#prancing pony mug

[theredbookofwestmarch]

Going into Hobbit food mode for Gondorian New Year. Just started the FotR extended edition and will watch all three today. Happy new year to all of Middle-earth!

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ༻ 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

(A/n) ➳ I have written this over three times as an attempt to get Daemon’s personality correct and I butchered his character... P.S, I used a High Valyrain translator. I’m not sure how correct it is but you can find it HERE.

Word Count ➳ 1.8k

Content Warnings ➳ 3rd P.O.V, alcohol use, theft, threats of violence, mentions of murder, mentions of death, mentions of war...

AWOIAF Masterlist

Daemon stepped into the Prancing Pony, slipping off his waterlogged hood to reveal his platinum blonde hair and violet eyes. It was a candlelit inn, a seemingly calm one for the night. He observed the inn a couple of hours before entering, he wanted to make sure few eyes were on him.  

But his observation of the inn did him nothing, everyone stared at him, gaining all kinds of attention. Good or bad. He kept his arm rested on his sword, making his weapon known so no one would dare.  

He approached the bar, setting his pouch of coin he stole off a drunk bystander. “A pint of strong ale.”   

The bartender eyed him before pouring his drink. Daemon handed the man the coin, taking the wooden mug in return.   

His nose scrunched at the heavy and bitter taste of the ale. Daemon could certainly hold his own when it came to drinking but this was different. He took the mug as he left the bar and made himself comfortable in a corner with a man.  

It was his contact from the last lead that led him to the Prancing Pony. “I was right to say you are not from these parts.” The man started. “You are causing trouble, drawing eyes from people you do not want to start a war with.”   

Daemon scoffed, laughing to himself. “These people are the least of my worries. I only care of the dragon people speak of.”  

But the man started to laugh, too loud for Daemon’s taste. “The dragon they only hear of is Smaug.” Yet his eyes became wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. “I’ve seen another, not as big but just as fearsome.” He murmured.  

Daemon breathed deeply, his jaw clenched as his grip tightened around his mug. “And you dare hold the information from me?”  

The man rolled his eyes. He sat back in his chair, throwing his leg over the table. “Go East of the Misty Mountains, you will find Mirkwood.” The man ignored his questions and pointed at his hair. “You will find its rider, a woman with strands of hair that match yours.” 

“Now you give me this information? At no cost?”   

“You cannot scare me, Daemon Targaryen. There are many things worse than dragon fire.”  

Daemon rushed out of the inn feeling frustrated, he was played like a fool. Another reason to despise this place.  

He pulled his hood over his head as the rain poured heavily down on him.   

He always knew his older brother was obsessed with omens and prophecies, but Daemon was able to believe in one of Visery’s dreams. a Targaryen had found their own path to safety, escaping the calamity that took their home.  

“The Targaryen dynasty will rule beyond Westeros.”  

He was stuck in his mind for hours, keeping himself busy until he found Caraxes still deep in his slumber. Daemon took a breath before he spoke softly in High Valyrian, running his hand over his long and slender neck.   

“Vēzot, Caraxes.”    

Daemon flew to the East of the Misty Mountains, it was a trip of two days, three before he found Mirkwood. A kingdom surrounded by woods, isolated from the rest of the world.   

Caraxes landed just feet away from the narrow bridge, but his neck was long enough to reach the gates where two guards stood.  

They remained still as they felt Caraxes’s hot breath and saw him bare his teeth.  

Daemon sat up tall in his saddle, he relaxed one wrist over the other. “I demand an audience with your lord!” He exclaimed. “Step aside and you shall live to go home to your families.”   

Caraxes grumbled when the guards did not move or say a word. Daemon clicked his tongue after another minute of silence. He wanted to take his brother’s words into consideration. How he must learn to control his anger, how this world was unlike Westeros. 

Talking was getting Daemon nowhere since he was met with silence. “It is a simple request that I am sure you can fulfill, I have no need to burn your kingdom but turn me away and I will.”   

But it was a failure.   

Yes, they reacted, drawing their bows, and shouting in their tongues. It was not the reaction he was hoping for...  

“You have chosen your own fates.” Caraxes pulled back and opened his jaws. “Drac-”  

Suddenly, the gates creaked open, another Legolas stood at the entrance, walking forward with his bow in hand.  

“You seek and audience with our King.” Legolas stated, looking up at Daemon with a stern expression. “But first, you must hand over your weapons. I shall not let you approach the King armed.”  

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his hand itching to draw Dark Sister and so he declared.   

“We must obey by their rules, it’s their land but it won’t be for long.”    

Dameon gave a curt nod and huffed. He dismounted Caraxes to stand before Legolas. He drew his sword along with its scabbard.  

Legolas shouted orders the guards to come forward, his eyes glued on Daemon. They came forward, taking everything out of his hands, Dark Sister, and his cloak.  

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew it gained him access to Mirkwood.  

Legolas was sure there were no more weapons on him. “The King awaits.” He turned his back, walking back into the kingdom with Daemon behind him.   

He took one final glance, watching Caraxes whistle again until the gates shut.  

Daemon did not hide his amazement at the inside of Mirkwood, he made his expressions clear and kept his composure but remained carefree. He was surrounded by guards, but he walked like he owned the place as his head stayed high.    

Then, it was just Legolas walking with him, and it was not long before he was brought in front of the king.  

Thranduil sat on his throne, one leg over the other. His finger tapped the arm rest as he looked at Daemon with a lack of concern. 

“My Lord.” Daemon addressed. “It seems you’ve been expecting me.”   

Legolas took his place by Tauriel’s side. She whispered in his ear, something making him huff in anger and shaking his head.  

Thranduil stood from his throne, his hands clasped together. “Of course I have, you made yourself quite known.” He stepped down the steps. “I received word from an acquaintance, he said your dragon was like a serpent. I wondered what they called your dragon back in Westeros.”  

“You’re aware?” 

“I’m quite aware.” Thranduil responded. “You’re home called Valyria, dragons that you ride, and you Targaryens... I’m only aware of the name after her relative stepped foot on Middle-Earth with a clutch of eggs and managed to sire many offsprings.”   

“Where are they?”    

“All of them killed each other, it’s difficult to say what happened but (Y/n) appeared with said egg hatched.” Thranduil slowly circled Daemon. “I cannot speak to what happened to the rest of the clutch but now she’s here and you’re here for her.”   

“I intend to bring her home.”   

Thranduil stopped at his left side, shaking his head. “You will not take her home. She knows no other home than here, Mirkwood.”   

Daemon wanted to punch him, stab him, have him burned to death. But he knew better than to do anything disorderly. “She does not belong here. She belongs with her family, with the rest of the Targaryens.”   

Thranduil’s eyes flashed with anger as he got in his face. “I have raised her since she was a babe, she is my ward, my own. I will not allow you to disturb her home and peace.” He took a couple steps back before waving Daemon away.   

Tauriel attempted to grab his arm, but Daemon shrugged her off. “She has no place here!” He shouted. “Where is she?!”   

Thranduil walked back up to his throne, sneering at Daemon. “You have no right to demand anything for me.” He gestured for Tauriel to proceed, ignoring the threats and curses coming from Daemon, it clearly had no effect on him.   

Tauriel summoned the guards. “Hold him.” She readied her bow.    

Daemon kicked the elf in the chest, pushing him back. He twisted the other’s arm, grabbing his dagger only for Tauriel to shoot it out of his hands.   

“If you wish to keep your hands, you will come.” She held no room for argument. “īlon līs ȳzaldrīzes mērī.”  He nearly froze in place and Tauriel could see her words confusing him. But the guards grabbed hold of his arms and Tauriel pushed him to walk.   

“We must talk alone.”   

Caraxes awoke, he was curled up near the entrance, grumbling when he caught sight of Daemon surrounded. He shoved their hands off him. “My effects?” Tauriel took them from one and handed them to him.   

Tauriel nodded at the guards, dismissing them. “How did you get here?” She questioned, eyeing his armor and then his dragon.    

His dragon had a saddle too, but it was wrapped around his chest with a three headed dragon.   

“I’d care to explain but I do not.” Daemon threw on his cloak. “Yet I only care to learn where did you hear those words.”    

“There is a Targaryen here.” She confirmed in a hushed voice. “And I fear that darker things may be her future.”  

Daemon's brow furrowed. “Yet why help me?” He questioned, staring down at her.  

Tauriel’s expression softened, sadness forming on her face. “I care for (Y/n), deeply.” She confessed, her voice barely audible. “But I fear the path she is on will lead to tragedy. If there is a chance to changer her fate, I must take it.”  

“Where is she?” 

