#moria camp

[nofatclips]

Thinkin' by The Dirty Saints (featuring Sofia Kamina) from the compilation album Unity vol 1 - In Solidarity With The Refugees of Moria Camp

[siriuslygrimm]

Humanity: Hopes and Horrors

#BOOKREVIEW - Humanity: Hopes and Horrors - #TheFiveStagesOfMoria #blog

Fictionalizing first-hand experiences and the true stories of those inhabiting the Moria Refugee Camp The Five Stages of Moria: “The Worst Refugee Camp on Earth” by Elika Ansari demonstrates the emotional turmoil endured by all in the camp. Fleeing from untenable circumstances in their home countries, refugees are filled with hope for a better future once they finally reach the safety of Europe,…

[bugstuff4ever]

okay okay headcannon that over the course of LOTR, legolas and gimli set up their bed rolls closer and closer to each other.

like when they’ve just left rivendale, they set up their sleeping mats/blankets on opposite sides of the camp, putting as much of the fellowship between them as possible.

then they get through moria, and they start to relax around each other a bit (grief), so they’re content with lying just a few feet apart.

then lothlorien happens, and they start to realize that they actually like one another, so they set up their bed rolls even closer together, maybe just a foot apart (they justify to themselves that it’s so they can continue whispering together through the night).

then the fellowship breaks and the three hunters are runningrunningrunning, and they’re both so exhausted that they can’t even feel self-conscious when they set up their sleeping pads right next to each other (touching), and fall asleep with their faces mere inches apart. (if they wake up the next morning to find they started cuddling sometime in the night, no one says anything).

and then finally, after the drinking competition in edoras, legolas kisses gimli (the jig is up), and they fall into each others arms; sharing lil smooches, whisper-flirting, and holding each other close until they drift off for the night (and every night for the rest of their lives).

meanwhile aragorn (third-wheel of the millennia) is like “good god if my obnoxious friends don’t GET A FUCKIN ROOM and let me finally GET SOME SLEEP i’m gonna lose my mcfreakin marbles”. (but, of course, he’s secretly really happy for them. everyone is).

[ofstardustanddreaming]

fighting battles

preference summary: reader who's a very seasoned warrior and is covered in scars and wounds from past battles, and how the characters would react to seeing their scars or watching them fight (original ask)

content warnings: mentions/descriptions of scars

fandom: lord of the rings

characters: aragorn, boromir, faramir, frodo

gender neutral reader

requested by: @tolkien-fantasy

a.n. - here is the last of your requests, i'm so sorry they took so long to come out! i love having car and school issues lol

Aragorn: Aragorn hopes you find comfort in your scars if you feel insecure about them. He understands that dealing with scars can create insecurities about how they look, but he thinks they make you look brave, an indicator of the times you've been brave. He's curious as to how you've obtained your scars, but he'll remain respectful of your privacy until you decide to speak about them. Once you've established trust, you tell him about your scars. He listens intently, wishing to show his gratitude that you're giving in to this vulnerability. He thanks you for telling him, also showing some of his scars. It's the foundation to a very strong relationship, a better understanding of one another.

Boromir: He's much more blunt, wanting to know more about your scars, so he isn't as afraid to ask you directly how you've obtained them. He provides an intent listening ear, glad that you both have a trusting relationship for you to be so open with him about them. He would congratulate you for being such a strong warrior, loving to see how you act in battle. He knows you know how to handle yourself, glad to have another warrior like himself in battle. He always listens to your advice as well when it comes to fighting, the both of you loving how you gracefully handle fights with nothing but an exchanged look in what next steps to take. He thinks your scars make you who you are, not changing his fighting partner for the world.

Faramir: He's much more reserved about his curiosity, although it doesn't stop him from looking at your scars, going red anytime you catch him doing so. He eventually gets the gall to ask you one night, sitting around a fire. You tell him all about every scar you have, recounting every battle. He comes to you for advice in battles and leading other soldiers, thinking he could learn a lot from you to help him impress Boromir. You think it's endearing he wants to do that, but also worry a bit at how much he seems to lean into that mindset. But you help him out in areas to improve, the both of you coming together to bond over shared scars - emotional or physical.

Frodo: He sees your scars when in the mines of Moria, when your long sleeved tunic gets ripped from wrist to tunic. He doesn't get a chance to ask you about them until the camp takes a break that night, his curious nature unable to help but know what happened. A few others eavesdropped as well, since you were in the vicinity of others, but that doesn't mean they don't try to give you some semblance of privacy. You explain to him the battles you've been in, were you've obtained all your scars. He looks at you in wonder, lost in the stories. It isn't until the fire is nearly out that you stop your stories for the night. Frodo explains his happiness that you're on this journey with him, glad he has a strong warrior on his side

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 4 (19th Sep)

Gifts, burdens and choices — @lotrweek

The Elves have long stopped their lament, yet a cacophony lingers within Boromir’s mind. The others have gone to sleep, and even Frodo finally seems to dream again. Their snores fill their shared nook. He envies them, he does. Ever since his unsettling meeting with the Lady Galadriel, there has been nothing but turmoil in his soul. Will it ever end, the spiralling?

Exhaustion is there, though, he can feel it deep in his bones. Everything hurts, every muscle in his body. He, who has always been one for exercise and fighting, is not immune to the toll that the past days have taken on the fellowship, on both body and heart. He is no longer as young and fierce as he once was.

But that deeply rooted anguish within him… Ageing has nothing to do with it all. It would have been easy to dismiss it as a symptom of passing time, but that would have meant lying to himself and everyone who shared the weight of the task at hand. There have been too many lies as of late. He may not desire to instantly trust the first person he encounters, but he certainly refuses to continue this vicious circle of deception. What purpose would that serve? The world is a harsh enough place as it is, and the whole plan is to make it a better place.

Just a ring. Nothing but a silly, little ring. The very fate of Middle-earth rests in Frodo’s hands. Embodied by that tiny golden circle. He might not be as well-taught as Aragorn or Faramir are, but even he knows how disastrous the consequences would be should the quest fail. And it is nothing but a stupid ring.

How absurd life has become since his first puzzling dreams that his brother shared with him. Nothing is going according to plan either. It was all simple, though. Go to Rivendell, seek an audience with Elrond, find out the cause of these dreams and their meaning, educate himself on the broken sword, then return to Minas Tirith to inform Denethor on his findings and prepare against any approaching threat. Easy. But not so easy. Now, he is far from home, shivering in the night surrounded by his travel companions, burdened with a quest much greater than what he knows he can handle, and Gandalf is dead. Dead.

He can still remember the wizard’s occasional visits to Minas Tirith back when he was nothing but a boy. While he did spend more time with Faramir than with him — much to Denethor’s relief, after all, why should his precious firstborn’s time be wasted by the fanciful stories of an old man? — he did enjoy his presence, just like any other child did. When the fellowship was formed, he found solace in the knowledge that Gandalf would accompany them. That was at least one familiar element amid the blur.

But now the wizard is gone, and his companions seem to distrust every word he speaks. The Elves who welcomed them were not any warmer to him. He is an outcast where he has always fit in. Acting in teams, coming up with strategies, fighting, camping… None of it is strange to him. If anything, that is what his life has always been. So why, oh why does he feel so inadequate and insecure? Why do the others regard him with such disdain whenever he opens his mouth?

Merry and Pippin do not. Thankfully. Before tragedy struck, he quite enjoyed their company and teaching them new tricks with the sword. The carefree laughs, the games, the jokes… It all reminded him of the time when Faramir was a child and wanted his brother to teach him things, not just a regular teacher. For a moment in the middle of fear and uncertainty, he could slip back to simpler times and relive these memories from so long ago. But now that they have escaped Moria, nothing feels right anymore. The two hobbits hardly ever smile anymore. The innocent glimmers in their eyes have dimmed. Just like the wonder in Faramir’s eyes was snuffed by years of their father’s spite.

They are grown, now.

And all he can do is clutch his chest and muffle his crying. They all need proper rest, and Boromir will not be a bother to them.

Not this time.

[live-laugh-legolas]

Hi! Could you write something set during the first night after the fellowship left Lothlorien in which Gimli is still dealing with the entire Moria situation and sneaks off into the woods to basically cry a binch while the rest of the fellowship is sleeping but Legolas joins him and cue hugs and crying, the more the better (maybe they sleep while hugging). It can be romantic, but I would prefer platonic. Thanks.

This is so sweet and I’m such a sucker for hurt/comfort so this feels like a good prompt to try writing my first one shot. I’m going to put extra emphasis on the fact that I’ve never written a one shot before so set reasonable expectations lol. I also have no idea what to title this so if there is any better suggestions lmk :)

The Weight of Moria

(Gimli x Legolas)

They have only been on the river for one day now. Although the group feels slightly rejuvenated from their time in Lothlorien, the weight of losing Gandalf and having to face the rest of this journey without his guidance is still heavy. Frankly there hadn’t been much time to really work through everything they’ve seen. There is not time to dwell on the past with orcs on your tail; when one misstep could very well cost them the quest, and in turn, their world. So when they set up camp for the night it is very quiet. It’s their first night in the wild without their wizard. Even Pippin who is usually full of energy cannot find it in him to speak.

They have all experienced a loss together, it is a shared grief. However Gimli can’t help but find his mind wandering to the Mines he had been so excited to enter.

He had never been into the famed mine before but he knew he would be welcomed warmly. He thought he could share a bit of dwarvish culture to his companions as they had gotten to experience that of the elves. And to be honest he was homesick. Despite their journey having just begun, it has been hard and he longs for the comforts of home.

Even after first entering Moria to find the mine seemingly deserted he would not abandon hope that his kin would be further in the mines. But you know the story, this was not the case. The dwarves of Moria were long gone from this world. In the mines he went through denial and anger. He bargained in Lothlorien, during so he even fooled himself into thinking he was alright.

But now sitting around a fire with his new friends he finds the camaraderie suffocating. He looks at the group and cannot muster any hope. He sees the faces of his kin scared and trapped, awaiting death. Because that’s what they are doing aren’t they? This quest is impossible at best.

He finds he cannot breathe. His chest will not expand and he feels an unfamiliar shake in his hands. He gets up and silently excuses himself before speeding off into the dark forest. Had he been thinking logically he would not have gone so far, but he isn’t. He eventually collapses on the ground gasping for breath, breath that keeps being stolen from him by choked sobs. He cannot feel anything more than the burden of his grief, never has he felt so depressed and without hope.

He does not know how long he stayed there before his spiraling is interrupted by a gentle hand on his shoulder but he cannot find it in him to look up. He vaguely registers a voice speaking to him and a man sitting down next to him. As proud as dwarves are, they are not ones to hide their emotions, so he doesn’t make much of an attempt to stop them. But the quiet presence remains next to him.

As he starts to calm he looks over slightly to see the pants of the only elf in their group; go figure

“Can’t a dwarf cry in peace?”

“Not if he wanders so far from camp” Legolas says in a gentle jest, mirroring the tone Gimli took with him.

Gimli sighs and slumps back over slightly “my mind was elsewhere”

Despite their differences and their strained relationship Legolas does care about the dwarf even if he isn’t sure he wants to admit it. He rests his arm over the shoulder of the dwarf in a half hug, allowing space should Gimli wish to pull away, but when he doesn’t, he allows his grip to tighten.

