#little elurin growing up to be gil galad | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

arrivisting · 3 years

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For fanfic Friday: I'm curious what generally 'sparks' your story ideas? Do you begin with a narrative direction in mind, or with smaller-scale imagery and concepts that then grow into the eventual plot?

It really depends on the story! Some burst into being with a full-blown plot, or are clearly small and self-contained to begin with, but usually I just have a very clear starting question or image or scenario, and then I’m on the hook for what happens next. Sometimes I have some idea; a few notes, or a feeling; often none at all; sometimes I just have [initiating scenario] -> [they bang???? Somehow????]

A lot of my ideas are sparked by rereading the canon; for Les Mis, sometimes I’d be struck by a line about other characters, or one of Hugo’s maxims, and apply it to e/R. Reading, mostly: I read a lot of French history, and it would give me ideas. There was a book that mentioned in a line or two that male revolutionaries would sometimes dress as women and pass as the wife of a friend who wasn’t being followed by police, since a passeport for a man automatically covered his wife; there was a whole e/R fic I started for that! study in scarlet was inspired by material about m/m activity in 1830s France and the use of the Palais-Royal as a cruising spot that we know about from the records kept by police, who watched and reported, but didn’t arrest (homosexuality not being illegal in France then). better than the thing I am is scaffolded out of that research reading about m/m activity and republican discourse.

A lot of my Les Mis ideas came from me saying to @gofuckinggentle ’I’ll write you something in email, what should I write?’ and then her providing ideas and motivation (fleuret, have & hold) and going ‘and then what?’ as I sent a 300 update every day or so. MakingHugoSpin back in the day sometimes offered a fruitful (pornographic) prompt or two (cf. mieux que la realité, flowers that bloomed in eden, holding onto stars). I just had so. many. e/R feelings: it felt like my brain was a machine for generating new ways to put them together.

For Tolkien, it’s a blend: it’s usually canon lacunae, or the fact that while we often know what happened, or that something happened, the personal and immediate ramifications are underexplored. I want to poke them and blow them up.

People always compared Arwen to her famously beautiful, heroic, strange, transcendent ancestor? How did she feel about that, and how much or little did it influence her choices, and how true was it? (a marvellous thread). Who is Elwing (woman into bird) and how much of is known about her by the Third Age is only myth? why are there such differences in Finduilas and her relationships between the different versions of the Narn? (the fugitive heart).

There are so many potential hooks in canon, or contradicting canons: and then, given the fraught relationships many of the Silmarillion characters had in life, what happens when they are, inevitably (or perhaps not inevitably, in the case of the Fëanorians) returned to life in Valinor? How much gets resolved before they are re-embodied; how much remains to work out? (all my war is done). My driving interest in the Silmarillion, in the First Age or after, is: how do people that were never meant to die or deal with death and inevitable loss find a way to do so?

Some of my canon-based thinking is silly, though. Oh, at different times Tolkien said Gil-galad was Finrod’s son, was Fingon’s son, was a grandson of Fëanor? How could they all be true at once? et voilà: scion, which I will be honest, had a working title of 3dads1baby. Sometimes I’ll literally say to someone, god, please, tell me what to write, and they’ll say, ‘idk, Maedhros finds Elured and Elurin after all?’ (birds in the hand) and then I have an image and a first scene in my head and I’m off. No idea how it will end!

I‘m too lazy to work to come up with ideas: usually they just spark, in similar ways to above; something I’m reading snags in my brain and then a cloud of images and lines and half-finished conversations roll out, enough to get started.

Like, for radiant damage I was idly thinking about the terrible paradox of the Peredhel, the mixing of what oughtn't be mixed, mortal and immortal, the way they somehow drive so much change in Middle-earth; and about how Melian must have had to consciously create her own fána, one with ova that were compatible with Eldar genetic material to create Luthien, and about the many different strange ways in canon that Maia get lost or diverted or take paths of their own once away from Aman; and I was also reading a book about textiles that talked about how weaving and knitting are algorithmic; but mostly

Edit: oh, and void junk: first thing I wrote in months, and its whole spark was a friend of mine mentioning she had a horror story published in a collection called Void Junk. The very second I read that, I went, haha, I see, space junk but metaphysical... what kind of junk is in Tolkien’s Void... Maedhros, possibly. Okay, but what ship might he literally clunk into? Vingilot! But Elwing should be there, I know Tolkien says she never went with Earendil but I hate that! [sudden blast of images and exchanges, almost all the fic in very sketchy form, already in my head in a minute after reading that title: fleshed out in an hour or two and posted].

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Oh god don't take risk assessments from Fingon, Gil-galad. I'm so glad the family claims him, and I'm curious to hear the author's theory on where this one is from. My dumb theory: since the Elves' Maia heritage is down to Elrond, his sons, and maybe Elured and Elurin, it would be nice if he turned out to be related to the missing twins. My actual theory: no one in particular, the world is built by the ones who show up to work.

It’s not a dumb theory! It’s not, however, what I went with. For that, see below.

Quick note: Maglor’s wife in this is the same as his wife in my alternate character interpretation snippet for her. This will probably make more sense if you read that first.

