maglor said.

If Daeron kissed him again he just might break. He would never survive the separation that Daeron still spoke of as a certainty, even though the seasons had changed since they met. Spring had melted into a golden summer, hot enough to swim in the sea and cook on sun-warmed stones.

“Music alone will not keep you alive,” Daeron said.

Though the tears had not yet dried on Maglor’s cheeks he felt them starting afresh.

“Is that the only reason for what you are doing? The only reason you have been caring for me? So I cannot die until you have taken everything you want from me?”

“Hush, Makalaurë,” Daeron whispered, and the sound of his tongue curling around the familiar letters made Maglor shiver before Daeron kissed him again.

They kept to the shoreline at first, tracing it to the westernmost point before turning south, along the edge of old Beleriand. Maglor seemed loath to leave the sea behind, and Daeron often found him staring towards it, lost in thought. Whether it was a longing for home or the lingering pull of the jewel, he didn’t know and didn’t ask.

One afternoon as they drowsed amidst the grasses of a sand-dune, waiting for Daeron’s lines to quiver with a catch, the sea stole up on them, dowsing Maglor’s feet in water. He awoke with a cry to find the waves rising all around, the sea claiming more land for its own.

They splashed through the foaming waves, making for higher ground. Daeron laughed in exhilaration at the sudden cold while Maglor grimly waded on. He had rescued Daeron’s drum, and the tight grip had broken his hands open, letting the stinging seawater in.

When they stopped they were miles inland, atop a wooded rise that seemed likely to stand above the waves even if they did reach that far. Daeron sprawled dramatically onto the ground, the grin still lighting up his face, while Maglor turned back to look at the flooded lands behind them. There were no cliffs along this part of the coast, and the sea had travelled far.

Their food and their waterskins were gone, along with Daeron’s hooks, lines and snares. Daeron had saved his pipe and his harp instead, and counted the rest no great loss. He set to replacing them, skinning rabbits, whittling hooks from bone, and stripping flax leaves for fibre, which he dried before weaving into fine strings.

Once the materials had been found, Maglor couldn’t help any further, so he talked as Daeron worked. The amount of time he spent teaching shrunk as the days went by, but Daeron didn’t seem to mind, not even when his supplies were replenished and their clothes cleaned and dried in the sun.

The salt had turned Maglor’s hair stiff and matted. Daeron offered to cut it short, for ease, but Maglor couldn’t bear another loss, so Daeron spent hours washing and combing it for him.

Deep in the woods he found a hive, and, singing to the bees to keep them from stinging, stole their honey. He brought it back like he’d found treasure, but wouldn’t let Maglor taste it. Instead he mixed it with water and rubbed it into Maglor’s scalp, pulling it through the long strands.

Once it was washed again and shining faintly in the light, he spooned the remaining honey into Maglor’s mouth in thick globs.

“Golden honey for a golden tongue,” he said, kissing Maglor after each spoon and tasting the sugar on his lips.

But none of Daeron’s sweet words and sweeter kisses could change one simple truth: Maglor was running out of songs. He was beginning to repeat them, sometimes accidentally, sometimes deliberately, but Daeron caught the repetition every time and stopped him. At first he was gentle, but his kindness had limits.

“That one I know. Another,” he said, with an impatient flick of his hand. No matter how much Maglor gave him he always wanted more.

When Maglor was left scouring the depths of his memory for something to teach him, Daeron was working on something new. Something sad. It was only a tune for the time being, though one day Maglor, returning from the spring where he’d filled their waterskins, caught clear words through the trees.

Daeron fell silent as he got closer, but Maglor had heard enough to know the subject.

“Your song is about Doriath,” he said. “The Fall of Doriath. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Daeron didn’t bother denying it. He sat cross-legged on a patch of grass, looking up at Maglor calmly.

“It’s a story that should not be lost,” he said.

“And who better to immortalise it than Daeron, Menegroth’s finest musician? Daeron, who wasn’t there to see it. Whose account are you using instead?”

Again, Daeron refused to state what they both knew already.

“Give me another song, then,” Daeron said. “If you don’t want me to use it, you have to give me something else.”

“I have nothing else!” Maglor snarled. “You have taken it all.”

“That’s not true,” Daeron said. “You have this.”

He played a few bars, sweeping and desolate, watching Maglor all the while.

“That’s just a fragment,” Maglor said. “I don’t know how to continue it.”

“No?” Daeron said, playing a different passage with the same sweeping quality. “Is this not a part of it too? And this -” he hummed the beginning of another tune.

“I cannot fit them together,” Maglor said.

“No, perhaps not yet. But when you do, it will be your finest work. And the only thing I can do to help you now is leave you alone to finish it.”

Daeron was standing now, and gathering his few possessions.

“I can’t finish it without you,” Maglor said. “I can hear parts of it in my mind, but without your hands to give it life, it is nothing.”

“Ten summers hence, I will find you again,” Daeron said.

“Stay. Please,” Maglor said. “I will tell you everything I have held from you, and I will hold my tongue if you use it for yourself. I will surrender the worst of me. Just stay here and love me and -”

Daeron held up a hand to stop him.

“I did tell you what I wanted from the very beginning. To leave you alone, until you were ready to join me and give up everything that had gone before. That is still my intent,” Daeron said, “hard though it may be. We, whatever we may feel ourselves, matters less than what we are. What we carry within us. The treasures of a people, Makalaurë, the kind that can’t be locked away or buried beneath the earth. I have dallied here too long because I enjoyed your company too much.”

He stepped closer and touched Maglor’s cheek, lightly.

“You have more of the world in you, my world, Ennor, than the rest of your people. You see the beauty in it. When we meet again, I will play your music for you again. But today I must take it away with me.”

“And still you think I will give you my song, my last song, when it is written?”

“You will,” Daeron said. “There is none other who can play it like it’s meant to be heard. You have only yourself to blame for that.”

“Daeron the faithless,” Maglor spat.

“Then you can hardly be surprised that I am leaving,” Daeron said.

“You will be diminished without me,” Maglor said. “I am your equal, the only one left who's a match for you - ”

“I have no equal,” Daeron said. “You said that yourself.”

He fastened his cloak and looked for a moment as if he were about to reach out again, but something closed behind his eyes and he turned away.

“Farewell, kinslayer.”

The woods swallowed him up without a sound.

The sea called to Maglor with a strength he had not felt since a bygone age. He wandered along cliff tops in stormy weather, waiting for a stray gust to blow him off the edge into the crashing deep. He stopped eating, letting the stores Daeron had left for him rot in his pack, until at last the stench became too much and he had to throw them away. He gathered wood for fires he couldn’t light, the movement breaking his hands open again and lodging splinters deep in the cracks.

“I will die just to spite you,” he whispered, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and the song wouldn’t leave him alone. Now that he had nothing else, it slithered around his useless fingers and caught in his hair and tickled at his throat.

Daeron had been right, damn him. Now that everything else he knew, all his verses and rhythms and melodies were safe, somewhere, with Daeron, he could devote himself entirely to this new song.

Either that, or he knew it was the only thing that could bring Daeron back again.

Maglor watched the tides come and go, and dreamed of music.