“You needn’t dwell in your sorrow alone. I cannot fully understand your pain, but I do know the weight of loss and that it is much easier to bare if the weight is shared”

Gimli looks up at Legolas, finding nothing but sincerity and compassion in his eyes, “thank you”

They stay there a little longer as Gimli collects himself, finding a quiet solace with each other’s company that they would never have predicted could exist. But they can’t stay forever so Legolas stands and offers Gimli his hand.

“Come, let us return to the others”

Gimli lets himself be pulled up and nods in gratitude to the elf. As they walk back to camp Gimli finds himself feeling comforted, finding acceptance in the losses and a renewed feeling of hope for their journey. Maybe this elf isn’t the worst…just maybe.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Well that’s the first one shot I’ve ever written and idk how I feel about it lol. One thing I’ve learned is I don’t know how to write dialogue, like at all.

I’d really appreciate some feedback as I personally feel like I may have drawn out the beginning and rushed the actual interactions at the end which feel kinda sloppy to me but maybe I’m overthinking idk.

I hope this fulfills the request enough, ik I didn’t include much hugging or comfort so I apologize if it’s not what you wanted, but I personally just couldn’t imagine much more at this point in their friendship without it feeling a bit ooc. There is nothing wrong with ooc, but I personally prefer to avoid it as much as I can to give myself a little structure :)

[wordbunch]

Winter Forest (Legolas x f!reader) > part II

PART ONE HERE

PART 3 HERE

a/n: here’s the second part!! firstly, thank you all for the kind comments on the first part, and I’m beyond happy you enjoyed it! secondly... I’m really sorry for making you wait for ages for the second part, I was super busy with uni. however, the third and final part is more than half written already, so, stay tuned 😁 I hope you enjoy this one too, do let me know about it ❤️

warnings: none! the smallest bit of angst if you really squint, but still mostly wholesome. (is Pippin a warning? he might be.)

SUMMARY: [Y/N], Lord Elrond’s daughter, and sort of a wild-card, and prince Legolas form a close friendship from their earliest childhoods. This story follows significant moments between them and how their relationship progresses over time. This part happens during the ring quest!!! slow-ish burn, friends-to-lovers, mutual piningggg 😌

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃

F I V E

(a/n: right after the mines of moria)

“I think even your father back in Mirkwood can hear how you are breathing right now, my friend,” [Y/N] stated, attempting in vain to lighten the mood. She wasn’t even sure what she thought or felt at the moment, but she was utterly terrified. After all, they had just encountered an ancient demon that she and Legolas had only heard about in stories, and then they lost potentially the strongest member of the Fellowship. To put it mildly... things didn’t seem to be going swimmingly.

“I am just unsure how to...process all of this at the moment,” Legolas muttered, his breathing just a bit faster than usual, but [Y/N]’s ears picked up on it effortlessly. “I never thought it would be so real.”

“Neither did I,” the girl confessed, carefully approaching the blond elf. “But here we are now. Maybe we shouldn’t have wished for a great adventure when we were merely children,” she attempted to make Legolas at least smile a little bit, but he seemed to be still absolutely overwhelmed by all the recent events. How does an immortal being process sudden death anyway?

“Perhaps you should consider getting some rest? Do you think you could maybe sleep for a little bit, now when we make camp?” [Y/N] suggested in a very concerned voice, not used to Legolas being in such a mood, but it was more than understandable. Quite frankly, she herself wasn’t sure how she was holding it together.

“There’s no need,” Legolas’ eyes finally met hers, only to see the same distress and fear in her own eyes, “you know I need very little sleep anyway.”

“Yes, I do know that we do not require sleep in the same way that humans do, but after all of this, I really think it would do you good to get some rest, Legolas,” the girl persisted. “I will be right here and nothing will happen,” [Y/N] went on with a gentle hand rested atop his shoulder. Her expressive eyes burned into his. He could never say no to that look.

“I suppose we could stand guard later in the night, when the others grow too tired,” Legolas exhaled, at last giving in to his friend’s concerns. In that moment, he wished it was just the two of them somewhere far away, and alone together, so he could just melt into her arms. And not be beside himself with fear, especially the fear of something indescribable happening to [Y/N].

“That sounds alright to me,” [Y/N] nodded, a small smile almost creeping up onto her face. He said we, she thought, giddy like a child. It wasn’t anymore “you and I,” it was the two of them together. She couldn’t describe how and why it made her feel all sorts of things, but there was something about it. 

The girl led him to where she had intended to sit down for a short while and plopped down on the ground. Legolas followed wordlessly, resting his head on her lap and sprawling out across the grass. He suddenly became aware of the immense tiredness weighing down on him as he let out a long sigh. Although he was lying down on the ground, he felt like he had never been more comfortable; among the impending disasters, a moment of serenity. Of comfort and warmth. Of home. [Y/N] brushed her slender fingers through his hair slowly and soothingly, and Legolas enveloped her other hand in his as he allowed himself to close his eyes and drift off.

[Y/N]’s heart fluttered, but she kept her breathing calm for Legolas’ sake - after all, he could hear even the smallest of sounds perfectly. She draped her cape over his shoulders - he probably wouldn’t get cold anyway but... just in case.

The blond’s breaths became even and calm quite soon as the girl kept absentmindedly raking her fingers through his hair. For just a moment, she allowed herself to feel. Everything around them was terrifying, life-threatening, unpredictable. They had lost Gandalf already, who knew what else was coming? Her mind was racing, but Legolas slightly moved and she came back to reality. His brows were furrowed in his sleep, and she ran a gentle hand across his cheek.

“Sleep, my star. sleep. you’re safe,” she muttered in elvish, as if they were back home. She couldn’t help but wonder what would it be like to fall asleep so close together, time after time, away from life-threatening situations and what felt like the world’s ending. But now everything was too risky and too dangerous to allow love to come into play as well. They were risking so much already - it wouldn’t be wise to put their hearts on the line as well. What good would it do to confess to any feelings, when there was a high chance of something tragic happening to her during the quest (along with everyone else involved), and then she would just leave Legolas hurting? He had lost his mother already, [Y/N] had lost hers too – it was better to put love aside and focus on surviving. And stay as close as possible to Legolas at all times, treasuring the time they can share, if nothing else.

Best she could do for now was hope for a good outcome of the quest, and then afterwards to, potentially, handle the matters of the heart.

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃 

S I X

(a/n: not any specific event, just sometime during the quest)

“My lady” [Y/N] heard a hesitant little voice appear from somewhere between the trees. She was sitting down, stitching up a part of her tunic that got slashed through during the last orc encounter. The rest of the fellowship were who knows where. Hopefully safe.

“Yes, Pippin?” she smiled warmly at the hobbit as he made his way to her, clutching something behind his back. “Strange seeing you without Merry anywhere in sight.” Pippin let out a breathy laugh.

“I was actually hoping to talk to you, my lady,” he confessed, looking down at the ground and then back at the elven lady.

“Of course. And there is no need for formal titles, I am just me,” she smiled reassuringly.

“Sorry,” he muttered, almost blushing. In a millisecond, he offered her a bunch of forest flowers that he had been hiding behind his back – he’d spent all morning finding the most beautiful ones. “These are for you.”

“Oh, my goodness! They are beautiful, Pippin! thank you so much!” [Y/N] gasped out in surprise, gathering the flowers in her hands.  “That is very nice of you, I shall not ever forget it.”

“I’m happy you like them,” Pippin smiled bashfully. “And actually, I was going to say that, lad-, [Y/n], I have taken a liking to you and, well, I just wanted to let you know. In case something goes terribly wrong – I’m not saying that it will, but-”

“Pippin,” [Y/N] spoke softly, laying a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, “I greatly appreciate your honesty and I applaud your courage, and you are wonderful, but unfortunately I am already courting someone else,” she stated sympathetically. Leaves rustled in the background as Pippin offered her a sad smile.

“I… didn’t know that, my lady,” he stood as tall as he could to hide his disappointment, “But thank you for the kind words.”

“Thank you for the flowers, once again,” [Y/N] replied and pulled the little hobbit into a brief hug, so as to console him at least a little bit.

“If anything happens to your mystery lover,” Pippin began after letting go of the hug, “you know where to find me!” He gave her a silly wink and he was off, leaving [Y/N] equally amused and confused by the situation. Hobbits, she muttered to herself.

“You are eavesdropping,” she claimed in a sing-song voice in the direction of rustling leaves. Indeed she was right, a moment after, Legolas emerged from that part of the forest.

“I was merely looking out, you were quite unguarded,” Legolas murmured, hiding his awkwardness with a small cough.

“I was not alone. And even if I was, you know better than anyone that I am able to defend myself.”

“I am aware of that, but I am also always happy to assist you.” Legolas seemed crestfallen as he sat down next to the girl. He was feeling as though the sharpest arrow had pierced through his heart – his closest friend had given her heart to another lucky person. Immensely lucky person. 

“You are… “ he began hesitantly, “you are courting someone? I was unaware of that.” He looked down at the ground, too saddened to look up and meet [Y/N]’s eyes.

“What? No!” she laughed after a small shock. “Firstly, you know I would share any important information, such as that, with you. Secondly, I spend the most of my time in your company anyway – how would I have the time to entertain another?” She lifted up his chin with her index finger gently and graced him with a fond smile. She knew him well enough to recognize the sadness in his eyes instantaneously. “And third, I had not the heart to tell Pippin that elves and hobbits could never possibly be happy together. I wished not to completely crush his hopes. Admittedly, he showed extraordinary courage just coming up to me and telling me all that.”

“Of course. It was foolish of me to think otherwise,” Legolas retorted, his skin almost burning in the place where [Y/N]’s fingers had been a moment earlier. He tried to conceal a relieved smile, but he was certain that she could see straight through him.

“Nothing to worry about,” she mused as she returned to her stitching of the tunic. There was something in the air, she half-expected Legolas to continue speaking, but then… nothing.

The blond was feeling immense relief, but something prevented him from confessing to any feelings at all. It was clear as a day, it had been, for a while, that he was completely and utterly in love with [Y/N]. But in the face of dangers, of battles and the threats they were facing on the daily… he couldn’t bring himself to risk their hearts as well. If something happened to him – he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving [Y/N] hurting. If something happened to her, he had no idea how he would carry on. For the time being, maybe it was best to not burden her with his desires of the heart, and then break hers when something terrible inevitably happens. For now, he decided, he will do everything in his power to protect her and stay close to her, and then, someday, when the quest is finished, converse about the feelings that had been sitting on his chest for hundreds of years.

He fell silent and fished around one of the pockets of his tunic until he gripped an all-too-well known item: the rock that [Y/N] had given him hundreds and hundreds of years ago, on the day they first practiced archery together. It was like a token of reassurance and, hopefully, good luck – she was there. She was fine. She will be there for many more years to come.

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃 

S E V E N

(a/n: after the battle of minas tirith)

In [Y/N]’s humble opinion, the battle at Minas Tirith was the ultimate craziest thing she had ever done. She couldn’t even wrap her head around the fear that consumed her, the dangers all around her, the amount of weapons that were swung around and the number of fired arrows. The horrible weather wasn’t helping either, but as the battle started to die down, in favor of the side she was fighting on, surprisingly… she realized she couldn’t see Legolas anywhere. And generally he was quite easy to spot, and she had great eyesight after all. Maybe it was the fear blocking her senses, her heart increasingly pounding in her ears. The girl frantically looked around, standing on her tiptoes for added height, as she turned her head left and right searching for a head full of platinum blond hair. Nowhere to be seen.