Maedhros is barely a shadow when he first gets there, but Fingon stubbornly sticks around.

When Maedhros is well enough to listen and, in his opinion, in need of some distraction, he finally asks.

“I’m trying to figure out Gil-Galad’s parentage. I don’t suppose you know?”

Maehros looks startled, which is at least better than horrifically depressed. “He’s not yours?”

Fingon’s heard that from others. A lot of others. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps assuming that.

“Not mine.”

He’ll have to try Maedhros’s brothers later. For now, he’s right where he needs to be.

“Fingon,” Curufin says from his place on the floor. He hasn’t bothered to open his eyes. Fingon never did learn the trick to that. “What do you want?”

Nice to see his time in Mandos hasn’t changed him. “To talk.”

“About?”

Fingon gives up and gets straight to the point. “Offspring.”

Curufin cracks one eye open and rolls over to face him. His face is shadowed through the bars. “I didn’t think you had any.”

“Yours,” he clarifies.

That catches Curufin’s attention completely. He rolls to his feet, face tense. “Has something happened to Celebrimbor? The tapestries here are useless.”

Whoever’s in charge of these things apparently decided Curufin would benefit from graphic scenes of Finrod’s imprisonment. Fingon’s been trying not to look at them.

“He’s fine,” he assures him. “Or at least he was fine the last time someone died, there hasn’t been nearly as much of that going around since the war ended. I wanted to ask about the potential for . . . other offspring.”

Curufin looks around the lonely confines his cell with grim amusement. The bars are set deep into the stone. If there’s hinges or a lock, they aren’t visible. “At the moment, I would say the potential was low.”

“Already produced offspring,” Fingon further clarifies.

Curufin frowns. “Why . . . ?” His face goes pale. “Has Nirivel . . . Is there a child she’s saying is mine?”

Judging by his face, if that was the case there’s no chance the child actually would be.

“No, no,” Fingon assures him. “Nothing like that. I’m just trying to figure out who Gil-Galad belongs to.”

Curufin rolls his eyes. It almost distracts from his slowly returning color. “And you couldn’t just say that? In case you’ve forgotten, Fingon, my wife stayed on these shores. Gil-Galad was born in Beleriand.”

That’s not actually technically a denial, so Fingon pushes on cautiously. “Under the circumstance, remarriage - “

Curufin stalks forward until he’s gripping the bars in a white knuckled rage. “I am no oathbreaker,” he hisses.

“The Valar know we all wish you were,” Fingon mutters without thinking.

Curufin steps away from the bars. The rage has disappeared into a blank pleasantness that makes Fingon far more uneasy. “Forgive me. I should not have been so surprised by the question. I shouldn’t have forgotten that you were of the line of Indis and have strange ideas of family fidelity.”

“Of the two of us, which of us actually - “ Fingon cuts himself off. “No. We’re not having this fight again. Or the other fight. Or any fights! I know what I need to know.” He hesitates before he heads back into the maze of winding tunnels. “Maedhros sends his love.”

Curufin actually looks relieved for a moment before the mask descends again. Fingon’s surprised he saw anything; solitary must have decayed Curufin’s skills at hiding considerably.

The relief brings to mind what had escaped him before. “You do know about - ?”

“How he died?” Curufin interrupts. He smiles bitterly. “You’re not my very first visitor. Nienna brings news sometimes.” His look turns puzzled. “How are you here? Namo sentenced me to solitary confinement.”

“I petitioned to visit Maedhros,” Fingon explains. “Repeatedly.”

Curufin makes a show of looking around. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s not here.”

“Yes, well, by the time he gave in, he was far too frustrated to be careful with his word choice, and what he actually said was ‘Visit the kinslayer if you want to!’ Which as I view it, really gives me leave to visit just about everyone here.”

For the first time in centuries, he hears Curufin laugh.

He stumbles across Uncle Feanor next.

He’s . . . not entirely sure what he’s seeing at first when he does.

“Are you unravelling Vaire’s tapestry?” he chokes out.

Uncle Feanor leaps to his feet. “Findekano! What an unexpected pleasure. I’d been hoping for a chance to thank you for what you did for Maitimo.”

Fingon can’t tear his eyes away from the loose threads that once made up an entire wall of tapestry. Some of them have been laid out in complex patterns. “It’s Fingon now,” he manages. “And you’re definitely unravelling the tapestry. Why are you unravelling the tapestry? There’s a stone wall behind it, it’s not like it’ll get you out! Is it the scene?”

The scene is . . . Maedhros yielding the crown to Fingon’s father which strikes him as a little petty, but at least it explains why Uncle Feanor’s unravelling it.

Or not, because what Uncle Feanor actually says is, “Oh, no. I needed materials, and this was the best option.”

“Materials? What can you possible do with all that?”

Feanor eyes the mass of thread thoughtfully. “Well, it’s woven through with the essence of time and space, so I’m hoping for a form of transport through either.”

This terrifying image needs only a moment to sear through his brain. “Please don’t invent time travel, Uncle Feanor.” It comes out a little strangled.

