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#neither dwarf nor elf
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Fantasy concept: The standard classic fantasy races, but humans are the species that's living the diaspora spread among other peoples' lands and cultures.
Humans are adaptible, can pick up whatever languages and customs they need to, learn to dress according to climate, are capable of digesting almost anything that the majority race commonly eat, can tolerate magic but don't need it to live, and altogether seem to find a way to live comfortably - or at least tolerably - wherever they can live at all. Many races who have humans living among them have a misconception that humans are some kind of sapient chameleons, that just automatically take the shape of their environment without thought or effort.
In truth, human communities are fairly tight-knit and have strong support networks, and they can and will immediately take in any newcomer stray humans and families, teaching them the ropes of how to live here. Not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but pragmatic reasons: one bad human or family will reflect badly on the whole population of the area. It's better to make sure that a stranger has a job than hear your own neighbour say that humans don't have jobs. It's fairly safe to assume that most humans who live in the same city know each other to some extent, but just because they're allies doesn't necessarily mean that they're friends.
While mixbreeding with the local population does happen - humans, for some reason, tend to be far more open to romantic and sexual relationships with other races than the rest, and the ones to do so have an astonishing knack for locating the one specific elf, orc, dwarf or any other who happens to find humans fuckable - and wherever the hybrid offspring aren't sterile, the human population of the area tends to aquire some majority-species blood and traits, mostly the distinct local traits of the human population of any area are cultural, taught and learned from the community.
Some elvish dialects don't have separate words for "half-elf", "a human born and raised in elvish lands", or "human who speaks fluent elvish and knows the customs", and even some elvish humans are surprised to hear that other cultures consider these to be completely separate concepts. As far as they're concerned, humans living among elves are all the same thing. Sometimes a person who's 75% elvish and only has one human grandparent, but was raised by the human side of their family, is considered human-among-elves.
And sometimes the divide between human poulations of different races and cultures is more stark than between the majority peoples themselves - while an orc clan and an elvish city-state might be willing to temporarily set aside their differences to work towards a mutual goal, the orcish humans and elvish humans among them might not.
While the human minorities among other races do have a distinct identity as humans of their own regions, this does not apply to goblins. Neither goblins nor the human populations among them make any distinction between the two at all. Both will refer to "their" humans as simply goblins, only specifying "a big one" if necessary, but even then you'll need to see the person in question to know whether they're talking about a human raised with goblins or just a particularly tall, physically large full-blooded native goblin. Goblins do not have a concept of personal property beyond "I had access to it and nobody stopped me from grabbing it, so therefore it's mine", and their humans are therefore goblins too.
Being one of the species combinations whose offspring are infertile, there's no goblin blood among their human populations save for the half-goblin individuals themselves, but considering that spontaneous adoption by simply herding unsupervised orphans into one's home is a commonplace, widely accepted practice and not any more unusual a way to start a family than having biological children, the individuals in question are largely unbothered by it.
While the humans-born-among-goblins aknowledge that they are human, they genuinely do not understand the concept of why one couldn't be both a full 100% human and a full 100% goblin at the same time. While humans from other cultures are confused and annoyed by their insistence, they'll have to agree that any person who'll come to your house as a guest (most likely unprompted and uninvited) and will just casually snatch a bug off your floor and eat it right in front of you, and then interpret the look on your face to mean that they were supposed to ask permission first is definitely a whole, entire full goblin.
The goblin-humans take this as a compliment.
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laoih · 2 years
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I don't mind adaptations, and I don't mind people doing different things with adaptations. People can say "we made this adaptation the way we liked with our own ideas". They can say "the source material didn't work as a series so we changed a lot". They can even say "the source material was outdated in our eyes, so we took it only for inspiration but then did our own thing".
However, be honest about it.
If you create a series only inspired by some of Tolkien's writings, but ignore essential parts of it, you shouldn't claim that you stay as close to Tolkien's writing as possible or promote it that way.
At SDCC the showrunner Payne said:
“So, one, always back to Tolkien. And two, when Tolkien was silent, we tried to invent as Tolkienian a way as possible."
Yet they even ignore those parts where Tolkien wasn't silent. If you always go back to Tolkien like you pretend you do, then
why is the Second Age reduced from more than 3000 years to about 1500?
why is Sauron's reign in Middle-earth reduced from more than 1500 years to the span of one short Númenórean life?
why are Hobbits playing a part in the Second Age when Tolkien explicitly said they only became relevant towards the end of the Third Age? And Harfoots are a variety of Hobbits, Tolkien explicitly wrote that.
why is the Elf Adar leading Orcs? There was never a cooperation between these two peoples out of free will, even in the case of Maeglin it was because of Morgoth's influence over Maeglin after his capture, and neither Sauron nor Morgoth can do that now.
why do two Durins exist at the same time when according to Tolkien's writings Dwarves believe that they are reincarnations of each other?
why do the Dwarf-women don't have beards when Tolkien explicitly wrote that they have beards?
why do many of your Elves have short hair even though every Elf where the hair length was described by Tolkien had long hair?
why is Galadriel portrayed as "brash" and "angry" and "full of piss and vinegar", as running around wielding a sword, when at this time she is thousands of years old, has been Melian's student, has mostly avoided the conflicts in the First Age, and it's in general unlike what her character has been described as? Female characters can be strong characters even when they don't act like their male counterparts.
why does Celebrimbor look like an old human with pointy ears when Elves are supposed to be ageless and more beautiful than the average human?
why does Elrond look more like a teenage leprechaun with light-brown hair than an Elf who is thousand years old and has dark hair? At the time of the creation of the Rings of Power Elrond was already leading Gil-galad's armies into battle.
why is Gil-galad wearing so much gold, when in Tolkien's writings he is associated with silver? The casting also shows too much age for an Elf who is certainly younger than Galadriel.
why is there a large Númenórean cavalry with heavy armour when Tolkien wrote that the Númenoreans used horses in war only for couriers and light-armed archers?
why is Galadriel riding with the Númenorean cavalry? While Galadriel had contact with Aldarion, she was not involved in the military afairs of Númenor and there was no longer contact with Númenor during Pharazôn's and Míriel's time.
why is Míriel ruling as Queen, when Pharazôn took the throne directly after Tar-Palantir's death?
why does Pharazôn have a son with the Quenya name "Kemen", which is even a part of a Vala name, when Elvish was completely avoided by those in Númenór who hated the Valar and the Elves?
...and these are only a few things I could spot in trailers and interviews, and it's only the things that Tolkien wrote about – I'm not even going into the things that they think are Tolkienian but that Tolkien was silent about. These aren't things that had to be changed for a series adaptation, because they can all be done as Tolkien wrote it if you wanted to.
You can change things in your adaptation, but be fucking honest about it.
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tathrin · 4 months
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My little Tolkien-fic pet-peeve of the day? Writers calling elves, dwarves, or hobbits men or women in their* narration.
"Pippin shaded his eyes, squinting until the sight of the man walking up the road resolved itself into the familiar form of his cousin Merry..."
Hobbit. Just say Hobbit. You don't need to gender everything. Or if you must, then "Hobbit-lad" or "Hobbit-lass" how's that? Or person! Being! Individual! Literally any word that isn't an inaccurate use of the word "man" for someone who is not a man!
"Gimli looked up at the taller man and scoffed at the sight of Legolas's pointed ears, now drooping with dismay..."
See this one just sounds silly, doesn't it? Silly and also confusing! Because you've just called Legolas a man, but clearly you're talking about an elf or he wouldn't have pointed ears, now would he? And Gimli's a dwarf! So why did you say "man" at all? There are no men here! (Unless Aragorn is playing Third Wheel in the background I suppose, but that's neither here-nor-there right now.)
"Glorfindel turned upon the edge of the fountain and greeted the other man with a smile like a sunrise..."
No no no stop, they are not men. Neither of them are men. They're elves. That's kind of a big important plot element in fact, that the Firstborn and the Secondborn are distinct and sundered from one another, please don't call elves men it's weird and awkward and often confusing because then I'll think you're talking about "A Man" but no, you mean an elf but you said man and it's just so off-putting...
They're different species, guys! (This drives me nuts in scifi too. Stop with the humanocentricism! You're not the Galactic Empire!) Replace the word "man" with something else and see how silly it sounds. "Elephant," perhaps; or any other species that isn't the one you're actually talking about.
"Gimli looked up at the taller raccoon and scoffed..."
"Glorfindel greeted the other ant-eater with a smile like a sunrise..."
"The sight of the giraffe walking up the road resolved itself into his cousin Merry..."
See? Yeah, that's how inaccurate it feels to me every time I read the word "man" or "woman" when you're talking about somebody who is not a human. It's not something on the level of squick where I'll reverse out of a fic if I see it, no, but it absolutely is jarring enough to throw-off the rhythm and mood of the story, for me.
(And if I see it in the first line or so before I've gotten invested in the story...yeah. That'll get me out of a fic almost as fast as lack of paragraph-breaking.)
Because I'm such a sucker for world building, I suspect, and the fact that these are all different peoples with different cultures and capabilities and outlooks and understanding and history and everything is such an interesting and important aspect of Middle-earth to me...and lumping all these different folks into one thing like that as though gender is the most important and indeed only notable aspect of their identity, and overrides everything else about them is just weird. It doesn't make sense. And I do not like it.
(Exceptions obviously made for when the character's identity is being deliberately obscured or confused, and they are erroneously thought to be a human and then revealed as something else; that sort of thing is on purpose and thus is fine.)
(Also exceptions for folk like Arwen or Elwing or Elladan etc who straddle the line between species.)
Anyway thank you for coming to this session of Tathrin Whines About Little Things To Avoid Doing Productive Writing Today.
*none of these lines are actual examples taken from real fics; I made them up for this post. Please do not attach call-outs to actual fics or authors in the notes. No need to be mean!
But absolutely fell free to gripe along with me if this silly little world building detail bothers you too. Or laugh at me for being a ridiculous spec-fic nerd. I'm fine with that too!
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middleearthpixie · 2 months
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Something in the Night ~ Chapter Four
Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 
Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 
Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…
Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 3.8k
Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @lathalea @legolasbadass @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @sazzlep
If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!
Previous chapters can be found here. 
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When Nina opened her eyes, a hint of panic swirled through her, as she had no idea where she was or what had happened. All she knew was she hurt. And it was not a pain she’d ever felt before. This stung. It burned like dragon fire. 
Her hand went to her upper right side. The arrow was gone. A soft bandage wound about her in its place. 
She stared up into the darkness. A light breeze wafted through, a hint of jasmine on it. She was in an open air room, with a high ceiling. There was something on that ceiling, but it was too dark and she was too tired to make heads or tails of it. 
It was eerily quiet. Only the occasional rustle of the breeze through leaves broke the silence. There were not nocturnal animals about. No wargs. No orcs. 
Thank the Maker. She hated orcs. Hated them almost as much as she hated dwarves. 
Or, rather, one dwarf in particular. 
And he’d gotten away from her. She’d been so foolish, jumping between him and that blasted arrow. It would have served him right to be hit. At least then she could have taken his head back to Tarog. Maybe only his head, but she had the feeling she wouldn’t have cared all that much at that point. After all, Tarog only wanted his head as it was, so it would have been more than enough.
But she’d failed. She’d failed, she had no idea where she was, or how long she’d even been there.
And now she’d have to start her hunt for Thorin all over again.
Damn it. 
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Nina jumped at the soft, unexpected voice coming from behind her, which sent another hot sting sweeping through her. Biting back her hiss and the colorful oath bubbling to her lips, she craned her neck to see a slender elf with sleek, dark red hair approaching. “Where am I?”
