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lathalea · 4 months

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The Shrieking Monster

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨ This is a gift for @babe-bombadil as part of the @whiteoliphaunt 2023 exchange. ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨ Happy New Year everyone! 🥳

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield & Dis & little Fili & Kili Rating: G Warnings: family fluff Author's notes: A story set in the Blue Mountains about Thorin trying to be both a ruler and a good uncle at once. Young Fili and Kili are making it a tad difficult in their own cute way. Special thanks to @naryaflame for your linguistic help with a name :) If you prefer, you can read this fic on AO3.

Khuzdul: Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls, the settlement of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain in the Blue Mountains Amad - mother

It was a perfect morning. Thorin stretched and yawned, settling himself on his favourite chair in the kitchen. The air that whiffed into the dwarven stronghold from the outside felt warm on his cheeks and smelled like spring. As he sipped his morning tea, that strong, aromatic blend Dori bought in Bree, his sister appeared at the threshold. She gave Thorin a bright smile and, seeing her steaming mug on the table, she sat next to him. The lazy silence of the early hours of the day was soon broken by the appearance of two dishevelled pebbles, one with a thatch of golden hair, the other – with his hair as brown as a bear’s fur in winter. After the mandatory morning hugs, Thorin readied breakfast while Dís prepared her sons for the day, humming to herself. Thorin could not stop himself from smiling. His sister was probably already thinking of her visit to the market. She adored going there in the morning, especially on the days when the merchants arrived with new goods – and today was one of those days. Thorin sighed. As much as he wanted her to have a very much needed moment of respite – his sister-sons were quite a handful, to put it mildly – he was painfully aware of what it was going to mean to him. Half a day of having his eyes around his head and his ears pricked up for any unusual noises they may create… or worse – the ominous silence. In the past, there was only a handful of moments when he and Dís realised that the boys went completely silent. It never bode well.

This day, however, started with the pitter-patter of the boys’ bare feet, chatter and laughter, and the clatter of their bowls as they ate their oatmeal. Dís reminded them to behave while she was gone, and left for the market. Fíli seemed very content about this state of things, knowing well by now that staying with his mother’s brother meant visiting various places in these halls, like forges, or assisting Thorin in other exciting ways. It was different with Kíli – his loud wails of protest at being so cruelly abandoned reverberated against the walls of their home. Thorin imagined they must have followed their mother through the corridors of Thorinuldûm for a long while. Her Little Bear, as Dís called him, was still too young to understand the connection between Mommy leaving, and the sudden appearance of candied rhubarb or his favourite cream toffees.

Distracting Kíli from his misery was not easy, but Thorin managed it by offering to take the boys for a new adventure. Their big blue eyes shone as he told them they would be going to the lower levels of the city together. It was a real treat – Kíli had never been there before and Fíli visited them only a handful of times.

Thorin had a mind to visit the Engineers’ Quarter and show the lads around while discussing some technical issues with one of the water engineers. And so they began their adventure. As they descended down the wide stone stairs Kíli stumbled and yawned, so Thorin decided to carry him the rest of the way. Soon Little Bear began snoring in his arms, and Thorin attempted to ignore the fact that his own tunic was becoming gradually soaked through with his nephew’s saliva. He also started suspecting that the moniker “Little Bear” must have surely come from the fact that Kíli seemed to weigh more and more with every step, like a true bear.

“At least he is not crying,” Thorin muttered to himself, and kept on walking. Thank Mahal for silver linings.

As they arrived at their destination, however, the situation got worse. The Engineers’ Quarter was a crowded place that smelled like tar, coal, and burned leather. Not minding the much larger adult dwarves in their soot-stained clothes who carried – or carted – their wares from one place to another, curious Fíli began rushing between them, oblivious of the chaos he was creating. He took a look at the wheelwright’s workshop here, and then he had to see the toolmaker’s booth there; he then insisted on seeing how parchment was being made, and attempted to find the place where they manufactured those shiny cogwheels. If not for his golden mane, Thorin would have lost his nephew at least a couple of times. Brór, the water engineer he had a meeting with, joined Thorin in the chase for the high-spirited boy. Instead of looking at the water supply pipeline blueprints and trying to fix a problem with water pressure, they ended up unwillingly playing a hide-and-run game to the delight of the onlookers. Seeing your own king running back and forth through the great cavern with one giggling pebble strapped to his chest while chasing after the other one must have been very amusing… for anyone but him, Thorin thought with resignation. His resignation grew even more when he noticed Fíli climbing onto a tall work table… and jumping down onto a heap of coal.

When Thorin finally caught the runaway, they were both out of breath. Although it was rather Fíli who caught his uncle – the boy ran into him and clung to his left leg as if a throng of orcs chased him.

Fíli raised his teary-eyed face to Thorin and sobbed out, “A monster wanted to eat meeee…”

“A monster? Here?” Thorin’s brow furrowed.

It took him a while to reassure Fíli that no monster was going to eat him. In turn, Thorin promised to get rid of the said monster that apparently lurked in a nearby chamber, and shrieked at him. He left his nephews in the care of Brór who tried to look solemn, but his twitching lips betrayed him. Thorin grunted and entered the chamber, carefully looking around, adjusting his eyes to the dark surroundings. And then he saw two glowing points of red. And heard the shrieking.

When Thorin returned to Brór, Kíli was fast asleep once again. Leaving Little Bear in the engineer’s care once again, he took Fíli’s hand and led him to the entrance of the dark chamber. When they opened the door, they both heard the continuous shrieking now. His nephew stopped and refused to walk inside, covering his ears and closing his eyes.

“There are no monsters here, Fíli.” Thorin reassured the boy. “See for yourself.”

“Nnoooo…” muttered Fíli, hiding behind his uncle.

“Do not be afraid,” Thorin added. “Nothing will hurt you here. I promise.”

On the bench by the door stood a lantern. It took him a moment to light it. With the lantern in hand, Thorin crossed the threshold and approached the nearest lantern that hung on the wall, and then another, and another. Soon, the whole chamber was bright as day, each lantern giving off a pleasant yellow glow.

“You can come in now,” Thorin smiled encouragingly.

With his ears covered and his eyes set on the shrieking, wobbling entity in the middle of the chamber, Fíli shook his head.

“This is not a monster.” Thorin stepped towards the huge bulbous shape that made so much noise. He placed his hand on the top of the strange shaking thing and added, “This is a washing barrel.”

Fíli blinked and took a good look at it. The two red glowing points did not look like a pair of evil eyes any longer. Those were two ball-shaped lanterns standing on top of the… thing. That shrieking noise now seemed to sound like a couple of cogwheels that needed a bit of oil, and not like a monster’s screech. And the arm that seemed to reach out to grab him before, turned out to be a cast iron lever.

“A… barrel?” Fíli looked at his uncle and took one uncertain step towards him and the strange contraption.

“Correct. A barrel that washes your clothes,” Thorin explained in an even voice and at the same moment the shrieking stopped. “Look, it has just finished the washing cycle. Let me show you how it works. First, you open this hatch, like so… Watch out for the water! These clothes are clean, they only need to be wrung out and dried.”

As he spoke, Fíli slowly started closing the distance between them, his eyes becoming wider and wider.

“... but if you want to wash your clothes,” Thorin continued, “you need to put them inside, here, and add some soap suds. Then you close the hatch, pour some water here, crank this lever a few times, do this, like so, and wait for the washing barrel to finish its work!”

Thorin kept on talking until Fíli seemed to be completely in awe of this new piece of machinery, his fear completely forgotten. He peppered his uncle with tons of questions: how many cogwheels were there, how many times one should crank the lever, what the barrel was made of… and so on, and so forth. When they left the chamber, there was a big smile on the boy’s lips instead of tears.