“Why not? There’s a good deal that could be improved from what Nienna tells me. Anyway, that can’t be why you’ve come. Do you have news? Have you seen my sons?”

Fingon tears his eyes away from the threads. “Two of them. Curufin and Maedhros. Curufin’s well enough. Maedhros is . . . better.” That’s really the best he can say of that, so he hurries on. “I’ve been trying to discover Gil-Galad’s parentage. Unless he’s Galadriel’s, we’re pretty sure he had to come from your branch.”

“Another grandson!” Feanor sounds both surprised and delighted, which at least answers the question that Fingon had been trying not to think about having to ask - Namely, if Feanor had been responsible. The timeline had made it unlikely at best, but he’s trying to be thorough.

“I’d probably best delay testing this until you know more,” Feanor muses. “I’d hate to accidentally wipe a grandson out of existence.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just - Hold off.” Please, please hold off on potentially destroying the very fabric of Arda. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Just maybe not until he’s figured out how to make sure Feanor’s focused on the geographical aspect of travel.

He has no idea how long it takes him to find Celegorm, but if anyone asks later, he’s going to tell them weeks. That’s certainly what it feels like. The tunnels here are far less open that most of Mandos’s Halls, and he’s starting to feel claustrophobic.

He can only imagine what it must be like in the cells.

Celegorm manages to get the first word in because Fingon is too busy gaping at the image on his walls. It’s Huan as he dies, in vivid enough detail that it makes Fingon want to cry out, and he barely knew the hound.

“I don’t know where Maedhros is,” Celegorm says. He’s sitting by Huan’s head. It’s possible that he was petting the cloth just before Fingon showed up; Fingon certainly isn’t going to judge him if he was.

“That’s alright,” Fingon tells him. “I do. He sends his love. I also saw your father, who was very eager for news of all of you.” Fingon leaves out the rest of what Feanor is currently very interested in. He’s not sure he can get through it without his terror showing through, and that could very well start a fight. “If I see any more of your brothers, is there a message I should carry along?”

“Tell them that with practice and application, it is actually possible to climb these walls.”

Fingon blinks. “And this will be . . . useful in an escape attempt?”

“It’ll be useful in not going out of our collective minds,” Celegorm snarls. “There’s no room to move in here.”

Fingon eyes the tiny space and remembers his own growing claustrophobia. “I see your point.” There’s really no way to gracefully segue into this next bit, so he just dives right in. “Remember Gil-Galad?”

Celegorm frowns. “Of course I do. Why? Is he dead?”

“No, thankfully.” Fingon watches him carefully for a reaction to this news, but Celegorm just shrugs.

“Good for him. What about him then?”

“Is he yours?”

Celegorm stares at him for a very long time. “You do remember the whole Luthien incident, don’t you?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. “You might remember that part of that incident involved me trying to get married. So unless you’re suggesting that I succeeded, had him with Luthien, and then somehow invented time travel and sent him back - “

Fingon flinches at the words ‘time travel.’ Thankfully, Celegorm’s in full on ranting mode and doesn’t seem to notice.

His ears are still ringing when he finds his next cousin. “Amras!”

The twin looks up in desperate hope, but the light in his eyes fades quickly. “Amrod,” he corrects.

“Right. Sorry.” He should have just gone with Ambarussa.

At first glance, the walls in Amrod’s cell look fine. It’s just him and Amras eating a meal together, right after a hunting trip judging by the gear on their horses.

Then he realizes that Amrod’s backed himself up against the image of himself so that it looks like he’s sitting beside Amras, and he has to fight back a wince.

“If I find him, I’ll come back and let you know,” he promises. The corridors he hasn’t taken are still mysteries, but he’s keeping good track of the ones he has. The last thing he wants is to get lost here. He’ll be able to find his way back easily enough.

A bit of the life returns to Amrod’s face. “Would you? I just - It’s not that we were never apart. It’s just never been for this long before.” He looks down for a moment. “Have you seen any of the others? Are they alright?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Fingon says which Amrod, fairly, doesn’t seem to find all that reassuring. “Listen, I don’t suppose you ever - “

The answer, it turns out, is no.

“Amras!” he says with considerable confidence.

“Amrod,” the Feanorian corrects.

Fingon’s jaw dropped in horror. “I’ve circled back around? No, I can’t have, I - Wait a minute. Your wall hangings are a bit different. One of you’s lying,” he concludes triumphantly.

Amras - Amrod - whichever one he is has risen in the interim and crossed to the bars. “You’ve seen him? You’ve seen Amrod?”

“I knew you were Amras,” he mutters petulantly. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He misses you desperately and gave me about a hundred messages to give you. I’ll try to remember them in a minute, but first I’ve got a message of my own.”

“Of course,” Amras says and sets his jaw. “Doriath or the Havens?”

Fingon’s actually doing his best not to think about either of those messes. He’s not king anymore, it’s not his responsibility. “Neither. Gil-Galad.”

“What’d we ever do to him?” Amras protests.

“Created him, possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Creat- Like with gears? Because that’s really more along Curufin’s line.”

“Like with a woman,” he says in exasperation.