“Rivendell’s Healing Room.” The elf came up alongside the bed. “I am Kenia.”
“Are you the one to removed the arrow?”
“I am. You did beautifully.” Kenia drew up a stool and sank into it. “May I take a look?”
Nina nodded slowly. “Of course.”
She stared up at the ceiling as the healer pushed up her tunic and lifted the bandage. The night air skimmed cool along her skin, and she sucked in a sharp breath as the healer pressed gentle fingers about the wound. “Take care,” she growled, “it’s still quite tender.”
“It will be for some time,” Kenia told her as she set the bandage back into place. “But it looks good. In time, you’ll have only a tiny scar as a reminder. Do you remember what happened, Miss…?”
“Nina. My name is Nina. And yes, I mostly remember. An orc pack.” She looked over at Kenia. “And two dwarves? There were two dwarves in the wood as well. Are they still here?”
“They are, yes.” Kenia told her with a bob of her head. “King Thorin of Erebor and his lieutenant Dwalin Fundinson. They brought you here. The king seems to think you saved his life.”
Despite the hot sting in her side, Nina managed a smile. Thorin and his lackey were still there. All was not lost just yet. “The arrow I took was meant for him.”
“And you positioned yourself between him and it intentionally?”
“I did, yes.”
“He will be indebted to you.”
“I care not about that. As long as he is unharmed.”
“He is.”
Nina let her eyes close. “Good.”
“He will most likely wish to thank you himself. I think you will be up to visitors come morning, Miss Nina.”
She nodded again. Exhaustion seeped into the marrow of her bones and the bed was the most comfortable thing upon which she’d lain in months, perhaps even a year. All she wished was to sleep. Perhaps the pain would subside if she did.
As if reading her mind, Kenia said, “Do you need something for pain?”
“Please. It—it hurts to breathe.”
“Is it difficult? Or just painful?”
“Just painful.”
“Very well.” Kenia rose from her stool and disappeared into the shadows behind Nina’s bed. Nina tried to force the pain from her mind by trying to figure out what had been painted onto the ceiling above her. All for naught. It was simply too dark and her eyes were simply too tired. 
“Miss Nina?”
The soft voice jolted her from her doze and a minute later, she was drinking something warm and sweet. That warmth spread through her, forced the burn into the furthest recesses of her mind. A low, sleepy sigh rose to her lips and she gave into the drowsiness that washed over her. 
****
Nina stirred at the first light of dawn. She stretched and grimaced as she pulled her wound. The slow burn built like a wave, rolling toward her, slammed into her, washed over her. She exhaled slowly as it receded, and for the next few hours, drifted between sleep and wakefulness, finally coming around completely at the sound of heavy boots thudding against the marble floor.
“How does he fare?”
She recognized the low, deep voice belonging to the King Under the Mountain. It was a voice that suited him perfectly. But where it once nearly made her swoon from the baritone timber, now, it filled her with resolve and cold fury. As long as he remained in Rivendell, she wouldn’t have to worry about tracking him. All she needed to do was find his chambers. She could do what she needed to do and leave before anyone even noticed her missing. Perhaps it would work out after all.
A hint of confusion laced Kenia’s voice as she said, “I beg your pardon?”
“The boy? How is he?”
“Oh, Nina. She is doing well, all things considered.”
“Nina? She?” Now it was Thorin’s turn to be confused. “Who is Nina?”
“The girl who took an arrow meant for you, Your Highness.”
“You mean to say, the lad is a girl?”
Nina almost laughed at the total disbelief in the dwarf’s voice. In fact, she might have burst out laughing, if it wouldn’t hurt so much. 
“Yes, Your Highness. She is most definitely a girl.”
“I had no idea. I thought she was a boy.”
“It was dark and she was dressed as a boy. No one would fault you.”
“May I see her?”
“I think she is sleeping, Your Highness, but I’ll check.” 
Nina waited for Kenia to reach her bedside before saying, “I’m awake, actually.”
Kenia offered up a warm smile. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was run over by a warg.”
“Do you wish something for pain?”
“Thank you, but no.”
“Very well. King Thorin wishes to see you, if you’re up to it.”
Nina nodded slowly. “That would be fine, thank you.”
“Very well.” Kenia patted her lightly through the sheet, then turned to say, “Your Highness, if you wish to speak with Miss Nina, she is up to receiving visitors.”
Nina braced herself as Thorin came into view. For a moment, she forgot her anger. It had been so dark the night before that she hadn’t gotten a good look at him. And it had had never occurred to her that her memory of him might not do him justice, because that was exactly what happened. He was far more handsome than she remembered. His dark wavy hair and thick dark beard held a few more silver streaks now, and there were a few more lines at the corners of his steel blue eyes, but other than that? He was still the same devastatingly handsome man she’d watch from amongst the crowd of townsfolk gathered at the Master’s House. 
Those pale eyes crinkled at their outer corners as his gaze alit on her and he smiled. “It’s good to see you awake, my lady. I wasn't so certain I’d made a wise decision in bringing you here.”
“You mean you’d have left me to die on the Great East Road?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not quite what I meant at all. I mean, instead of bringing the healer to you. It was a bit of a rough ride getting here and you were jostled about a bit as well.” 
As he spoke, he drew Kenia’s vacated stool over and sank onto it. “I wanted to thank you for your bravery. I am indebted to you for it.”
“You owe me nothing,” she told him, shaking her head. “I must confess, it wasn't an entirely selfless act. I merely tripped and happened to get between you and the orc.”
“Either way,” he met her gaze, “I am still indebted to you and the Kingdom of Erebor would like to show its gratitude as well.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Of course it is.” 
“Your Highness,” she had to force herself to sound respectful and polite when all she wanted was to grab her sword and swing at him with all of the strength she could muster, “that is not necessary at all. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Even so, I am grateful you were.”
She managed to smile. “Of course.”
“Where do you call home?”
She sat up a little straighter, caught off-guard by his question. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“You must live somewhere.”
“No,” she shook her head, “I don’t, really. I’m a bit of a wandering spirit, so wherever I happen to be when the sun sets is home.”
“And where does the sun normally set for you?”
“At the moment, the kingdom of Rivendell. Tomorrow? Who knows.”
A wry smile lifted Thorin’s lips. “Very well. You need not tell me if you’d rather not. I do hope that in time, you will venture near Erebor’s gates, for you will be welcomed to pay us a visit.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Well, I should allow you to rest,” he said, rising from the stool. “I will stop by again to see how you’re doing before I take my leave.”
“Oh, when you do plan on going?”
“In a day or so. I was here on an errand and now that’s been completed, so it’s more a matter of when Elrond wishes me to go.”
He said this with a hint of self-deprecation and despite her feelings toward him, she almost smiled.
Almost.
With that, he turned and directed his next words to Kenia. “When do you think Miss Nina will be free to go?”
“Barring any complications, I think sometime tomorrow. Amara was fairly certain the shaft was not morgul, and she certainly does not seem to be doing any worse than she was when she arrived, so—”
“Could I trouble you to not speak about me as if I wasn't sitting right here?” Nina broke in, glowering at the two of them. 
“I beg your pardon. Miss Nina,” Thorin replied softly, placing from Kenia to her and back. “If you will excuse me, I’ll let you get some rest.”
She managed a slight smile and settled back against her pillows. Looking up at the ceiling, she rolled her eyes at the mural she couldn't see the night before. It was a ludicrous painting of elves coming to the rescue of dwarves and Men, showing themselves as the heroes, the warriors, the saviors. Had she seen it last night, she no doubt would have made her pain that much worse by laughing at the absurdity of it. Elves held themselves in such esteem, truly did see themselves as better than all the other races in Middle Earth. 
It wasn’t that she disliked the elves as a whole. For the most part, she got on fine with elves. With everyone, actually. The only one she didn’t wish to get on with was Thorin and somehow, she didn't think that would prove to be much of a problem. 
Kenia came over. “How are you feeling, Miss Nina?”
“I’m fine, actually. It only hurts when I move a certain way.”
“That’s to be expected, and it will hurt that way for some time to come, I’m afraid.”
“Will I be able to leave tomorrow?”
“I cannot guarantee it, but as long as no complications arise, such as infection or fever, you should be able to. Have you a place to go?”
“I will be fine,” Nina told her softly. “Please… I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Very well.” Kenia offered up a mild smile. “Are you hungry at all? Breakfast is served in the Great Hall if you wish to venture down there.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, but then her stomach growled loudly enough for Kenia to hear as well. “I suppose I should go and eat something.”
Kenia laughed softly. “You really should.”
A slight sting swept across her belly as she sat completely upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It worsened as she stood, but as she bent to baby it, Kenia caught her by the shoulder. “Do not hunch, Miss Nina. It hurts now, but it will fade in a moment or two. When you get up or lie back, you should try to do so as normally as possible. The more you do that, the sooner the pain will stop.”
“It will? Do you promise?”
Kenia nodded. “I promise. Try to stand as normally as you can as well and if it begins to bother you, sit. But again, up and down as you normally would, just carefully at first.”
Nina smiled as the healer set a pair of soft white slippers on the floor. “For me?”
Kenia nodded again. “I think they’ll be easier to draw on than your boots.”
“Probably.” She eased her feet into them. They were every bit as soft as they looked, and for a moment, she thought she knew what it would feel like to walk on a cloud, for that was how fluffy those slippers were. 
“Where is the Great Hall?”
“I will show you. I could go for some breakfast myself,” Kenia caught her lightly by the elbow. “This way.”
She escorted Nina from the Healing Room out into the wide promenade. Tall columns of white marble, edged in gold filigree, lined the marble walkway and a playful breeze lifted through Nina’s hair. She wished she could walk over to the low railing and lift her face to it, to just let it caress her alongside the sun that splashed golden light through the lush green courtyard below. She’d never been to Rivendell, had only ever heard tales of its splendor and beauty, as her mother would regale them with such tales at bedtime. She spoke of handsome elf princes with such emotion, that Nina often wondered if her mother hadn’t had her heart broken by such a person. 
She tried not to think about it as she and Kenia strolled along. Her parents’ union had not been a happy one, and one day, her father left for a day out on the water and simply never returned. She and Lenna mourned him as if he’d died, but the truth was, she had no idea whatever became of him. All she knew was that money grew even tighter and her mother spent long hours on the lake herself, in an industry that was not overly welcoming to women. She earned barely enough to keep up with the increases in their rents, increases in their taxes thanks to the greedy Master, the increases of food prices, of coal, of basically everything they needed to live.
But to see such beauty, such grandeur around her… Nina was almost goggle-eyed at it. It simply overwhelmed her to realize such wealth actually existed and not all rulers were as greedy and callus as the Master had been.
He was the only one of Smaug’s casualties no Esgaroth survivor mourned. It was cold to say, but most of them were glad to see his end. Bard the Bowman was a far fairer, far more generous Master anyway. He actually cared about whether or not his people had food and water, shelter and warm clothing. He did his best to convince Thorin Oakenshield to honor his end of the bargain regarding Erebor’s wealth, to no avail. The dwarf was greedy and a liar and despite causing the people of Esgaroth to lose everything, didn't think twice about turning them away and going back on his word to them. 
They rounded a corner and she heard the low burr of the tall, nearly bald dwarf who’d been in Thorin’s company. He sat with Elrond at a table along the far wall, deep in conversation with the elf who’d greeted them at the gates the night before. She didn't know his name, but he was quite pleasing, even for an elf, with his long dark hair and high cheekbones. 
“Come. I will introduce you to Lord Elrond.”