On their way back home Fíli exclaimed, “This was the bestest adventure ever!”

Thorin thought that sometimes being an uncle happened to be quite rewarding. Even if his tunic was still wet from Kíli’s sleepy drooling.

***

His attitude completely changed less than half an hour later, when his nephews disappeared. Both of them. At once.

Stumbling over several painfully angular wooden toys, Thorin searched the boys’ bedroom. Nothing. He even looked under their beds (twice!), but there was no sign of the boys anywhere. They weren't sitting in the common kitchen nor searching for snacks in the pantry. Nor in Dwalin’s rooms where Kíli liked to play hide-and-scare with the big warrior. There were nowhere to be found – not in the rocking chair by the fireplace, nor even in Balin’s study by that large desk where Fíli liked to play so often. Thorin closed his eyes. If he did not find his nephews before Dís returned from the market, his sister would have Thorin’s own head on a spike. The wrath of dwarf-women was ten times fiercer than the one of dwarf-men. In the case of his little sister, the number was much higher, at least a hundred times. And Thorin would do everything he could to avoid being on the receiving end of it.

There was no time to lose. He recruited Dwalin, Óin, and Halkatla, Balin’s wife, to the task of finding the boys, but they returned empty-handed. No one had seen the boys since their early lunch. Then, they were supposed to take a nap, and Thorin remembered their yawning as they closed the door to their bedroom behind him.

And now they were gone. Kidnapped? — No, impossible, Thorin thought. Dwarves cherished their children like the greatest treasures they were, and no one else was allowed into Thorinuldûm. There were no goblins nor other dangers here either. It felt as if the boys magically disappeared in a puff of smoke. Thorin looked around the wide corridor he stood in, but he found no traces of the missing boys.

“Have you checked all of their favourite places?” Halkatla asked, her red-and-silver braids clinking as she turned her head towards Óin.

“Aye, we did,” he nodded. “Not a sign of them.”

“Those wee rascals! I bet they are up to somethin’.” Dwalin said. “They remind me of us. Remember that time, Thorin, when we were around their age or so, and half of Erebor was lookin’ for us all day long?”

“It would be difficult to forget it,” Thorin admitted. “We wanted to avoid another boring lesson with our tutor…”

“...and instead we went to explore the mines! What a shame we lost our way,” Dwalin grinned and nudged him. “It was fun!”

“Aye, fun on an empty belly. If only you had not forgotten our food,” Thorin replied, relieved that his nephews had a proper meal at least.

“If only ye had not forgotten that map ye were supposed to borrow from your father’s desk,” Dwalin chuckled.

Before Thorin could form an adequate riposte, a mousy-haired dwarf approached him.

“M’lord, Master Brór says that the pipeline is fully functional again,” the messenger bowed.

Thorin gave him a nod of thanks. At least he brought a piece of good news. Master Brór was a skilled engineer, and the way he handled Thorin’s own sister-sons…

“Either way,” Dwalin continued, “we had a real adventure on that day, hadn’t we, Thorin?”

A thought appeared in Thorin’s mind. Master Brór. An adventure.

“There was one place where we have not searched yet,” he turned to his companions.

“I am listening,” Halkatla tilted her head, reminding him of a curious raven.

“The Engineers’ Quarters.”

***

Master Brór was more than happy to receive words of thanks from Thorin in person for fixing that pipeline issue once and for all. Despite Thorin’s hopes, he had not seen Fíli or Kíli since they left the Engineers’ Quarters with their uncle earlier that day. Dwalin muttered a curse under his breath.

“Well, that’s it. I’m goin’ to check the workshops,” the warrior said.

“I’ll take the ones on the left, you take the ones on the right,” Halkatla followed him.

“Let’s go,” Dwalin replied, his voice trailing off as he walked away. “And those wee cave bats would better be there or I swear…”

Master Brór addressed Thorin, “I will spread the word as you requested, my lord. Someone must have seen them, I am certain of it. They could not have simply disappeared.”

Thorin agreed with him and began his own search. The rocks could not have swallowed them whole! Magic was out of the question as well, there had to be a logical solution to this! Thoring pulled at his short beard in frustration. Wandering through the area and looking for any signs of his nephews in places they visited earlier that day, he wondered if Óin had any luck. The healer was waiting at their home in case Fíli and Kíli returned there on their own. Perhaps the three of them were already sitting by the fire, with Óin telling the boys countless amusing stories, while Thorin and his companions were checking every nook and cranny on the lower level, going out of their minds with worry. He raised his head, listening to a peculiar sound and trying to figure out its source. It sounded like… shrieking. It was not at all difficult to recall Fíli’s eyes shining with fear, awe, and then curiosity at the sight of the washing barrel.

Without thinking, Thorin turned his steps towards the chamber that housed the “monster” Fíli had been so afraid of not so long ago.

When Thorin arrived at his destination, the door was ajar. Thorin could hear the shrieking very well, but there were other sounds too. Very familiar sounds.

He took a deep breath and shouted, “Dwalin! I found them!”

***

When Thorin stepped inside the chamber, the sounds became even clearer. One of them he identified as uncontrollable giggling, and the other one, slightly muted, sounded like: “Woooo! Woooo! Wooooo! A carousel! Woooo! Faster, Fíli! Woooo!”

Thorin breathed out a sigh of relief only to be struck by a pang of dread a moment later.

Fíli stood by the washing barrel, cranking the lever, grinning from ear to ear, and laughing. Kíli was nowhere to be seen, but his enthusiastic shouts seemed to be coming from inside of the barrel. Inside, not outside. Thorin swallowed; he considered screaming in terror, but something told him that this was most definitely an example of behaviour unworthy of a king. It took him a moment to melt the ball of ice that was forming in his stomach. He closed the distance between him and the barrel in a blink of an eye.

Thank Mahal, the hatch was open. Inside, Kíli sat with his back against a wall of the large metal container inside the machine, surrounded by various articles of laundry, with a happy grin on his face, and a stray sock on top of his head. A wave of relief washed over Thorin.

“Uncle Thorin! Uncle Thorin!” Fíli exclaimed. “We’re playing carousel! Want to jump in?”

Thorin did not.

“It is time to return home, boys,” Thorin simply said, taking Kíli out of the barrel. His clothes were damp and he smelled like those violet flowers Dís liked so much, but other than that, he looked happy, and what’s more important, he was in one piece – just like his older brother.

“But uncle...” Fíli started.

“Your amad will be home soon. Do you not want to see what she bought at the market?”

“A sugar horse? She promised!” The boy recalled his favourite treat.

Holding Kíli firmly against his chest with one arm, Thorin held out his hand to Fíli.

“Let us go and see,” he said with a smile as his nephew’s tiny hand grabbed his.

There would yet be time for scolding and for a conversation about not sneaking out anywhere alone, but for now, the only thing that Thorin wanted was to safely bring his little rascals home.

He only hoped they would manage to reach their halls before Dís returned.

***

When Dís crossed the threshold of their home later in the afternoon, she was greeted by complete silence. Her sons were nowhere to be seen, which was very suspicious. They were always the first ones to run to her and see what she brought them this time. She expected Thorin to welcome her and help her unpack her basket, as usual — but he was not there either. Was this that ominous silence she dreaded so much whenever her boys were executing another of their silly mischiefs? Not really. It seemed as if their home was empty… until she heard a familiar sound coming from a nearby chamber. Dís put the basket on the floor and tiptoed deeper into their halls.