I should have told him, I should have told him, I should have told him that I loved him, she scolded herself relentlessly as she searched around one of her pockets for a broken little arrow shaft. She let out a little exhale as she gripped the familiar artifact, one that she had saved hundreds of years ago, for then-unknown reasons, when the prince had first showed her how to shoot a bow. Twirling it between her fingers, [Y/N] allowed her aching legs to take her around the chaotic battlefield in search for the elf whom she held deeply in her heart. He cannot be gone… right? His skills are almost unparalleled, he’s fast and agile with unbelievable reflexes – he couldn’t have been fatally injured… or worse? The elf swallowed thickly, looking up into the ominously dark sky, praying desperately to any and every heavenly being there was. With unshed tears in her fiery eyes, she marched on towards the stronghold, hoping to at least spot some familiar faces that could direct her to wherever Legolas was. If he still was. She almost winced at the thought, but bit her lip and went on.

The kill-count that Legolas had going on with Gimli was all but forgotten as he took off running to the highest vantage point he could find, hoping to spot [Y/N] somewhere. Firstly, he couldn’t believe that the two of them had separated on the battlefield to being with, and secondly, he scolded himself a little bit for it. He skipped multiple stone steps at a time, no matter how slippery they were and how many people he had to expertly avoid – his heart was racing and [Y/N] was the only thing on his mind. She couldn’t have been terribly injured, or anything like that; she was an incredible fighter and the two of them had trained together all their lives, pushing one another to their limits. Oh, what he would give to have her safe in Rivendell right in that moment, away from death and destruction. No matter how big of a crowd, Legolas always succeeded in finding the elven girl rather quickly – she was the one who always drew his sharp gaze to herself without even trying – but this time there seemed to be an exception. She seemed nowhere to be found.

Too many things were happening at once and Legolas just wanted to shut his eyes and find himself in [Y/N]’s warm embrace, yet again, breathe her in and finally confess to her every deepest desire of his heart. Every single magical thing he had been feeling towards her for who knows how many years. He had to stop trying to interpret her actions and words for him, stop trying to discern whether they were romantic or not, just seize the moment, and be outright. After all that had happened during the quest, he stopped thinking of love and war as equally dangerous. There was uncertainty in both, chance of getting hurt, but war wasn’t home. [Y/N] was home. Love was home. Love was [Y/N].

Having found a high enough spot to look over the battlefield from, Legolas’ eyes started searching around frantically, and his heart almost stopped dead when he noticed that one girl slowly but surely making her way through a sea of soldiers. He took a shuddering breath and called out her name as clearly as possible, and a couple times just in case. She stopped in her tracks and looked around, searching for the source of the sound as she clutched the tunic over her chest. It was unmistakably Legolas’ voice, and she thought her heart would jump out of her chest as she noticed him standing up on a half-ruined stone staircase. She didn’t know whether her relief or her joy were larger, but it didn’t matter much anyway – she just wanted to get to him as soon as possible. Pushing through people, dead orcs on the ground, mud, discarded weapons, she got nearer to the bottom of the broken staircase just as Legolas had basically jumped down as fast as possible. In the blink of an eye, [Y/N] was holding tightly onto him trying to steady her breathing and her hands wandered over his back, arms, neck, hair, anything she could feel to assuage herself that Legolas was still very much alive and well.

He gripped her into the world’s tightest embrace, feeling like an enormous weight had been lifted off of his chest.

“I thought, I-“ she staggered out, having pulled away to slightly to look up at his face. “I thought I might never see you again,” she croaked out, voice breaking at the end of the sentence as some tears were set free from her eyes. Legolas wiped them away softly with his fingers and gently slid them down the girl’s cheek. His eyes burned into hers.

“I am here, my flower. Alive and well,” he gave her the warmest of smiles, “and I am most pleased to see that you are, as well.” The blond almost laughed out of sheer joy and relief. Only [Y/N] could notice a tiny tear or two hiding in the corners of his eyes. In order to stop herself from fully breaking into tears completely, she put a hand over her mouth and instantaneously Legolas pulled her into another bone-crushing hug. His strong arms were securely wrapped around her waist and steadying her shivering body, and Legolas, searching for some comfort and reassurance himself, buried his face in the crook of her neck. It was utterly unimportant that both of them were rain-soaked, ashy and dirty; he pressed his face into her soft skin, heartbeats finally evening out, even thumping in sync, after all the stress they had went through. There, on blood and rain-soaked ground, moments after one of the most terrifying events of both their lives, Legolas managed to finally muster up the courage to leave a warm, gentle kiss somewhere above [Y/N]’s elegant collarbone, as a small affectionate token of what he hoped was to come, a brand new chapter in their story. Love before war, love during the war, love after the war.

Naturally, he would have to eventually state his feelings clearly, but for now… this was the very first step.

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃 

“and your laugh is like the spray of the sea, your head is a star between my hands, the world grows green again when you smile” (Octavio Paz)

-

“I carry your breath in my hands / like warm sun at dusk. / Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart.” (?)

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃 

[winwin17]

Back again with more LOTR re-read observations.

Between the storm on Caradhras and the trek through Moria, the Fellowship briefly spends a night camped on the slopes of Caradhras, where they're surrounded by Wargs closing in.

So imagine you're one of the Fellowship, drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep, and suddenly you hear Gandalf shout:

"Listen, Hound of Sauron! Gandalf is here. Fly, if you value your foul skin!"

If I wasn't jumpy before that, I would be then.

Also, the way Gandalf addresses the Warg gives it a feel similar to, "Listen, Carol...." 😂 And I just think that's funny.

[stvrryyami]

Being The Oldest Di Angelo Sibling

>Alec Mores

A/N: I don’t know if I’ll make a part 2, but this was a little rushed. I was just chilling in the living room and had this funny little idea. I hope you enjoy! TITANS CURSE SPOILERS!

Warnings: Major character death (Bianca and Moria), mourning, sibling drama, semi angst, Percy and Reader make bad decisions, happy ending, gender neutral reader, readers age is mentioned but if you don’t like it you can change it no big deal

Word Count: 1k (1,350)

Being the oldest of the Di Angelo siblings, and a child of Hades, AND growing up in the 1930s, you had A LOT of responsibilities.

You often helped your mom with Nico and Bianca, chores around the house and anything that she really needed.

Nico and Bianca always went to you first for help, with homework or fixing something or really anything .

They always looked up to you, like, a ton.

Imagine you were old enough to know who your father was.

You knew he was Hades, god of the underworld, a literal Greek god, but you didn’t tell your siblings in fear that the monsters would come for them.

You tried to hide it from them as long as you could, your mother would watch them as you fought any monsters that would come for you and your siblings.

You cherished your family, besides your father, and loved them more than anything in the world.

That being said, your mothers death struck you the most.

It happened right in front of you, in front of all of you but you tried to hide the scene from your younger siblings.

Zeus, your uncle, had struck her right from the sky while she was with your family, including your father.

As Hades mourned his Maria in his arms, you couldn’t help but stare at the scene as you held the bodies of your sobbing siblings.

You were alone. You had to watch these children, not even in double digits, yourself. Gods know how much “help” Hades would truly grant you.

Age isn’t really too important, but if you want an age I'd say you're two-three years older than Bianca, making you 4-5 years older than Nico.

Your dad put you in the Lotus Casino after the death of your mother, causing decades to fly by while you hardly ever aged.

You were 14-15 when Percy, Grover, Thalia and Annabeth found you at school.

You weren’t aware that a faculty member in your school was a freaking manticore, or that one of your fellow students was literally part animal.

you did notice the peculiar teenagers at the school dance, yk, the ones from camp half-blood, that part you didn’t know.

When the disguised manticore took you and your siblings away, you assumed those kids were dangerous and that everyone was being evacuated.

It was only until you realized no other students were with you is when you started getting worried.

After the giant battle that resulted in the blonde girl being launched off a cliff, you stayed close to your brother as Bianca walked away with the so-called “Hunters of Artemis.”

You didn’t trust them, but you did trust Bianca’s judgement. That didn’t stop you from being insanely worried.

After you found out that Bianca became a Hunter of Artemis, you being livid was an understatement.

You were happy she’d found her place in the world and that she seemed happy, but you believed the decision was too rushed, and she hadn’t even consulted you!

You chose to stay with Nico at camp while the others went on the quest, and you were there for Nico and Percy’s conversation.

As Percy promised Nico your sister would live, you were doubtful. Still, you informed Percy that he would pay the price for her death.

Not because it was his fault, or that he didn’t try hard enough to save her, but because he had the nerve to promise a ten-year-old boy something he couldn't guarantee.

When they returned, you followed Nico as he asked Percy about his sister,but you knew. You felt it. Your sister was dead.

You didn’t cry, you couldn’t. You had to wait to be alone, you had to be strong for your brother. He needed comfort, and you were ready to provide that for him. The consequences for Percy’s selfish promise could wait.

They didn’t wait, however, as Nico’s emotions exploded.

Nico blamed Percy for his sister’s death. He broke his promise. He was to blame.

You tried to calm Nico down, but when he turned to you, face broken and tear stricken, his breath hitched.

“You knew.” He said, almost a whisper, a whisper of betrayal. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

You stayed silent, hesitant. You felt when she died. You knew who your father was, and you knew when death greeted your sister in a silent, cold black blanket.

That was Nico’s last straw.

He left behind only painful words and granted Grover, Annabeth and Percy with the very knowledge you tried so hard to keep hidden from everyone all of your life.

You and your siblings are children of Hades.

The trio said they wouldn’t speak on this secret for the time being, you thanked them.

And then, because of your foolishness, you mourned the loss of two siblings, the only people in your family you had left. Your father didn’t count. He wasn’t there, and now they weren’t either.

You wanted to search for Nico, he was only ten. He couldn’t survive alone, cold and scared, but they wouldn’t let you. You had to stay at camp, that was the rule.

So, as much as you hated it, you did. You only just found a permanent home, even if it didn’t feel like it, even if people didn’t like you, that’s what it was. It was home, it had to be, because nothing else was.

Percy constantly tried apologizing to you, you could tell guilt consumed him, and you were glad.

You didn’t punish him like you said you would, you were too tired and could tell the regret he felt for his actions was punishment enough.

You weren’t friends yet, but you weren’t enemies either. You were allies, yeah, that was a safe word, allies.

When Percy ran to you, informing you that he saw your brother, you nearly died. At least, you felt like it, it was as if your breath was caught in the wind.

Your brother? Was he alright? Did he look happy? How was he doing? Did he miss you like you missed him? Where was he? Does he hate you? Millions of questions consumed you, but you never spoke one.

Percy told you most of what he saw, you couldn’t tell if he was holding anything back, but you didn’t care. He saw your brother. Your baby brother.

You wanted more than anything to see him, but Percy talked you into staying at camp. You really didn’t want to, but Percy threatened to tell Chiron who your father was, so you listened resentfully, suddenly not counting him as much of an “ally” anymore.

One day while you were hanging out with Silent Beauregard in the strawberry fields, you sensed another presence of death

At first you thought someone in camp had passed, but it was a different feeling. A feeling of another child of Hades in the woods, and you ran to it while ignoring Silena’s worrisome calls.

Your brother was there, in your sight, in front of you, looking much older than before.

He was thirteen now, his dark eyes observed you with so much emotion, though his face was neutral. But he couldn’t have found much before you engulfed him in a breathtaking hug.

Tears filled your eyes as you felt him stiffen, suddenly remembering your last interaction you were about to retreat when he suddenly relaxed a little and hugged you tighter than you were hugging him.

“Hey, y/n,” he said in a breathy, crackly voice, and you sobbed out a sigh of relief, hugging him impossibly tighter. His voice was so different, he was so different, but it didn’t matter.