“Oh. No. I thought that would be a bad idea, what with the Doom and all.”

Fingon can’t exactly argue with that. “Maybe Celebrimbor managed to slip away from his father long enough to meet a girl.”

“Anything’s possible. Have you asked Caranthir yet?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Fingon wheedles. They’re not quite to the end of the line yet - there’s still Maglor and maybe Celebrimbor - but they’re getting close. He’d had a good feeling about Caranthir.

“We tried,” Caranthir says. His voice has an edge of anger, but what’s far stronger is the longing, mixed with grief. “Right up until she died.”

. . . That doesn’t actually rule it out. And if he’s any judge of his cousin, Caranthir would very much like to be a father.

Firien goes on his list of people to track down.

“Maybe he’s Maglor’s,” Caranthir suggests.

“Maglor’s not dead, though, so I can’t ask him.”

Caranthir looks at him like he’s being exceptionally stupid. “Have you tried asking his wife?”

Fingon feels exceptionally stupid.

“Did Aranel actually fight at Alqualonde, or was she just there?”

“She fought.”

“Right. Then she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

By the time he actually manages to track either of the wives down, Celebrimbor’s died. Despite what Curufin seems to think, Fingon retains enough tact to wait until he’s somewhat recovered to ask him if he’s responsible for Gil-Galad.

He’s not, but he is able to relay a series of increasingly improbable and hilarious theories that are apparently floating around the court.

Then in quick succession, he finds Aranel and Firien and Aredhel finds him.

Aranel’s locked in with the kinslayers and is the first person who’s been less than pleased to see Fingon.

“Come to lecture me on corrupting my husband?”

Fingon has to take nearly a minute to process this. Finally, the best he can come up with is “What?”

She looks up at him. Her face is set in hard lines of preemptive anger. “That’s what Atar said when Namo let him see me. He said my marring must have corrupted the prince. Maybe even his whole family.”

Maglor used to verbally eviscerate people for saying much, much less. Fingon wants no part of that minefield. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to blame you for your husband.”

Judging by the way her eyes shutter, that probably still wasn’t the right path to take. Some marriages shattered in the long war; apparently their’s did not.

“I just came to ask about any . . . children.”

“Children?” she repeats blankly. “You mean the Peredhel?”

He’s surprised she knows about that until he takes a closer look at the tapestry. He’d thought it was just Sirion burning, but no. It shows Maglor claiming the twins as well. Apparently someone’s given her context.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking that’s the part I should be most upset about,” she says heatedly. “He defied his Oath when he let them go when it was safe. I’m proud of him, not concerned because he was raising children while I was gone!”

“Not those children,” he corrects, because he’s not about to get in the middle of that whole mess. “I meant any children you might have had with him. Together.”

“Why?” she asks with a slow edge of suspicion.

Fingon explains Gil-Galad.

“What happens if you don’t like the answer you get?”

Fingon honestly hasn’t considered this up to now. “What do you mean?”

“What if he is mine? Is he marred in your eyes? What if he’s not, and he’s not Firien’s either? Is he not worthy of the crown? Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Honestly?” Fingon takes a deep breath. “I’m curious. I don’t have any better reasons. I’m just dead and bored and curious.”

She doesn’t believe him. Fingon can’t quite blame her. She’s been judged her whole life for the circumstances thrust upon her at her birth, and that only worsened after true marring was revealed in Melkor; it’s little wonder she fears the same for Gil-Galad if it turns out he’s not quite as perfect as everyone thought.

“In that case, you can consider it settled. He’s mine. Mine and Maglor’s.”

Fingon . . . isn’t sure if he believes her. “Why send him to Nargothrond? Why keep him a secret?”

“He was stolen,” she says promptly. “We thought he was dead and had no words to share our grief. I have no idea what happened in his early life. I had no idea where he even was until you explained Gil-Galad’s circumstances. That’s not what I named him.” She reels this off matter of factly with no obvious sign of grief.

Fingon is particularly suspicious of the stolen child part of this story given what she’s been staring at for these past few centuries. “What did you name him?” he challenges her.

“Fingon,” she says instantly. “Because Maglor was so grateful for what you’d done for his brother.”

Fingon is . . . almost certain she’s lying. Almost.

On the other hand, it’s the best explanation anyone’s been able to hand him yet.

He’s still mulling it over in his mind when he emerges back into the Halls proper. Firien immediately comes flying into him. Only her tiny height keeps him from toppling. “You found him!”

“Found who - Oh, Caranthir, yes.”

“You found him too? Can you show me where? And what do you know about my baby?”

He’d forgotten how very little like Caranthir Firien is. Also -

“Your baby?”

According to Firien, she hadn’t realized their efforts had finally succeeded when she volunteered to go with the trading caravan. By the time she realized, it seemed safest just to continue on. All had been well until the return, when they’d been attacked only minutes after she had given birth. She had died shortly after hiding the baby as best she could.

Her telling is somewhat more convincing than Aranel’s. Then again, she also used to be a performer, so . . .

Fingon hates his life. Death. Whatever.

Naturally, that’s when Aredhel shows up and announces that Gil-Galad is actually hers.