“I cannot tell you exactly where she is.” She explained. “I received word that she had left the kingdom once again without the King’s permission. But there is a nest, past the Enchanted River. (Y/n) is known to frequent that area.”  

Without another moment’s hesitation, he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies. Tauriel watched as Caraxes flew for a couple moments then descended.  

“The King will not be pleased if he learned you gave out (Y/n)’s location.” Legolas appeared, looking disappointed. “He could kill her.” 

“He will not.”  Tauriel sharply retorted. 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“I would rather (Y/n) perish happily than see her and her dragon fall on the battlefield.” 

(Y/n) drew her sword as Caraxes landed in front of her. Aegar’s upper body hovered over her as he growled at the sight of the two, stretching his wings, ready to defend her. 

Daemon dismounted Caraxes, approaching (Y/n) but stayed at a safe distance. “Nyke emagon daor māzigon naejot vīlībagon.” He said.  

“I have not come to fight.” 

Her breath hitched as her heart quickened. She continued to look back and forth, between Daemon and Caraxes. She kept a tight grip on her sword. “Who are you and why have you come?” She ordered loudly. 

“I am Daemon Targaryen.” Daemon replied. “And I have come to take you home.”  

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission. 

Taglist ➳ @mrsdurin , @marsmallow433 , @oneiratxxia10 , @sassybutclassy96 ,  

[erathene]

Safe with You (Part 1)

Summary: Strider turns up unexpectedly at The Pony, wounded and needing help. You're a barmaid, not a doctor, but right now he doesn't have much choice, and emotions are running high from his last visit.

Word count: 2.1k

Pairing: Aragorn x Female!Reader 

Warnings: LOTS of swearing and cursing, again. Graphic descriptions of blood/injury, (probably inaccurate) descriptions of medical treatment, loss of consciousness.

AO3 Link: Safe with You

Author's note: Special thanks again to DocFigureskaterM for being my beta reader. This story follows on from my previous Aragorn x F!Reader series called F*ck It; whilst there are references here to that story, both works can be read independently. I am still trying not to swear in front of my toddler so I couldn't resist continuing with the feisty curse-laden reader I developed in F*ck It. Enjoy!

Part 2 has now been posted!

......................

The Prancing Pony was lit dimly by a handful of small lanterns. Most of the larger hanging lamps had been extinguished after the last punters had left for the night, and that had been around an hour ago. The main fire had burned low, with only glowing remnants of firewood remaining. The Gaffer always insisted on saving the fuel for when paying customers were occupying the place; this meant doing your cleaning with the bare minimum of brightness. 

Your shift was almost finished. Finally. It couldn't have come soon enough. You leaned low over a table in the bar where your lonely lantern stood, giving the polished wood a good scrub with your cloth. It was the very last table to be cleaned. The balls of your feet ached from standing, your shoulders twinged from lifting and scrubbing and carrying many mugs of drink from table to table all evening. Tossing your rag back into the bucket, you sighed and quickly massaged the back of your neck. At last, you could hang up your apron and call it a day. 

No sooner had this thought crossed your mind, there was a thumping knock on the door. You rolled your eyes. "We're closed!" you yelled, glancing over at the main entrance to the inn to ensure that the door was still locked and bolted.

The knocking came again, this time with less force and urgency. Fuck's sake. You strode quickly across the room carrying your lantern and unbolted the door, readying yourself to tell the visitor to be on their way in the politest way possible with the least amount of curse words.

"Strider!" your voice gave away your surprise as light fell upon the familiar ranger's face. "What are you-" you began to ask, but the question died on your lips as you took in the full sight of him. 

Blood caked the side of the man's face and cheek, running freely from an open head wound. He was panting as he leaned against the doorway of the Prancing Pony, as though the very act of standing upright was exhausting for him. The hand that hadn't been thumping on the door to get your attention was wrapped around his middle, and you could vaguely see his clothing was stained dark red where there were obviously further injuries. All in all, the ranger was a fucking wreck. He managed a weak smile, before staggering forwards over the threshold as his strength almost gave out.

You cursed aloud as you caught him, his dead weight landing in your already worn-out limbs. Gravity worked against you both as you heaved Strider's form into the main room. His head lolled as you shuffled him over to one of the nearest high-backed armchairs that lined the closest wall. "Don't you go leaving mess on this chair, you hear me Strider?" you gave him a good poke in the ribs, which caused him to groan with pain, but it brought him back to lucidity which was what you wanted. If you were up all night scrubbing his bodily fluids from the fabric of that chair, you might actually kill him. 

"Would I.. do that?" he spluttered as you hurried back to the door to bolt it shut again. 

As you crossed the room, your attention was drawn to something that glittered on the dark wood floor near the armchair where Strider was sitting; a small silver ring with a singular polished green emerald. It probably belonged to a punter who would come searching for it tomorrow. You quickly bent down and pocketed the trinket, before rounding on the ranger. 

"I'll not remind you of the last time you were here then, when you decorated my bedroom floor with the contents of your stomach," you said sarcastically. You stood in front of him with your hands on your hips, looking down at him like a mother would regard a scorned child. "Cleaning that up whilst you took a nap was a fucking delight. Won't forget that in a hurry, will I? Now, up with you, let's get you to a bed. You look like you fucking need it."

Strider groaned again, even more so when you started to heave him to his feet. With one of his arms slung over your shoulder, you awkwardly shuffled him towards the staircase, vaguely trying to recall the guest book entries and which rooms were free tonight. One of the hobbit-sized rooms would likely be free of disturbances for at least a week, but this option was discarded almost immediately; with Strider's stature, you'd have to line up all four beds together just to allow the ranger to lie horizontally. Not ideal. 

Just when you were considering which other bedrooms might be available, something caught your attention. A dampness was seeping into the fabric of your clothes where you were supporting the ranger, making the cloth stick to your skin. Strider was bleeding, and bleeding bad. Fuck. Panic setting in, you instinctively headed for the safety of your own room.

Once the door to your chamber was firmly shut, you rounded on the ranger. "What the fuck, Strider? What happened? Who did this to you?" you bombarded him with questions as you helped him remove the belongings he carried on his back, noticing how he swayed dangerously in the process. 

"It's nothing," he said with gritted teeth, tossing his pack down onto your bed. His hands shook as he fumbled with the clasp of the worn travel bag. 

"Do not bullshit me," you wrenched the bag from his grasp. "Sit."

Realising that you were not buying his attempt to brush off your concerns, Strider lowered himself to the edge of the bed, wincing as he settled on the mattress. You watched as he held his breath for a couple of seconds before exhaling with his eyes closed. Clearly whatever injury he was sporting underneath those travel-stained and blood-soaked garments was giving him a lot of pain. Your brain was in full panic mode, trying to decide what to do for the best. There was a doctor in town, but he lived on the opposite side of Bree. If you ran, perhaps you could get Strider the help he so desperately needed. "I'll go get-“

"No," Strider barked, seemingly reading your mind. "If you want to help me, find my healing kit. Green leather pouch," he clarified as you began to sift through the bag. You soon located the item, handing it over to the ranger. If it weren't for the gravity of the situation, you might have made some comment about the distinct Elvish look and feel about it, the fine stitching and intricate embroidery on the front giving away its origins.

Strider hastily unbound the kit and grabbed one of the many small vials, tearing out the cork stopper with his teeth and consuming the contents in one large gulp. Tossing the empty vial to one side, he then picked up a small leather packet which was no bigger than his palm. He shrugged off his travelling cloak before attempting to remove his overcoat. Seeing how much he strained, you stepped forward to help him, pulling off his coat and shirt as delicately as you could manage.

Fuck, there's so much blood. You stared, wide-eyed and frozen, your jaw hanging open like an insect trap as the man in front of you poked and prodded his own flesh. A giant gash ran from his ribcage to the top of his hip. It looked deep. You weren't unused to seeing blood; the Pony had seen its fair share of brawls that had ended with bloodied noses and fists. But this was different. Worse, even. This lesion had been inflicted by a weapon, perhaps a knife or dagger that had sliced through the ranger's skin. So much blood. You continued to gape as he finished examining himself and opened the small leather pouch he had been gripping in his palm, revealing a needle and thread.

"I need a clean cloth and water," Strider murmured.

Realising that he intended to literally stitch himself back together, you finally unfroze from the shock of seeing his injury. "Have you lost your fucking mind? This isn't an infirmary, Strider. You need a doctor!" You were almost shouting. Shit, maybe if you had ignored him and ran across town to the physician's house, you would be halfway back with help by now.