The picture that unfolded before her eyes was the last thing she had expected. Her brother was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting on the backrest, his eyes closed. Fíli was cuddled up to his uncle’s side, his hair tousled, making her think of a skein of golden yarn. Kíli lay on the opposite side of his uncle, his head resting on Thorin’s lap and turned towards her. He had his thumb in his mouth. Dís could clearly see the darker stain of drool on her brother’s trousers and stifled a giggle.

All three of them were asleep, of course. And all three of them were snoring in perfect unison. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that she had a working sawmill in front of her.

This scene was too adorable for Dís to interrupt it, so she decided that she would let her three boys sleep a little longer. There was no harm in a little nap, after all. Besides, she was tired, and there was still some space left on the sofa…As she drifted off to sleep beside them, her last conscious thought was: “Why do all three of them smell like my lavender laundry soap?”

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i-did-not-mean-to · 4 months

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All good things must pass...

This is a treat fic for @samayla for the 2023 @whiteoliphaunt.

Pairing: Thorin x Bilbo

Words: 1 335

Warnings: None

Prompts: Snowed in, gift giving, sharing traditions

“Maybe, we could…” Thorin II, generally called “Oakenshield”, scratched his beard pensively as he looked out on the endless blanket of snow that made it patently impossible to discern the single path leading down from the hidden cave.

“Dear,” Bilbo sighed, his nose twitching in dismay. He opened his mouth to remind his friend and lover of the fact that, despite being an esteemed king and a fierce warrior, Thorin had a pesky tendency to lose his way even at the best of times.

Indeed, the brave Hobbit was far from eager to tumble off a rocky ledge or fall down a ravine that was treacherously obscured by the snow in a ludicrous but eminently tragic accident.

Nevertheless, Thorin seemed so tense and unhappy already that his heart misgave him, and he swallowed his confession of doubt and fear in favour of a more selfless argument.

“I do not doubt that you, your dwarven instincts, and your sturdy boots could find a way down, but I beg you to remember that I am at a distinct disadvantage,” he commented in a soft, pleading voice, motioning at his furry, bare toes.

Of course, this was at least partially disingenuous; Bilbo’s feet were inured to both icy sludge and searing heat, but he could not feel all too guilty for fibbing when he saw Thorin’s eyes light up with relief and tenderness.

“It was such a nice idea to come here,” the Hobbit went on, willing his jaw to relax and suppressing the full-body shivers threatening to ruin his nonchalant delivery of those much-needed, reassuring words of love and support. “I do not mind staying a little longer. Surely, there are more things you can show me in your favourite grotto?”

The smile pulling at the corners of his mouth now was as sunny and genuine as it would have been had they comfortably stood in front of the Great Hall’s roaring fires.

Growing up, Bilbo—as was the wont of his kind—had himself favoured certain flowers, fruits, and trees, and he had never doubted the legitimacy of those instinctive preferences.

Thus, it made perfect sense to him that Thorin—who had only recently returned to his ancestral home—would have treasured places he had not seen for many decades.

It filled Bilbo’s heart with tingling warmth to know that his beloved did not only yearn to spend his future with so unlikely a consort, but that he was also recovered enough from the ordeal of the quest and his almost fatal bout of Dragonsickness to grant Bilbo a glimpse into a long-lost past.

“Did you come here often?” he prompted, threading his stiff fingers into the warm fur of Thorin’s collar and tugging gently to distract the King from his morose musings.

“Not as often as I would have liked,” Thorin admitted. “I was the heir, and my duties lay elsewhere.”

“Shame, it’s so pretty.”

Despite the howling wind and the blistering cold, the small cavern, nestled into the flank of a forlorn part of the Lonely Mountain’s foothills, held a singular, enchanting charm. Even in the chiaroscuro caused by the thick veil of heavily falling snow that was blocking out the daylight, age-old crystals glimmered faintly from the vaulted roof, and Bilbo couldn’t help being reminded of the intricate chandelier he had once seen in the Thain’s house as a fauntling.

“What would you do when you came here then?” His teeth were clacking miserably by now, but he was unwilling to let the conversation die.

With a jolt, Thorin seemed to abruptly snap out of his self-recriminatory reverie and firmly slung his arms around the smaller frame of the one he had chosen to be his partner in all things.

“I am so sorry,” he mumbled under his breath. “I have failed you again! Come here, let me warm you up!”

Opening his heavy coat, he wrapped Bilbo into a cocoon of warmth before settling his bearded chin atop the mop of messy, honey-golden curls with another deep, tremulous sigh.

“I am still waiting for an answer. Did you do frivolous, unprincely things?” Bilbo teased, feeling perfectly at ease now that he was sheltered from the biting cold by the fragrant, comforting bubble Thorin had created for him.

He knew not what expectations the overly serious King entertained within that stubborn, laughably haughty mind of his, but Bilbo himself could not imagine a better place to be during a snowstorm than in Thorin’s arms.

Having lived a solitary life before embarking on his Great Adventure, he was not fazed by the idea of being cut off and isolated—he even sometimes preferred being left alone, and, after the bustling activity of Erebor’s reconstruction and repair, he was profoundly grateful to get a moment of intimacy to simply talk to his husband.

“I…I could show you,” Thorin finally replied haltingly. “Sit over there.”

Shrugging out of his coat, the dwarven king draped it around his cherished consort’s shoulders and padded cautiously to the mouth of the cave.

“It is silly,” he admitted when he returned to where Bilbo sat, huddled against the far wall, and set down a heap of powdery, pristine snow.

Again, the Hobbit pressed his lips together to keep himself from saying something imprudent that would upset or discourage Thorin.

The gleam of pure hope and fond reminiscence in those bright blue eyes was so rare and precious a sight that it didn’t even truly matter if the puerile pastime Thorin was about to share turned out to be truly anodyne or vapid indeed.

Wordless, Bilbo watched as Thorin busied himself around the cave, collecting pieces of fallen crystal and small, iridescent stones to build a miniature of the throne room such as it had been before Smaug had laid waste to his beloved kingdom.

“It’s so beautiful,” Bilbo breathed, as ever fascinated and humbled by the craftiness and skill of the many-layered miracle that was Thorin.

Once upon a time, he had met a disgruntled, distrustful king in exile, and it never failed to awe him when he unearthed pieces of the young dwarf Thorin had necessarily been before everything had been taken from him and his family.

“Funny that you’d escape your princely duties only to recreate the very room you’ve fled,” he added in a light voice.

“Wait…” Thorin cautioned him. “May I ask for one of your cherished handkerchiefs as a sacrifice?”

Without hesitation, Bilbo handed over the worn cloth square, too curious to discover what the other had in mind.

“It’s a poor gift,” Thorin whispered as he extricated a piece of flint from his pocket and set the fabric alight, “because it doesn’t last, but…”

“Hush,” Bilbo interrupted, mesmerised by the dancing shadows and the kaleidoscope of colours the small flame cast upon the domed walls of their little sanctuary. “This is absolutely stunning. I understand why you loved coming here!”

Blushing furiously, Thorin looked up at him from where he knelt on the floor.

“Thank you,” Bilbo croaked, tears of emotion and depthless adoration turning his voice raspier than usual. “We Hobbits love ephemeral beauty; after all, even the most gorgeous flowers die and the most glorious of summers must end.”

Sliding to the floor beside Thorin to hug him to his clenching chest, Bilbo allowed his starry eyes to overflow, trusting that even his tears would be well-guarded and safe in Thorin’s mighty hands.

“You’ve graciously gifted me a fleeting flash of colour and heat to counterbalance the deadly white of this storm,” he breathed into a reddened ear, framed elegantly by silver beads and dark hair, “and you’ve granted me a glimpse of your precious soul’s eternity.”

“The storm has finally abated,” Thorin mumbled sheepishly. “Should we dare the descent?”