Your brother was here, with you, hugging you, talking to you. After almost three years of nothing, no knowledge about him, if he was okay, he was here. He was here and he didn’t hate you, at least he didn’t act like he did.

You knew, in that very moment, you’d do anything for him. You’d follow him anywhere, you’d never let anyone hurt him.

And you, yourself, would never hurt him again.

[nofatclips]

Catharsis by The Silent Wedding from the compilation album Unity vol 1 - In Solidarity With The Refugees of Moria Camp

[fanficwriting1]

Your Hypnotic Words Chapter 3 (Blame it on the Wizard - Part One)

Bilbo was regretting quite a few things at the moment, which he thought was a perfectly acceptable thing to do when you were about to be eaten by a troll.

It had all started when Thorin had decided to stop in an area for the night and Gandalf was displeased with the choice.

Gandalf always did things at the most inopportune of times, one of the more frustrating things about him that Bilbo was going to ensure he spoke to him about later if he lived. 

So, for the moment, if anything went wrong he could blame the wizard. After all, it was all the wizard’s fault he was on this forsaken quest. 

 (A few hours ago)

Bilbo gave a relieved sigh as Thorin called the party to a halt, everybody sliding off their ponies. Bilbo did the same, sneezing all the way down. 

He found a handkerchief shoved in his face as soon as his feet touched the ground.

He looked at the dwarf with the strange hat - Bofur, he recalled - as he reached to take the handkerchief, accepting only because he didn’t have his and desperately needed to blow his nose. 

“Can I touch your feet, Mr. Baggins?” Bofur asked. 

Bilbo choked. He was sure he must’ve misheard and looked at Bofur for clarification, who Bifur now stood by. 

“I’ve just never seen so much hair on someone’s feet. And so fluffy and well-groomed! Even dwarrow don’t get that much hair on our chests!” Bofur laughed.

Bilbo flushed. Obviously he hadn’t misheard. Feeling the great need to shriek, he was proud of himself as he withheld, and instead furiously signed at the untoward dwarf, who obviously understood nothing.

His feet! Bilbo thought. How dare he!  

He felt another flush crawl up his body and burn his cheeks, and unable to stand the inappropriateness of the circumstance, tried to refrain from running and opted for stomping away.

—

Bofur watched the hobbit stomp away, perplexed. “I’m not sure what Bilbo was trying to say, but I feel offended somehow.”

Bifur chortled as he patted his brother’s shoulder comfortingly. 

Only capable of speaking Khuzdul, Bifur had learned hand signs to better communicate with those who didn’t. While Bilbo’s signing was a bit different from what he was used to, Bifur had understood the majority and was able to confirm that Bofur should’ve been very offended. The hobbit certainly had a wide variety of insults, each one having been more colorful than the last. 

—

In his stomping away, Bilbo hadn’t notice how close he had gotten to Thorin and Gandalf, who had come together shortly after getting off their mounts.

“The elves could help us! We could get food, rest, advice.” 

“I do not need their advice .” Thorin’s face was dark, and Bilbo could instictively tell that he was not going to put up with Gandalf for much longer.

“We have a map we cannot read; Lord Elrond will help us.”

“ Help ? A dragon attacks Erebor, what help came from the elves? Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls, and the elves looked on and did nothing . You ask me to seek out the very people who betrayed my grandfather and betrayed my father?”

“You are neither of them. And besides, it was not Lord Elrond who abandoned you at Erebor. That blame lies with King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past.” 

“I did not know they were yours to keep.” Thorin spat, and Bilbo flinched at the venom in his tone.

Gandalf scowled at Thorin before turning and heading Bilbo’s way. Bilbo grabbed the Wizard’s cloak, looking at him, daring him to leave.

Gandalf sighed, patting Bilbo’s head, and quickly getting swatted. “I shall not be long Bilbo. I simply desire to seek the company of the only one who has any common sense.”

“Who’s that?” Kili popped up next to them.

“Myself, Kili! I’ve had enough of you dwarrow for one day.” Gandalf stalked off.

—

Camp was set up quickly and with ease, each dwarf falling into their well known routine, while Bilbo had been sat on a log and had been requested to stay there. Bilbo was torn between feeling thankful and outraged. On one hand, Bilbo was incredibly sore from all the riding he had had to endure the entire day along with all the outrageous comments made by all the dwarrow (though Bofur had come back to apologize after Gandalf had talked to him about the meaning of touching a hobbit’s feet in hobbitish culture at Bilbo’s demand) and thereby appreciated the chance he was given to rest. 

But, with many of the dwarrow daring to question his competence? That made Bilbo furious, and by doing nothing to help, it would only enforce that view the dwarrow had.

“Peace offering for being rude earlier?” Bofur stood in front of Bilbo, bowl in hand. Bilbo quickly tucked away the notebook he’d had in his hands.

Steam rose from the bowl, curling into the cold night. He eyed the bowl. Despite the sheer rudeness Bofur had displayed towards Bilbo, the stew had done nothing wrong so Bilbo accepted it graciously.

Bofur, believing it to be a sign of forgiveness, sat down next to Bilbo, watching as he scarfed his meal down, not waiting for it to cool. Bilbo had been hungry for a while now, unused to the small portions and few meals they had. His stomach eased it’s cramping as food entered, but the aching remained. 

As much as Bilbo would like to, he did not plan on asking Bombur for seconds. It would be met with the snarky remarks from the dwarrow (really just Gloin). And, most importantly, he wasn’t about to explain to the dwarrow that he could actually speak, he just chose not to.

Bilbo placed the bowl at his feet, and drew out his little red notebook from his jacket. It was a bit worn from the constant use, the cover faded in some spots. Bilbo pulled out the piece of charcoal he’d placed in the small notebook, and began to sketch once more. 

He looked at the dwarrow next to him, noting the way his mustache and beard curled upward.

Bofur’s hat was the most difficult to draw, seeming to have a life of it’s own. Bilbo frowned.

Bofur peeked at his book. “Do my eyes deceive me, Bilbo, or are those drawings of me?”

It was quite rude to look at someone’s drawings without permission, but Bilbo found that the dwarrow did many things without permission. He nodded. 

“Finally noticing how attractive I am?” Bofur joked. 

That drew a faint smile from Bilbo. Unbeknownst to Bofur, but there was only one reason a drawing of a dwarrow were to make it into his little notebook, their likeness would be accompanied with a scathing rage letter, the things Bilbo wished to say, but was unable to.

“. . . he can only draw. What good will that do the company?”

The jab came from none other than Gloin, who Bilbo was finding himself very tired of very quickly. 

“Give me a moment,” Bofur said, standing and walking away. 

With Bofur gone, Bilbo focused harder on his sketching and blocked out as much of Gloin’s voice as he could, lest he snap back. 

—

Despite appearances, Bofur was an observant dwarf. He could see Bilbo’s anger and discomfort when the other members of the company questioned his capabilities, and the tensing of his body when someone spoke of all hobbits being “soft”. 

It was with this in mind that Bofur rose and walked over to Bombur, who stood at the fire, finishing spooning the stew into the remaining bowls. 

“Are those for Fili and Kili?” he asked. 

Bombur nodded. “They’re watching the horses.”

“Let me take them. I’ll have Bilbo bring them to them.”

“Good idea. The hobbit needs something to do. Feels upset he can’t.” He passed Bofur the bowls, before hesitating and grabbing them back. "I'll bring them to Bilbo." he rumbled

Bombur was a quiet-spoken dwarf, but like his brothers, he was observant. Bilbo was more likely to accept the offer from Bombur than he was to from Bofur.

—

Thorin found his eyes once again drawn to Bilbo, who was currently sitting on a log near the fir, a little notebook in his hand, tilted just so that he got enough light to write. He tapped the charcoal against his lips, (leaving a small smudge that Thorin desperately wished he could wipe away, just to feel how soft the hobbit’s lips were) as his brow furrowed, the wireframe of his glasses gleaming in the firelight. As well as his hair. The light was just right, playing itself over the halfling’s body, highlighting prominent features and contrasting dramatically. Thorin felt curiosity at what was in the notebook and what made Bilbo look at it so seriously. 

He was shaken from his observation when Bofur suddenly entered his field of vision, sitting next to the hobbit. Thorin shook his head, attempting to dislodge the thoughts that had taken residence in his mind. 

Dwalin snorted, “Did you enjoy the view?” he asked and Thorin glared at him, turning back to his stew. Balin sat next to them, watching Thorin with raised brows and casting a look towards the hobbit.

“Are you not concerned about the Wizard leaving?” Balin asked, turning back to their previous topic. 

“It’s too late to bring up the topic of concern,” Thorin said. He hadn’t meant to incite Gandalf to storm off, but with all the badgering about going to the Hidden Valley had made Thorin far more snappy towards the Wizard. “He’ll come back soon enough.” He pushed the spoon around his stew.

Despite his confident tone, Thorin couldn’t help but feel doubt stir in his gut. He felt uneasy and hoped the Wizard would be back soon.

—

“I told you he’s not made out for this quest,” Gloin said. “Too fragile. He’ll slow us down if anything.”

Bilbo seethed as he listened to Gloin regurgitating what he’d said in his smial. He sketched furiously. Gloin was currently the most drawn dwarrow in Bilbo’s notebook, no surprise there.

Bofur stepped over to Bilbo. “Don’t mind anything that Gloin says, he’s just grumpy about being apart from his family.”

Family or not, Gloin had no reason, much less the right to speak about Bilbo like that! Bilbo could deal with the whispers in the Shire because despite what was said, the hobbits knew that Bilbo was perfectly capable. The dwarrow did not, and would not let him demonstrate his usefulness!

His thoughts were interrupted by Bombur who’d found his way over after Bofur had spoken with Bilbo.

“Can you take these to Fili and Kili?” Bombur asked. “They’re watching the ponies.” 

Bilbo accepted the bowls with a nod, shooting a glare towards Gloin, before walking to where the ponies were grazing. At least he could do this to show Gloin he wasn’t only capable of drawing, though it only felt like a minuscule victory.

When he arrived he could already tell something was off. Fili and Kili were both staring at the ponies, brows furrowed. 

Bilbo stepped between them, waiting for them to notice his presence.

“Fili,” Kili said, “I think we’re going to be in trouble.”

“Hopefully Uncle won’t be too upset - Mahal’s beard!” Fili exclaimed. “When’d you get here, Mr. Boggins?” 

Bilbo looked at him, unimpressed. He found him looking at many of the dwarrow that way, with how dense they were there was no way that he couldn’t. He lifted the bowls of soup.

“Are these for us?” Kili nabbed one from Bilbo’s grasp, and Bilbo found him knocking him gently upside the head (it worked because Kili was crouching) giving him a purposeful look. 

“Sorry.” Kili rubbed his head. “Thanks, Mister Boggins!” 

Fili took his bowl with appropriate thanks, and they gestured for him to crouch next to them while they explained the situation.

“It was trolls.” Kili blurted. 

“They took our ponies,” Fili added. 

“They’re going to stew them.” Kili looked close to tears. “They can’t stew Whiney!”

It was apparent Kili needed to work on his naming skills.

“They talked about it while they walked by.” Fili said. “They have the ponies in a corral.”

He gestured for Bilbo to follow him, and he found himself dragged along with the two until they reached a site where a large fire burned, surrounded by three massive trolls. 

The horses had been placed near a big rock and where contained with a makeshift gate.

Bilbo frowned. As much as he disliked ponies, he had no wish to see Minty become a part of a stew.