Nina’s stomach curdled slightly. She was hardly dressed to be in the company of the Elf King, and she was concerned she might say or do something that would put him off even more. Still, she couldn’t very well voice her concerns or her hesitation to Kenia, so she swallowed hard and allowed the healer to lead her to the table up on the dais.
“My Lord Elrond, I should like you to meet Miss Nina. She is the boy Thorin Oakenshield brought to us last evening.”
“Ah,” Elrond’s sharp dark eyes move along Nina and she held her breath, waiting for his grimace or other look of disgust at having such a ragamuffin introduced to him, “so I see we were all mistaken about you, Miss Nina. But, I am glad to see you up and about. How do you fare?”
“I’m faring well, thank you. I appreciate your taking me in, so thank you for that.”
“There is no need to thank me,” he told her seriously, gesturing for her to sit in the chair across from him at the round table. “I could hardly turn away an injured lad—or lady, as the case may be.”
He looked up and smiled. “Ah, Thorin! Join us.”
Nina’s gut twisted more sharply as Thorin came up to the dais and drew out the chair to Elrond’s left and sank into it. “A good morning to you,” Thorin said to the king, offering up a bob of his head.
At first, she thought he was being disrespectful, but then she remembered, the last time she’d seen him, he’d been on his way to claim his throne and his birthright. Now, he was the Raven King. As such, he’d be Elrond’s equal. 
“And to you as well. Dwalin and I were just discussing your return journey.”
Thorin’s heavy dark brows lowered. “Discussing it? Why?”
“The Orc pack remains not far from where you encountered them last evening,” Elrond replied slowly, looking from Thorin, to Dwalin, and then to her, for some odd reason. “I’ve sent scouts out to see how widespread they are, and while they’ve not yet returned, I daresay you might have trouble once you are beyond our borders.”
Thorin sighed softly. “I have no choice but to brave it, I’m afraid. I’ve a long journey ahead of me and much work waiting for me in Erebor. I’d rather not delay my return if I don’t have to.”
“I understand that, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn't concerned, as it is but the two of you and plenty of open road between here and there.”
A slight smile played at Thorin’s lips. “I appreciate your concern, but as I said—”
“I know. And that’s why I’m going to suggest you take an alternate route. It will bring you a bit out of the way, but if the Orc pack expects you on the Great East road, that’s where they will lie in wait.”
“There is no other way.”
“Of course there is.” Elrond lifted his goblet. “The Southeast Passage. It will bring you to the outskirts of Mirkwood by a southerly route. I will send word ahead to Thranduíl to expect you and to offer you safe passage through his realm. You will not need barrels this time.”
Nina had no idea what he could possibly mean, but Thorin chuckled, so obviously he understood. “No,” he said with a grin, “we will not.”
“Of course, while the Southeast Passage is safer, it isn’t guaranteed, so you will have to watch your backs carefully.”
Nina drew in a deep breath. This was it, this was her chance. In Rivendell, there were too many eyes, too many people, but on the Southeast Passage? It would be her and the two dwarves and she had no qualms about slitting either throat once they were all three alone. “I can accompany them, my lord,” she said, meeting his calm gaze. “An extra pair of eyes and blades can only help, right?”
Elrond pursed his lips, his brows rising ever so slightly as he nodded. “I don’t see how it could hurt. Unless,” he looked over at Thorin, “you object to those extra eyes.”
She held her breath as Thorin just stared at her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. To his right, Dwalin frowned, and shook his head. “A terrible idea, that. Yer but a little girl.”
Her back stiffened. “I am not a little girl at all. I stepped between your king and an arrow. What were you doing at that moment?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Elrond quickly press his lips together as if hiding a smile, while Thorin just turned to his lieutenant. “She has a point, my friend.”
Dwalin’s scowl deepened. “A point, eh? And ye dinna find it odd, how she just happened ta be where ye needed her ta be?”
Her mouth went dry, but she refused to look away as he turned his glare on her, saying, “The Great East road is one of the most traveled in all of Middle Earth. Do you find it so odd to encounter another traveler on it, Mr. Fundinson? If you, I gather you do not often venture far from home.”
Dwalin’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed. “Ye would take care to watch yer mouth,  mimûna. Ye know nothing of where I’ve been or what I’ve done.”
“And I should tell you the same.” 
Thorin looked from Dwalin to her, and shook his head. “We will not fight about it. If Miss Nina wishes to come with us, I see no reason to say no.”
“I can think of plenty of reasons,” Dwalin muttered. 
“We can discuss it later,” Thorin told him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I prefer to eat in peace.”
Nina held Dwalin’s stare easily, a hint of triumph coursing through her when he looked away first. This was going to be easier than she thought. Far easier than she thought. 
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ebaeschnbliah · 6 months
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'No,' said Aragorn. 'One only of us is an Elf, Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood.'
We have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us
The Rider looked at them with renewed wonder, but his eyes hardened. 'Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!' he said. 'Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe.' He turned a cold glance suddenly upon Legolas and Gimli. 'Why do you not speak, silent ones?' he demanded.
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Gimli rose and planted his feet firmly apart: his hand gripped the handle of his axe, and his dark eyes flashed. 'Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides,' he said.
'As for that,' said the Rider, staring down at the Dwarf, 'the stranger should declare himself first. Yet I am named Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark.'
'Then Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin's son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you.'
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Éomer's eyes blazed, and the Men of Rohan murmured angrily, and closed in, advancing their spears. 'I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground ' said Éomer.
'He stands not alone,' said Legolas, bending his bow and fitting an arrow with hands that moved quicker than sight. 'You would die before your stroke fell.'
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Éomer raised his sword, and things might have gone ill, but Aragorn sprang between them, and raised his hand. 'Your pardon, Éomer!' he cried. 'When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?'
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'I will,' said Éomer lowering his blade. 'But wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty in these days of doubt. First tell me your right name.'
'First tell me whom you serve,' said Aragorn. 'Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?'
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'I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King son of Thengel,' answered Éomer. 'We do not serve the Power of the Black Land far away, but neither are we yet at open war with him; and if you are fleeing from him, then you had best leave this land. There is trouble now on all our borders, and we are threatened; but we desire only to be free, and to live as we have lived, keeping our own, and serving no foreign lord, good or evil. We welcomed guests kindly in the better days, but in these times the unbidden stranger finds us swift and hard. Come! Who are you? Whom do you serve? At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land?'
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'I serve no man,' said Aragorn; 'but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go. There are few among mortal Men who know more of Orcs; and I do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice. The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends. In such need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless.'
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Aragorn threw back his cloak. The elven-sheath glittered as he grasped it, and the bright blade of Andúril shone like a sudden flame as he swept it out. 'Elendil!' he cried. 'I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!'
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Gimli and Legolas looked at their companion in amazement, for they had not seen him in this mood before. He seemed to have grown in stature while Éomer had shrunk; and in his living face they caught a brief vision of the power and majesty of the kings of stone. For a moment it seemed to the eyes of Legolas that a white flame flickered on the brows of Aragorn like a shining crown.
Éomer stepped back and a look of awe was in his face. He cast down his proud eyes. 'These are indeed strange days,' he muttered. 'Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass.
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JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers,  The Riders of Rohan
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Your Life in Middle Earth
Part 1 (not proof-read)
Description: A series of one-shots(?) on how the HotD characters would transpire and adapt to the rattling life of Middle Earth; Of course, one can't elude the sprinkle of romance that comes with it
Pairing: Aemond x Reader
Warnings: Angst (this fic sucks so much I apologise in advance)
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Your love story could never happen. Not when he was a highborn silvan elf, and you, a mere human.
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It was a great sorrow - how he couldn't help falling in love with you. Even more so, how every elf who laid their eye on him pitied him to no end's meet.
Who would have thought that Aemond Targaryen, heir to the Woodland Realm, could ever be so taken with you? A simple, mortal girl, who would have been so easy to kill.
There were nights when he laid awake, cursing his weakness for you, cursing his inability to turn from you and your company when you first crossed his lands.
With his arrow between your eyes, you faced his stare bravely, and presented yourself as (Y/N) (L/N), a human girl from the far away Minas Anor.
You were part of a dwarf company - if 13 of them could count for that - and had told him you meant to cross their forest, in order to reach the Lonely Mountain, and the lost City of Erebor;
A rare and fond smile spreads across his lips. He remembers the day as if it was yesterday.
When the orcs came after you, neither human nor dwarfs shyed away from the good brawl - although less skilled with the sword and shield, you threw yourself at the heinous monster who almost killed him that day, slaying it courageously (admittedly, with a little help);
He pledged his bow to you, and vowed to see you safe out of their sickly forest. At first, his devotion stamped from the debt he felt he had to pay: no son of Viserys the Peaceful would go without beckoning a promise.
Soon on the road, the elf discovered he enjoyed your company. His feelings blossomed into love during one bright eve, when you gave a famished stag the only remainder of your picked apples.
"Whose duty is it, if not ours, to look after the suffering of those who are lesser than us?"
Foolish, the dwarves have called you.
Compassionate, came his reply.
Aemond's plan was to return back home shortly thereafter. Take back his seat near his father and mother, honour them with pliabiliy.
That wouldn't happen, and his sister had told him as much.
"Both the human and the martyr - though one may stray away; none cannot live without the other."
The Gods above long threaded a new path for him to follow.
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He would never tell you that he loved you. Of that much, he was certain.
What he would do, was stay devotedly by your side, until your last breath in this cursed world. The same world that did not allow for the two of you to be together.
A hundred years felt like seconds to an elf's long life - and often during the night, Aemond wouldn't dare to close his eye, afraid that when he will open it, you wouldn't be there anymore.
He resigned to quell his thirst for you by watching you intensely. Vowing to forever remember you by how you were in that present tense.
He would take no wife, and father no children. Not after you.
"Hey, stranger." Your soft voice gently tapped his very being, leaving a strong vibratto down his back in it's wake.
The fire illuminated his furrowed brows and the gentle upcurv of his lips. His eye slowly travelled from your face down to your extended hand, holding a bowl of stew.
"Lothron i ambar rae lyën cin." He exhaled slowly, offering you half a smile.
Aemond relished in your tiny mumbles, and keen eyes over his face. You sat down next to him, still trying to dechiper what he said.
"Ambar was 'world'. And cin is 'you'."
He hummed in approval as you scooted closer to the fire. Resting your own bowl of food on your lap, you kept going, fiddling with the spoon.
"And... 'rae'... is 'to laugh'."
"To smile." He corrected gently.
"Smile." You repeated after him, rolling the vowels tentatively. "The world is smiling at me?" You raised him with the query.
"Very close. That was very good." Aemond mused, before closing his eyes to ponder. "It's an old greeting from the Late Period - it's meant to say 'may the world smile upon you'."
A small groan left your lips, and you plopped your head onto your hands to rest. "Why is the elvish tongue so hard?"
"I don't understand what you mean." He sighed, finally lowering his lips to the awaiting spoon. "You've only been learning for a short while and are already making progress."
"It's only cause I've got a good istonor." Your sheepish smile turned to a devious smirk, "Do you think by the time we get back I'll be able to speak to your kin in sindarin?"
Aemond scoffed, piercing you with his gaze. "Be careful with that pride - I said you are making progress. Not that you're nearing a native." Despite his harsh tone, his eye held no malice.
For a second, you even thought he looked at you with some sort of unspoken want.
But that must have been the shadows of the fire, playing tricks on your mind yet again.
"Oy, lovebirds!" Kili's voice rang through the cave, as he approached them with impressively big steps. "After you finish eating, you can both go rest. Fili and I have taken to tonight's watch."
You merely shook your head at him, beaming widely. Though not another word was shared between you and Aemond, you both got up at the same time, making your way to your laid out bedding spots.