“Not yet,” Bilbo replied softly, spreading out the coat he’d been cowering under on the floor. “Let’s stay a while yet and watch the lights dance as if we were alone in the world. We are safe, Thorin. Let’s savour that! Together!”

I hope you'll enjoy this <3

Lots of love from me!

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #WO2023 #WhiteOliphaunt 2023 #Bagginshield #Thilbo #Thorin #Bilbo #Thorin x Bilbo #Snowed in #Gift giving #sharing traditions

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aeondelirium · 4 months

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Here is my gift for the White Oliphaunt event! Have a lovely, healthy, happy new year. ❤️

Frodo had been intrigued by the elf since he first saw a glimpse of his injury; a thin sliver of greyish flesh spotted between the the cuff of a sleeve and the trimming of a glove. Illness was rare among the elves, and it had begun to make a small loneliness in Frodo’s heart that grew as Bilbo went from old to ancient and he himself was getting on in years. Master Elrond was a healer of great skill, nor was he the only one eager to see to the comfort and health of the hobbits; still he could not halt the march of time. Frodo felt that it pained the elves to witness the slow failing of their mortal bodies. More than once he had seen their neighbours flinch or quickly avert their eyes when Bilbo struggled to rise from the bench outside his home, or when an indrawn breath gave away a sudden pain in his joints. Frodo felt reminded of an old yellow tomcat who had liked to sleep on the warm cobblestones by the well outside Bag End, and the way he had flinched to see him limp away in the evening as his days drew near their end.

The elf with the injured hand drew similar looks of mingled pity and distaste, though Frodo had been made to understand that he had earned the latter. He found it difficult to picture soft-spoken, withdrawn Maglor either as a joyful minstrel or a ruthless warrior; rather he felt as though an invisible hand had plucked kin strings in their souls, and loneliness sung in both of them.

One afternoon, Master Daeron’s beautiful harp had been carried out to the shore by no fewer than four strong elves, and the hobbits had spent a delightful time listening and singing until Bilbo’s rhymes reduced most of the audience to tears of laughter. Frodo’s smile had grown somewhat fixed when he found he was no longer certain that the merriment stemmed from his uncle’s cleverness, rather than the jolly nonsense of his wandering mind. Frodo’s gaze lingered on Maglor, who had not laughed along with the others.

“Does it hurt still?” he found himself asking. Maglor did not turn his eyes on him, but his burned hand twitched inside its glove.

“The hurt is less a thing of the body and more an ache of the soul” he said softly.

Frodo nodded. “I’ve some of those hurts myself.”

“I miss my harp” Maglor confided, his eyes still fixed straight ahead as though he were speaking to himself. “That is perhaps the greatest hurt of all.” There was a silence. Frodo knew no comfort to give the elf.

“Pimpinella Bracegirdle”, said Bilbo beside him, stirring from a brief rest against his shoulder, “loved to dance.” He fixed his watery old eyes on Maglor with an intensity that finally forced the elf to turn his head and acknowledge him. Bilbo manoeuvred himself upright with a huff and a puff and wet his lips, ready to spin yet another yarn.

“Now the trouble was”, he continued, “her dear Hugo was lame in one leg whenever the weather was about to change, an old injury from when he was a lad … I seem to recall he’d stepped on a bee and rolled down the hill up near Sandson’s farm …”

Frodo felt a slow flush creeping up his neck and put a gentle hand on his uncle’s arm, hoping to dissuade him from his tale. Bilbo, however, was undeterred. Maglor simply looked at the old hobbit, his face betraying neither amusement nor disdain. He listened with the careful attention of a minstrel.

“Now, a little further down Bagshot Row lived a hobbit who didn’t care much for dancing, despite having two good feet at the end of two good legs. We called him Daddy Twofeet, if you can believe it, for he’d more sense in his toes than that foolish head of his, heh. So on every other feast day, if the weather was about to change, and Pimpinella wanted to dance, Hugo would limp over to Daddy’s hole, and borrow his good right leg, on the condition of course he’d have it back by morning. And then he and Pimpinella would dance the night away, and they didn’t care who knew about it.” The old hobbit finished with a snort and a shake of his grey head.

“Oh Bilbo”, Frodo sighed.

His uncle bristled. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young hobbit! Hugo and Daddy were my neighbours for many years, and every word is true.”

“Bilbo-”, Frodo began, but the old hobbit shook his hand from his arm.

“Why, I ought to send you to bed without your supper!” he sputtered, now truly querulous in a way only the elderly can muster.

“To bed, yes”, Frodo agreed wearily, and made to rise. “Perhaps it is time for bed.”

“Perhaps you ought to listen to your uncle, Master Baggins.”

All three of them stopped and looked up to where Daeron was watching them, a twinkle of merriment in his bright eyes.

“I think there is some wisdom in his tale”, he went on, and raised a graceful hand in beckoning. Beside the hobbits, Maglor stiffened where he sat, not unlike a rabbit hoping to elude the hunter’s searching gaze.

“Come, Maglor. Sit with me.” Daeron’s voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument. Maglor rose, but doing so cast a sideways glance at Frodo, who could not help but feel he had done the elf a bad turn.

“Show me”, Daeron said as Maglor settled himself on the smooth rock next to him. He opened his hand in invitation, and received Maglor’s own in return. None around them spoke or even shifted as Daeron gently peeled the glove away, a shadow of pain passing over his features at the sight of the marred flesh.

“The skin has hardened”, Maglor said in a voice barely above a whisper, forcing the words out quickly as though they hurt him. “The fingers are too stiff to play.”

Daeron hummed a soft note of agreement, turning the hand over and gently extending the scarred digits. “Yes”, he said at last, “that hand is hardly fit to pluck my harp.”

His finger’s tightened around Maglor’s wrist to prevent him from drawing away. Daeron removed from his shoulders his own lovely blue scarf, and, resting Maglor’s hand in his lap, gently pulled the soft fabric over it.

“Between the two of us we have three good hands to play.”

The tune was halting and strange at first. Taking half of two famed minstrels did not, Frodo thought to himself, make a whole one of outstanding skill. Yet there was not a face in the audience that did not smile, or shed a tear, or both.

Beside him, Bilbo rested his wizened head back on his shoulder. An elf maiden draped a soft woollen blanket around him against the evening chill. And when the old hobbit begun to hum along in his faltering voice, the music was sweeter than any that had been heard on that shore in a long time.

#wo2023 #had to double-check white elephant rules weren't strictly enforced #because lord knows i don't know how to do funny #i hope you enjoy! i haven't written anything that wasn't a comic in forever #silmarillion #maglor #not gonna tag daeron bc i think that's also a house of the dragon character now?

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samayla · 4 months

Text

Strategy

Summary: Thorin is feeling the weight of his responsibilities in the Blue Mountains, until some young dwarflings distract him with a snowball fight.

A gift for @lathalea as part of the @whiteoliphaunt Gift Exchange! Enjoy!!

Thorin’s mind drifted as he stared at the heap of parchment before him. It had been a cold and unforgiving winter so far, and there was little enough to be thankful for. The passes were closing already. Fewer and fewer outside traders were willing to risk the trek this far north into the Blue Mountains. Fewer dwarves were willing to risk being caught out alone in the world beyond. His council was divided on the best course of action, and everyone looked to him to be decisive, to make the best of things.

A shriek of laughter shattered his ruminations like a rock through a windowpane. Pathetically grateful for the distraction, Thorin moved out to the balcony and peered down into the snowy courtyard below.