“You look like you want to do something.” Fili whispered. “You should.” A gentle push had Bilbo stumbling forward. “Whistle if you’re in trouble.”

“Wait - can you whistle if you’re mute?” whispered Kili.

“Of course!” Fili whispered back. “All you’re doing is blowing air.” He turned back to Bilbo and in a lower voice asked, “You can whistle, right?”

Dumbfounded, all Bilbo could do was nod.

“Good! Then if you’re in trouble, whistle once long and twice short.” Kili nodded satisfied and then he and Fili were gone.

Bilbo stayed crouched for a moment, unable to comprehend what had just happened. It didn’t last long as another troll lumbered by, this time with Bilbo’s pony. 

Bilbo came to a quick conclusion then - he would do this to save his pony and to prove to the dwarrow that he was more than capable enough to be on this journey, and he would make sure to rub it in their faces in it, especially that warrior’s.

Creeping along, Bilbo followed the trolls to their campground, watching as the ponies were deposited in a rough constructed cage. 

Moving to the cage, Bilbo sought to undo the ropes, chafing his hands on the rope while he pulled. As the rope refused to budge, Bilbo began to regret his choices. There was only one clear solution he could see. The dwarrow would inevitably arrive soon, so he had only a few minutes to complete what he needed to.

Bilbo drew in a deep breath and stepped into the clearing. “Hello.” his voice was weak.

The trolls, not hearing him, continued to fight amongst themselves. Bilbo shifted nervously on his feet; he wanted to bolt and hide, knowing that these creatures could tear him limb from limb, but he pushed down the urge, aware that he could take care of the trolls easily. 

Maybe. 

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Uh, excuse me!” 

It worked all too well, getting him the attention of all three trolls.

“What’sa that, Bert?”

“Blimely if I know, Bill!”

The massive trolls stomped over to Bilbo, and the one named Bert scooped him up into his fist, and Bilbo gasped at the tight vice that crushed his torso. “I am a hobbit!” he gasped. 

“Give it ‘ere!”

“Don’t touch ‘em, Tom!”

“A ‘obbit?” Bill scratched his head. “Can we eat ‘em?” 

“‘Course we can.” Bert spat. “All he‘s ‘s bone and meat!” 

Bilbo shut his eyes tightly, trying to calm himself amidst their squabbling. Once he deemed himself as calm as he would ever get in this situation, he opened his mouth once more. “Put me down, Bert.” he said. “Gently, if you would.” He felt immediately the force of control on his mind, but it was bearable.

Bert immediately froze and lowered Bilbo to the ground. 

“Hey! Wht’s you doing! You’re gonna let our meal get away!”

“Tom, Bill, calm down and sit.”

Two bodies thumped to the ground, eyes glassy. Bilbo turned his attention back to Bert. 

“Release the ponies you have in the pen. Then, use the rope you have to restrain Tom and Bill.” 

Watching as Bert began to do as instructed, Bilbo was suddenly hit by the strain of controlling the trolls. His vision began to darken, and he fought against it, breathing deeply and crouching closer to the ground. As he focused, he suddenly heard a battle cry and his control broke. 

The trolls lashed back hard, and Bilbo grunted as the abrupt severing left him in pain. 

The dwarrow stormed the site, weapons in hand, determined to slay the trolls. 

All he could think of was how stupid they were. If only they had arrived a little later, then everything could’ve been resolved. 

“Where’d the ‘obbit go?” Bill asked.

Bert whacked him with the stew spoon. “Don’t worry about that! Focus on the pests first!”

Bilbo had to commend the dwarrow for being able to wreck havoc where’ver they went. The trolls seemed to be overwhelmed, trying to grab and smash the dwarrow, but unable to do so because of the sheer number of them. They would nearly grasp one, only to be met with the blade of hammer of another.  

With this in mind, Bilbo raced towards the ponies, yanking at the rope that held them. So focused he was on his task, that he didn’t see the massive hand swoop towards him, picking him up.

Bilbo gasped at the tight vice-like grip of the troll as he was yanked up and then his arms grabbed in two separate hands and pulled .

“Lay down your arms or we’ll rip his off!” the troll yelled.

The fighting continued, and the slack lessened as he began to be pulled apart further when a cry stopped the dwarrow. “Everyone stop!” 

The call came from Thorin, who’s gaze was fastened on Bilbo as he tossed his weapon to the ground. The dwarrow behind him followed suit.

The trolls made quick work of the dwarrow, tying them up in sacks and dumping them next to a tree. 

“We’ll eat well tonight!” William said with a chortle.

Bilbo, now only grasped in one hand, was hovered over the pot of boiling . . . something. He grimaced. These trolls obviously were bereft of taste, otherwise how could they even consider eating something that smelled so bad? The steam was scorching and Bilbo wished he had never joined the quest.

“Put him down!” Fili yelled from his place in his sack. “You don’t want to eat him!” Bilbo looked at him in surprise.

“That’s right! He has . . . Worms!” Kili added. 

“Worms?” Bert’s nose scrunched as he scrutinized Bilbo. “‘E doesn’t look like ‘e has worms.”

“They’re inside his body!” Bofur shouted. “They crawl around inside and if you eat him they’ll crawl inside you!”

Stunned, Bilbo could only think about how this might’ve been the first smart thing these dwarrow had ever done.

“It’s true! My wee Gimli has them to! He got them from eating a worm-infested pig!” Gloin said.

Shock flowed through him at Gloin’s defense. Never had he imagined that Gloin would try to help him.

The rest of the dwarrow chimed in, speaking about the dangers of worms and the damage it would do to the trolls, and Bilbo found himself moved to be over the ground instead of over the pot. Seeing his chance, he took it, sinking his teeth deep into the fleshy part of William’s hand, and ripping.

William screamed, and the dwarrow looked in horrified fascination as Bilbo was dropped to the ground, spitting out the large chunk of flesh he’d taken from the troll, before yelling at him to move and run away.

Bilbo dodged Bert’s hands as well as Tom’s as he raced back into the forest, fully intending on making his way back home. He was done with the quest, he was done with everything that came with it. 

He paused. The forest was dark and cool, and he cast a glance back towards the light of the campsite. He groaned. The dwarrow had helped him, it wasn’t polite to not help them. 

“I’m really going to leave after this,” Bilbo muttered, heading back to the campsite.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 3/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 7.2K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 3: Between Anduin and Rohan

“I see Hope, for he stands before me. And as long as he stands, there is no room in my heart for despair.” Aragorn had thought the time of words past, thought himself beyond the reach of them, but he was not beyond this. “Come, Estel. Come, Aragorn. Braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end, whether it may come on this day or any day hence.” Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

-

III. Rohan

There was no time.

In the beginning of their journey, it had seemed as though every day stretched for as long as an age, the slow trudge through the mountains, the endless darkness of Moria. Even their brief rest in Lórien had stretched long and languid in the ethereal aura of the forest. At each turn, there had been moments of quiet and rest, time allowed to camp and replenish reserves.

But every moment since leaving the forest seemed to pass like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse, relentless and steady and uncomfortably swift, no time to parse one apart from the other.

Boromir fell.

The hobbits, whose welfare they had been charged with protecting above all else, were lost.

They ran across the plains of Rohan, Legolas and himself and Gimli, on and on and on in pursuit of their friends, no thought of rest in their minds, stopping only when they were stopped by Éomer.

Even then—there was despair, then joy, then despair again, and then the most profound of joys deep in the heart of Fangorn at the return of Gandalf—but still no time, to pause or reflect or linger for longer than the space of a single breath in the embrace of any moment before they were urged once again onwards.

This time to Rohan, to set right an ailing King. And then, still before he truly had the chance to catch his breath, they rode toward Helm’s Deep and straight into a warg attack.

Aragorn might have collapsed at the first sight of the beasts if he had not been bolstered by his companions—Gimli, who he had come to understand and love simply by the resolve with which the Dwarf had run across the plains for Merry and Pippin, despite being entirely unsuited to the endeavor. Gandalf, who had disappeared with words of hope, and whose continued presence on Arda had itself bolstered his waning strength. And Legolas, always Legolas, the first to follow his pledge at the Council, the first to defer to his lead at the banks of the Anduin, the first to notice when he was flagging and offer an encouraging nod.

He watched Legolas perhaps as closely as Legolas appeared to watch him—it was easy enough to track that golden hair no matter how far in front of the group Legolas went to scout, Ranger’s eyes or no. As such, he did not miss when Legolas lingered on the approaching hillcrest, still and wary, just before the attack. If something was amiss, none would likely notice it before Legolas, sharp-eyed and elven-eared and intensely aware of the nature around them.

Once the attack began, it was the sight of Legolas up ahead, standing down the oncoming wargs as though he would fight them all on his own if need be, that spurred Aragorn onto his horse and lent him the energy to join the fray in earnest. There had been no time to rest thus far, but there was certainly no time for it now.

They were all separated in the battle, but his awareness never strayed far from his friends—the tracker in him was always attuned to where Legolas was, but he was newly aware of Gimli as well, having spent days running just a few paces in front of him. It felt good coming to Gimli’s aid in the skirmish, etching deeper the bond that had grown between them.

And then, all too soon, he was caught on a warg and falling.

Legolas will be the first to notice my absence, he thought wildly as the ground approached rapidly closer, and then he knew no more until his dear horse and even dearer sister conspired to breathe awareness back into his limbs.

Once atop his horse, he rode to Helm’s Deep like a man possessed, for still there was no time to take a breath—the Orcs were coming in numbers greater and more terrible than anything they had dared to imagine, and Théoden King had to be warned. The journey was hard on his aching limbs, but he did not let up until the stronghold soared into view. No time, no time.

When Gimli welcomed him back with a vigor that suggested he had truly thought Aragorn dead, he had only a moment to wonder—did Legolas—had Legolas thought—before he walked straight into the friend in question.

They had but fleeting minutes to reunite, though he saw the darkness in Legolas’s eyes that suggested he had, indeed, thought Aragorn dead. And if his fingers lingered over Legolas’s as they exchanged the Evenstar, if he basked in the feel of those archer’s callouses on his skin for every fraction of a second he was allowed, he was certain not even Éowyn’s watchful eyes had noticed. The rest of his fleeting seconds he would relinquish, and had; this one he kept for himself.

Then it was a blur of motion once again; there were defenses to prep, men to outfit, swords to be distributed, plans to be drawn, and above all else hope to be ignited—Legolas himself commented on how drained he seemed, and Legolas was right, of course he was, but if Aragorn admitted his exhaustion he thought he might keel over and simply collapse.

So he continued on. He fought with Legolas, who seemed already to court with despair, for the first time in years. He gave what words of inspiration he could to Haleth, son of Háma, though Aragorn could not say what hope he held himself—not for Haleth’s survival, nor for his own. In barely any time, tens of thousands of Orcs would be at their gates. No amount of preparation would be enough, but he did all he could.

Hours and hours after he’d been dragged from the clutches of certain death, he finally found himself in the relative privacy of the armory, knowing there was nothing left to be done but wait for the battle to begin. For what seemed to be the first time since the fellowship had set out from Lórien, there was time enough to take a breath.

He took several, lingering over the familiar steps of pulling on his mail, lacing his jerkin, tightening the straps of his vambraces—Boromir’s braces—until he reached for his sword, and a stirring in the air drew his attention. Only one person could come this close to him without drawing notice.

Aragorn turned, already expecting the fair face that greeted him.