Strider looked at you with exasperation. Fuck. Whether you liked it or not, there was an injured man in your bedroom, and clearly he was a help me or don't, that's fine type of patient. You quickly went to your cupboard, retrieving a couple of clean face cloths, followed by a bowl of water filled from your water jug. Your hands shook as you dipped the fabrics in the bowl and handed one to the ranger. He groaned under his breath as he pressed one of the cloths to his own skin, wiping away the excess blood that continued to weep from the wound. The material came away crimson, but the wound seemed no cleaner than it was before.

You sighed loudly before kneeling in front of him. The sight of the ranger struggling to tend to himself tugged at your heartstrings. You might have scorned him, shouted at him, but he was still Strider. He was still the ever-so-slightly hunky, weather-beaten ranger who you often thought about even when he wasn't around. Taking one of the damp cloths, you grimaced as you set to work cleaning the wound, wringing out the material in the bowl of water between every stroke. Strider took out his needle and attempted to thread it, yet his hands still quaked uncontrollably. You put him out of his misery by taking the sharp silver implement from his grasp and completing the task for him. He glanced at you apologetically. "You're going to have to do it for me."

You blinked at him. "Me? Strider, I can barely sew a button, there's no way-"

"You have to," he choked.

"I can't." Your eyes started to sting as tears threatened to escape.

Strider gripped your hand. "You must. I'll tell you exactly what to do. Please," his final word was barely a whisper. 

You cursed aloud. Curse Strider and his inability to act like a normal man. Curse his wandering nomadic ranger lifestyle that meant he drifted in and out of your life whenever he felt like it. Curse this rotten situation that you found yourself in; you should be tucked up in bed after a hard day's work, and yet you were about to quite literally stitch a ranger back together. Curse it all.

"Okay, fine." Resolved to the fact that he wasn't going to take no for an answer and he clearly needed medical help, you swallowed the giant lump in your throat and took the needle from his hand once more. "What do I do?" 

Strider laid himself down on your bed and began to instruct you on how to stitch his wound. Start in the middle, work towards the edge. Push the needle through, not too far. Bend and loop through to the other side. You were morbidly impressed that he managed to give out his directions through gritted teeth; maybe that meant he had a ridiculously high pain tolerance. If your roles were reversed, you were pretty sure you would be screaming in agony with each jab of the needle, especially if the hands holding it were as inexperienced as your own.

Eventually you had stitched half of the open wound, and you asked Strider how to tie off the thread as you finished the final suture. There was no response. You glanced up to the head of the bed and saw Strider's eyes had closed. "Hey!" you poked him in the ribs once more. "No falling asleep, not until I'm finished," you said firmly. And not until you've checked what I've done to you is satisfactory, you added inwardly. Who knows if the stitches you had put in would actually hold.

"Sorry," Strider mumbled. "The vial I drank.. was for pain relief. A side effect is drowsiness. I should have warned you.." His eyes opened and closed slowly as he fought the effects of the medicine he had ingested. Eventually he stilled, his chest rising and falling slowly as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

Great. You were now on your own, and the job was only half finished. There was still the cut to his head to examine, too. Fucking great. 

You took a deep and shaking breath, before starting back on stitching the remains of the wound. It was going to be a very long night.

[frodo-with-glasses]

Tea?

Uncle Saradoc and the search party had been out for over an hour. It was now very late; far past his bedtime. Aunt Esmerelda had wrapped him in a warm blanket and given him a little cup of tea, but it sat untouched on the table at his side, and had gone quite cold.

He couldn’t drink it. He couldn’t sleep. His stomach hurt too badly for either.

When Uncle Saradoc came in about a half an hour later, he was walking very quietly, and wringing his hat in his hands, and he had to take two slow, deep breaths before he could look Frodo in the eye.

Frodo never touched that tea.

- - -

He always had tea with breakfast—both first and second—with two sugar cubes and enough milk to turn the concoction nearly white. Bilbo liked to joke that Frodo liked a bit of tea with his milk, rather than the other way around. Frodo didn’t mind. He liked his way just fine; he’d once taken a sip from Bilbo’s cup by mistake, and nearly spat it out.

Tea was better when it was sweet.

- - -

They’d had a few home-brewed beers with dinner at Farmer Maggot’s house, of course, but tea with supper in the house at Crickhollow. Merry and Fatty, bless them, already had the kettle on by the time the three others had sloshed out of the bath, and supper was served in short order; Frodo thought a quiet home meal, with Mrs. Maggot’s gift of mushrooms, had never tasted so good.

He took his tea with far less embellishment nowadays. Just a pinch of sugar, and a small splash of milk. He was now the sober age of fifty, and sugar-milk with a sparse hint of tea flavoring held far less appeal than it had when he was a tween.

He was staring into a half-emptied cup, trying to work up the courage to tell them all he was leaving the Shire for good, when Merry beat him to the punch.

He’d never been so happy to be played for a fool in his entire life.

- - -

There was tea in Bree, but it was mostly forgotten in favor of ales and lagers in mugs the size of their heads. It was a shame they spent so little time in the Prancing Pony, and had to leave town so soon; Frodo could have gone in for a cuppa to soothe his nerves in all the madness that had happened.

- - -

There was tea in Rivendell, but only because Bilbo had explicitly requested it for his own comfort. They were deep in conversation when Bilbo slid a little teacup Frodo’s way, and the drink in it was nearly white.

Two sugars. A whole pour of milk.

Frodo smiled, but his chest ached, and there was some warm pressure behind his eyes.

- - -

There was no tea in Moria.

There was no tea in Lorien.

There was no tea in the wilderness; the Emyn Muil; the Dead Marshes.

If they walked past some relative of a tea leaf growing wild in the tattered gardens of Ithilien, Sam didn’t stop to get a clipping. They didn’t have a kettle anyway.

- - -

There was no water in Mordor.

- - -

They’d opened every window, scrubbed every floor, thrown out the stained and molding old furniture and replaced it with new. There were curtains on the windows again, and a merry little fire on the hearth, and the comfy clattering of pots and pans and sizzle of cooking food.

He sat in silence, staring into the fire. He didn’t know it, but his thumb was rubbing circles over the scar where his third finger had been.

The fire danced and flickered. He didn’t see it.

His thumb kept rubbing circles.

“Tea?”

It took a long moment, but he slowly realized that the noise was a question. When he lifted his head, he saw that Sam had appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, already holding the kettle with a little woven red pot-holder, as if that was the most normal thing in the world.

Frodo’s eyes stung, and not because of the fire. His breath hitched.

He put his face in his hands and wept.

- - -

(Inspired in part by this post)

WORD ASK GAME!

[queenmuzz]

In the Fellowship of the Ring, Tom Bombadil reccomends the Prancing Pony to the Hobbits, and name drops Barliman Butterbur as the inkeeper.

This implies that Ole’ Tom occasionally drops by a pint or two, which might explain why poor Butterbur tolerates such a ‘diverse’ clientele, such as the unscrupulous Bill Ferny, the suspicious Strider, and that weirdo, Gandalf.

He probably sees Tom dancing down the lane towards his inn, rolls his eyes, and knows it’s gonna be a long shift, even if his kegs of beer never seem to run out that night, and the mugs seem to clean themselves when his back is turned

[skyeet-the-writer]

Lady of Enmond

Chapter One: Ale and Disappearings of Little Folk

here it is. another hyperfixation. see, i would promise ya'll updates for other things, but i promise you all nothing. plus i'm in college and i'm already depressed. BUT lotr always makes me better so i mayyyyy be updating this one as i rewatch the movies. again, no promises. BUT let me know if ya'll want me to continue anything else, and I'll see what i can do!! love you guys! x.

legolas greenleaf x female!reader

summary: y/n is accompanying her friend, aragorn, on some mission given to him by gandalf the grey. she doesn't know what it is and doesn't care as long as she has ale in her hand, but she quickly changes her mind when a little-folk vanishes before her very eyes

word count: ~3.1k

warnings: cursing, weapons drawn but not used, mention of death/killing

next>

Sitting in this dark corner of the Prancing Pony, you try to busy yourself with working on your second pint of mead, ignoring the looks both you and Aragorn are getting. No, it's Strider out here.

"You've been staring at those four Hobbits for almost an hour," you mutter to him, tracing your finger along the rim of your mug. "It's getting a little odd, friend."

Strider just grunts, a pipe in his mouth.

With a roll of your eyes, you drop the subject for the moment. Aragorn has always been a mysterious man, quite broody. It's a surprise you're even friends with him.

Aragorn has been your friend for many years. You first met him in a pub while off venturing away from your secure forest village of Enmond. You had always hated staying in one place and, as heir, you never had much of a chance to leave and explore, always too busy with your duties.