Several young dwarf children were playing in the snow. They had constructed an elaborate series of tunnels and fortifications, and as Thorin watched, one young boy popped up and pelted a little girl with a snowball. The girl shrieked again, her laughter echoing off the stones. Another boy leapt from the tunnel and tackled her, and soon they were wrestling on the ground, rolling and laughing and shouting as more children piled on.

Thorin could feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he watched the youngest members of his court making the most of the snow that so vexed him.

A flash of blond hair between two pillars caught his eye, and Thorin recognized Fili sneaking around the back side of a snowbank. And where there was Fili, Kili would of course be close behind. Sure enough, Kili peeked out from beneath a frozen outcropping of snow, cheeks red with excitement. Struck with a sudden, wicked impulse, Thorin gathered up a handful of snow and began packing it into a perfect snowball.

He was interrupted by Balin’s arrival.

“Your majesty, the council —“

Thorin held up a hand, then pointed silently down into the courtyard below.

Balin crept forward to join him at the railing and watch the progress of the battle.

Fili was crouched low behind the snowbank now, two large snowballs cradled in his arms. He waited, counting, and then suddenly stood and launched them both. The first one hit his brother in the back of the head, and Kili screamed in startled indignation. His fellows turned, and the other snowball hit one of the girls in the shoulder, just as a lucky throw from Kili’s team nailed Fili in the side of the face. The children on both sides stared at each other, dumbfounded, before their expressions morphed into absolute fury.

The air became a flurry of flying snow, and Thorin ducked as several errant throws sent snowballs whistling over his railing. One snowball sailed over his head and thumped into the wall behind him, and he felt a spray of ice shards as the next one broke against the stonework beside his ear. Another thudded into the edge of the awning just above Balin, and Thorin turned just in time to see one more sail right into the older dwarf’s face.

Balin sputtered, white flakes dusting his beard, and the children burst into peals of laughter. Thorin felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but he suppressed the smile.

With a sudden battle cry, Balin grabbed a handful of snow from the railing and threw it, and the children scattered as his attack found its mark. He threw a second, a third, a fourth, and the courtyard was once again a battleground of flying snow and shrieking children. Thorin sought cover behind the door frame, content to let the older dwarf battle this out on his own.

“Some ally you are, Thorin,” Balin laughed as the children finally gave up and ran for the cover of the snow-covered portico across the courtyard.

Thorin did not answer as he stepped back out onto the balcony. He hefted his snowball, now highly compacted and nearly rock-hard. He took careful aim, then let it loose across the courtyard with a mighty roar.

The throw went whistling high over the children’s heads, and they let out a gale of laughter. Fili stepped forward, to taunt his uncle, no doubt, but was cut short by a deafening rumble over his head. The entire drifted mass of snow atop the portico slumped down in an explosion of white. When it cleared, Fili was buried to the waist, and the other children were covered in a coat of glittering ice and snow.

“Do you surrender, nephew?” Thorin called as Balin crowed in triumph and clapped Thorin on the back.

Fili looked to the other children, who were shaking snow out of their hair and picking it out of the tops of their boots. Kili, grinning from ear to ear, pressed a snowball into Fili’s hand. “Never!”

#wo2023 #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #fluff #fili and kili

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whiteoliphaunt · 5 months

Text

The White Oliphaunt

Welcome to the White Oliphaunt Gift Exchange! For those of you on mobile, here are some important links for this year:

AO3 Collection (Anonymous Reveal Starting December 25th, Full Reveal December 31st) Sign up (Open November 17th 2023-November 30th 2023) Guide FAQ

While the blog itself will be making updates to things such as the banner and FAQ throughout the year in preparation for 2024, Sign ups are CLOSED for this year.

#tolkien #Gift Exchange #WO2023 #Silmarillion #Lord of the Rings #Hobbit

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cilil · 4 months

Text

A little more warmth

Eönwë was more surprised that the Balrog had actually remembered the concept of payment in lieu of pillaging than by the offer, but his head and ears were nicely warm now, and he was more fond of the cute white and yellow patterns on blue than he had assumed; he did, however, fear for the bobble's safety just a little bit. "If it isn't too much trouble," he said, polite as always, yet failed to suppress a giddy smile and blush. Who would've thought that one day he would be the one getting pampered by a big, strong Maia instead of all the expectations of courtship resting on his shoulders?

❅ Pairings: Gothmog x Eönwë, background Fingon x Maedhros

❅ Characters: Eönwë, Gothmog, Ori, Maedhros, Fingon, Caranthir, Aiwendil (briefly), Nári (mentioned), a guest appearance by a very special mortal

❅ Synopsis: After Gothmog successfully talked Eönwë into going on a date asked Eönwë out, the two Maiar visit the market together to buy some gifts, argue and enjoy each other's company - while making everyone else's day significantly worse. Also featuring a few fun cameos from my giftee's favourite characters.

❅ Featuring: Canondivergence/AU - everyone's alive and happy, holiday fluff, awkward dates, bickering, marketplace stroll, kissing, holding hands, fluff & humor

❅ Warnings: Some sexual humor and innuendo

❅ A gift for @i-did-not-mean-to, written for the @whiteoliphaunt exchange. IDNMT also kindly let me use this super cute star divider.

➥ Read on AO3

"Do you think this is... appropriate?" Eönwë asked bashfully, referring to the fact that his hand was presently being held by a larger, clawed one.

"How else am I supposed to let everyone know that this hot piece of ass is mine?" Gothmog retorted, chuckling when he looked over to see his not-quite-official lover blushing furiously.

"Language," Eönwë hissed and squeezed his hand for emphasis, but made no move to pull away. Gothmog had suspected for a while now that he secretly enjoyed open displays of affection and even desire more than he would like to admit, stuck in his mindset of etiquette and propriety as he was.

"Let's get you something to keep your ears warm, hm? The tips are all red," Gothmog teased, gently tugging on the smaller Maia's feathered ear before pulling him over to the nearest market stand that had any sort of textiles for sale.

A Dwarf with reddish brown hair was currently leaning over a box filled with wool, engaged in spirited conversation with a dark-haired Human, only for their fun to be woefully interrupted by the appearance of a Balrog.

"Hey you," Gothmog addressed the Dwarf. "Do you have something to put on the head of a pretty little hero? He's all red from the cold."

"Gothmog, please." Eönwë flashed the duo an apologetic smile. "He is... very enthusiastic today."

"Oh, um... that's lovely!" the Dwarf replied with as much elation as he could muster, still seemingly spooked by the way two Maiar had just interrupted his conversation. "I have a couple of hats you could try... woolly ones, some with bobbles too –"

"A bobble hat. Blue if you have that," Gothmog interrupted, grinning from one non-existent ear to another.

"Must you always attempt to ridicule me?" Eönwë grumbled, his plumage fluffing up defensively, but the Balrog patted his head as their unwilling acquaintances beheld the spectacle. While the Dwarf searched his wares, nervous but determined and smiling unerringly, the Human appeared to be strangely entertained by the scene she was witnessing.

"I have blue with a bit of yellow –"

"Perfect." Gothmog snatched the hat he was offered and placed it on the smaller Maia's lovingly patted head, pulling it over his eyes in his enthusiasm.

"Aww. You look cute. Do you like it?" He flicked the bobble with his claw while Eönwë adjusted the hat and smiled at the friendly Dwarf.

"It is very lovely, my dear –" His sharp eyes caught the small name tag made of clay that was attached to a thick woolly shawl. "Ori."

"And it suits you, good sir," Ori complimented, "the blue matches your eyes. Well, um, your current ones, I mean. Mahal told us that your kind can change that at will, but –"

"Yes, he's very pretty, with and without his blue eyes. And he's my boyfriend," Gothmog cut in, a hint of smugness in his tone. "Do you want the hat, bird? I'll get it for you."