Always near the other, never once apart.
"Good night, Aemond." You had whispered to him in the dead of night.
"Good night, vanima tinu."
Your ears caught fire - he had called you his beautiful star.
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You almost lost the battle. You almost lost him.
Your eyes had searched the battlefield frantically for his silver locks of hair, and breathed a sigh of relief when his tall frame appeared in view.
Although you didn't intend for it to happen, the adrenaline of the fight, along with the way he clung to you in the scorching hug, gave you the courage you needed to proclaim your confession to him.
"Im mel cin."
Aemond's eye widened, and a shocked and pained expression adorned his handsome face. Without a word, he let go of you, as if your touch had burned him, as if your presence hurt him.
"I don't know what that means." He'd spat bitterly.
"I think you do." You murmured defiantly, and a second too long without an answer passed. "You do know what it means." You insisted, taking a step closer to him.
"You delude yourself, human." He wranged in a coarse tone, his expression now illegible. "I could never know what it means. Not with you, or anyone else."
Despite not having raised his tone at you, his words struck you across the face.
His soft words, aimed at you; his soft stare; his soft touch and the soft kiss he had planted on the corner of your mouth when the battle had begun.
Had they all meant nothing to him? Did he hold your hand through the night, did he teach you the sindarin tongue... all for naught?
To decieve you?
You wanted to lay these questions at his feet, confront him on the reason of his cruelty - though no words escaped your mouth.
Your eyes must have asked enough a question. Aemond swallowed thickly, placing his bloodied hands behind his back.
"You were a distraction. A pretty one at that - but nothing more."
His next words rang into your deafening ears.
"An elf could never love a human. How did you bring yourself to believe that?"
Had he made you love him to make fun of you? Humiliate you on your harboured feelings.
Before the first sob could break through your body, Aemond had turned around. He turned around so fast, as to not let you see the tears that were beginning to leave his lonely eye.
"No. You know this isn't true. We both do, Aemond!" You yelled after his fleeting form, until your voice turned hoarse.
That night, so familiar to all the others - you waited for him. Near the fire.
But he never showed.
In the end, you weren't worth a singular goodbye. Not one last farewell.
Aemond Targaryen had given you everything - and completely broke you when he took it all away. You would cry yourself to sleep that night, and every night after that for many moons to come; completely unaware of the pain that he too shared.
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Yet life moves on, and it goes on without you. The world has a funny way of showing that.
With time, your open wounds closed and healed. With time, you met your future husband and settled down in the Kingdom of Arnor. You forgave, but never forgot of Aemond. You would sing the ancient lullaby he taught you to your tired children, you would live a full and rich life.
At the age of 95, you gave the world your last breath, your children and grandchildren all there, to accompany you to the Gates of Valinor, the blessed lands of Asgard.
The world moved on. Your grandchildren had grandchildren of their own, and their grandchildren followed suit.
Your face remained forgotten. Your name appeared in old folk tales, under the legacy of the daring human girl, who battled fiercely against the Dark Lord's forces.
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"Nya mel, nányë allen nányë vaina."
The smooth voice of the silver haired man echoed throughout the peril graveyard of Arnor.
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Translations:
"Istonor" = teacher/bringer of knowledge;
"Vanima tinu" = beautiful star;
"Im mel cin" = I love you;
"Nya mel, nányë allen nányë vaina" = My love, I'm sorry I'm late;
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aquadestinyswriting · 7 months
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Eye of the Storm
Summary: Elowyn helps Morag sort out some sort of breakfast while everyone else recovers from their assorted hangovers the morning after the trial's conclusion. Written for the Flash Fiction Friday prompt 'Found Family'
Words: 832
Tags: @druidx @homesteadchronicles @flashfictionfridayofficial @sparrow-orion-writes-orion-writes,@warriorbookworm, @odysseywritings, @blind-the-winds, @thesorcerersapprentice,@writeblrcafe, @ashiru, @writeblrcafe
Warnings: None
Notes: Based on an actual bit that was roleplayed out, but some creative liberties have been taken as I can't remember what exactly was said in the session any more.
Morag smiled at Elowyn as the woodling busied herself sorting out a pot of bloc,
"Ta for the help, hen." She said, straightening up again with a groan, "It's much appreciated." Elowyn shrugged her shoulders,
"I can't very well leave you to sort out everything for us all by yourself. Especially since no one else is in any position to, at the moment." She pointed out, nudging Snotgrut, who had fallen asleep curled up next to 'Arry in the corner of the kitchen, with her toe.
The green and brown lump groaned as the goblin stirred,
"My head is about to explode." He complained, "Why do people insist on drinking to excess if this is the outcome the next day?" He blinked blearily as a mug of hot and bitter coffee was thrust into his hands,
"This should help a bit, along with a decent breakfast." Elowyn told him. She turned her attention to the piece of rope dangling from seemingly nowhere, "Now how am I going to get this to Felix?" She wondered looking between the mug in her hand and the area where the rope seemingly vanished into thin air near the ceiling. She wafted the bitter steam up in the general direction of the Rope Trick opening after shouting for Felix to get up failed to rouse the gnome. Eventually Felix's arm shot out of nowhere, took the mug from Elowyn's hand with a mumbled 'Thank you' before vanishing once again. Elowyn shook her head as her ears picked up the renewed snoring from the extra dimensional space.
"That's the last time I get myself talked into a drinking contest with a dwarf." Quentin moaned as he stumbled into the kitchen.
"I did say it was a terrible idea, Quentin. Not that I have room to talk." Laurence groaned, collapsing into a chair at the table and burying his head into his hands. Elowyn clucked her tongue,
"Well that's what you get for going out and getting wankered isn't it?" She said, placing her hands on her hips. Neither man nor elf said anything and simply moaned into the table. She looked over to the younger woodling woman that now stumbled into the kitchen with a softer smile, "Lesson learned?" She asked. Aurianna nodded her head, wincing at the pain that lanced through her head at the motion. 
"Breakfast's pretty much ready. Just hold on while I get the rest of them up." Morag piped up, picking up the frying pan and a wooden spoon from the counter. Elowyn smiled, winced and covered her ears, gesturing for everyone else in the kitchen to do the same seconds before Morag started bashing the two implements together.
"Right! Come on, you lazy sods! Up! It's about lunchtime already!" The housewife's voice boomed through the house, echoing slightly, alongside the ringing of the frying pan. Various moans and groans of protest quickly followed suit, but Morag stood firm, simply banging the frying pan again when no one appeared on the stairs.
"I said up! Breakfast's ready and I swear on Moradin's bloody beard if I dinna see anyone down here in the next two minutes there's gonna be more than the hells to pay!" She snapped. Elowyn winced but turned her attention to her own little family,
"Well, seeing as our host was kind enough to make breakfast for us, I'm calling not it for the dishes." She said. Morag shook her head as she waddled back into the room,
"Och, dinna fash yerselves." She protested, "Ye helped more than enough the other night, and you all put in the work to see proper justice done." She beamed at the motley group of adventurers, "Besides, the lot o' ye are basically family at this point, and seeing as ye are, I'll not have ye taking on more than your fair share of the chores while you're here." Elowyn opened her mouth to protest when a rough, but blessedly familiar voice, came from the doorway,
"I'd save yer breath, hen. You were basically adopted the minute I brought ye back here the first time. Now, that includes the rest of you sorry lot."  Meredith added, poking at Quentin's ribs as she sat down next to him. 
"Oi! This is the thanks I get for helping you avoid the executioner's block?" The elf protested. Meredith stuck her tongue out at him,
"What help, ye pointy eared git? From what I can tell yer goblin friend did most of the work!" 
Elowyn stifled a laugh as others joined the friendly argument. A warm feeling settled in her chest as she looked around the cramped room as everyone finally converged around the table. Her family were finally all in one place, happy, healthy and whole. Well, half of it, the other half were back in Toreguarde after all. Once everything was taken care of she'd need to find a way to get the whole lot together. For now, though, this was all the family she needed.
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bluemoonperegrine · 3 months
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When a kid has a great sense of humor
...and his parents are D&D nerds 😂
My stepson is visiting, so my husband and I are playing HeroQuest with him. The game is a simplified version of D&D adapted to a board game. Neither stepson nor I had played it before. It's fun! You get to make characters as in regular D&D.
My characters:
female elf fighter/sorcerer Sabine Bloodoak
male dwarf fighter Gronk Ironbeard
Stepson's characters:
male half-orc barbarian Fluffy the Fierce
male human wizard Jamal the Scarce
I didn't get the "the Scarce" part until Jamal started running away from things. And kept running away. 🤣 Dude was truly scarce.
We completed the first quest with only one casualty, the brave dwarf Gronk, who turned into a pile of 109 gold pieces after being slayed by a dread knight three times his size. Fortunately the other heroes--most of whom almost died as well--persevered and got a bunch of treasure, including a resurrection potion. Gronk is back, baby!
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charis23 · 1 year
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Bagginsheild Fics
A Shot in the Dark
Rated: T. Words: 213k. By: Silver_pup
When he opens his eyes again, he finds himself in his old bed in his old home in his old body. Is this death? Or a trick of magic? Either way, Bilbo recognizes a second chance when he sees one, and this time his adventure with Thorin is going to go a bit differently.
One of These Days (Again and Again)
Rated: G. Words: 13k. By: authoressjean
By a curse or a blessing from the Valar, Bilbo finds himself repeating the same horrific day of war outside of Erebor again and again. His repeats are always triggered when someone from the company falls. He suffers days and days on his own before the others begin to repeat the day with him. One would think that with the whole company, an elf king, and a bowman all knowing what was to come, Bilbo would have an easier time getting them all through the day alive. One would think that, wouldn't they.
The Riven Crown
Rated: E. Words: 254k. By: BeautifulFiction
The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?
A King Under the Hill
Rated: T. Words: 14k. By: mEEtyouinheLL
A Dwarven caravan stops in the Shire on their way to the Blue Mountains, and while Bilbo is curious to meet these strange people and learn a bit about their secretive customs he never expected to get caught up in their political and personal lives.
An Unexpected Addition
Rated: T. Words: 88.9k. By: karategal
All of the dwarves survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but Bilbo must return to the Shire to sort out his old life and make way for a new one in Erebor. Over one year later, Bilbo comes back to the Lonely Mountain with a recently orphaned Frodo. King Thorin isn't quite sure what to make of this new, tiny addition to his Company.
Sansûkh
Rated: T. Words: 577k. By: determamfidd
I think we all know this, but if not:
(Bagginshield, Gimli/Legolas) In which recovery takes time, the dead members of the Company take to watching Gimli as though he’s a soap opera, the living struggle with being left behind, Legolas is confused, Khuzdul is abused, and Thorin is four feet and ten inches of guilt and anger.
Happy Hobbit Holiday - The Only Thing
Rated: T. Words: 32k. By: helisol
A story in which neither Bilbo nor Thorin can fully explain what they want, but at least they can show it through their actions.
A Fair Wind Homeward
Rated: M. Words: 90k. By: Daisy_May
‘You stupid, stubborn dwarf!’ Bilbo bellowed. ‘I saved your arse from being warg-food, Oakenshield, so show some bloody appreciation.’
The Valar send Bilbo and Thorin back in time to fix things, but the afterlife changes people considerably.
Some folk are in for a few surprises.
A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes
Rated: G. Words: 64k. By: diemarysues
Bilbo Baggins has been plagued with dreams for some months, always filled with the same stranger: big hands, strong arms, dark hair. It seems a mystery until he figures that it is a Dwarf, though this only narrows down his search to every Dwarf in Erebor.