You had accidentally bumped into him while taking back a glass of mead to your table. You apologized profusely and quickly steered out of his way, much too afraid of this tall and cloaked character. But you allowed him without hesitation when he kindly asked to sit at your table. In hindsight, it was quite foolish, though how else are you to meet new people?

As time passed and you both went your separate ways, you kept in touch with ravens, occasionally meeting up for a night of drinks and dances. As time passed, he revealed his past to you and yours to him.

He's one of your only friends now.

Yet you're still not quite sure why you're here with him. He had sent you a raven not a fortnight ago explaining this task given to him by a man in a cloak and a tall hat. Gandalf. You knew the name, everyone did. The wizard had instructed he protect these Hobbits in their coming journey, as one of them was carrying something of great importance.

Of course, you went along. You could never say no to an adventure.

Tapping your foot to the tavern songs, you soon found yourself lulling into the comfort of the Prancing Pony. It was no different than any other inn you'd been to, still just as cozy and lively as any. It was your second favorite place to be, probably.

You're not sure how much time has passed and you soon finish your mug. You ask Aragorn if you should have another, but even you know better, as your words are already slurring together.

Aragorn gives you a smile under the hood and puts your empty mug in front of himself. "I think you've had quite enough, Y/N."

You shrug and sink into your seat. "I guess you're right, as usual. You always seem to be right."

Aragorn just laughs lightly and returns his attention to the small-folk. You follow his gaze and see one with curly hair talk to the barkeep. They both turn to you and you tense up slightly. Over the chatter of the bar, you can just make out what they're saying.

"One of them rangers...What his right name is, I don't know. But 'round these parts he's known as Strider."

The barkeep quickly moves away and the Hobbit repeats the name. Aragorn's pipe puffs and you resist asking for it. With your head gently thumping on the stone, you sigh. You're bored. What are you waiting for? Maybe you should order another ale? You're also hungry, maybe you should order the Thieve's Stew? You've seen a few people with it, and it looks quite delicious.

And so you wave over a barmaid, a quite pretty one at that, and ask, "Excuse me, but could I have a bowl of your Thieve's Stew?"

She smiles and nods. "Yes, my lady, that'll be right up."

You thank her and watch as she walks towards the back.

Aragorn gives you a look and you shrug. "What? I'm hungry. I'll let you have some."

He laughs and shakes his head.

Aragorn keeps his eyes on the Hobbit as the lady brings you your stew, setting it down in front of her. With a smile, you hand her a couple of silver coins, winking. She grins, stows them in a pocket, and walks away.

In your bowl is a delicious meal. It smells very meaty and brothy. It looks like it has noodles and beef, two of your favorite things. With a fork, you quickly dive in, relishing the excellent taste. It's yummy and hearty, something different from your village's high-vegetable diet. Not that your father's cooking isn't fantastic, either.

You quickly devour half of the bowl before you look up at Aragorn. "Want some?"

Aragorn doesn't answer you, and he is instead watching something intensely. Following his gaze, as you spoon another bite of stew into your mouth, you see that the Hobbit that was previously talking to the innkeeper is messing with something small in his hands. He's twirling it, and his eyes close.

That's not normal.

"Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins."

The Hobbit's head whips towards the bar, and you follow. There's another Hobbit sitting at the bar, a pint in his hand. He seems a little buzzed, his cheeks all flushed and red in the candlelight. He's talking with a group of men and gesturing in the other Hobbit's direction.

"He's over there," he says. "Frodo Baggins." He gives him a small wave before turning back to the men. "He's my second cousin, once removed on his mother's side. And my third cousin, twice removed..."

You don't hear the rest of his speech, watching Frodo, the Hobbit sitting at the table, stand quickly and make his way toward the bar. He seems...panicked? You slowly lift another spoonful into your mouth. Aragorn's hand drifts down, removing the pipe from his mouth.

"What is he...?" you ask slowly, words muffled from the noodles.

Frodo quickly grabs the Hobbit's arm, but stumbles over a foot, falling towards the ground. As he falls, something drops from his hand. A small object glints up in the air before falling back down. Aragorn sits up straighter. The group of men watches Frodo fall, but as the glint reaches the floor, Frodo lifts his pointer finger up. To catch it?

Then he vanishes.

You gasp, lifting a hand to your mouth as men gasp, pointing at the group where Frodo once was.

"What the hell?" you ask, dropping your spoon. Your eyes must have deceived you, there's no way he just vanished. That's not possible.

Aragorn stands quickly, hood pulled even lower over his face. "Help me find him, Y/N."

You gape at him, standing and grabbing your cloak. Is this what you were waiting for? "Help you find him? He just vanished, Strider!"

Aragorn does not seem to hear you, however, scanning the room quickly. Quick, loud conversations break out, and fingers are being pointed towards the bar where people are scrambling around, shouting.

You scan the bar. You see the three other Hobbits make their way towards each other, whispering, looking anxious. Where is the other one? Frodo. Was that his name?

Finally, you spot him beside a table. He's shaking his head, panting, and looking around. He's sweating, too.

"There," you say to Aragorn, but he's a step ahead of you.

Quickly, he grabs the Hobbit by the shoulder and hauls him up and towards the stairs. Taking this as your queue to follow, you walk back towards the table. Shoveling the last two bites of stew into your mouth and throwing several coins on the table, you grab your bow and quiver, and follow.

Walking up the stairs two at a time, you catch up with Aragorn and see him shove Frodo into an empty room. You catch the door and shut it, keeping your hood over your head.

The Hobbit stands as you latch the door. "What do you want?" he asks apprehensively.

"A little more caution from you," Aragorn tells him rather than answering. "That is no small trinket you carry."

"I carry nothing."

"Indeed."

What is going on? Was that glint the item Gandalf told Aragorn the Hobbit would have? What was it, then? Clearly, it was small and metallic. Not a knife nor a dagger, perhaps a piece of jewelry? A ring, perhaps, or a bracelet.

Aragorn makes his way towards the window, extinguishing the candles. "I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely?" He turns back to the Hobbit and removes his hood. "That is a rare gift."

You stand beside the door, somewhat awkwardly, a hand on your dagger hilt. You remove your own hood, shaking your hair out of your face. The Hobbit, Frodo, looks confused, looking between the two of you.

"Who are you?" he asks. You note that he sounds much less frightened than you would have assumed. After all, he was shoved into a room by two Men. If it were you, you would be at least a bit scared. Though, perhaps Hobbits are different. You don't know much about them, in fact, this is your first time having a conversation with one.

"Are you frightened?" you ask and Frodo turns to you.

Slowly, he nods. "Yes."

Maybe you were wrong.

"Not nearly frightened enough," Aragorn says, keeping his voice low. "I know what hunts you." There's something hunting the Hobbit? Over what? You really should have asked more questions before you joined up with Aragorn. He always does this.

Aragorn glances at you and approaches the Hobbit. You take a step forward. Behind you, on the other side of the door, you hear footsteps, several of them, all heavy. Your nerves light on fire and at the same time Aragorn draws his sword, you pull out your dagger and turn on your heel towards the door. You'd rather it be your bow, but you couldn't pull it out in time.

The door bursts open and the other three Hobbits barge in, each holding a different blunt object. One has a chair, another holding just his fists. One has an entire candle stick.

"Let him go!" shouts the one with just his fists. "Or I'll have you both, Longshanks!"

Smiling just slightly, you sheath your dagger, heart still pumping. "You have a stout heart, but your fists will not save you."

Aragorn steps forward. "You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming."

"Who is?" you ask quietly, more to yourself. You need answers.

"Who are you?" asks one of the Hobbits.

"I am Strider," Aragorn says. "This is Khaya. And you four are in much danger."

The three hobbits look to Frodo and he says, "We can trust them. They know of Gandalf."

"He is the one who sent us," you say, looking at Aragorn with furrowed brows. You two have gotten pretty good at communicating without words, with just looks, and he gets your meaning. You want him to explain what's going on and he nods.

"Come," he says, approaching the door. "You must be tired, and we cannot stay here. Follow me."

He catches your arm as he ushers the confused Hobbits from the door and says, "I'll explain, I swear. But, could you make this room look like the Hobbits are sleeping here? Their pursuers will look here and we must throw them off trail."

You normally do the weird requests Aragorn has without question, and now is no exception, as it seems so urgent. "Of course. Where will you go?"

"The inn across the way. Use Underhill to find us."

"Alright."

"And be careful," he says, seeming impatient. "And fast. Tonight, I will explain."

"You better," you poke him in the chest and then push him. "Go. I'll be fast."

And then he's gone with the four Hobbits and you're alone. Make this room look like Hobbits are occupying it? Easy. There are already two beds, you just need to stuff pillows under the sheets to fool whoever it is that's chasing them. Hopefully, they're stupid enough to fall for it.