Legolas’s apology was unnecessary, but appreciated all the same. They clasped shoulders, the oldest gesture of familiarity they shared, and it was then that Aragorn noticed only one of Legolas’s side braids was neatly in place. While Legolas did not speak the words, the very crook of his head to expose his unbraided temple was a clear offering.

He wanted to. That much should have been clear from how he had asked for this very favor in Lórien, not only asked but begged that Legolas teach him. Still, the air felt strange between them. They had not fought in years, and he regretted that they’d done so for the first time in Elvish—necessary, due to the audience they’d had, but it had always been a language of joy between them, not a tool to cause hurt. If it was pity or remorse behind Legolas’s offering—

“If this is because you feel a need to further apologize—”

“Aragorn.” Legolas was quiet, solemn.

They did not need to say the words for this either, to know it was more than likely neither of them would live to see the sun rise. That he might live, but lose Legolas to the Orcs, was a possibility he feared down to the marrow of his bones but refused to contemplate.

“Very well.”

Legolas did not move, merely watched him steadily with those piercing eyes, and Aragorn once again had the strange sensation of being laid bare.

“I am so tired, Lassë,” he confessed in Elvish, unable to keep back any longer the thought that had been his constant companion for days. And certainly not when faced with that expression. The weariness was in his very bones, an ache too deep to dig out, and while he would fight with every last ounce of strength he had to protect the people of Rohan, he was no longer sure how much strength truly remained. “So much loss already, and even more to come. I counsel hope, but I know not if I have any left.”

If Legolas thought it hypocritical for Aragorn to confess such a thing just hours after they had argued over the very issue of despairing, he said nothing of it. Indeed he said nothing at all.

Instead, Legolas sank in one fluid motion to his knees.

Time stopped.

Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat, spellbound. He didn’t—he wasn’t—what in the name of—

Legolas began to speak. “I see Hope, for he stands before me. And as long as he stands, there is no room in my heart for despair.” Aragorn had thought the time of words past, thought himself beyond the reach of them, but he was not beyond this. “Come, Estel. Come, Aragorn. Braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end, whether it may come on this day or any day hence.”

Aragorn could not explain the feeling in his body. There was no word to describe it in any tongue he could speak. Joy was too simple, grief too heavy, supplication too divine to explain something that felt so very grounded, a vow bound up in the everlasting truth of dirt and root and tree. He was still so very tired, and hope seemed so far away, but he felt a profound sense of sureness, as though he had no greater purpose than to fight this night beside his friends. And stand with his dearest friend of all, who had known him by every name, who had seen unfailingly past each one to the core of him, who had pledged something so valuable as the immortal life of an Elf to service at his side.

Unable to speak, Aragorn could only act.

He walked as if in a trance to stand behind Legolas and brought his hands to the unbraided side of his head. With Legolas kneeling, the angle was surprisingly comfortable to fashion the thin braid Legolas himself had taught him in Lórien, one he had practiced so many times that night he could likely weave it in his sleep.

Indeed, it felt as though he was, for still his mind traced over the words—braided by your hand, I shall be with you until the end—unable to let them go, unable to accept the magnitude of them, unable to fully face their implications.

If they both survived—if, if—there was so much to be said between them, if that moment came.

In this moment, he simply braided. The repetitive motion calmed some of the maelstrom in his mind.

When he was nearly finished, Legolas suddenly tensed. He thought at first that he had forgotten himself and pulled too hard or otherwise ruined the braid, but a quick glance over his handiwork suggested otherwise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Gimli approaches,” Legolas said, neutral. He did not make to rise from his knees, and Aragorn understood the decision to be in his own hands.

To continue, or to stop? This moment felt private in a way that even their previous ones had not, but the Dwarf had become a fierce friend and companion to them both. Besides, if even he did not fully understand the significance of what they were doing, only knew that it was significant in some way, more than likely Gimli would not either.

And he did not wish to hide, as though they were doing something wrong.

Aragorn continued braiding. Legolas did not move.

A few moments later, Gimli appeared in the entranceway, so comically drowning in his mail that Aragorn felt his spirits briefly lift and a genuine smile curl at his lips for the first time in far too long.

Gimli said nothing as Aragorn secured the braid the way Legolas had shown him and stepped back. Legolas rose to his feet. Still the Dwarf did not speak.

Aragorn glanced between them and realized he and Legolas appeared to be locked in a battle of wills, holding a conversation with their eyes alone that Aragorn could not parse. It seemed Legolas eventually won, for Gimli looked away first and lightened the mood with a quip about his ill-fitting mail.

That sureness settled ever firmer in Aragorn’s chest. Whatever occurred this night, he felt certain this was exactly where destiny had designed for him to be.

From nowhere, a horn blew in the distance. Legolas’s eyes met his, and understanding came to them both at the same time.

Hope kindled.

[whorinsmokenshield]

To the Stone

Summary: Azog the Defiler lays dead by Thorin's hand. Erebor has been reclaimed. Thorin is king, his kin avenged, his sister-sons live to tell their mother the tale.

He should feel complete. He should feel fulfilled. But there is but one more regret he has to untangle, one more shame he must face. For that, he must find Bilbo Baggins, and he must apologize.