When he overhears mention of a special party in the Mountain he wishes briefly that he can attend. But that's ridiculous. He's a Hobbit, not a Dwarf.
Turns out that's not a problem when magic is involved.
An Expected Journey
Rated: E. Words: 294k. By: MarieJaquelyn
“I just wish…”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could have changed it all.”
For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right?
Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.
The dangers of parent meeting
Rated: T. Words: 15k. By: Alx_GG
“What do you mean you are not scared?” Pippin said to Sam
“Why should I be? One of them is a cook and the other is a writer, Frodo describes them as very nice” Sam said
“That is just one parent, Bilbo Baggins, you are missing the other parent” Merry said
Or were Sam is going to meet his boyfriend's parents but he doesn't truly understand the importance, or danger, until Merry and Pippin enlighten him
Between Vices and Virtues
Rated: G. Words: 40k. By: LordOfTheRazzles
King Thorin Durinson has only held the throne for a few months after the death of his greedy predecessor. When Shire Inquiry journalist Bilbo Baggins is brought in to observe a meeting of powers, it's quickly made apparent that Thorin's sheltered and strict lifestyle has him completely disconnected from those he rules, as well as his family. It's up to Bilbo to show Thorin that the world is worth exploring and that not everything is as it seems.
Yavanna’s Whisper
Rated: not rated. Words: 109k. By: RavenShira
When he opened the door of his smial and looked at the individual standing on his steps, for the first time in his life Bilbo could hear the voice. Yavanna was singing to him, only a few lines but it was enough. This was his long awaited mate.
It took a few more days for Bilbo to realize what Yavanna was singing to him was not the happy ending like it had been for his parents.
His mate was fated to die.
...
Not on his watch!
Or: The one where Thorin is oblivious and Bilbo's plans mostly have one major fault: He forgot to include himself in them.
Of Palaces and Ruins
Rated: E. Words: 117k. By: livelongandgetiton
Slow burn. Bilbo Baggins is a half-baked archaeologist who has put his dreams of adventure on hold to teach secondary school. Thorin is the grandson of a politically powerful figure in the historically rich and deeply isolationist country of Erebor.
When he flees conflict and corruption in Erebor to settle in London, he finds his hands full with two young boys. Gandalf meddles, and Bilbo signs on as a personal tutor for the boys in hopes of getting a foot in the door to archaeological work in Erebor. He soon discovers that Thorin is a tough nut to crack.
As Bilbo takes care of the boys he and Thorin grow closer, and secrets about not just the brooding stranger, but the mysterious country and politics of Erebor begin to unravel. It turns out that Bilbo isn't leaving adventure behind, after all.
Intertwined
Rated: E. Words: 88k. By: badskippy
After a devastating winter, that took the lives of many Durin's Folk, The Dwarrow of The Blue Mountains forge a treaty with The Hobbits of The Shire ... food in exchange for increased protection. And if an arranged marriage between their King, Thrain, and one of the grandchildren of The Shire's Thain, is required to seal the deal, then the Dwarf-king will do what it takes.
However, crown-prince Thorin Oakenshield isn't totally convinced that the Hobbits can be trusted and he sets out to find the truth behind this so-called, 'Good-Will Treaty', and the miserable mite of a Hobbit that would agree to a loveless marriage.
Come what may, Thorin is determined to find out what tricks and deceptions this ... Bilbo Baggins has up his sleeve.
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ally-holmes · 5 months
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"I thought you were dead"
Day 19 of the 30-day short story challenge
Today's prompt: "I thought you were dead". Thorin apologies to Bilbo in what seems to be his deathbed, but it's not.
Fandom: The Hobbit. | Pairing: Thorin x Bilbo (pre-slash)
Words: 710
Also available on AO3.
Here it goes:
Quietness was far from the correct term to describe it. Calmness, perhaps, was better. Whichever it was, one thing was crystal clear: the roar from the battle had died down. Neither orcs nor mountain trolls survived the Battle of Five Armies because once their leader, Azog, had been killed, they'd lost all sense of cooperation, and in the havoc, they'd attacked each other, searching for a fast retreat. Wards, however, fled, abandoning their battle companions without a second thought. Thus, the three surviving armies tended to their wounded in improvised tents.
The elves had been reluctant to offer more help, especially since Thranduil had lost more people than he expected. They did, nonetheless. Dale ruins hosted Lake-Town survivors due to the sturdiness of their buildings. Not all of them were inhabitable just yet, and most of the ceilings had gone down since the first time Smaug attacked the city, but some were in decent condition, so the elves set spaces to care for the Men.
Inside the Lonely Mountain, Smaug's desolation and long stay were still fresh hence the resolution of putting up tents to tend the dwarven wounded until Erebor had been assessed.
Precisely, in the dwarven king's tent Bilbo had seen Thorin in agony for his battle wounds. Gandalf had shown himself pessimistic about his prognosis, and for Bilbo that was not ideal. Thorin apologized, feeling at the edge between life and death. He opened his heart forgoing his pride and begged for the halfling's forgiveness. Thorin knew Bilbo was a remarkable creature, yet the moment the hobbit forgave him without hesitation, he understood he'd been gifted with the most tender and affectionate of beings.
Thorin said his last words and Bilbo left the tent looking for a place where he could cry his heart out in peace. Gandalf will leave before winter becomes inclement for a journey, and Bilbo wished to be present at the funerals prior to their departure.
Enjoying his second pipe found him Balin. Luckily for Bilbo, he had stopped sobbing silently against his hands some time ago so there was no incriminating thing in his person. Balin knew, however. He was Balin son of Fundin.
"The lads are up and about."
Warmth spread in Bilbo's chest. "Fili had quite the fall," he stated with worry.
"We may not like it, laddie, but elven medicine is something else. Kili is lucid and ready to jump off of the bed," the idea brought a smile to the old dwarf's face. "Fili is still half-conscious. His pain has been dulled which has given him the wrong idea. Would you be so kind as to give them a little scold, Bilbo?"
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest finding it impossible to refuse such a petition. The boys were badly injured after a horrifyingly vile battle, their uncle had been killed, and their mother was miles away in the Blue Mountains. They had no one. He knew how terrifying that was as he himself had suffered it.
However, the most bizarre of things happened when Bilbo entered the king's tent where Thorin and his nephews had been brought after the battle. Fili and Kili's childish complaints paled in comparison to Thorin Oakenshield's.
Thorin Oakenshield, who was casting daggers at the unbothered elf tending a hissing in pain Fili.
Thorin Oakenshield, who made a face at the thing Oin was trying to make him drink.
Thorin Oakenshield, who–
"I thought you were dead." Bilbo's faint whisper set the tent in utter silence.
"Master Bag– Bilbo," Thorin corrected himself with something resembling tenderness. "I may have spoken in what we all expected to be my deathbed, but I want to assure you that I spoke the truth, my friend. I– I also… If you decide not to forgive my behavior now that I seem to be recovering, please rest assured that I respect your judgment and–"
"Oh, shut your mouth, you silly confounded stubborn dwarf!! I thought you were dead!!"
Confused glances were shared among the dwarves. The elf, however, bit their lips unwilling to smile at the halfling's antics.
"I apologize. I–"
Bilbo moved his hands stopping Thorin's unnecessary words. With that, Bilbo Baggins took charge of the king's tent and the line of Durin survived for many years.
The end.
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shoutydwarf · 1 year
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people don’t call inquisition/da:d “elf simulator”/”elf age” because they hate elves and elvhen lore. Let Me Be Clear: 
- elves have the most special dialogue options. even more if you’re a f!mage. bioware accidentally forgot dalish elves know who mythal is for ONE dialogue wheel and people really used it to run with the idea that elves were somehow narratively shafted during inquisition; meanwhile dwarves in the descent dlc, you know, THE DWARF DLC where you get your Crumb Of Dwarf, you get next to no special dialogue options besides being told by valta that you’re not a Real Dwarf and you don’t have stone sense (which isn’t even true. stone sense comes back to all dwarves if they’re underground long enough. this is more of bioware trying to prove all the disgusting corrupt systems in place are Acthually Correct Trollol.. that or they just forgot bc they dont care.) 
- eluvians, the fade, fen’harel, everything that comes out of solas’s mouth, a chunk of WEWH, inquisitor ameridan being a dalish elf, etc is not at all narratively relevant to anyone but an elf inquisitor. spin all the stories you want to make eluvians and elvhen gods important to your non-elf OCs but off what we get in the games alone, without doing an ungodly amount of work to make it fit, what BIOWARE has established, it means nothing. you can argue that all of this is important to the inquisitor on principal of them Being inquisitor but... be fucking serious
- elves seeing the crossroads differently than other races. just another special elfy thing
- every single religion is being geared up to link back to the elves. i think we can all agree by now that andraste is flemythal and the maker is mythal (whether u think the theory is good or not is neither here nor there, bioware is so predictable at this point). and thank god she freed the dwarves from the titans, amirite! it’d really suck if the dwarves had something exclusive! (bioware if you try to paint the titans as slavers and mythal as the Dwarven Savior........................)
- you can make an argument for any of the origins in da:o fitting “the best” as canon. the dalish elf is as ignorant to the world outside of the forest as the player is. cousland is your classic betrayed hero thrust into saving the world tale. dwarves are intrinsically tied to the darkspawn/wardens. the mages are freed birds but the world outside their cage is corrupted and torn asunder. tabris/brosca is your saving the world that never fought for them back tale. they all equally mean something in unique, valuable ways to the main story and it shows through ample unique dialogue options and main quest relevance. 
- can you REALLLLYYYYY say the same for all of the non-elf da:i origins? what do we got, a mercenary vashoth. a carta dwarf. a human noble or mage. all random NPCs fr. but the dalish elf who unlocks the power of an elvhen orb which leads to a slew of world-shattering reveals about the lore they grew up with and believed in? meanwhile ur dwarf/human/qunari inquisitor didn’t even know there WAS a plot twist. they didnt even know there was a plot
- all of this extra elf stuff would be perfectly fine. the countless elvhen ruins, lore reveals etc. if it was even REMOTELY evenly distributed across all the races. BUT IT’S NOT. 
- it would also be fine if inquisition was a one-off elf-focused game but they used the opportunity to take from every other races’ lore and make it about elves, so now A. there’s no going back, B. the 4th game’s title is literally dreadwolf wow i wonder who the story is going to be written for, C. if i ever have to hear with my own two ears “i’ve been through shit that would make the deep roads look like a cake walk!” followed by the dwarf at the receiving end of this Dying From Being Pwned, i’m going to get violent
- the point is that it’s bioware’s fault, not the elves. “elf simulator” is poking fun at biowares pandering to solavellan twitter, not at elf players lmao
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themightywolftiger · 2 days
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I've been working on references for Frozen Over AU. Everyone's refs are in no particular order.
Heck, the order that I post them in won't even reflect the order that I drew them in.
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Scar:
Scar in this AU is a half elf; A half forest elf to be more specific. Forests can very in their climate, flora, and fauna. Forest elves are no different. On top of this, Forest elves can share appearances with species native to the forest or are present in their lives.
The forest elf that Scar gets his halfness from is from a moderate climate. It does see snow on occasion. Scar also gets more beastial, cat-like traits (fangs, nose, a tail).
2. Cubfan:
Cub is, like a lot of interpretations of his character, a bear hybrid. I had the idea of a black bear going on in my head for awhile. But, ultimately, he's probably just a bear.
Cub is also very sleepy during the events of this AU. Poor guy. Not too much to say about his design and hybridness besides what I've already said.
Neither Scar nor Cub are vexes in this AU. They were cured of that during a prior season.