Quickly, you get to work, shoving pillows under the sheets and punching and fluffing them to make them look more humanoid in shape. Of course, you hope you got the height right, having to estimate. Maybe you need to add another one just to be safe?

Not long later, you're satisfied with your work. Besides, you should probably leave, Aragorn seemed impatient. So, taking one last look at your work, you leave the room, latching it shut.

Making your way back down the stairs to the main bar, you see it's still buzzing with the news of Frodo's vanishing, literally, but people are beginning to stream out. Silently placing a small pouch of coins on the innkeeper's stand, you leave the warm, bright bar, and enter the dark, cold night. It's no longer raining, that you're grateful for.

You spot the other inn Aragorn was talking about and walk across the muddy street, keeping your head down. Now, you're weary of everyone.

This inn is similar to the one across the way, just much quieter and less busy. The innkeeper is an older woman and she hums at you when you enter.

"Good evening," you greet her with a smile. "I'm looking for an Underhill? My companions were a bit ahead of me in our travels."

The lady smiles at you. "Yes, of course. They checked in not too long ago. Up the stairs, last room on the right."

You bow to her. "Thank you. Safe night."

With that, you head up the stairs and knock on the door before entering. The Hobbits are already in the two beds, passed out, absolutely knocked out. They must have had quite a night.

"Oh, wonderful, they're passed out," you say sarcastically, locking the door behind you. Aragorn is sitting beside the fire, his feet kicked up casually, but his hand is resting on the hilt of his sword. You sit beside him and lean back, the fire warming your legs and making them prickly like they always are near a fire.

"How did it go?" asks your friend.

With your eyes shut, you answer. "Fine. Hope I did a convincing job. Whoever is chasing them best be stupid enough to fall for that trick, though. Stuffing pillows under the blankets." You scoff, mostly at yourself.

The room is silent, save for snores and the fire crackling. Aragorn is the first to speak. "I apologize for not informing you enough of why I asked you to join, of our being here. Everything just happened so fast..."

You open your eyes and shrug. "It's fine. We have time now, though. First of all, let me ask; what is that Hobbit carrying?" You've lowered your voice now, not wanting to wake them.

Aragorn sits up and leans toward you. "The wizard told me he carries a ring. A ring of great importance, an old ring."

"A ring?" you ask with a raised brow. "Okay. Sure. Why is this ring important? Is that what made him vanish into thin air?"

Aragorn nods and you know he's not joking.

Your mouth falls open, but you quickly regaining your composure. "Okay, okay. So, then, who's chasing him?"

Your friend takes a deep breath and looks around the room, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Do you recall the old tale of Sauron and the Rings?"

The fire flickers and a chill runs down your spine. "Yes, my mother told it to me and my siblings to scare us before we went to sleep. Sauron gave the races rings. I think it was three for the elves, seven for the dwarves, and nine for the men. But he also had one for himself."

"Yes. What happened to the men who received the rings?"

"They went mad with power, they eventually died. People said, though, that their souls were tied to the rings and to Sauron, so they didn't die. My mother said they turned into these shadow-men called Ringwraiths and they've been searching for Sauron's lost ring ever since."

As you say it, the pieces fall into piece. Now, everything clicks. With a gasp, you stand, staring at Aragorn. "The Hobbit has the one ring and the Ringwraiths are after him?"

Aragorn nods. "Yes."

"Shit," you say, running a hand through your hair, and sinking back in your seat.

Silently, you stare into the fire, the wood crackling and popping. A spark lands on your boot and you watch it fade and smoke. Your mind is whirling. You knew that Sauron was once real, that was a fact, there were record of the battles in the Second Age. But you thought the rest were stories, of the rings and the men and the Ringwraiths. But Aragorn would never lie to you.

Finally, you look at him and ask, "What now? What do we do? We can never lose them. If what my mother said is true, than they don't eat or sleep. All they'll do is look for the ring and kill anyone who gets in their way."

"Galdalf instructed me to take them to Rivendell," Aragorn answers, his thumb brushing over the hilt of his sword. "From there, we'll let Lord Elrond decide what to do. He'll surly know the right course of action."

He's right, you know that. Rivendell. The realm of the elves. The Last Homely House. Of the First, depending on where you were coming from. You've never been there, but you know Aragorn had been. Over the years and your adventures together, he told you a lot about himself, something he never did with others as far as you knew. He was always a secretive one. Of course, you're sure he didn't tell you everything, but he did explain how he was raised in Rivendell by Elrond himself after his parents died. He also mentioned how he fell in love with Lady Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter, her beauty untold. You've never met her, but now, you might.

With a nod and a deep breath, you fold your arms. "Aright. How far is Rivendell? A few days travel?"

Aragorn nods. "Yes. Now, rest up. I fear the Ringwraiths will be here soon, and we'll need to flee when they get here."

He doesn't have to ask you twice. Between the ale and the food, you've been tired for a long while. Leaning your head in your hand, you doze off, dreaming of your home village nestled deep in the woods far, far from Bree.

[drnosy-in-middle-earth]

It was now Frodo’s turn to feel pleased with himself. He capered about on the table; and when he came a second time to the cow jumped over the Moon, he leaped in the air. Much too vigorously; for he came down, bang, into a tray full of mugs, and slipped, and rolled off the table with a crash, clatter, and bump! The audience all opened their mouths wide for laughter, and stopped short in gaping silence; for the singer disappeared. He simply vanished, as if he had gone slap through the floor without leaving a hole!

Original illustration: Incident at the Prancing Pony by Alan Lee

[pseudonemisis]

just got a new mug to drink tea in, and it's got me feeling like Aragon(<-ultimate gender envy character btw) sitting in the corner of the prancing pony

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 5: 5. "No, anything but that."

Prompt: 5. “No, anything but that.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

CW: None

---

Healers always made the worst sick patients. 

Wulfwryn came to this unfortunate realization as a cold snuck up on Raenor. 

At first, it was a slight tickle in his throat that he wrote off as the tree pollen and changing of seasons. 

    Then it was a runny nose that he claimed was the fault of the chilling autumn wind at night. 

    And then the coughing started and his misery set in. And when his misery set in, he was downright pitiful. 

    The way he sat now on the bed, clutching a mug of steaming, poignantly scented peppermint tea, made him look like quite the sad sack. 

    Wulfwryn could smell the bite of the peppermint as she slipped back into their room at the Prancing Pony. Though he’d moaned and groaned about stopping, she’d insisted that the longer they traveled in the harsh elements the longer it would take for him to get over this cold. He’d then grumbled that he never got sick, and she reminded him he’d spent the last hundred years or so in the confines of Rivendell. 

    Human cities had germs abundant. Traveling had contagens aplenty. The autumns in Bree-land were known to be harsh enough to fell even the hardest person to a case of the sniffles. 

    Raenor stubbornly insisted that he did not intend to use up any of his precious supply of tinctures or other supplies to fix this pesky ailment. Though she loved how he worried for their wellbeing on the road, she and he did not see eye to eye that sometimes the now was more useful than the what-if. 

    He most certainly would prefer his wildflower-honey sweetened tinctures to what she carried with her in a little pouch. 

    “I’m baaack.” She sing-song-ed by way of greeting, letting the door clink closed behind her.

    “‘Lo ‘love’d.” Raenor garbled through his stuffy nose and raspy voice. 

    “You sound dreadful.” Wulfwryn proclaimed as she stoked the fire, warding off the chill that threatened to come in through the windows. Though Butterbur did what he could to upkeep the rickety inn, the stubborn breeze sneaking through the cracks of the window was inevitable. 

    Raenor grunted in either agreement or general grumbling, she couldn’t decipher it. 

    She plopped down on the bed next to him, pulling her pouch onto her lap. From it she procured a bundle of garlic and a knife. 

    The elf beside her wrinkled his nose, peering at her over his mug of tea like she’d lost her mind. 

    “Since your so insistent on seeing this cold thru, this will speed up the process.” Wulfwryn shuckled one of the cloves off of the bundle. She peeled it and chopped off the hard ends. 

    The strong odor of garlic mixed with the sharp peppermint around them. 

    Raenor empathetically shook his head, “Bo. Bobsolutely bot.” 

    A mucus-y cough wracked through him, thoroughly convincing Wulfwryn that this was the only way. 

    “I cross my heart, this works.” She insisted, waving the clove of garlic in the air, “You just gotta chew it and get all the goodness out of it.” 

    The look he gave her was absolutely smoldering, brows drawn low over his eyes. Even his ears seemed to droop, “Anything but that.” he grumbled. 