Her grandson, that is.

According to her, Turgon had pressured Maeglin to marry someone to turn his mind away from Idril. He’d given in and married a girl who’d gotten tired of always coming in second place and run off, apparently while pregnant.

Fingon has no idea if any of that’s true and has no way to check it because Aredhel’s the only one who actually knows where to find Maeglin, he doesn’t have a name for the girl, and Turgon’s already gotten early release for good behavior.

Namo’s been hinting strongly about good behavior lately. Fingon, increasingly convinced that he’s the only reason that his Feanorian cousins are still sane and that his uncle hasn’t gone ahead with his plans to possibly erase them all from existence, cheerfully ignores him.

That’s the short list that at long last he’s able to present Gil-Galad with. If Gil-Galad is in fact part of Finwe’s family tree - and judging by his power and a certain resemblance, Fingon is inclined to think he is - than those are his most likely options.

“Firien’s story is remarkably similar to a theory Elrond came up with,” Gil-Galad says wistfully. “He has an uncanny knack for being right about things, you know.” He sighs.

“Cheer up,” Fingon tells him. “Like I said, we can always pester Namo into telling us eventually. Or you might feel something when you meet them! And really it’s only two options since we know Aranel has to be lying since she claimed to actually name you . . . Although Maglor probably wouldn’t mind claiming you, given his track record, so we could always just pretend you were and go with it.”

“No,” Gil-Galad says firmly. “I want to know the truth.”

“Let’s start with the ones we won’t have to sneak you in for then, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Fingon’s money’s on Caranthir.

. . . Which means Feanor will now feel free to resume his experiments.

Oh, well. He hasn’t gotten this far by being cautious. How badly could it possibly go wrong?

Fingon shuts that thought down quickly and drags Gil-Galad through the Halls to Firien, who takes one look at Gil-Galad and throws herself at him, wrapping him in the tightest hug she can manage, even though her head barely comes up to his chin.

She’s crying. Gil-Galad, who’s holding her like she something fragile, looks like he might start.

Fingon feels a bit like crying too.

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blankdblank · 5 years

Text

After This - Thranduil Request

Anon

I would absolutely love if you did a thranduil story. I’m hoping for angst, drama. Having him push his one away to the point of her giving up and walking away.

Oc is fine , elf for race. And it can be pre hobbit or after is really ok. I’m looking for somewhere between bleak and ending somewhere in the middle between happy and sad

…

Tags –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @admirationofarmitage, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @abiwim, @jotink78, @c-s-stars, @evyiione, @sweetlytenacious25, @tigereyesf

...

Not my usual Thranduil Fluff fest. Closer to a bleak/impending drama type ending. Please let me know what you think. :D

…

On the brink of tears you sat in your seat silently in the table across from the Elf you had spent the night prior with, one now publicly celebrating a betrothal to the Elleth beside him. For all he had promised, for all you had planned you had been cast aside. Since the first time you’d granted him a kiss on your cheek your progression came quickly and for you there was no need for public flaunting. Something you now regretted as the Parents of the Elf you had sworn your heart to had signed his away in a move to raise themselves form common merchants to a lower class of Nobles. Far lower than your relatives and you claimed.

Music was called for and in your usual invisible fashion your eyes were focused on the glass in front of you, the wine you could not touch for the toast of a fruitful marriage you had hoped your position could have secured the marriage between you. But his silence had greatly lowered the rank his kin could have achieved, one of the reasons, unknown to you that he would never allow a union with you for merely a title alone.

Silence seemed to cling to you even in this boisterous crowd as the music began after the toast had been finalized signaling the crowds to fill the dance floor, a perfect cover for your rise and walk to your home in the opposite end of the girdled Kingdom of Doriath. A retreat you had planned, and with your burning tear filled eyes you walked alone to collect your already packed belongings, missing the icy blue eyes searching over the crowd in hopes of explaining what had happened and why he had decided not to marry you. For all his well wishes he had unknowingly damned you to an eternity of scorn and solitude, at least to everyone outside of the life you were carrying.

Your One, who should have done everything to protect and ensure your lasting happiness and comfort had shattered your trust and faith in any around you, for now solitude in the great void of the lands you had no knowledge of around you beckoned you closer into its lonely loving arms. Fleeing the painful past few months of his snide comments and short temper always followed by a rush to cling to you once again promising never again only to fail once more shoving the figurative sword in your chest deeper yet again. With Elven betrothal ceremonies you had known what would come next, with the night long celebration and a marriage at dawn signaling their everlasting future together beginning. With all your heart you wished him the best, even as your One you couldn’t curse him with the ill will he had so painfully shown you and now obviously blatant efforts to drive you away.

Away he wishes me, away I will be.

Your hands folded around the buttons securing your gown you slipped out of and pulled on long layers of clothing and hidden armor lined with mithril hoping you would find some place to live before the life you were carrying made the layers useless for your protection. Heavily your bags hung on your back under your bow and quiver before you turned to leave. With the celebrations the gates weren’t as greatly guarded, not that with the enchanted girdle on Doriath they needed guarding but it seemed more out of habit than anything. Through the massive open gates you passed, feeling the cold pop of the barrier sealing you outside of your homeland making your lip quiver. Biting your lip you turned and shut your eyes for the first five steps of your new life alone.