Also, Cub is actually slightly taller than Scar (both around 6'0). Scar is just slouching a bit. Scar also will have his wheelchair in the AU. I just need some time to figure out a design (maybe snow treads? or snow wheels? Haven't decided)
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3. Impulse:
Impulse is a dwarf. A cave dwarf to be more specific. Cave dwarves are use to cold temperatures of the deeper, wetter caves that they could inhabit.
Impulse is a cave dwarf that lives within more hotter cave climates. Lava and such. Hence why Impulse where's shorter sleeves. His body temperature runs warmer.
Impulse's design is basically a more fleshed out version of the concept I've drawn for him. I've also changed Impulse's horn shape a bit and give him a tail. His tail is made of thin hairs with a large tuft on the end.
4. Zedaph:
Zedaph is still a sheep hybrid. He's extra wooly now that this freeze has set in on the server. He still wears the big, poofy coat though (visibility and also fashionable).
Zedaph's design was the first design that I actually had finalized. I just couldn't get the idea of Zedaph in a big pink coat out of my head. Zedaph is also the first person to be in his Frozen Over get up in the AU.
Separated versions of Cub and Scar under the cut (I couldn't fit Scar's tail in). Impulse and Zedaph don't have separated versions due to their designs being more compact on the canvas:
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chainsxwsmile · 28 days
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Despite his enormous size, Bruce had managed to slip away during the chaos. As the battles breached several fronts across Erebor’s field, its sister mountains, and Dale, the Olog skirted around the perimeter beyond the manmade city and traveled as far westward as his limbs carried him until the smoke had cleared from the skies and the smell of blood no longer punctured the air. He’d been fortunate enough to evade what was left of those Orcs and Trolls who had retreated. However, stragglers were little issue compared to other problems…
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Within a few days of traveling, Bruce had managed to remove the bladed shields from both of his arms. But this confounded muzzle! It was only fitting that one of the commanders suggested such a cruel device. A rusted piece of metal warped around the Olog’s snout to muffle his speech. Preventing any word of his pleading to reach the ears of the other side. To prevent his fraternizing with the enemies with whom Bruce had neither quarrel nor desire to battle. The leather strap of the muzzle wound to the side and the back of his head and braided into a chain with no clasp. Even with his claws free, the Olog had no such luck removing the contraption. The muzzle made it difficult to drink, and impossible to eat; with only two slits carved into the metal allowing access to any drops of water.
It had been days since he’d eaten, and the fatigue of fleeing had manifested into soreness in all four of his limbs.  
The Olog needed this device off him—desperately— but dared not travel back from hence he came. Any Elf, Man, or Dwarf in their right mind would shoot him upon sight. But he needed to find someone.
Despite the muzzle providing its own issues, Bruce felt marginally grateful towards the cover of forest which further aided his escape. Standing nearly fifteen feet tall and skin a slate-blue, the Olog couldn’t exactly camouflage well in an open field. The forest produced an odd mixture of ease and claustrophobia as he traveled, but it was not long before Bruce picked up on a novel scent. Olog-hai had a remarkably keen sense of smell, even with a barrier like a muzzle. And this scent was not something Bruce had encountered before.
The Olog crept down on all fours, silencing his footfalls as he moved along the underbrush toward the source. When Bruce finally did happen upon the creature, he could only blink owlishly in puzzlement. The stranger a few meters ahead grew no taller than a Dwarf but pointed ears protruded from a head of curled locks. Not a Dwarf, but not an Elf. Not a Man, either from the scent.
But… this creature appeared to be quite alone. No army or regiment to be seen, even for such a little creature. If there was any an opportune time, this was certainly it. Bruce held his breath as he carefully moved closer, meter by meter towards the stranger.  
@blackarrcw
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tathrin · 1 year
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Hi! You know I love your Mirkwood OCs. Can you say a little more about Eregmegil? Backstory? Any secrets? Why does he appear to have become a Gimli fan, after the life you've hinted at?
Oh OH! Eregmegil, yes, I would love to talk about him. I'm entirely normal about the elves of Mirkwood shhh. So, I'm guessing that this is largely in reference to the bit here where he carries Gimli through the trees so that he can get back quickly and find out whether or not Legolas is going to be okay after the orc-kidnapping, because there's no indication given in that story of why exactly it is Eregmegil should go out of his way like that for Gimli, yes?
So, yes: Eregmegil has very strong feelings about people being forcibly separated from somebody they care about, because his whole family was murdered in Doriath in the Second Kinslaying, and he has spent the rest of his life in Green/Mirkwood watching the folks around him lose people they love first in the Last Alliance and then in the long, slow defeat against the creeping Shadow of Dol Guldur. Including Angmeril, Thranduil's wife, who was one of the first elves they lost after the Last Alliance and whose departure was extremely traumatic for the whole forest for a host of reasons.
And it was Thranduil who carried little Eregmegil out of Doriath, having been the only one to hear him crying under his sister's corpse amidst the chaos, and having taken the time and risked his own life and that of his father to pull Eregmegil out and carry him out with them. Little Eregmegil latched-on real hard to Thranduil after that and has basically decided to devote his whole life to Keeping Thranduil Safe now.
But also he has a LOT of feeling about Protective Older Siblings, especially sisters, because his own died trying to protect him from the Fëanorians. So that's why he decides to pry himself away from Thranduil to go look after Rílaerloth for a little, because that's about the only impetus that could make him leave Thranduil when he's not 100% sure that Thranduil is going to be okay.
Hopefully all of those background details will get to come out in Coming Home Under The Trees, which is where I'm doing the bulk of my Mirkwood OC Building, but if you want an advance read of the Gimli-and-Eregmegil-bonding chapter that's going to eventually be included in that story...read on.
*also Eregmegil 100% has one of those oversized anime swords but he's so big no one can quite prove it.
NOTE that this is all rough first draft writing at this point.
Gimli stepped back, his palms raised in surrender. He shook his head at the hands that stretched back towards him. "Nay!" he gasped, his chest heaving in exertion. "Peace, you fiends! I must rest 'ere I fall off my feet."
The elves laughed and returned to their dancing, Legolas pausing just long enough to catch Gimli's eye and raise his brows in a silent question. Gimli nodded—he was fine, perfectly fine! He just needed a moment to breathe, for Mahal's sake!—and Legolas grinned and let himself be pulled back into the merry tumult under the trees.
Gimli brushed sweat-damp curls out of his face and looked around the clearing for a suitable seat. He did not want to go too far from the fire: the night pressed-in dark around the vibrant circle of elvish revelry and while Eryn Lasgalen was a more peaceful place than it had once been, his father's stories about Mirkwood lingered in his mind. Gimli was not keen to go wandering these woods with neither path nor elf to guide him back out of the shadows, not even now that those shadows at last were lightening to match the new name of their lands.
He spotted a likely log lying comfortably within the fire's glow, and Gimli made his way across the grass towards his pending seat with only two interruptions of elves trying to pull him back into the dance. He demurred politely and they shrugged and flitted off to their merriment without him.
The dwarf had to admit that Legolas had not been boasting when he had told Gimli that no one in all of Middle-earth hosted a revel quite as enthusiastically as the elves of Mirkwood. He had scoffed at first, expecting celebrations more in line with the gentle merrymaking he had experienced in Lórien, or the cozy nights of song in Rivendell. What he had found instead was carousing more akin to that which he'd experienced briefly in Rohan, yet somehow more raucous and unflagging. Mirkwood's elves cavorted as though they were going to war with sleep and sorrow both, and each twirl of their dance was a salvo in the battle against solemnity.
Gimli had kept up well, at first; dwarves are experienced revel-makers and they take their celebrations as seriously as they do their crafts or mining. But there comes a point in the night where dwarven celebrations turn from rowdy to melancholic, and in Mirkwood no such slower periods were allowed to dilute the tireless tumult of their festivities. The wine kept flowing, the songs kept rising, and the dancers kept spiraling around the fire as swift as arrows in the wind.
The problem, Gimli had finally determined, was that elves did not know how to appreciate sleep. It was because they did not partake of it properly, he thought, wandering as they did through half-waking dreams rather than sinking fully into slumber like reasonable folk. They did not know how to truly rest, so they simply kept going about their revels long past when all sensible peoples would have taken to their beds—aye, and then woke again without taking nearly enough time for slumber in between!
He was only a few feet away from the log where he intended to rest his feet when he realized that one end of it was already occupied; so still was the elf sitting upon it that, in the shadows at the edge of the clearing his green and brown garb blended almost completely with the foliage around him. Gimli was not sure if his presence would be welcomed or not—anyone sitting solitary at a bacchanal like this was doubtless seeking solitude rather than interruption by a near-stranger—but it would have been impolite to immediately turn aside, so he resolved himself to make a few minutes of polite conversation at least before taking himself off to some other seat and leaving the other to his chosen seclusion.
"Mae govanen," Gimli said with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion," he continued when the elf—Gimli thought he recognized him as one of the guards he had met on his first arrival to the forest, although his head was muzzy enough that he knew it would take him several seconds to place the proper name—gave him a nod in response. He was still dressed in the light molded-leaf jerkin that served Eryn Lasgalen's warriors for armor and sported elegant bracers on his arms, but his sleeves beneath the armor were short enough to expose pale arms that were muscled almost thickly enough to belong to a Man although not, of course, to a Dwarf. His dark hair and white face were striking in the firelight—few of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen were quite so pale, and fewer of them sported such sharp contrast in their coloring—but it was the breadth of his shoulders and the stoutness of his arms that Gimli noticed the most. He was still uncomfortably slim to dwarven eyes, but less so than any other elf that Gimli had met. Had someone chopped his limbs down to a more reasonable length, he could almost have passed for a normal, if unhealthily skinny, person—at least if someone had loaned him a beard!
Realizing he was staring impolitely in his attempt to put a name to the face in front of him, Gimli offered a friendly smile and continued teasingly, "I do not wish to bring merriment with me to where it is unwanted, but if you will allot me a few moments in which to rest my tired feet from the revels you have chosen to eschew, I promise to keep my merry-making to a minimum in the interim and thus refrain from interrupting your repose."
He meant it as a jest, likely to segue into a bit of banter about dwarven endurance or perhaps commiseration about the other's likewise weary toes, but perhaps the elf could not see the grin on Gimli's face beneath his beard for he responded to his words as though they had been spoken in grim seriousness: "It is true, Lord Gimli, I am not much for merriment, but you are welcome to take your rest for as long as you like regardless of however much mirth you might feel or express; your presence brings no distress."
Gimli was taken aback but he hid it well; with another short bow he settled himself upon the lower curve of the fallen branch and stretched his legs out in front of him with a contented sigh.
"My thanks, Master Elf," he said, and finally the name came back to him: Eregmegil, the tallest of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen that Gimli had yet met, although that was not evident while he was seated thus. "You are a most generous host." Gimli glanced sidelong at the elf, but if Eregmegil's pale face evinced any particular feeling it was not distinct enough for Gimli to discern it in the dim shadows at the fire's edge.
As for Gimli, he smiled vaguely as a familiar laugh rose from Legolas's lips above above the nearby tumult, but he made no effort to spot the whirl of his golden hair twirling amid the rest of the cavorting elves. It was enough to know that his friend was happy; enough to sit here in peace and be happy himself.
The dwarf had abandoned his light jest at Eregmegil's words, being much more intrigued by this stoic elf than by his planned banter. "I hope you will not think it over-rude of a curious stranger if I ask why you have come to this revel, then, if you have no care for such things?" He flapped a hand in the general direction of the fire and the frolicking figures circling it. "Surely you would enjoy your evening more elsewhere, if you take no pleasure in such nonsensical cavorting?"