    “You had the option for everything but this.” Gesturing to the empty mugs on the bedside table and the nearly-drained jar of honey she’d got from one of the hobbits in Staddle, she waved the garlic, “This is it.” 

    Raenor glowered at her as she held the garlic out to him, “That is not a remedy.” 

“Ugh!” Wulfwryn gave him a look, “Stubborn healer! Set down your tea and eat the stupid garlic.” 

“Folktales don’t count.” he said petulantly. 

“You are a folktale to the hobbits!” She shot back and his glower deepened. Clearly he still remembered the gaggle of hobbits that had gathered round him in Hobbiton the first time they’d rode in. 

She added, “If you don’t chew this garlic it’s going in your next cup of tea.” 

“Ick.” he protested, but grabbed it from her outstretched hand and popped it into his mouth. 

His face scrunched together at the overpowering taste, his ears violently flicking in displeasure. 

“There you go!” Wulfwryn giggled, “It’ll work I swear. And tell you what, I’ll even kiss you.” 

She pecked him on the lips, whispering, “Even though you have stinky garlic breath.” 

The curse he growled at her was garbled by his cold and finished off with a note of garlic. 

[fardell24b]

26th November 2023 Writings

26th

Excerpt from:  Convergence on Lawndale

“I’ve heard of it,” the Doctor said.

“They make a variety of products, including various types of robots.”

“So, could Andrew Landon be involved in something nefarious?” the Doctor asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kealyn answered.

“But we could find out,” Kim said.

“But would it be something to do with the portal?” Ron asked.

“It’s almost certainly related,” the Doctor said. “I could get UNIT to check. But first we need to head to the High School.”

“Why?” Kim asked.

“There are a couple of sisters who were investigating the portal with me earlier,” the Doctor answered.

Words: 97

Excerpt from: Holonovel Speed Run

“Oh man!” Rutherford moaned.

“Tough!”

“I’ll try to find a free holodeck.”

“Good luck,” Mariner said as she entered the Holodeck.

Rutherford sighed and turned to the panel. “Now, Computer. are there any free holodecks?”

“None at present,” the computer answered.

“No biggie,” he considered. “Computer plot the most efficient route through the Cerritos past all the Holodecks.”

“Affirmative.”

Words: 59

Excerpt from: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

“What’s wrong with the Inn?” Frodo asked. “Tom Bombadil recommended it. I expected it’s homelike enough inside.”

The Inn looked pleasant enough to Frodo’s eyes. Even so they all hesitated. Someone began singing a merry song inside and many cheerful voices joined in the chorus. They listened to this encouraging sound for a moment and then got off their ponies. The song ended and there was a burst of laughter and clapping. They lead their ponies under the arch, and leaving them standing in the yard they climbed up the steps. Frodo went forward and nearly bumped into a short fat man with a bald head and a red face. He had a white apron on, and was bustling out of one door and in through another, carrying a tray laden with full mugs.

It was a busy evening. Butterbur didn’t remember one quite so busy before. There was certainly something awry where those Southerners had come from.

Words: 158

Excerpt from: A Fellowship of 10

“Look! The Moon is rising: it must be getting late.”

The others looked up. Even as they did so, they saw on the top of the hill something small and dark against the glimmer of the moonrise. It was perhaps only a large stone or jutting rock shown up by the pale light. Sam and Merry got up and walked away from the fire. Frodo, Pippin and Hanna remained seated in silence. Strider was watching the moonlight on the hill intently. He huddled closer to the fire.

At that moment, Sam came running back from the edge of the dell. “I don’t know what it is, but I suddenly felt afraid. I durstn’t go outside this dell for any money. I felt that something was creeping up the slope.”

“Did you see anything?” Frodo asked as he sprang to his feet.

“No, sir. I saw nothing,” Sam answered. “But I didn’t stop to look.”

“I saw something, or thought I did, away westwards where the moonlight was falling on the on the flats beyond the shadow of the hill-tops, I thought there were two or three black shapes. They seemed to be moving this way,” Merry added.

Hanna shuddered. ‘No! Not those riders now!”

“Keep close to the fire, with your faces outward!” Strider cried. “Get some of the longer sticks in your hands!”

They sat there breathless for a time, alert and silent, as they gazed into the shadows that surrounded them. Nothing happened at first.

Words: 247

Excerpt from: Spider Quinn

And so, I found an isolated community in Montana near the border with Idaho.

“I see,” Helen said. There were many unanswered questions, but she didn’t see why Linda wasn’t telling the truth. “We do have a spare room you can stay in.”

“Really?” Linda asked.

“Yes. It’s the least we can do. I won’t even ask you to pay board, at first,” Helen said.

“Really?” Daria asked.

“Yes, Daria. As I said, it’s the least I can do, while Linda settles into Lawndale.”

“I’m not sure why she would want to stay here,” Quinn groused.

“The crime isn’t that bad,” Helen said.

“That wasn’t a concern,” Linda said. “Show me upstairs.”

“Sure.”

Helen then showed Linda the spare room, and the bathroom which she would be sharing with Daria and Quinn. “Their bedrooms are down the hall, mine is at the front of the house,” Helen said.

“Right.”

“I’m not sure what to make of it,” Daria said to Jane.

“You’re welcome to stay here if you’re concerned,” Jane suggested.

“Then who’d watch for Quinn.”

“Hasn’t Quinn hardly been there anyway?”

“She hasn’t been out that much.”

“I heard Stacy and Tiffany talking about Quinn’s habits,” Jane said.

“Jane Lane eavesdropping?” Daria teased.

“Don’t we do that anyway?” Jane asked. “And maybe you could do it with your mother’s friend if you’re staying there.”

“Probably,” Daria said.

“So, you’re just a little concerned.”

“Yes.”

“Other than what I suggested earlier, I’m not sure what to say.”

“You’re no help.”

Quinn too was concerned. “I need to talk to someone,” she told her self as she looked in her mirrors. She was just dressed in the SpiderGirl suit, with her face showing. She saw a girl who was still recovering from her father’s death. ‘I don’t want to have to worry about Mom and Daria, with a strange woman in the house,’ she thought. She made her decision, she would talk to Stacy, but it would be best to do so in person. She pulled the mask down, switched off the light and then swung out of her window, up onto the roof.

Words: 353

Total: 904

[jew-lee-o-blog]

To Mordor Part 2: The Prancing Pony

“Enough idling,” Frodo thought. And with that he headed north, towards the darkness in the distance. Not having to fear the pursuit of ring wraiths, orcs and other creatures of Sauron’s evil, the journey this time was rather different. The roads were far less menacing and not having to constantly look over his shoulder or be on the look out for bushes or ravines to hide in allowed to take in the beauty of the forrests and plains around him. He still stopped in at the Prancing Pony. This time he didn’t have to use a pseudonym and, upon making his name known, the inn keeper announced his presence to the rest of the crowd at the tavern who proceeded to shout and raise their mugs of ale and other spirits in cheer. Frodo was caught a bit off guard. He hadn’t been outside the Shire much since he had returned; and none of the other Hobbits of Hobbiton seemed much to acknowledge or care for whatever so called accomplishments or alleged realm saving that the uppity little hobbit had gotten up to. “Left a bunch of work to keep up Bag End and keep the neigborhood lookin pretty while he was trampsin about with his fancy new friends and that damnable, trouble-makin wizard friend of his. And whats with the white now anyway? A bit gaudy if you ask me. Gandalf the White? Humph! More like Gandalf the Fool!” Brandybuck had chorteled and gossiped with the Brandywines, Longfoots, and whoever else had the ear to listen which, with so little to do in Hobbiton, was just about everyone, save Mary, Pippen, and Sam of course. But word had been quite different to the rest of Middle Earth who heard, jaw agape, the story of the four Hobbits whose courage and bravery had brought King Aragorn to his knees.  Frodo’s eyes flickered to the dark corner of the bar where he had felt the eyes of Strider gazing at him those years ago.“A round on the house!” The Inn keeper announced to the crowd. “And don’t go worryin about yer room and board little Lord, just sleep tight tonight.” And sleep he did. For though he thought he might have a restless night of solitude and flashes of the dark riders coming to him in his dreams, it was clear after about the 2nd mug of ale which he was goated into chugging from head to bottom by the folk of the tavern, who insistently asked questions about his journey, the mysterious Shire-folk, the size of his manhood, among other things, that turned the evening into a pleasant one which ended in the little Lord falling face first in his cot with a rosy smile on his face and dreams swirling with the songs that had mythologized his epic quest.

[fraeyawrites]

I’ll Write You A Tragedy

Summary: The remnants of the Dùnedain of Arnor formed a company known throughout Middle Earth as The Rangers of the North. A company of men and men only. Fraeya was anything but.