…

Awkwardly you managed to find your way to a giant rocky crevice holding a winding set of caves you eyed the large pack of wolves inside. Each glowing set of eyes in the setting sun scanned over you with inspecting sniffs taking in the details they could learn of you, all of which signaled the largest twin males leading the two combined packs to nudge you inside their largest cave as it began to drizzle. Quietly they grouped around you after you had eaten from the pack of lembas in your smaller bag and laid down to try and sleep for the night. Warmly they huddled around you to help protect you and your future Children from the early morning chill and with your breakfast their leaders linked their minds to yours promising you protection until you decided which way to go. Their kind offer brought more tears from you as you wracked your mind for just a direction to head in.

Nightfall however broke your peace as distant screams and explosions were heard, the sheer agony of them beckoned you to the mouth of the cave before the sight of a group of armed Elves brought you to your knees with the Wolves grouping around you shielding you from sight as fires grew in the distance. At their passing you sat silently weeping as the cries and screams died off until only a set of young cries remained. In a moment you and the females in the group raced out into the woods for the source of the noise your Motherly instincts sent you after. Weaving between the trees you avoided the fleeing animals escaping the fires until two bound Princes were located in the tall knotted roots. Elured and Elurin peered up at you recognizing you at once allowing you to unbind and raise them in your arms and race off again. With fires nearing all was gathered and the pack joined you on your voyage into the unknown.

…

Months you traveled, struggling to keep your growing bump covered safely under your armor, crossing the borders of lands holding several different races and people you stole glimpses of before returning to your wandering. Farther and farther East you went until you awoke one day in the seemingly endless forest you had found to the thunderous steps of an Ent that had discovered you and your pack. The large bark coated cheeks rose through his slow greeting and hand folding over his chest through a nod sending his long beard into sway. Treebeard was all he called himself and all he asked was, “These lands belong to me and my herd of trees, is there a land you are passing to?”

The dry and chapped lips you had parted releasing a soft wavering breath, “We have no home to pass to. Doriath was destroyed months ago.”

With a nod of his head he replied, “I see. We have a couple caves in our lower borders you might claim, and fallen branches could be gathered to aid in building you a home.”

You nodded and rose to your feet holding the hands of the boys at your sides for the long walk to the large set of caves you joined the Wolves inside claiming the smaller cave near the entrance as they took the larger ones in the rear. Easily a large sheet of pelts from the prey the pack had granted you was hung as a door over the entrance. Luckily the ground and walls were set up in a way to form room borders you were slowly able to add to with fallen branches you split and wove together forming half walls, cabinets and eventually a table and chairs to eat on. Day after day your bed of pelts and soft moss you and the wolves had gathered beside a smaller bed you had formed for what you could only imagine to be the twins you were carrying grew and became more and more uncomfortable to get out of the larger you grew.

No longer able to wear anything but your elder adopted Cousin Gil-galad’s flowing deep silver shirt, accented with shimmering emerald vines embroidered along the hems, from his last visit when he’d lent it to you when you’d fallen from a tree tearing your dress nearly in half in a race with him and his Brother Funduilas. The pair of them, since the passing of their Mother were entrusted to your Father’s care and grew beside you accepting you as their own kin but always being reminded by their Father no greater ties than a Cousin were to be claimed or they also would be entrusted to approving of your future Husband. A task your Father would never release from being his to claim.

Painfully their faces and voices burned into your mind as they left to return to their Father’s home again to begin the final stages of their training, and in your solitude you resigned yourself that they deemed you dead and for all you knew had fallen themselves, but your pain not once allowed you to imagine the fate of the Father of your Children. Not once would he hold them and you could almost hear their fevered shout of hatred at your decision parting you forever.

Little hands were clasped in yours for the walk to the nearby stream to bathe the pair. Subtly you managed to wince away the cramp growing in your side, at least until you reached the stream and the world went dark as your knees buckled at the next wave of triple the pain of the cramp coursing through your body. A sharp gasp later and a pair of distant boots sounded in their race closer to you as you blinked the frightened boys into focus in front of you. With a smile you stated, “Rin, Red, I believe the Little Ones are coming. Don’t be frightened.”

As they heard the racing figure nearing they ducked behind you at your urging until the young blonde came into view and bowed his head lowly thirty feet away after dropping his bow and quiver. Cautiously his head rose and he met your eyes stating, “I am Amroth, Son of Amdir, I saw you fall to your knees. If I might, with your permission, guide you back home to the safety of your kin.”

Anxiously you replied, “We have no kin. Just ourselves.”

He wet his lips fidgeting his hands, then responded, “Might I escort you back to your shelter, and I have, in my company of five two healers that would assist you in your birth.”

Unable to refuse you nodded, hoping he would hold to his word and watched him cautiously shoulder his quiver and bow then move to you slowly to cradle you in his arms and raise you for the walk with the boys at your side. Above you he asked, “What might I call you My Lady?”