"If it isn't too much trouble," he said, polite as always, yet failed to suppress a giddy smile and blush. Who would've thought that one day he would be the one getting pampered by a big, strong Maia instead of all the expectations of courtship resting on his shoulders?

Gothmog, lord and brother to the bane of dwarven kind, leaned closer to Ori who flinched a little. "You. Do you accept gems as payment?"

"G-gems? Yes, certainly... uh... which ones do you have?"

Instead of answering, Gothmog merely pointed at his gem-encrusted shoulders. Ori's eyes widened. "Oh! Yes, one of those is quite alright!"

˚ ੈ✧̣̇·˖ 　˚ .　　　✶ ˚　　✦　. 　 ˚　.　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　. ˚　

"I am most grateful for your kindness, but did you have to scare the poor Dwarf like that?" Eönwë rebuked, the bobble on his head wobbling from the force of his righteous indignation.

Gothmog took advantage of his momentary distraction to reclaim his hand and hold it as they continued their market stroll.

"Hey. Now the little guy has a trophy for his bravery, facing the mightiest and most terrible of all Balrogs!" He chuckled to himself. "Nári would try to fight me on that, but she isn't here."

"Thankfully so." While Eönwë feared no opponent on the battlefield, neither the bite of a Balrog's whip nor the edge of their blades, he knew to respect the sharpness of her tongue.

"Don't let her hear that either." Gothmog looked around for other things of interest, then suddenly pointed at another stand. "Speaking of people with flaming hair, isn't that the Elf who escaped you back in the day?"

It was indeed. The former high king of the Noldor, known as Maedhros after his time in Beleriand, was busying himself with the making of candles, carefully dipping them in wax over and over again until he was satisfied with their shape and thickness.

"How do you even know about that?" Eönwë asked, referring to his companion's previous question.

"Mairon told us everything," Gothmog shrugged, "and this one escaped us too. Slippery little Elf. But still just as flammable as his father."

Eönwë elbowed him warningly. "If we are to talk to him, please refrain from making such comments. And don't set anything on fire."

"Fine."

Maedhros appeared to be blissfully oblivious to their approach, focused on his candles as well as a certain other Noldo manning a stand close by, carving soap and exchanging the occasional glance and smile with him. Eönwë recognised Fingon, yet realised too late that this other former high king was, unfortunately, yet another victim of Gothmog in particular.

Before he could intervene, they had already spotted each other, and a huge grin appeared on the Balrog's face.

"Soap, huh?"

"Would you prefer me carving something out of your horns?" Fingon retorted, managing a smile that was a little too pleasant in return.

"You could certainly try, little Elf."

"I could indeed. You don't have your friends with you this time."

"Enough. No more of this," Eönwë said firmly and greeted the two Noldor with a respectful nod. "May we have a look at your wonderful work?"

"Sure. Though I am not sure what you need a candle for if you have a Balrog with you," Fingon said with a cheeky wink at Maedhros.

"Some of them are scented," the red-haired Elf hummed, watching wax drip from the candles he was currently working on. "I suspect Balrogs are not."

"Perfume is even more flammable than incarnates," Gothmog said lightly and walked closer to Maedhros' stand to take a whiff. "What's that supposed to be?"

"Berries. The others are vanilla and sandalwood."

"Ah." Gothmog continued sniffing. "Interesting."

"Nothing you would find in Angband."

"Heh. You know it."

Eönwë made sure to stay close to his companion and admired the candles.

"I didn't know this was one of your hobbies," he said.

"He has developed quite the skill with candles and other things like them."

Maedhros blushed furiously, and Gothmog eyed the two Elves as if there was something suspicious about the comment, though whatever hidden meaning it held was lost on the ever innocent wind spirit.

"And you with soap it seems," Eönwë chirped happily, ignoring the awkward atmosphere, and walked over. "So many lovely scents too... may I touch these?"

He pointed at the artfully sorted and stacked bars of soap.

"Of course."

"I've had candles, but never soap," Gothmog commented and lowered his head to sniff a green bar Eönwë had picked up for closer inspection. "What's this scent even?"

"Fir," Fingon answered. "You probably didn't have that in Angband either."

"What's a Balrog supposed to do with a tree anyway? Turn it into firewood?"

"Please never repeat that when Lady Yavanna is near," Eönwë chided. "Speaking of the lords and ladies though – which scent do you think would please Lord Manwë and Lady Varda, Fingon?"

"Vanilla," Gothmog snorted and proceeded to heartily laugh at his own joke while his three former and current enemies stared at him in silent disbelief.

˚ ੈ✧̣̇·˖ 　˚ .　　　✶ ˚　　✦　. 　 ˚　.　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　. ˚　

"No. Absolutely not."

"Yes. Very yes."

"Gothmog, please. How am I supposed to look anyone in the eye after this?"

"You don't have to. I could just take you home and keep you as my pet bird until the end of Arda."

Eönwë glowered at the grinning Balrog.

"You are not going to publicly purchase lace underwear for me," he said, slowly and empathically. "Neither I nor poor Caranthir want to have that conversation, I would imagine."

"If that angry little Elf doesn't want to talk about lace, he shouldn't be making it," Gothmog huffed and gripped Eönwë's hand to pull him over to the stand of Caranthir who was already eyeing them with mild dismay. Unfortunately for the heroic herald, he lacked both the size and strength to prevent the inevitable embarrassment.

"Hey you," Gothmog greeted the Noldorin prince with his usual lack of courtesy. "Do you think you have something that would look cute on my boyfriend?"

Eönwë's sigh of exasperation caused all nearby textiles to flutter dangerously and Caranthir to stare in disbelief.

"Manwë's herald is dating a Balrog of Morgoth?"

"You watch what you're saying, Elf. The boss doesn't like that name," Gothmog growled before the other Maia could respond.

Caranthir was still staring. Eönwë resisted the urge to hide his face underneath his wings and cleared his throat. "We have... become more closely acquainted."

"That's his way of saying we're dating, yes." Gothmog smacked the counter with his free hand. "While I'm at it: Be sure tell your uncle too. Tell him that I meet up with the pretty bird to train now, and afterwards we f–"

"Gothmog!"

"What?! Just making sure."

"You have said more than enough!"

Caranthir blinked a few times, watching as the two Maiar turned back to face him after their brief argument.

"You... you meant that?"

"Yes! Need I say it again?"

"No. Please don't."

He cast one last glance at Eönwë who merely closed his eyes and prayed that all his embarrassment would be cleansed in Arda Healed.

"Well..." Fighting to regain his composure, Caranthir began to look through his completed pieces. "Are you looking for anything specific?"

Gothmog shrugged. "No idea. I don't wear underwear myself, so..."

"Just look for... any sort of bottoms," Eönwë mumbled, the word alone causing him to blush. He didn't consider himself overly squeamish with language – at least not after all the foul words he had heard during the War of Wrath and after – but part of him feared this statement could somehow end up revealing too much.

"Good idea, bird." Gothmog pulled him closer and rubbed his cheek against the side of his head. "I can already imagine how cute your ass would look in some nice lace panties –"

Caranthir let out a choked noise of discomfort, but Eönwë's attention was preoccupied with something different. He had dealt with the lewd and vulgar behaviour of Melkor's servants enough times to predict what might be coming next and seized Gothmog's wrist before he could touch the part of his anatomy he was referring to.

"Not in public," he hissed. "Or else I shall be forced to draw my sword and take your hand."

"Feisty bird."

"I am a warrior. Never forget that."

In the meantime, Caranthir had selected a few pieces. With an expression that spoke of defeat, the fire in his dark eyes dim, he showed a skimpy piece of soft blue fabric with white lace.