Warnings: Violence, period typical sexism

Word Count: 2208

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

A cloak of dark olive green covered Fraeya's tan face, casting a shadow over her bare skin. Her hands lie upon the table, her fingers drumming against the surface in a repetitive manner. Her ebony brown eyes scour across the interior of the Prancing Pony. She searches for any signs of potential danger.

The flicker of a candle flame illuminates the dark corner where she and Strider are seated. The latter smokes a long wooden pipe, smoke rising from the chamber and evaporating as it reaches the ceiling. Placed upon the table before them are two tankards of ale, each one filled to the brim with the alcohol. Neither has so much as grasped the handle for fear of the liquid leading to their senses deteriorating.

"Callon." Strider whispered, bringing the woman's attention to him. His gaze is not on her however, rather at the front enters from of the inn. A quartet of hobbits trudge through the front entrance, their black cloaks soaked through and sticking to their skin. Fraeya leans forward in her seat, scrutinizing the company of four that try to attract the attention of inn keeper.

"Excuse me." Frodo Baggins called, leading to Butterbur turning around. When he does not see someone at eye level he glances over the counter.

"Good evening, little masters. If you're seeking accommodation, we've got some nice, cozy Hobbit sized rooms available, Mr...ah..." Butterbur trailed off as he came to the conundrum of the lack of a name.

"Underhill...my name's Underhill." Frodo declared, his tone coated certainty. If Fraeya did not know otherwise, she would have believed him.

"Underhill? Hmmmm."

"We're friends of Gandalf the Grey...can you tell him we've arrived?" Frodo requested. Butterbur frowns at this. He is puzzled as he speaks.

"Gandalf...Gandalf...Oh..." His eyes suddenly light up in recognition. "Oh yes! I remember., elderly chap, big grey beard, pointy hat?" Frodo nods his head in relief. Butterbur shakes his head. "Not seen him for six months."

"What do we do now?" Samwise Gamgee whispered worriedly to his companion. Frodo has not the slightest idea. Fraeya goes to stand, but she is prevented from doing so by Strider's hand on her shoulder.

"Patience Callon. Patience."

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

If there is one thing Fraeya lacks, it is patience. She, along with Strider have watched the hobbits for over an hour, listening in on their conversations. The room is dimly lit, giving the place a calm ambience. This is contrasted however by the bustling crowd within. Frodo, Sam, and Pippin are seated at a table against the wall, clearly trying to remain quiet and inconspicuous. Merry can be found at the bar, attempting to get himself a cup of ale. Sam cannot seem to help himself as he continues to cast nervous glances around.

"Sam, he'll be here. He'll come." Frodo eased his companion's nerves. Suddenly, Merry seats himself at the table, carrying a vast mug of beer in both hands.

"What's that?" Pippin inquired. All eyes were on the hobbit.

"This, my friend, is a pint." Merry responded, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips.

"It comes in pints? I'm getting one!" Pippin exclaimed in determination. He scrambles out of his seat and towards the bar we're a company of men have gathered.

"You've had a whole half already!" Sam cried after his friend, who paid no mind to them. None of the hobbits seem to notice a group of swarthy men glance in Frodo's direction. They quickly avoid eye contact when the youngest Baggins looks over. Fraeya takes note however. Her hand inches towards the hilt of her weapon as she goes to stand. Before she can move into an upright position, Strider lays a hand on her forearm. He sternly shakes his head, making Fraeya loosen her grasp on her weapon. In unison, the pair of rangers return their attention to the hobbits.

"Those fellows have done nothing but stare at you since we've arrived." Sam commented. He indicates to where Fraeya and Strider are seated. Frodo waves over Butterbur, the elder man ceasing his movement to hear what is needed of him.

"Excuse me, those men in the corner, who are they?" Frodo asked, lightly gesturing to where Strider and Callon are seated. Butterbur follows the motion and tenses at the sight of the pair.

"They're a couple of them Rangers; they're

dangerous folk they are, wandering the wilds." The innkeeper bends down to the height of the hobbits before continuing his explanation. "What they're right name is, I never heard, but round here they're known as Strider and Callon."

"Strider." Frodo whispered before looking to the smaller of the pair. "Callon."

Beneath the table the hobbit fiddles with a Ring. The golden band is spun around in his fingers. Sweat runs down his brow. The strange hum of the Ring floods his ears.

"Baggins...Baggins..."

"Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins, he's over there." Pippin suddenly exclaimed, pointing to where Frodo, Sam, and Merry are seated. Fraeya tenses in her seat when she sees the young hobbit chatting with the locals. Frodo leaps to his feet and pushes his way towards the bar.

"Frodo Baggins. He's my second cousin once removed, on his mother's side and my third cousin twice removed on his father's side...if you follow me."

Frodo grabs Pippin's sleeve, spilling his beer.

"Pippin!" He cried.

"Steady on, Frodo!"

Pippin gently pushes Frodo away, sending the elder hobbit stumbling backwards. He falls to the floor, and in that instant the Inn ceases all movement and all noise stops. The attention is focused on Frodo. A ring in agonizing slow motion flies from Frodo's grasp and into the air. He reaches upwards towards the golden band in an attempt to catch it before someone else can. Before Frodo can stop it, the ring slips onto his index finger. In the blink of an eye the hobbit that was once sitting on the ground vanishes. There is a sharp intake of breath by those around, followed by total silence.

Sam looks sick to his stomach as he stares at where his companion once laid. Pippin almost instantly sobers as he realizes his folly. The rest of the inn however excitedly babble at the display of magic.

Freya and Strider emerge from their corner table and begin to wait for the reappearance of the hobbit. The female ranger notices, hidden beneath a table, Frodo lies, grasping the ring tightly in his hand. Strider seems to have noticed as well as he grasps the hobbit by the collar and drags him away. The company of three retreat to the corridor which leads to the dozen or so chambers. Frodo is roughly pushed against the wall. The brooding stranger known as Strider looms over him.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself...Mr. Underhill." The ranger commented, his voice barely above a whisper. Freya grips Frodo by the forearm and pushes him into her and Strider's room.

"What do you want?" Warily, Frodo queried.

"A little more caution from you. That is no trinket you carry." Freya told him, her voice octaves lower than is should be as an elleth. Strider hums in agreement with his companion's words and awaits a response from Frodo.

"I carry nothing." The young hobbit denied with an adamant shake of his head.

"Indeed? We can usually avoid being seen if  we wish, but to disappear entirely?" Strider draws back the hood of his cloak. "That is a rare gift."

Freya follows Strider's lead as she usually does and pulls down her hood. Her choppy, shoulder-length hair hangs loosely around her shoulders and frames her thin face. From beneath the greasy strands the tips of her pointed ears can be seen. Dirt coats her skin, the mud used almost as a disguise. To the untrained eye, Freya looks like another ranger.

Male.

"Who are you?" Frodo questioned, looking between the pair of men.

"Are you frightened?" Strider interrogated, an eyebrow quirked.

"Yes." Frodo confirmed, against his better judgment.

"Not nearly frightened enough. We know what hunts you." Freya told the halfling. A clatter suddenly arose in the corridor, causing Frodo to jump in surprise. Strider and Freya draw their swords. The weapon of Strider is one of silver metal, the blade slightly rusted over with blood and dirt. Freya's weapon however is pitch black. The ebony blade does not glisten under the moonlight that seeps through the window, rather it is matte. The hilt is wrapped in worn black leather and fits perfectly in Freya's calloused left hand.

The door to the room bursts open and Sam, Merry, and Pippin appear in the doorway. Sam is squaring off against the pair of rangers with is fists while Merry brandishes a candlestick, and Pippin a chair.

"Let him go or I'll have you, Longshanks!" Sam cried, glaring at the man and the elf before him. Strider and Freya sheath their swords, slight smiles playing on their lips.

"You have a stout heart, little Hobbit, but that alone won't save you." Strider told the three companions.

"You can no longer wait for the Wizard, Frodo. They're coming." Freya said, looking to the open window warily. Her eyes glisten in the light of the moon as she steps towards the blowing curtain.

Hastily, she slams the window shut.

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

Freya's eyes are closed, yet she is not asleep. She intently listens to the noises that surround her. The snores of the four sleeping hobbits. The heavy breaths of Strider who is standing beside her. The screams of the Ringwraiths.

She suddenly jolts forward, no longer leaning back in the chair, but seated straight up. Her eyes snap open and her vision is suddenly blurred over. She no longer sees the murky room of the inn. Rather she views the gatehouse that leads into Bree. She watches as the gate keeper comes out of his lodgings with a lantern and a look of fear coating his face. He approaches the closed gate with great apprehension. He peers out of his wooden peephole to see who, or what is attempting to enter Bree.