You wet your lips and spoke the name your One had been the last to call you, “Lilótëa.”

As he crossed another sinking branch he stole another glimpse of your shimmering silver swaying curls shifting over his arm across your back and said, “There is no one to aid you in raising your Children?”

You shook your head stating a truth covering a more scandalous one, “I lost my One, and Doriath fell.”

With a nod Amroth left it at that and stated, “My company will be passing through back to Lorien, it is not far, nearly a week of travel, should you require or wish for safer lands to raise your Children My Ada will welcome you.”

You tried to smile up at him but another pang of pain had you clutching the hilt of his sword against your side tightly before you released it through a steady inhale, “Thank you for your offer. I will not forget it.”

Around the cave Amroth eyed the wolves gathering and sniffing the air at his sighting, on his left Red tugged on his pant leg saying, “They won’t hurt us. We live together.”

You peered up at him, “They granted me shelter when I fled and decided to travel with us.”

Gently he lowered you into your bed and then slipped out of the cave and raced to gather his healers and return. By morning two shrill cries echoed through the happily rustling forest around you and you cradled your mirror images, silver haired purple eyed Daughters with only a set of antlers on their heels marking their Father’s line tying them to him at all. Beside you Rin and Red smiled at the girls as you softly named them, “Ninquelótë and Niphredil.” With their names they happily cooed and curled their hands around your fingers and nuzzled into your tear laced kisses.

Years passed and with their growth your title had changed, no longer a fallen Daughter to one of the first born High Kings but marked as the Wolf Queen. Known far and wide as protector of the vast stretch of forest slowly shrinking but still remaining named Fangorn. Your only contact being the travelers heading to Lothlorien until Gondor and Rohan were born in the Second Age with Rivendell in the distance not long before. All of whom gladly stuck to your laws of not harming your lands or the massive wolf pack within filling all the caves throughout as the legend of your army of identical soldiers grew each year from four to thousands.

…

The Third Age had been well under way when a certain grey cloaked Wizard crossed his Cousin Radagast’s land to enter your domain. His eyes ever scanning his surroundings until a set of twins each with interlocked hands eyed the visitor they led straight to you. A humble plea was offered, simply render aid to a group of wronged Dwarves. You knew the feeling well, homeless and cast off scraping for what you could manage to raise your now grown and married Children you hoped to one day grant you the blessing of helping them raise their Children in return. You were safe and had plenty to call your own, a feeling you five decided to do all you could to assist them on their return home again.

Again you led Red and Rin, who shared the stories they had once again of the lands you passed through until you managed to find the Shire. The five of you all sticking out like five glowing thumbs as you passed through the sea of gathering Hobbits and Fauntlings all gawking at you and guiding you along the path until you found yourselves crouching down outside a large green door.

A single knock tore apart all you had and could ever return to, and the timid then awed Hobbit gazing up at you and your gentle smile unknowingly claimed the same fate. Inside behind him the scowls on the Dwarves’ faces grew deeper until you eased farther into the hall removing your weapons then faced their leader to bow your head and say, “King Thorin it is an honor to meet another Son of Durin. My Children and I will do all we can to return you home again. It is a loss we know all to well.”

Curiously Thorin’s head tilted as his lips parted to ask, “Why would you pledge your loyalty to me? Our kin have wages wars against each other for ages.”

“I have yet to take up arms against a Dwarf over two feet tall,” stirring unwilling smirks to some of the Dwarf’s faces at the mention of their battling games as youth, “I have no ill will against you or yours, hopefully you might learn to trust me and mine.” His lips pressed together and he bowed his head to greet you properly.

On your right Bilbo pulled his hands from his pockets fidgeting with his suspenders to ask, “If I may,” clearing his throat softly, drawing your gazes to him smiling softly, “What, that is, what are your names?”

Your smile grew, “You may call me Lótë. These are my Daughters Nin and Niph and my Sons in law Red and Rin.” Their heads bowed as they were introduced to the Company, “We have longer names but these are what we share outside of family.”

He bowed his head in return then wet his lips to say as his hand tapped on his chest after releasing his suspenders, “I’m Bilbo, Baggins.” After him each of the Dwarves named themselves until you were squeezed into the dining room along the edges looking on at the map Thorin looked over once again.”

Lowly he rumbled, “Our only obstacles along the way should be the Elv-.”

His eyes rose to meet yours and you sent him a smile, “I haven’t lived among other Elves since Feanoreans sacked my home. Feel free, the bias is well earned to an extent. I know the cruelty my kin can inflict when willing to do so.”

Your words left most of the Dwarves staring at you open mouthed for a few moments before they realized it as Thorin continued, “Rivendell and Greenwood lie between us and home. Rivendell is easily rounded, Greenwood however…” his eyes settled on you at your tensing at the mere mention of the kingdom, “Will have to be managed carefully. Lady Lótë, do you have any allies in those lands that might aid us?”

Flatly you replied, “We should cross through Southern Greenwood, it is abandoned, then take the plains to Erebor. Avoid the Northern portion all together.”