"My king is here, so I am here," Eregmegil said flatly.
Gimli was startled enough that he knew it showed on his face; only the fact that Eregmegil was not looking at him, but rather at the swirl of dancers at the fire, spared him the embarrassment of being seen to give such an impolite reaction. He could not help himself; it was a genuinely startling statement. The elves of Eryn Lasgallen were probably the least conscious of their king's rank as any people in all of Middle-earth, at least any that Gimli had yet met.
Dwarves were not given to standing on unnecessary ceremony themselves, but even at their most casual they were always conscious of their king's status as the king. These elves, by contrast, seemed to treat Thranduil more like a communal father-figure than as a ruler. Legolas and his sister did not even seem to qualify as royalty in the eyes of their people (no wonder, then, that Legolas had been more prone to introduce himself by his land than his lineage!) and while Rílaerloth was at least beneficiary of the respect afforded her as a commander of their warriors, Legolas—despite all of his heroic deeds—seemed to be viewed still as little more than a hapless child by many of his fellows, as though he were the whole forest's little brother rather than Rílaerloth's alone.
This behavior was strange to Gimli, and even after many days spent in company with Eryn Lasgalen's people he was still not used to their casual disregard for rank or ceremony—or so he had thought, until he was confronted by an example of someone acting more according to his expectations. Gimli was intrigued. Thranduil's people regularly showed affection for him, yes, but this was the first time he had seen any of them express the sort of dutiful devotion that beloved kings oft engendered in other lands.
He studied Eregmegil where he sat on the log beside him, but the pale elf's profile was as smooth and emotionless as if he had been carved from white granite.
"Think you that Thranduil requires a guard, then?" Gimli asked. "I thought the threats had been driven from your trees." He could not quite resist the urge to squint into the darkness past Eregemegil's shoulders—broad for an elf, Gimli noted, but still scrawny as a sapling by dwarven standards—although he was certain that the flickers of ominous motion he saw between the black silhouettes of the trees were only the result of his eyes and the flickering firelight playing tricks on him.
He was almost certain, anyway.
"Many of them have been," Eregmegil acknowledged. "The largest are all destroyed, and the rest have been hounded far from our halls, at any rate." His voice was no more coarse than any elf's but there was something to the tone of his words that made them seem more brusque than what Gimli was accustomed to hearing from his friend's people; a flatness that stood in stark contrast to the musical lilt that Gimli had begun to think was an innate part of elvish tongues.
"And yet you stay to guard him?" Gimli observed curiously. "That is admirable devotion."
For a long time Eregmegil stared at him in silence, so that Gimli began to think that he had offended the tall elf. He cast his mind about for a suitable apology, but before he could make one, Eregmegil broke their gaze to look back into the fire instead and said:
"He carried me out of Doriath."
"Doriath?" Gimli repeated, the half-formed phrasing of his repentance dashed instantly from his mind. He knew the name of Doraith, and recognition made his heart sink. "Ahh…"
"It was the Fëanoreans who brought tragedy to Doriath, in my case," Eregmegil said. The glance he slotted sideways at Gimli seemed to shine with a glimmer of momentary amusement at odds with his otherwise impassive mien before he faced forward again, stoic as ever.
Gimli nodded and tried to resist the urge to breathe a telltale sigh of relief.
"I was a child when they came, too small to fight," Eregmegil continued. His bland voice carried a bitter undercurrent. "My sister grabbed me and ran, but they pursued. She tried to fight, but she was no warrior. They dashed her knife from her hand and stabbed her with it. We fell, she curling low to protect me still. They stabbed her again with their long swords—stabbed us both as we lay there, but her body shielded mine and I was cut only along the arm." He gestured to the offending limb and Gimli was startled to see what seemed to be a long, thin scar along the pallid flesh. "She was cut deeper. I lay there, pinned beneath her like a caged bird, and watched as her fae left her eyes. I felt her grow cold in my mind and against my skin as we lingered there in the dark. She died, and I lay there trapped by her dead weight and my own sorrow."
Gimli's breath caught in his chest and strangled whatever insufficient words of sympathy he might have offered. Eregmegil did not seem to notice; he spoke matter-of-factly, although his eyes flashed with dark shadows in the firelight.
"It was Thranduil who pulled me from the ruin of her body," the tall elf continued calmly. "He heard my tears, somehow, even over the clash of battle that echoed through Menegroth's halls. Bleeding, his surviving father dangling half-dead at his side, his hands filled with the bloody swords of his living and dead father both, the Fëanoreans close on his heels, Thranduil still stopped and pulled me from my sister's arms. He set me on his shoulders and carried me, carried both Lord Oropher and myself, out from the ruin of Doriath; somehow still fighting to defend us all despite his burdens and his wounds and his own losses; carried me away from the darkness of our dying home and back into the light of the world beyond."
Gimli did not know if it was some trick of the firelight reflecting off of Eregmegil's grim grey eyes, or a result of the many droughts of heady elvish wine he had quaffed this night, but for a moment he could almost see it: the great halls of lost Menegroth, once a glorious testament to the marvels that could be crafted when elf and dwarf worked hand-in-hand, now incarnadined with blood and darkened with betrayal; its proud torches sputtering or gone out altogether, cut-down by enemy hands; too many fair elvish bodies strewn about the fastness of the Thousand Caves, cut down cruelly by blades of elvish make wielded by elvish hands; and one small child, sobbing into his sister's silent sleeve. Then from the shadows staggered Thranduil, his golden locks stained ruddy with blood, bare blades gleaming in both hands, one arm wrapped tight around his father's waist with Oropher's arm dangling limp across his shoulders, both elves bleeding heavily from many wounds; the elder nearly insensate and the younger wild-eyed and desperate, yet still in enough possession of his senses and his compassion to stop to help a fearful child…
(If the younger Thranduil in Gimli's imagination looked more like his son than like himself, well, what of it?)
He blinked, and the vision vanished, and there was once more only dark trees looming before his eyes. He cleared his throat, and managed to murmur something that expressed his sorrow for Eregmegil's losses without revealing the depths of his horror at such suffering at the hands of those who should have been kith or even kin rather than bloody-handed enemies; dwarves had fought amongst themselves in ages past too, of course, but somehow the level tone of Eregmegil's recitation made Gimli's skin crawl more than any tales of those regrettable conflicts had ever done.
(Maybe it was just that he kept picturing Legolas stumbling down those bloodstained halls rather than his father.)
Eregmegil accepted Gimli's admittedly less-than-eloquent sympathies with an impassive nod. Wishing to draw both his and the elf's thoughts to lighter places, Gimli cleared his throat again and asked, "So, ah, what was next? I confess I do not know the history of this forest as well as I should, but I believe that Thranduil and his father settled somewhere nearby before venturing forth to Greenwood, is that not so?"
"Yes," Eregmegil said. "We fled to Lindon. I was reunited with my surviving relations there. They made a home among the Green-elves and the other refugees who settled in Ossiriand." He was looking at the fire again rather than the dwarf, or perhaps at the dancers; his blank expression was as unreadable as his voice. "But Thranduil and Oropher were not content to live there among so many Noldor, not after the fall of Menegroth. Not after the Kinslaying. And nor was I. They soon left to go east, to find the Silvan elves who still lived there—here," he amended, tilting one palm up to gesture at the forest around them.
There should have been more bitterness in Eregmegil's voice, Gimli thought; bitterness or scorn or something. This cool, too-calm recital made him shiver despite the warmth of the fire.
"Oropher hoped to find somewhere to live in better ways, more elvish ways; the ways in which our people lived before the Valar meddled and the Enemy made war upon us," the elf continued in his passionless way. "My relatives would not leave the new home they sought to craft in Ossiriand, but I already knew then that my place would henceforth be ever at Thranduil's side. I joined with the handful of other Sindar who chose to leave Lindon and seek-out the elves who had never joined the pilgrimage of the Valar; who had never been coaxed to abandon their native lands or customs."
"Were you not still a child?" Gimli asked, surprised. He was no expert on elvish history, of course, but he had been curious enough about Legolas's homeland to question his friend about its founding, and he had thought that he had a better sense of the timeline than this. Had not Oropher left Ossiriand within only a few years? Perhaps Eregmegil had simply been older than Gimli had pictured him in the story of Doriath's destruction; he might have been only a little shy of his majority, like Gimli himself had been when his father had joined Thorin's expedition to Mirkwood all those years ago: Old enough to feel that he was being left behind, but still seen as a child in his people's eyes.
Eregmegil nodded, however. "A child, yes, but not a fool," he said in a dry voice. "I did not ask for permission, and so my relations could not deny me. I left with my lord and came to Greenwood." He looked around at the tall, dark trees that rose into the black night sky far overhead, beyond the heavy leaves, and his grey eyes were as flat as the dullest stone that Gimli had ever carved. He did not smile at the trees. Had Gimli seen any elf in this forest fail to smile at their trees, even the most shadowed and twisted of them? And these trees were bright and merry in comparison to many of their fellows, as though they too shared in the delight of the elves for their firelit revelry.
"And have you been here ever since?" the dwarf asked carefully. "Or are you newly-returned, now that the Shadow has lifted?"
"I left these woods only once, to follow my lord to war in Mordor," Eregmegil replied. "It would take more than Shadow in the trees to tear me from his side.  Wherever Thranduil goes I will follow him, even unto the breaking of the world and yet beyond."
Gimli could not help but shiver at the weight of those words. There may have been no oath sworn—or then again there may have been, in days long ago before Gimli's father's father was born to hear it—but there was a surety to Eregmegil's voice that was as unshakable as any vow. He meant what he spoke with every fiber of his elvish fae, and he would damn himself to the Void before he forsook that intent.
"And yes," Eregmegil continued, and once again there seemed to be the faintest flicker of amusement across his grim lips, gone so fast that Gimli could not be sure he had not imagined it, "also to these merry revels that you seem to find so trying."
"I do not find them trying in the least," Gimli protested. "I quite enjoy them, in fact—I am simply tired!" He shifted on the log and scowled petulant. "Well and after all, I am much shorter than the other dancers," the dwarf added, feeling unaccountably as though he needed to justify himself. "I must work twice as hard as them to keep-up with the pace of their cavorting. No wonder I tire before the rest!" he blustered, despite knowing very well that the heart of the problem was not the speed of the dance nor the unseemly length of elvish legs, but rather the fact that elves simply had no proper appreciation for the merits of slumber, strange creatures that they were. Gimli was a stout and hearty dwarf, and justly proud of his strength and endurance; he was simply mortal, that was all, and as such he needed to sometimes refresh himself in ways that these flibbertigibbet elves would never comprehend.
"I stand corrected," Eregmegil murmured, and Gimli was certain this time that he detected a flicker of genuine amusement ghosting briefly across the elf's thin lips.
He harrumphed a grudging acknowledgement of Eregmegil's words and propped his chin in his hands, the better to watch the dancing. His eyes slowly drifted out of focus and he sank into something that was halfway to a doze, content to let his thoughts float as aimlessly and amiably as the blurry figures of the cavorting elves in front of him. As tiring as elvish dancing could be for a mortal participant, there was something restful about watching them too. 
"Do not mistake me, Master Dwarf," Eregmegil said after a while, shaking Gimli from his reverie.  "I do not dislike the revels of my people." Eregmegil nodded at the fire, and the whirling shapes of the other elves cavorting wildly around it, their lithe forms coming slowly back into focus as Gimli blinked. "I simply prefer to enjoy them from the edges here, where I can find pleasure in their delight without feeling compelled to manifest any of my own."