"That one would match your hat," he commented.

Eönwë was unsure whether it was mockery or an earnest attempt at being helpful.

"Thank you for your trouble," he said with as much grace as he could. "Though I am not sure if you need my measurements or anything...?"

"You could just try it on," Gothmog suggested with a gentle nudge.

Maia and Elf alike stared at him, utterly mortified.

˚ ੈ✧̣̇·˖ 　˚ .　　　✶ ˚　　✦　. 　 ˚　.　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　. ˚　

"You are terrible."

Eönwë's tone was still accusatory, but Gothmog remained unfazed.

"Drink, bird," he encouraged with a gentle nudge – one that would have still sent any incarnate flying, but caused only a mild rustle of feathers thanks to the smaller Maia's impeccable stance and balance.

"Fine," Eönwë mumbled and took a sip of mulled wine, critically eyeing the beverage. The taste was more pleasant than he had anticipated, but he needed to be careful not to drink too much, lest he be seen tipsy or even drunk in the company of a Balrog. His lack of alcohol tolerance was something other Maiar, particularly those in Oromë's, Tulkas' and of course Melkor's service, liked to tease him about.

"Hey, don't look so glum. Don't you like shopping?" Gothmog held the bag filled with various items they had acquired up with one claw, and Eönwë couldn't help chuckling lightly. Neither of them seemed like the type to enjoy a quiet marketplace stroll, but it had been surprisingly pleasant, even with the Balrog's tendency to tease and intimidate other visitors.

"I will never hear the end of this," Eönwë lamented, though more for show than out of actual annoyance, and downed half of his cup for dramatic effect. "Buying underwear together with the Lord of Balrogs... oh the amount of questions I will have to answer."

"I don't get why people are even wondering," Gothmog shrugged and practically inhaled his wine, causing steam to rise from his mouth and nostrils. "I mean, what's there to ask? Everyone's seen that cute ass of yours, and I bet I'm not the only one who –"

"Enough," Eönwë hissed. Aiwendil, who had been feeding some pigeons nearby, was staring at them with wide, curious eyes, but squirrelled away when he realised he had been noticed.

"Anyway. It's mine and I want it to look pretty."

"If you insist."

"Aw, birdie..." Gothmog wrapped one arm around his shoulder, and Eönwë found himself reflexively leaning against him despite his (futile) attempts at salvaging his dignity. "I was hoping that, if I get you some nice stuff for your collection, you'll be in the mood to try on those panties later... and show me how pretty you look in them..."

"We shall see if your behaviour warrants such a reward."

"Must you always be so strict with me? And with yourself too?"

When Eönwë looked up at his companion, surprised by his observation, Gothmog's smile was weirdly disarming.

"Y-you need to understand that I need to maintain a certain decorum, even though I... admittedly have grown quite fond of you," he attempted to explain himself.

Gothmog shook his head. "Eh, I'm sure they want you to believe that, but you also know we think differently. You deserve to have fun too."

His expression shifted to a devious grin. "As do I. May I perhaps have a kiss then?"

"In public?" Eönwë asked nervously.

In lieu of a response, Gothmog dropped the bag, fished a mistletoe twig out of it and held it over their heads with his free hand – an easy feat thanks to his greater size.

"See? Now we're basically socially obligated to kiss."

"Did... did I already say you are –"

"Terrible? Yes. And smart and handsome too."

"Was this Melkor's idea?"

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

It didn't, and Eönwë knew just as well as Gothmog did that he tended to talk too much and ask too many questions when he was flustered. Accepting that he had been outsmarted by his fiery lover and mortal enemy, he proudly raised his head to receive a searing hot yet gentle kiss.

taglist: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-big-tits @singleteapot @wandererindreams

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maglor-my-beloved · 4 months

Text

Winter Day

Relationship: Erestor/Glorfindel

Rating: M

Words: 473

My @whiteoliphaunt gift for @between-thepages

Read on Ao3

Imladris was quiet and peaceful in the winter. Snow covered the valley like a blanket, icicles glittered in the trees and outside the windows like countless gems, and the rushing of water from the Bruinen and its fall was replaced by silence.

Glorfindel and Erestor had spent the afternoon outside, skating on the icy surface of the river, hand in hand, dancing and kissing with cold lips, and Glorfindel had lifted Erestor by the waist and spun until they were both dizzy and laughing.

It was dark when they returned to the Last Homely House, snow in their hair, their cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Shall we visit the baths before dinner, my love?” Glorfindel whispered, pressing an icy kiss to the corner of Erestor’s mouth. Imladris’ baths were fed by underground hot springs, and were thus pleasantly warm even in winter.

“A bath sounds heavenly,” Erestor sighed. “But we must take care not to fall asleep and miss dinner.”

Glorfindel grinned. “Oh, I can think of a few ways to keep you awake, my heart.”

Erestor scowled at him, but a glint in his eyes told Glorfindel that his beloved found the prospect of a tryst in the baths far more agreeable than he let on.

The public baths would be crowded at this time, so they chose to visit Lord Elrond’s private bath instead – the perks of being not only high-ranking officials of Imladris, but close friends with its Lord. However, when they arrived, they found Elrond already there, comfortably lounging in the water, steam rising from the surface.

“Ah, there you are,” Elrond greeted with a smile as they entered. “I had wondered if you would come. Join me, my friends, the water is lovely.”

The water was indeed lovely as they sank into the pool and settled beside Elrond on the stone bench, feeling the warmth seeping into them, chasing away any lingering cold.

“I hope you enjoyed your day off?” Elrond asked warmly, reaching for a comb and a vial of hair oil.

“Very much,” Erestor sighed contentedly. “You must join us next time, the snow and ice are beautiful and the river is perfect for skating.”

“Perhaps I shall. There is little to do this winter, with no visitors arriving and our borders well protected, and I think we all need some rest.”

Elrond had finished brushing and oiling his hair, and now rose from the water, wrapping himself in a bathrobe and gathering his belongings.

“I shall leave you two lovebirds alone then,” he said with a knowing smile, making Glorfindel grin and Erestor blush. “Do try to finish in time for dinner.”

And with that he left, leaving Erestor and Glorfindel alone in the bath.

“Let us make good use of our time then,” Glorfindel whispered and drew Erestor into his lap, kissing him eagerly.

#erestor #glorfindel #erestor/glorfindel #WO2023 #gift fic #maglor writes

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between-thepages · 4 months

Text

All of those tears will pass away

A @whiteoliphaunt gift for @maglor-my-beloved

Pairing: Elrond & Erestor

Rating: T

Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hair Braiding, Nonbinary Elrond Peredhel, Mentions of Canonical Character Death (Elros)

Summary: After the news of Elros' death reaches Lindon, Elrond retreats into themself. Erestor tries his best to get them back.

The news of Elros’ death came sudden and unexpected, reaching Lindon mere weeks after the last confirmation that Numenor’s ageing king was in good health and spirits, and Erestor had never seen anyone break in the way Elrond did when they received the message.

They retreated into themselves, becoming expressionless, stone-faced even, their ever-present glower keeping away most that had once considered Elrond a friend. While it certainly took more than that to keep away Ereinion and Erestor, even the High King had to admit defeat after Elrond refused to engage with him, all his words and actions seemingly falling on deaf ears.

Despite all their best efforts to get through to them, Elrond only seemed to fade further, turning away whoever dared cross their path with their silence.

In the end, Erestor could no longer stand to watch his friend deteriorate further. His plan was born out of desperation, out of the fear of losing Elrond forever, and Erestor knew well that he only had this one chance to set it into motion.

It was the apathy that saddened Erestor the most, the complete lack of engagement with anything Elrond showed, as they did not even look up when Erestor entered their chamber.