Suddenly, the gate crashed down upon the gatekeeper. Four Ringwraiths ride into Bree, their capes flowing in the wind. The servants of Sauron fly down the empty streets, like horsemen of the apocalypse. Freya's vision follows the horse riders as they trample anything that enters their path.

The front door of the Prancing Pony flies open and the Ringwraiths enter with their swords drawn. Freya watches as Butterbur is hidden behind his bar, trembling and sweating in terror. The four creatures creep up the staircase, the wood creaking underneath their weight. The door to one of the many rooms opens and silently the four Ringwraiths slide into the room.

They loom above each bed, raising their shining swords above the sleeping hobbits. In silent unison the Ringwraiths bring their weapons down in a slashing and hacking frenzy. The destroyed blankets are pulled back to reveal nothing but a shredded pillow. Rage infused shrieks ensue, the noise flooding Freya's ears like a tidal wave. She can feel herself begin to shake as the sound echoes throughout her mind.

"Callon!"

Strider's voice breaks through the shrieks of the Nazgûl. Her vision blurs once more. The Ringwraiths no longer stand before her. Strider is bend down before her, his hands holding both sides of her face.

"What did you see?" He interrogated when he saw that her eyes were no longer glazed over in grey.

"They're here." Freya whispered, her voice no longer deep or manly. She sounds the same as she looks. Panicked. She feels the warm blood drip down from her nose and onto her lips, the same way it always does after the Valar show her a vision.

Swiftly, she wipes it away and pushes herself to her feet. Her gaze shifts to the window, and remains there. Strider takes his place beside her, the two rangers standing in silence. They do not move as they hear Frodo push himself out of his bed and walks over to where they stand. The three listen as the furious Ringwraith screeches echo across the courtyard from the Hobbits room.

"What are they?" Frodo questioned, looking up at the two he stands between.

"Once they were men." Freya told him, not shifting her attention from straight ahead. Strider on the other hand, glances quickly at Frodo, then looks away.

"Great Kings of men. Then Sauron the deceiver gave to them Nine Rings of Power. Blinded by their greed they took them without question, one by one falling into darkness and now they are slaves to his will." Strider spoke, watching

from the window as the Ringwraiths gallop down the Bree Streets. He then turns back to the Hobbits, his face lit faintly by the glowing embers of the fire.

"They are the Nazgul, Ringwraiths, neither living or dead. At all times they feel the presence of the ring...drawn to the power of the one." He continued. Freya draws her hood over her head and stalks over to the candle.

"They will never stop hunting you." She whispered, just barely loud enough to be heard.

And with that, she blows the candle out.

[theincaprincess]

When your Lord Of The Rings lootcrate finally turns up 💕💕

[erindrewpotter]

Like something from a book...

[spxllcxstxr]

An Adventure • A

(Gif not mine)

Request: hi! could i request something where aragorn falls for a performer (like singer or musician?) at a tavern or smth that he passes through semi-frequently? thanks :) — anon

Summary: A conversation with the mysterious ranger at the Prancing Pony leaves you excited for the morning

Warnings: alcohol mention, food and eating mention, uhhh probably some bad middle earth geography and stuff like that but idk

Word Count: 1k

A.N: me?? Writing and posting again???? Sorry for the lateness lmao but I loved this request so I wanted to write it first lmao…, gn!reader…also: because it’s been a while, let me know if you want to be put in a Taglist for any of my fandoms!! Even if you were in one before, just resubmit in my inbox

{ Miluis - lovely one }

•

No matter how many taverns or inns you visit, Bree’s very own Prancing Pony will always be your favorite to perform in. It was the one place, where even as a bard traveling throughout Middle Earth constantly, you could somewhat call home.

The All-Welcome Inn, near the East Road and filled constantly to the brim with rowdy patrons, only ever wanted drinking songs and the Forsaken Inn, east of Bree, only ever wanted solemn songs of war and death. The Prancing Pony was nothing like these.

Butterbur always had a hot meal and good ale flowing for you, gleeful he had a bard to occupy his customers. He paid well and had good lodgings for perfectly for you. The Prancing Pony was the one place you would always come back to.

The smoke of Hobbiton leaf swirls around you making your strokes across the strings of your lute become more languid. You were light on your toes, flitting through the room, twirling hobbits around as they dance and drink and gleefully sing with you.

Men and hobbits cackle at your song, something you picked up near the Misty Mountains—a dwarven mining song translated into common speech from Khuzdul.

Laughs permeate the air mixing with the clangs of metal and smaller conversations.

Your eyes drift to a darkened corner, spotting, once again, the mysterious ranger. You haven’t just met him here in Bree, he’s seen your other performances across Middle Earth, even teaching you a few of his own compositions when in a good enough mood.

His face, as always, is shrouded by his dark cloak and the grey smoke curling from his pipe. A flash of silver eyes meet yours briefly along with a hint of a nod in greeting. You duck your head, glancing down at your fingertips running over your instrument. His intense gaze always had this effect on you.

It’s not long after that drinking tune you’re taking a hot dish courtesy of Butterbur (“my finest meats and cheeses for my very lovely bard!”) to the table the ranger is brooding at.

He’s somehow more mysterious up close; one hand focuses on his pipe while the other traces the rim of his ale, obviously keeping an eye on everyone in the room at all times.

“My dear long-legs, how are you on this fine night?” You jest, over exaggerating with a deep bow before taking the seat across from him.

As smoke pours out of his mouth due to a deep sigh, you can practically see his eye roll beneath the hood.

“Strider,”

“And yet, I prefer long legs,” You sip your ale, slaking the thirst you’ve built up during your performance. “It suits you better,”

A gruff laugh escapes him.

“How are you, (Y/n)? Any tales to tell?” His left hand leaves his mug to rest on the table, his body turns away from the center of the room and instead he focuses on you in every way.

Sometimes, when the smoke from his pipe rises at the perfect time at the perfect height you can see a flicker of his grey eyes, studying you. His gaze makes you shy, it always had. Especially when it flicks ever so slightly to your lips before landing back into your eyes. You’ve met your fair share of men and women and yet no one comes close to this ranger. You may not know his face but you know his mannerisms, his kindness. Having his attention is something you miss when you’re not passing through the same tavern as he is.

“I’m sure any tale I can spin is no better than yours,” You begin to eat. “You have adventures, I have drunken fools.”

You pause, glancing at the patrons of the Prancing Pony, oblivious to this connection in the dark corner.

“Though I do have a soft spot for these drunken fools.”

“Would you like an adventure?” Strider asks softly.

“I would love one…or two…or maybe even three!” You admit. “Most bards tell tales of great expeditions they witness firsthand,” You rest your head in your hand. “They beg and plead with swordsmen and famous outlaws to let them join them. That’s how they get such great material,” You sigh. “I’m not getting any younger so if I want an adventure, I may have become as pathetic as most.”

His lips purse together, plunging the two of you in silence. It’s comfortable though, as most thing with Strider are.

Time ticks on, most patrons leave. Strider continues to be stuck deep in thought and you try not to overthink as to why.

“Join me, miluis,” It’s soft and the Sindarin, which you could never understand, rolls off his tongue so naturally.

“Surely you jest, long legs. I would only be a burden.” You snort. “I barely know how to use a dagger,”

“I can teach you if you wish, and even if you didn’t, you would be no burden.”

The ranger lifts the hood of his cloak just enough so his eyes are visible, the grey gazing into your own.

“Strider—“

“It gets lonely most days, and I would not mind the company, especially in the form of such an esteemed bard and my dear friend (Y/n),”

You swallow, a mixture of nervousness and shyness runs through your veins, you almost don’t know how to respond.

“It would be quite the honor, Strider, especially after those kind words.” Eyes meet once again and smiles are shared, and it’s the widest you’ve ever seen the ranger grin. Your heart pounds at the agreement; you’re going on an adventure, an adventure with Strider himself no less.

“Get some rest, miluis,” Swiftly, he rises from his seat, rough and calloused fingertips just brushing the underside of your cheek bone, sparks igniting at the brief touch. “We have much to plan in the morning.”

Once the ranger turns his back, you gape, your own fingertips brushing where he touched you. You skin tingles still. His hand was warm and while calloused from his many years out in the wilderness, it was comforting, something you would want to feel more of in the future.

Biting your bottom lip, you grab your instrument, hurrying off to your quarters, ready to start the next day.

•

[whiteshipnightjar]

undefined

“My wife and I watch the trilogy [Lord of the Rings] pretty much once a year. [...] I’ve gotta like a prancing pony mug that I drink my coffee out of.”