To which Thorin nodded along with his kin around him, “Agreed. I have no wish to see the Elf King,” the snarl in his voice broke at the closing of your eyes to hide the deadly pain laced glare you had almost been successful in hiding, “Again.”

…

Three trolls down with a hoard of gold stashed away for later you were circled by wargs that easily fell to your skilled arrows, but not even a few moments later a small force of Elves followed with lances drawn only to raise in their puzzled glances between their Lord Elrond and your Two Sons shielding you and their Wives. Among the force atop horses a helmet was removed and a tall blonde dismounted with a grin sent your way as he called out in relief, “Lilótëa!”

Your eyes settled on him and you smiled recognizing your old family friend, “Glorfindel.”

His grin grew as he wrapped you in a loose hug shocking the Elves around him until he stated proudly, “It has been ages since I’ve laid eyes on the glimmering Ingwëon.” Around you the Elves’ lips parted and they bowed their heads lowly to you as Bilbo asked Balin why they were bowing their heads, only for Glorfindel to say, “She is the Daughter of the High King of the Vanyar, long believed to be lost after a stay with her kin in Doriath.”

His eyes shifted again to the four twins behind you with their eyes locked on him, “My Daughters Nin and Niph, and my Sons in law Red and Rin.”

Bowing his head to each of them he stepped aside as Lord Elrond dismounted and approached you bowing his head lowly to you as well, stating, “I am Elrond, son of Eärendil.” His eyes shifted to your Sons as he asked, “If, I must admit, we do share a certain, likeness.”

With a smirk Elurin replied, “Only fitting as we are your Uncles.” Making his lips part.

Elured, “Elurin and Elured.”

They both bowed their heads to their Nephew, “Sons of Dior.”

Glorfindel stepped forward, “But you-, you were taken!”

Elrond, “How did you escape your captors?”

Elurin, “Our Naneth Lótë found us.”

Elured, “We were abandoned, bound in the woods.”

Elrond glanced between your Daughters then back to you mentally asking, “Will their Father be joining us as well?”

Flatly you replied to him mentally, “He better hope not.”

Leaving it at that you were led inside his lands and properly pampered as best you would allow until you led the escape mission freeing you back into the wild again.

…

Atop the overlook Thorin stood with his Company around him while your Children prepared the breakfast you asked them to handle properly marking the news of two pregnancies being learned of the night before marking them sleepless and full of merry. With Elven chest in hand you stepped towards the small door in the large gate Balin readied to open as you inhaled deeply trying to keep your knees from buckling at the same heartbreakingly velvet voice that used to flow endless words of both adoration and then indifference to you cried out in a poorly veiled demand for the return to negotiations for a trade for his jewels. Your nod at the end of his final cry signaled the gate to be opened drawing the King’s eyes along with those of his Son and guard’s landed on you.

Instantly your hearts plummeted as you skillfully held your indifferent masks you had both perfected since before the assumption of either of your having died ages ago. Atop his Elk Thranduil eased down barely able to remain standing even as he remained beside his Giant Elk using it’s saddle for support to remain upright instead of falling to his knees to beg your forgiveness. In barely a whisper he uttered, “Lil-.”

Unable to even finish your name he watched as you bowed your head to him a few feet away then held out the small chest saying, “Your jewels Your Majesty.”

Timidly he accepted the chest as your eyes turned to Legolas atop his white horse to say with a soft smile puzzling the Prince, “It is an honor to meet you Prince Legolas.” Before your eyes fell to the King you turned your back on and walked to the gate.

Each step growing more excruciating for the King and drawing him away from his supportive steed to halfway across the bridge. Legolas swiftly dismounted and walked after him only to see him stop as you did in front of the gate to turn around. In silence the Elves watched puzzled at why their King was behaving like this. Not knowing the accumulation of the ages of his life without you slamming hard into him and forcing his body to nearly buckle at the weight of what he had not just lost but thrown away.

Steadily you drew in another breath as Balin stood beside you curiously glancing between you and the King as he held the door open. In as steady a voice as you could manage you called out in Ancient Elvish you hoped none of the Dwarves could understand, “I wish to congratulate you Your Majesty.” His lips parted in confusion and you continued, “You’re going to be a Grandfather.”

One sharp turn later you were back through the door that was closed and locked behind you on your path back in through the entering hall into the main hall Balin curiously followed your trembling ready to collapse body, that did just that, right through the entrance to the hall. On your knees you trembled and gasped for air unable to cry out or even sob at all the emotions coursing through your body all at once while Balin rubbed your back as the other Dwarves raced down the stairs to catch up to you.

With the door sealing behind you the words you had uttered hit their mark. The chest was carelessly dropped from the collapsing King’s hand and rested at his side when Tauriel and Prince Legolas steadied him and eased him onto his knees eyeing his devastated expression. On his left the King’s head turned to face Legolas as his hand gripped the King’s arm a bit tighter in his next sway when he gasped for air, “Ada?” Tears filled the King’s eyes as ages of what he’d yearned to do nothing more than express to his Son welled up into a ball at the back of his throat rendering him speechless as his Son asked, “Ada? Who is she?”

Pt 2

#Thranduil x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr

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