He finds Bilbo on the battlefield. Rating: Mature

Warning: MCD (I wrote this as part one of two in a series. Ao3 upload here.)

~~~~

A mist hovered in the sky over Ravenhill. It was scared to come down and meet the carnage beneath. Thus, it left the battlefield clear enough to see what wrath and greed had wrought. Only the cold wind wasn't afraid to meet the dead, and it settled amongst them like lifelong friends. Death and the cold were like brothers, in a way. Born together, one after the other.

Thorin Oakenshield stood alone. His black hair lay limp, matted with blood and grease. The icy breeze was scratching at his eyes. His breath collected in the air with warm fog; it was the only warm thing, as Thorin was very cold himself.

In the distance were voices, muddled and echoey. They called for names, and for survivors. Thorin ought to call back and count himself as one of the living, but couldn't verily remember how.

Blood dripped from the point of his blade. Orcrist had more life in it than its wielder. The blood was cool, slow, but as it trickled down it seemed to sizzle on the ice. Thorin inhaled deeply, deeper than his ribs could tolerate, so that when he released it he made a storm cloud that whispered into the wind.

He dropped his sword to the ground then, and the clatter it made was a hammer on a piece of cold steel. It rang through the valley.

Thorin woke up.

At his feet the corpse of the Pale Orc lay steaming, and it was not a dream. It was his foul blood that warmed the ice below and soiled the gleam of Orcrist. A wound the size of Thorin’s fist was punched through the beast’s sternum where the king had run him through. He remembered the wide eyes when the orc’s liver was punctured, his stomach sundered, the muscles and bone of his back forced to part for elvish steel. Blood and bile in equal parts gushed from the opening, eager to escape the fiend they’d been cursed to feed.

Azog the Defiler, scourge of the line of Durin, lay dead by Thorin’s hand. The spirits of his grandfather, his brother, and each of the honorable dwarves who had given their lives at Moria were laid to rest, and the absence of their ghosts left empty, hollow air in their wake.

Thorin thought of his life. Of everything he’d ever done. Every wrong he’d ever committed, every shame he’d ever faced, every punishment incurred. It all culminated in this, this victory in which he should’ve felt the most complete.

Azog was dead. The firedrake Smaug was dead and rotting. His kin had been avenged, his home reclaimed. He would be king. He had everything. Thorin had everything he’d ever wanted. Every imperfection in his life had been hammered out, every furrow flattened. 

Yet Thorin’s heart sat in his chest like a stone. He could feel its weight, and how every throb pushed against the cracks of his ribs. There was but one thing left. One more regret. One more shame. 

The king moved his feet. The steel caps scraped on the surface of the ice, and he felt his full weight in each step. He grabbed his sword, sheathed it, and abandoned the carcass to the flies. 

Thorin was no stranger to wandering. He’d done it all his life. Wandering in the cold wasn’t new to him either. How it tried to burrow into his legs like worms, bringing pain to his knees and his back. It was familiar. So, it was ignorable. Thorin ignored it for the sake of something more important.

He crossed the battlefield to the east, the direction from which the calls came. Bilbo would be back at camp, getting warm and feeling nervous for the company. Wondering after their fates. Wondering after Thorin’s most certainly. Camp would be in the direction that the people were coming from. It made the most sense. 

The orc filth died like roaches, crushed and guts spilled, black blood sullying the snow. Bodies lay scattered over the field. Each one different, each one dead. Each one dead differently. There were plenty of decapitations. Missing and ripped-off limbs. Hands just a few feet away from the arms they were once attached to. Men, dwarves and elves also lay dead, here and there.

Thorin’s eyes couldn’t stay on only one corpse for long. They skated over the battlefield terrified, in a subtle way, that one of the faces they found would be one that he knew intimately. One of the beards would be one that he’d seen combed in the mornings before they packed up for the road. He recognized none so far, but there were more dwarves among the dead than men or elves.

He saw another man’s corpse and thought to glance over it, but came back as he noticed the stature.

The body was small, too small, and its bronze hair haloed its head on the rocks like a ring broken off a piece of rusted chainmail. Its feet were bare. No shoes large enough to fit it.

Thorin approached. He hit the snow on his knees. The cold seeped up into him, seeking its brother.

It was Bilbo. Bilbo laid there. He wasn’t shivering like he ought to be.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin heard himself say. He didn’t feel as his lips formed to make the words. 

Bilbo looked to be asleep, a rock for a pillow. Some blood dripped down his forehead, and Thorin knew his hobbit would be complaining for a hot water tub very soon. Bilbo hated being filthy. 

“This is no place to be, Burglar,” said Thorin. “It-It’s far…far too cold out here. You should have listened when I told you to invest in warm boots. Erebor is not like your Shire with its temperate weather.”

Bilbo was ignoring him. He didn’t even scoff in offense like he did whenever one of the company suggested he wear shoes. It was less of an insistence and more of a tease once Bilbo explained why hobbits went barefoot, but the rise it got out of him and the flush it brought to his ears made it worth bringing up for fun. Bilbo’s ears were pale now. They didn’t twitch in that adorable way when someone new spoke and he turned to listen.

“Are you still angry with me, my burglar?” croaked Thorin.

That was all he could think of for why Bilbo was so ardently disregarding him. 

“I-I have to apologize to you. I sought you out to- to apologize. For my behavior. For my transgressions against you. I was not of a sound mind, but there is no other fault in what I did to you than my own. I wronged you so terribly. There is little I could do with the rest of my life to atone. But I pray you- you find it in your heart to forgive me. That is all I deserve to ask.”

Nothing. Still nothing. Only nothing. Thorin brought Bilbo closer to him to check for movement.

“Master Baggins?”

Dead weight in Thorin’s lap. Thorin’s hands curled on Bilbo’s shoulders.

Bilbo needed to be warmed up. His skin was like ice out there. No telling how long he’d been out there alone, waiting to be found. So Thorin scooped up his tiny body and lifted him to his chest, and rose to his own feet carrying him.

“Let’s get you back amongst the company. I’m certain Glóin’s got the fire going.”

Thorin began to walk in the direction he’d been heading in the first place. They were still east of Azog’s bloated corpse, and the camp would be where the search parties had come from. Bilbo came with him without complaint. Thorin watched him all the while as he traversed the lumpy field, and waited for him to stir. He never did. They walked awhile, but Bilbo didn't see any part of it. Thorin could see how the sun had limped across the sky in the time it took for he and Bilbo to reach a collection of low hills. Lights and movement came from atop them, and from what Thorin could see there were tents and spits and fires erected wherever they could be fit.

Dwalin saw them coming the moment they crested over the first hill, which was where the company had set their tent poles. Thorin made out his figure in the distance, pacing on the outskirts of a recuperation camp that had been set up on one of the few clean and dry spots, and when Dwalin saw them he broke into a dead sprint.

He would’ve collided with Thorin and Bilbo if not for one last stroke of common sense that ground him to a halt ten feet away from them. In the distance Thorin could see some of the company gathering together, watching and waiting.

Bilbo hadn’t said a word for as long as they’d been walking. He was still sleeping.

“Thorin,” Dwalin said, looking at Thorin’s chest where he had Bilbo nestled. His tone was flat like the sound a stone makes when it thuds into the ground. A flatness he felt in his gut.

“He needs Óin,” is what Thorin said.

Dwalin’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s alive?”

That question did not make sense to Thorin. 

“He’s too cold. I found him on the field. He’s got a cut on his forehead. Óin needs to look at it. Make sure he’s okay.”

“But…he’s alive?”

Thorin trudged on, forcing Dwalin to keep pace and follow. He held Bilbo like the Arkenstone in his hands.

“Thorin.” Dwalin tried to get his attention.“Thorin.”

“What?”

“Would you look at me? Durin’s sake, you’ve been missing for hours. They’ve got dozens out there looking for ya.”

It struck Thorin right then that he’d been only looking at Bilbo, on the ground directly in front of him so that he wouldn’t trip and cause Bilbo to jostle, or else somewhere in the middle distance. Dwalin had to step right up to him for Thorin to see him. He made to put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders to stop him. Thorin’s eyes snapped up to his cousin’s face, wild and accusatory.

“I can’t keep him out in this weather anymore, Dwalin! He’s freezing, and he needs Óin. Don’t try and stop me.”

Dwalin looked at him long and hard. Then he looked down at Bilbo. One of Bilbo’s hands hung loosely in the air, and Dwalin took it up and squeezed his wrist. Thorin thought it was good, that Bilbo needed the warmth. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed, then widened, and his eyes met Thorin’s once more. His expression that was unrecognizable, for Dwalin had never worn it before.

“Thorin…”

“Show me where to put him.”

“Thorin-”

“Show me-” Thorin spoke so tightly that his voice almost broke. “Show me where to put him. He needs to be warm.”

The two of them stood face-to-face as the seconds ticked past, and Bilbo only grew colder. Thorin clenched his jaw, he grit his teeth, he opened his mouth to order Dwalin aside.

Dwalin nodded once and his face fell to something close to pain. 

“‘Course. I’ll show you. Come on.”

His cousin had him by the shoulder. He kept his grip loose and nonrestrictive, but grounding. He guided Thorin towards the camp.

The eyes of the company tracked him while they approached, but once they came close enough they looked instead at what Thorin carried. Who Thorin carried. At once their faces paled and eyes watered, hands flew up to mouths and jaws clenched and some were forced to look away. Bofur ripped the hat off his head and stared blankly. Nori bit down on his knuckles and tried to wake himself up. Ori stuttered on a gasp and clammed his hand over his mouth to stifle it. The princes weren’t among them, they were off in the healing tents, as were Óin and Glóin.

Not one of them said something, except for Dori’s whispered “No”, because they saw Dwalin’s face over Thorin’s shoulder, and how he heavily shook his head and warded them off. He would handle it.

Dwalin pushed Thorin towards a tent off to the side. It was intended to be Thorin’s tent, for private healing. No one knew if he survived the battle, or how, and could only assume that the reason he’d not showed up to the encampment when the rest of them did was that he lay in the field dead or dying. It was Bilbo’s tent now. Thorin would assume that that’s what it was for all along.

It was dim in the tent. Pale gray sun barely leaked through the canvas. Dwalin was quick to light the hanging lantern to cast warmth into the room, if only in the light that filled it.

Thorin staggered towards the medical cot that lay vacant in the corner, feeling his weight and his age and the depth of his sin in his legs, and lay Bilbo upon it. He smoothed his hand down Bilbo’s front to clear the rock dust and grit off of his dwarven robes, then his hand moved up to Bilbo’s forehead. 

“Master Baggins?”

He heard Dwalin inhale.

When Thorin brushed his ragged hair off Bilbo’s stiff face he didn’t so much as stir, or lean into the touch. There was only so much Thorin could take, and he couldn’t take even a moment more of this. Of this cold skin, of this silence. Bilbo wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t flinch. Thorin wasn’t even sure if he’d been forgiven.

“He…he needs…Óin. He won’t speak to me,” Thorin said lowly.

Dwalin said nothing.

Thorin’s hand was as large as Bilbo’s whole cheek when he cupped it, thumb running under the eyes that wouldn’t so much as flutter. Cold as ice. Cold as cold’s brother.

“We need to warm him. He should be shivering. It’s dangerous to be overly cold,” Thorin murmured. “Where is Óin?” 

When Dwalin finally spoke it cracked. “He’s outside. Tending to the wounded.”

“He needs a blanket. He’s too cold. He’s…Bilbo’s cold. He hates being cold. He’s not used to it.”

Thorin swallowed very thickly, like he was swallowing paste. There was something under his skin. Something that itched. Something that burned. It longed to burst out like water from an overfilled skin. Thorin couldn’t name it.

No blanket appeared, so Thorin repeated, more firm this time, “He needs a blanket.”

Dwalin moved slowly so as not to startle. There was a stack of blankets abandoned on a pallet, so he took one and put it in Thorin’s waiting hand. Thorin’s hands shook like strings fit to snap, but he grabbed the blanket in a bloodless grip and swept it over Bilbo’s body. He tucked in the sides, and made sure it reached his feet to cover and warm them.

“Is…” Thorin began to say. “How is the company? Do they live?”

“Aye. The…the rest of the company is well. Few injuries,” Dwalin grunted.

“My nephews?”

“They’ll fight another day. Kili’s got some nasty bruising, Fili’s shoulder’s seen better days, but they’re fit enough to make it everyone else’s problem.”

Thorin tried to laugh, but the air in his lungs was dry.

“Bilbo will be glad to hear that,” Thorin whispered. 

There was tension in Dwalin’s frame that had begun to ease, but it came back just as soon as Thorin said that.

“He…he would be,” said Dwalin.

Inside Thorin’s chest his heart pulsed. His blood felt too thick and heavy in his veins. His heart weighed on him; it made breathing more difficult than it ought to be. The tremors in his hands shook enough from the cold and from the strain of holding themselves up, yet Thorin wasn’t tired at all. There was a lightness in his head. All he could think about was Bilbo.

Despite the blanket, no color had returned to Bilbo’s once-rosy cheeks. 

“Where is Óin? He should not be this cold. He should…he should be…” Thorin’s breath came in short and shallow gasps. The air was thin in this tent.

Dwalin was there suddenly, his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and gripping him overly tight.

Thorin soldiered on. “He should be at home. He should be…he should be home. With his- his books. His armchair. With his family. He should never have seen battle. I should never have brought him here. He should never be this cold. Where is Óin?” 

“Óin is outside. With the wounded.”

“Bring him here. Bilbo’s too cold. Something’s not right.”

How Thorin’s heart tremored. He felt like he was going to vomit. 

“He was alone. I found him alone. He- he never stood a chance,” Thorin said. The sentence stormed in his head, flashing behind his eyes, and as he stared emptily at Bilbo’s ashen skin it was all he could think. “I should never have brought him here. This is my fault. This- it- he-...”

Bilbo was cold. He was so cold. His face wouldn’t move, his ears wouldn’t twitch. Too cold, too cold, and cold had a brother whose name was-

“B-Bilbo?” Thorin stumbled forward. Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder kept him from going far.

-death.

“Alright now, Thorin.”

Thorin woke up.

“What have I done?” Thorin uttered. He felt only the pressure of Dwalin's hands coming under his arms. Little more. “What have I done, cousin?”

“Easy,” was all Dwalin said. His voice rough and grating, but holding onto stability with a white-knuckled grip. “Let's let Óin look at you. Come on.”

“No,” Thorin said. It hit him that Dwalin was dragging him away. “No. No!”

Thorin wrenched from his hands and hit the dirt, injuries jarred and burning. He scrambled to be back at Bilbo's bedside, and threw himself over Bilbo's body.

“Bilbo,” He wept. Bilbo was cold, and he was still, and blood still trickled from his head wound as though it had nowhere else it could go. “Bilbo! Bilbo!”

Dwalin was on him and heaving him off the bed. Thorin fought and thrashed like he thought Dwalin was taking him to his death, heels digging into the ground, shoulders lurching and body twisting with agony and anger.

“No! No! Bilbo! Let me go, let me- no, he needs me! He needs me! Let me go to him!”

“He’s dead, Thorin!” Dwalin barked, succeeding in hauling Thorin bodily through the tent flaps and into the bright of the day. The flaps fluttered shut, and obscured Bilbo from the light and from all eyes.

“NO! BILBO!” Thorin bellowed. He threw his elbow back into Dwalin’s ribs and the sudden release sent both of them sprawling. Thorin got up to his knees and made to sprint back to the tent, but Dwalin had lunged and snatched Thorin by his calf and tripped him back to the ground. Dwalin scrabbled up and threw himself down on top of his cousin to pin him, legs entangling to stop Thorin’s desperate kicks and his arm crossing Thorin’s chest to pull his face up and off the dirt.

“He needs me, he needs me, Dwalin, cousin, please , he needs me! " Thorin could only weep. Tears dribbled off his cheeks and splattered in the dust. He reached out for Bilbo’s tent, but Dwalin grabbed his arms and pulled them both back to Thorin’s chest.

“I’ve got you, brother. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Breathe. Breathe.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t- he- I need to be there with him! He can’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone!” Breaths were hard to come by. Thorin could fill his whole chest with air and still feel hollow, like he was suffocating.

“I know. I know. I’ve got you, brother.” Dwalin forced Thorin to turn, and fisted his hand in Thorin’s hair to hold his face down against Dwalin’s neck. His legs stayed locked around Thorin’s hips and thighs, his arms like iron clasps holding Thorin in place. “I’ve got you brother.”

“No…no, no, he’s- he, please. Please. Mahal, please. PLEASE!”

Dwalin held him tighter. Thorin continued to struggle, but the fight was bleeding out of him like he had an open wound. He beat his fists against Dwalin’s shoulder, but Dwalin held strong for the good of them both.

“Release me,” Thorin sobbed. He writhed like an injured dog. “Release me!”

There were dwarves watching them, surrounding them at a respectful distance. Each of the company, and then some of Dain’s folk. Among the company muffled sobs erupted, stifled in the face of their king’s lamentations.

Suddenly, Thorin went boneless. It was as if he had died in Dwalin’s arms. Dwalin squeezed him with panic, but felt that he still held breath, and so, in the silence that followed, his grip on Thorin’s hair loosened.

“I am so sorry, brother,” he rasped.

Thorin inhaled. He wheezed. No air to be found when he could only breathe grief.

And when Thorin Oakenshield shattered, and it was heard across the camp in his wail of absolute and inimitable despair.

~~~

Tanks for reading! :) Also posted on my ao3 acc under Sullen_in_love

[justsomerandomfanfic]

A Shoulder To Cry On - Boromir X Female Reader

Title: A Shoulder To Cry On

Boromir X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli (Mentioned), the Balrog (Mentioned), and Gandalf (Mentioned)

Requested by @micheleamidalajedi!