Eregmegil's gaze slanted back to Gimli, and now the dwarf could see a hollow darkness behind the mirror-like grey eyes that fixed so coolly upon his own. Had it been there all along, unnoticed, or had speaking of the past brought the vacuous shadows to the forefront? Gimli could not say, but no more could he unsee them now. "Whatever joy I once found in dance or in song went out of this world when my sister's spirit fled to the Halls of Mandos," Eregmegil continued flatly. "But it pleases me to see my people's joy, and in this bitter world that is comfort enough for me."
In the months since Legolas first heard the gulls at Pelargir, Gimli had developed a habit of skirting all mention of the Sea. It was thus not difficult for him to restrain the urge to ask why Eregmegil had not sought the healing of the Undying Lands that so many of his people sailed away to find when their spirits fell to the burden of such unendurable grief. He did not need to ask; he already knew the answer. Eregmegil surely knew as well as any elf—and far better than any dwarf, even one named elvellon—that the wounds of his soul could be staunched in fair and distant Valinor. But leaving would mean leaving his king's side, which would be the most grievous wound of all. And so he stayed, and carried the shadow of his losses with him, and endured.
Not for the first time, Gimli thought that the unmeasured lives of the elves was far from the enviable gift that so many mortals seemed to think them. If they had lived solely in joy, then their years unending might be something to covet—but the more time Gimli spent with elves, the more tragedy and sorrow he saw surrounding them. He had never brooded on the inevitability of Mahal's Peace the way so many Men repeatedly shied-away from their own inevitable end, had never feared the inevitability of his own ending; but sitting here at the edge of the firelight with Eregmegil, Gimli thought that rather than simply inevitable, there might be a certain comfort in the knowledge that one day an end would come to him. There would never be a day when he sat, two Ages of the world removed from the deaths of his kin, separated from the joy of his people by the weight of his own grief.
A flash of gold in the firelight caught Gimli's eye and he smiled instinctively at the sight of Legolas whirling like a wild thing in his friends' arms. The dwarf's tired feet ached just from looking at the roister of the dance, but like Eregmegil he was pleased enough simply to watch the unflagging joy of those who spun.
Legolas had described Mirkwood revels as though they were weapons against the darkness that hung over their forests, and Gimli had thought he had understood what his friend meant before, but he realized that it was only now, sitting beside grim and grieving Eregmegil, that he truly grasped the meaning of this defiant cheer.
The elves of Mirkwood—or Greenwood, or Eryn Lasgalen, or whatever else one chose to call this forest; the shadows that had defined it for so long hung over it still, even as they finally began to lessen, whatever name it bore—they were not less cognizant of elvish sorrows than their grander kin; in some ways perhaps they knew those sorrows better, for there was nothing to insulate the simple elves of Mirkwood from their weight, nothing but their own deliberate scorn for the sadness that strove to claim them.
The world wished for them to sigh in sadness? Then they would sing, sing until their voices gave out and dance until their shoes were worn clean through and the very trees around them reverberated with the echoes of their weaponized joy.
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cilil · 11 months
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Day 5 Melkor ⋆⛧⋆ Mairon
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Synopsis: After their preparations are complete, Melkor calls Mairon to his side to witness the fall of their enemies.
Warnings: Mentions of battle and people dying in the background (non-graphic)
Author's Note: Mairon first today for timeline reasons. Hope you enjoy!♡
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"It is time." 
"Now come and watch our enemies burn." 
Melkor's words caused Mairon's entire being to shudder and ignite with excitement, and he rushed to his husband's side.
The Vala was standing on the mighty peaks of Thangorodrim, unmoving and silent like a tall, looming shadow, though their enemies in the plain down below were blissfully unaware of their impending doom. Mairon could hear the very stone whispering, hissing, rumbling underneath his feet as he went, fiery heat coursing through its veins as if it was a living beast about to awaken. 
"Our forces are ready, my love," he whispered, shivering as the cold, crisp winter air engulfed his fána after hours in the forge. 
Melkor nodded slowly without turning his head and held out one arm, prompting the fire spirit to take his place by his side and snuggle up to him underneath his cloak to seek warmth. 
"I promised you once that you would witness the true power of your element," he said. "And today will be such a day. Behold!"
Thick, ashen smoke arose from Thangorodrim, blotting out Varda's stars, and the ground beneath them started to quake. Mairon leaned against the Vala, closed his eyes with smile and allowed himself to simply feel. Through their marriage bond, he listened to the song of fire, death and destruction that Melkor was weaving, felt Arda itself answering its master's call, saw through music instead of his eyes. 
Magma bubbled within the heart of the Thangorodrim beneath, rising to the surface and spraying onto solid rock in magnificent fiery-orange showers. It flowed down the mountains in swift, steady streams that devoured everything in their wake, and the green plain of Ard-galen was consumed by rivers of flame. The air became thick and heavy with deadly, poisonous smoke and gas, as if to suffocate all life that had not yet perished within the raging, all-consuming inferno unleashed by the mightiest of the Valar. 
The Unseen realm was filled with the screams and wails of dying fëar, torn from their hröar suddenly and brutally; but their voices were soon lost to Mairon as wild laughter fell from his lips, full and soft as they had been before his fall, yet now tainted by cruel words and the sinful touch of his Valarin lover. 
And before he knew it, Melkor was kissing him in the midst of the fiery storm he had unleashed, drinking his dark joy and passion from those lovely rosy lips as if he was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. 
They knew Gothmog was leading Angband's armies into battle down below, but at that moment the sounds of battle were meaningless noise to them; they knew neither Elf nor Man nor Dwarf could withstand Melkor's hellish fires, and those who still drew breath would surely fall to the might of their forces. 
Their enemies would rue the day they came to their lands forever. 
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ebaeschnbliah · 5 months
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A little way beyond the battle-field they made their camp under a spreading tree ...
... it looked like a chestnut, and yet it still bore many broad brown leaves of a former year, like dry hands with long splayed fingers; they rattled mournfully in the night-breeze.
Gimli shivered. They had brought only one blanket apiece. 'Let us light a fire,' he said. 'I care no longer for the danger. Let the Orcs come as thick as summer-moths round a candle!'
'If those unhappy hobbits are astray in the woods, it might draw them hither,' said Legolas.
'And it might draw other things, neither Orc nor Hobbit,' said Aragorn. 'We are near to the mountain-marches of the traitor Saruman. Also we are on the very edge of Fangorn, and it is perilous to touch the trees of that wood, it is said.'
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'But the Rohirrim made a great burning here yesterday,' said Gimli, 'and they felled trees for the fire, as can be seen. Yet they passed the night after safely here, when their labour was ended.'
'They were many,' said Aragorn, 'and they do not heed the wrath of Fangorn, for they come here seldom, and they do not go under the trees. But our paths are likely to lead us into the very forest itself. So have a care! Cut no living wood!'
'There is no need,' said Gimli. 'The Riders have left chip and bough enough, and there is dead wood lying in plenty.' He went off to gather fuel, and busied himself with building and kindling a fire; but Aragorn sat silent with his back to the great tree, deep in thought; and Legolas stood alone in the open, looking towards the profound shadow of the wood, leaning forward, as one who listens to voices calling from a distance.
When the Dwarf had a small bright blaze going, the three companions drew close to it and sat together, shrouding the light with their hooded forms. Legolas looked up at the boughs of the tree reaching out above them.
'Look!' he said. 'The tree is glad of the fire!'
It may have been that the dancing shadows tricked their eyes, but certainly to each of the companions the boughs appeared to be bending this way and that so as to come above the flames, while the upper branches were stooping down; the brown leaves now stood out stiff, and rubbed together like many cold cracked hands taking comfort in the warmth.
There was a silence, for suddenly the dark and unknown forest, so near at hand, made itself felt as a great brooding presence, full of secret purpose. After a while Legolas spoke again.
'Celeborn warned us not to go far into Fangorn,' he said. 'Do you know why, Aragorn? What are the fables of the forest that Boromir had heard?'
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'I have heard many tales in Gondor and elsewhere,' said Aragorn, 'but if it were not for the words of Celeborn I should deem them only fables that Men have made as true knowledge fades. I had thought of asking you what was the truth of the matter. And if an Elf of the Wood does not know, how shall a Man answer?'
'You have journeyed further than I,' said Legolas. 'I have heard nothing of this in my own land, save only songs that tell how the Onodrim, that Men call Ents, dwelt there long ago; for Fangorn is old, old even as the Elves would reckon it.'
'Yes, it is old,' said Aragorn, 'as old as the forest by the Barrow-downs, and it is far greater. Elrond says that the two are akin, the last strongholds of the mighty woods of the Elder Days, in which the Firstborn roamed while Men still slept. Yet Fangorn holds some secret of its own. What it is I do not know.'
'And I do not wish to know,' said Gimli. 'Let nothing that dwells in Fangorn be troubled on my account!'
They now drew lots for the watches, and the lot for the first watch fell to Gimli. The others lay down. Almost at once sleep laid hold on them. 'Gimli!' said Aragorn drowsily. 'Remember, it is perilous to cut bough or twig from a living tree in Fangorn. But do not stray far in search of dead wood. Let the fire die rather! Call me at need!'
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With that he fell asleep. Legolas already lay motionless, his fair hands folded upon his breast, his eyes unclosed, blending living night and deep dream, as is the way with Elves. Gimli sat hunched by the fire, running his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of his axe. The tree rustled. There was no other sound.
Suddenly Gimli looked up, and there just on the edge of the fire-light stood an old bent man, leaning on a staff, and wrapped in a great cloak; his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes. Gimli sprang up, too amazed for the moment to cry out, though at once the thought flashed into his mind that Saruman had caught them. Both Aragorn and Legolas, roused by his sudden movement, sat up and stared. The old man did not speak or make, sign.
'Well, father, what can we do for you?' said Aragorn, leaping to his feet. 'Come and be warm, if you are cold!' He strode forward, but the old man was gone. There was no trace of him to be found near at hand, and they did not dare to wander far. The moon had set and the night was very dark.
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Suddenly Legolas gave a cry. 'The horses! The horses!'
The horses were gone. They had dragged their pickets and disappeared. For some time the three companions stood still and silent, troubled by this new stroke of ill fortune. They were under the eaves of Fangorn, and endless leagues lay between them and the Men of Rohan, their only friends in this wide and dangerous land. As they stood, it seemed to them that they heard, far off in the night. the sound of horses whinnying and neighing. Then all was quiet again, except for the cold rustle of the wind.
'Well, they are gone,' said Aragorn at last. 'We cannot find them or catch them; so that if they do not return of their own will, we must do without. We started on our feet, and we have those still.'
'Feet!' said Gimli. 'But we cannot eat them as well as walk on them ' He threw some fuel on the fire and slumped down beside it.
'Only a few hours ago you were unwilling to sit on a horse of Rohan,' laughed Legolas. 'You will make a rider yet.'
'It seems unlikely that I shall have the chance,' said Gimli.
'If you wish to know what I think,' he began again after a while 'I think it was Saruman. Who else? Remember the words of Éomer: he walks about like an old man hooded and cloaked. Those were the words. He has gone off with our horses, or scared them away, and here we are. There is more trouble coming to us, mark my words!'
'I mark them,' said Aragorn. 'But I marked also that this old man had a hat not a hood. Still I do not doubt that you guess right, and that we are in peril here, by night or day. Yet in the meantime there is nothing that we can do but rest, while we may. I will watch for a while now, Gimli. I have more need of thought than of sleep.'
The night passed slowly. Legolas followed Aragorn, and Gimli followed Legolas, and their watches wore away. But nothing happened. The old man did not appear again, and the horses did not return.
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JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers,  The Riders of Rohan
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