Elrond did not say anything when Erestor sat down on the rug behind them, did not protest when Erestor took the comb from the floor beside them, their grey eyes continuing to fixate on a point somewhere on the opposite wall, showing no reaction at all, until Erestor dragged it through the long dark tresses for the first time.

Suddenly, Elrond’s shoulders sagged, as if the tension had been drained from them, and their carefully crafted mask shattered, leaving bare the grief and sorrow they had tried to hide behind a face of stone.

Erestor felt overwhelmed, he had expected a reaction, but he hadn‘t expected them to react so strongly, had not accounted for the bottled-up and locked-away grief to come to the surface so quickly. He watched in surprise as the tears started to spill out of Elrond’s eyes, slowly rolling down their cheeks as they wept, the silent sobs rocking their body.

Erestor was fully unprepared for how to deal with Elrond’s tears. He had thought so much about getting his friend out of their apathy that he had not even considered how they might react. A part of him desperately wanted to hug Elrond close, but he feared Elrond might turn him away if he did that now. After all, their weeping still was not an invitation to do anything further than maybe continue what he was doing now.

And so he did nothing more than continue brushing the comb through Elrond’s dark hair, careful not to pull on it, his heart hurting every time a tiny sob escaped Elrond’s lips.

But after a while, there was no more hair to comb, but with Elrond’s continued crying, and the way they had started to very slightly lean into Erestor’s careful touches, Erestor did not want to stop. He started playing with the dark strands, twisting them a little at first until he remembered a particular hairstyle the elves of Beleriand had worn. Erestor had only learnt a few of the braids the Noldor did, his time with his father had been limited and his interest elsewhere, but there was one hairstyle he knew by heart, and it was also the most fitting for the situation. He had braided enough mourning braids in his time on Middle Earth, both for himself and others.

Elrond’s hair proved surprisingly complicated to braid, thin and silky as it was, but Erestor was determined to make it work. The first few braids came out a little crooked, but he kept working on them, listening to Elrond’s slowly calming breathing.

While he continued to carefully braid Elrond’s hair, Erestor watched with growing joy that Elrond leaned into him, closer and closer with every move, the stream of tears slowly dying down as Erestor finished the last of the braids and laid the comb down beside him.

„Thank you,“ Elrond whispered as they leaned against Erestor, face still red and tear-streaked, but there was a hint of a smile in the corners of their mouth, and Erestor could feel his heart flutter at the softness and sincerity in their voice.

„Everything for you,“ He murmured back, too quiet for Elrond to hear, curling his arm around them and holding them close.

#my silm fanfiction #elrond #erestor #WO2023

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starspray · 4 months

Text

Sunwarmed

My @whiteoliphaunt fic, for @gwaedhannen--I hope you like it!

Rating: G Characters: Finrod/Amarie Summary:

The more he thought about it the more he realized he was not quite missing the Tirion of his childhood, but Nargothrond at its height. His own city, that he’d planned and helped to build with his own two hands, where his friends among the dwarves had visited so often, and where he had earned his favorite epessë. No one in Valinor called him Felagund.

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It was very quiet in Tirion. The War of Wrath was ended and the armies returned, alongside many others, but still: most who had departed Tirion when darkness fell had not returned. Many now slept in Mandos; many more had refused the Valar ’s call and remained in Middle-earth with its wide open lands now filled with opportunity and possibility and and safety.

Finrod would have been lying if he said he did not envy them.

He sat atop the roof of the palace, looking out over the city. It was a spot he and his cousins had often retreated to when they were young—and even when they were grown, and the tension below grew too much. These tiles, or perhaps their predecessors, had borne witness to many afternoons of long and winding conversation, of tears and of laughter, hopes and dreams and teasing. Now there was no one to talk to; his cousins and brothers were all dead, and his sister had refused to come home. Finrod was not surprised, and he hoped that Galadriel found everything she wanted and more in Middle-earth—but he still missed her. It was lonely, being the only one left in Tirion.

Finrod sighed, and stretched out his legs, leaning back against the sun warmed stones of the wall. He missed too the bustle and noise of a full and thriving city—though the more he thought about it the more he realized he was not quite missing the Tirion of his childhood, but Nargothrond at its height. His own city, that he ’d planned and helped to build with his own two hands, where his friends among the dwarves had visited so often, and where he had earned his favorite epessë. No one in Valinor called him Felagund.

As he contemplated the horizon, both familiar and strange, the soft rustle of skirts heralded an unexpected companion. He turned and found, to his surprise, Amari ë emerging from the window—or trying to. The current fashions in Tirion ran to rather wide skirts, and she was having a bit of difficulty getting her layers of petticoats through the opening. “Thank you!” she said when he held out his hands to help her. “I thought I might find you up here.”

“Who else knows of this spot?” Finrod asked, amused. “I rather thought it was a secret between all my cousins.”

“Artanis told me about it once,” Amarië said breezily. “Very long ago, before all the troubles began.” She smoothed her deep green skirts as she settled on the tiles beside him, as though she had brought a small grassy hill up to the roof with her to serve as a cushion.

“She prefers Galadriel, these days,” Finrod said. “That is the name her husband gave her.”

Amari ë smiled, but there was a strange, almost wistful look in her eyes. “It is hard to imagine her married,” she said. “I never thought there was anyone in the world who could keep up with her.”

“Celeborn certainly can.”

They sat for a while in silence, looking out over the rolling green hills to the south, and the road snaking through the Calacirya in the east toward Alqualond ë and the glittering blue Sea. “What name do you prefer, these days?” Amarië asked suddenly. Finrod looked at her in surprise. “So many Exiles are returning with new names, but I cannot remember being told yours.”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “Finrod is the name I gave myself,” he said finally, “when we were rendering all our names into Sindarin. I had others, over the years…” Nóm was in many ways dearest to his heart, but it had no place in Aman. “Felagund, I was called. From Felakgundu, in the Dwarvish tongue. I had many friends among the Dwarves—they helped to delve and build my city Nargothrond. ”

“I have heard that name,” said Amarië, troubled. “In the songs they sing on Tol Eressëa. King Felagund who battled the Enemy’s lieutenant beneath his haunted tower.”

“Not his tower, but mine, stolen and overrun after the Bragollach,” said Finrod. “And, after, it was my tomb.” He smiled at Amarië, though she looked both shocked and horrified. “It’s all right! I won’t faint away to think or talk about my own death. And anyway, Sauron got his due. Lúthien came and sang the tower town to rubble. Better to have it so than for it to be of any use to the Enemy.”

“And now it is drowned, with all the rest of that land,” said Amarië softly.

Finrod sighed, letting his smile fade away. “Yes. With Nargothrond and Gondolin and Menegroth the magnificent…but there is much still of Middle-earth left, and new kingdoms are rising even as we speak.”

“Yes, and your sister will finally find herself a queen of some glorious realm,” Amarië said.

“Perhaps,” said Finrod.

“And what will you do, now that you are here again?” Amarië asked.

“I don’t know. I have been a king and a hero, and I don’t think I would like to be either one again.”

Silence fell between them again. Then Amari ë reached over and took Finrod’s hand in her own. The sunshine glinted on her golden hair and the golden beads woven into her braids, making her sparkle. “You have never been a husband,” she said, “though once I know you wished it.”

Finrod turned his hand to lace their fingers together. “Would you still have me, Amarië, after all this time?” he asked.

Her smile was lovelier in his eyes than all the jewels of Nargothrond and more wondrous than the greatest wonders of Middle-earth. “I would.”

#wo2023 #look i wrote a thing #silmarillion #finrod #amarie #finrod/amarie

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