WC: 1,400

Warnings: Murder, death of Gandalf mentioned, depression, crying, maybe hurt/comfort, grief, survivor's guilt, slight angst, and fluff

Your feet and the muscles in your legs hurt as you continue to follow behind the rest of the Fellowship; the dried up orange and brown leaves crunching and breaking under your feet with each step. No one said anything, just following Aragorn as you all traveled through a thick forest. You'd usually take the time to let your mind wander and daydream, in awe of the beautiful trees and wonderful world around you. But, you couldn't find it in yourself to let your mind fill with dreams and fantasies, you were grieving. Gandalf, your mentor, and hero was dead. Killed by the fiery hands of the Balrog, who had been hiding in the dark pits of Caradhras, one of the Mountains of Moria.

You felt as if your heart had been ripped from your chest entirely, seeing him die right before your eyes like that. The look on his face as he held onto the edge of the stone walkway, eyes full of desperation. Watching him die... It was the last image you'll ever have of your mentor, of the man who gave you hope, who taught you how amazing and special magic was. A man who would tell you to always trust your instincts, even if they weren't perfect; that there was no greater power than the power of true friendship and companionship. He was a great teacher, the best mentor you could ask for, and now, he is gone. And you couldn't do anything about it. It broke you; it shattered every last bit of happiness and hope within you.

You stared up at the sky above, watching as it slowly turned from blue to a pinkish-orange; the sun was setting. "We shall take rest for the night." You heard Aragorn announce, almost bumping into Gimli as he stopped walking before you. 

Everything happened so fast, and yet, so slowly. You just watched as the members of the Fellowship got their sleeping mats ready, food cooking, and so on. You sat alone, on a broken log of an old Birch tree, relieved that your feet could finally rest but your mind still raced. You stared at the ground, watching the dull, green grass flow slightly in the brief wind, spotting a small bug crawl its way up a blade of grass before lifting its wings and flying off into the sky. You followed it with your sad eyes, almost wishing you could do the same, to fly off and leave; be free.

"Here, Y/N." You heard someone say, your eyes blinking as you let your eyes settle on the small wooden bowl of soup, held by Legolas. "It would be best to eat." He finished, as you slowly took the bowl from his grasp, stirring the potato soup with the spoon, not really feeling like eating at all. The thought of eating made your stomach ache as you felt your chest clench uncomfortably. Pushing down the pain, you pushed through, taking bite after bite of your soup. You hoped that as the food settled in your stomach, warming your body, you'd sleep peacefully tonight.

"Y/N." You heard your name being called, looking up to make eye contact with Aragorn from across the small camp. "You'll have the first watch." On that note, you felt your shoulders droop, as you got yourself mentally ready for the first few hours of night watch.

~~~

The night was cold, but you were grateful for the fur cloak you had around your shoulders. The sky was completely dark, except for the small twinkling stars that littered the sky, glimmering and shining like crystals against the darkness. There was a calmness that came with the peaceful silence, minus the crickets and other bugs. Your thoughts wandered back to Gandalf, your mind replaying his death over and over again. Your breathing became more rapid the longer you sat outside, staring up at the crescent moon and stars. Tears started to sting your eyes, threatening to fall at any second. You didn’t want to cry, you knew it wouldn't do you any good. That and, you’d end up waking up everyone else and ruining their sleep and lives just because you were crying.

But, you wanted to cry, and so you did. You let the tears fall down your cheeks as silent sobs escapes your lips, feeling your emotions take control of your body. You buried your face in your arms as the sobs wracked your body, allowing the tears to roll freely. All your pain and sadness and grief came pouring out, the pain of losing someone you cared deeply for was too much for you. Suddenly, something touched your shoulder, causing you to jump, your head whipping to look in the direction of the touch.

There, standing before you was Boromir, looking down at you with a concerned expression. His hand rested softly on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asked softly, not wanting to wake the others; concern evident on his features. Your sniffles slowed down to quiet hiccups, and you wiped away the tears from your cheeks, a bit embarrassed. You shook your head, staring down at the ground before you, avoiding eye contact. Boromir frowned, before taking a seat beside you. Your shoulders bounced as you continued to cry, trying to calm yourself down to say your dignity until Boromir spoke up again. "Do you... Want to talk about what is making you so unhappy?" He whispered from beside you, clasping his hands together.

"No, not really." You muttered, wiping your tears, "I'm sorry I woke you. I'll calm down." You continued, as Boromir just sighed, shaking his head. 

"Do not fret, you did not wake me. My mind kept me awake." He spoke, before glancing over at you, watching as you continued to dry your eyes before letting out a small breath, shivering. Slowly, hesitantly, Boromir lifted his arm, wrapping it around your shoulders, comforting you the best way he could. 

As he hugged you, you leaned into him, holding his arm tightly. Silence fell between the two of you, both unsure what to do or say. Finally, your body relaxed into Boromir's arm. You felt his hand gently move to stroke your hair, and you closed your eyes, leaning further into his embrace. You felt safe and warm. For a moment, the sorrows of your life seemed far away, far removed from you. "I miss Gandalf." You finally spoke, breaking the silence as you began to calm down once again. Your voice was shaky as you spoke, and you could feel Boromir tense as he listened to you speak, "He's been my mentor since I was a kid… He's helped me become who I am today… I don't know what to do without him..." You trailed off, taking in a deep breath as the tears started to well up once more. "... What happened to him was so sudden... And I could not save him," You let out another shaky breath, looking up at Boromir with wide, desperate eyes, "Why did I not save him?" You cried, closing your eyes in fear, "Did I fail him?"

"No, Y/N." Boromir quickly said, moving his hand to cup your cheek, turning your head to look up at him, "You did not fail Gandalf. What had happened was not in your control. There was nothing you, or any of us could have done to prevent his death." He spoke calmly, keeping his tone steady as he spoke. 

"It doesn't feel like that." You mumbled sadly, looking up at him.

Boromir stayed silent, not saying anything for a moment. "Y/N..." He spoke quietly, squeezing your shoulders slightly. "... Do not dwell on the past." He told you, his words leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. "I know how much he means to you, but I would think that Gandalf would want you to continue on." He explained.

You let out a heavy sigh, staring into his greenish-gray eyes. "Yes, I guess you're right. Thank you, Boromir." You replied quietly, "... I just wish he survived." You murmured softly, resting your head against his chest.

"As do I," Boromir replied, his voice soft, his fingers raking through your hair, "As do I."

And as the night continued, Boromir continued your night watch, holding you as you slept in his arms, the crickets and the sound of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

[natandacat]

Everyone needs to read this now to understand what's going on in Greece and in the Mediterranean generally

[nothinghereisworking]

~~~Rarepair Appreciation~~~

Rarepairs are my absolute beloveds!  (as evidenced by my fic history lol)

After chatting with @herinke9 and following along with the anon asks I realized that many of these are so rare that nobody would even think to *look* for them.  So I decided to share some!  Who knows, maybe they’ll get popular? (ahaaahahahahaha)

Círdan | Nowë/Gandalf | Mithrandir

My Heart is with the Sea, My Heart is with You [Art] by @rauko-is-a-free-elf Beautiful art!

My Heart is with the Sea, my Heart is with You by @chrissystriped Círdan has known and loved the Wanderer since the first age. When he hears of Gandalf's fall in Moria he resolves to find him and retrieve his body, if nothing else.

I Shall Await Thee by @cuarthol The fifth Istar, Olórin, sent by the Valar to Middle-earth to aid the free peoples against evil, has arrived in Mithlond, and to a reunion nobody had expected.

At Long Last, Love by alexcat Gandalf finally finds time for love.

Findis/Gandalf | Mithrandir

Birthright by @cuarthol - Mature But of Olórin that tale does not speak; for though he loved the Elves, he walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them, and they did not know whence came the fair visions or the promptings of wisdom that he put into their hearts. In later days he was the friend of all the Children of Ilúvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away the imaginations of darkness. - The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien

Yep, there’s still only the one in this tag!

Dírhavel & Maglor | Makalaurë

Illuminating Now and Dark Hath-been by @polutrope Two great bards meet during the Sack of Sirion.

Thee one and only place to read this pair!

Curufin | Curufinwë/Eöl

Iron Cleaver by @polutrope - Mature Eöl is ill-at-ease after an encounter with the first Elf to elude his piercing mind. That there is much to link him and Curufin, including their shared craft, a friendship with the Dwarves, and the fact he carries a knife made of Eöl's metal, only unsettles - and allures - him all the more.

Shining Black by @skyeventide - Explicit The forest of Nan Elmoth is warded by magic and, apparently, inhabited. Celegorm and Curufin head into the woods, discovering who exactly lives in it. A "dark elf", who is a blacksmith. And is friends of the dwarves, and speaks Khuzdul. Curufin camps outside of the forest, to check that trade with the dwarves isn't disrupted by the encounter -- and to see if perhaps he could learn more about the enchantments that protect this land, and about its dweller.

Heart of Sugar and Lemon by eldvarpa Eöl and Curufin (and Celebrimbor) meet for the last time (but not exactly as canon would have it).

Do not ask for permission by Kalendeer - Explicit It was a Khazad key, big and heavily decorated with geometrical patterns. This one was not mine and it was in the pocket nearest to where Curufin had been, but I could not begin to guess what it was doing there until I fully took the key in my hand and the spell was triggered.Do not ask for permission, Curufin's voice whispered in my ear, and I wondered at the game he wanted me to play.

Fëanorian Hospitality by peachBitch1 - Mature A slightly different version of Curufin and Eöl's meeting in Himlad.

Go Upon Your Knee by havisham - Mature  “Heaven-gates are not so highly arched / As princes' palaces; they that enter there /

Must go upon their knees.”

Angrod | Angaráto/Fingon | Findekano

Keep Moving, Keep Warm by @cuarthol - Mature Angaráto's strength begins to fail him upon the Helcaraxë, until Findekáno is able to coax both life and warmth back into him.

A Golden Opportunity by @cuarthol Sure, it's easy for Findekano to find Angaráto in a crowd, he stands out like a shining beacon. But how is Angaráto supposed to find Findekano in a sea of generally dark-haired Noldo?

To The Victor Go The Spoils by @cuarthol Finde ends up with a greater prize than he ever bargained for after he wins the archery tournament.

Caranthir | Morifinwë/Galadriel | Artanis AND Angrod | Angaráto/Curufin | Curufinwë

Shall I Teach Thee? by Elves_Behaving_Badly - Explicit The grandchildren of Finwë seem to get up to an awful lot, even especially with one another.

The one and only for both of those pairings

Finduilas Faelivrin/Nellas

A Settlement by Elleth Finduilas, Niënor and Nellas all live on Amon Obel. Entanglements are inevitable.

Rhythm of the Night by amyfortuna (elwinfortuna) - Explicit Elemmírë performs at a secret festival in honour of Vána and Nessa, and is transported into bliss.

We Made Our Own by @cuarthol Finduilas has accompanied Finrod on a visit to Doriath, but she is soon drawn out into the forest to explore the land of hidden enchantments.

Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë

As Flowers From the Sky by ajf - Explicit In the wake of the Quenya ban, a diplomatic mission to Doriath is arranged under cloak of secrecy. Two kings in Beleriand, one new and one old, have a volatile encounter.

Alliances and Dalliances by Elves_Behaving_Badly - Explicit After Mereth Aderthad, Ñolofinwë receives an unexpected invitation to Doriath. How far will he go to secure an alliance with the Sindarin king?

***

If you know of other rarepairs, please add at least the tag so we can go look at them!

🥰 Keep Making Those New Tags! 😎