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rohirric-hunter · 21 days

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A Blade for a Life

Look at my 6.3k word oneshot, boy

So I had half of this written and was "basically done" so I sat down to "finish it real quick" and that got out of hand fast. But the half that was already written was mostly written years ago. It all started out as an exercise to figure out how Hathellang interacted with law enforcement in Bree and let me tell you. It absolutely did not do that.

Anyway. Hathellang's POV

~*~*~*~

“You there! Thief!”

You do not recall stealing anything yet today, but the owner of the voice, a stocky, angry-looking Dwarf, is definitely speaking to you. Nonetheless, you indicate yourself and say, “Are you talking to me, sir?”

“Yes!” he growls. “You haven’t seen a sword about, have you? One of mine was stolen this morning.”

You feel a sinking sensation in your stomach. You have not stolen a sword, but it is no mystery why he might suspect you of it. You offer him a disarming smile, at the same time stepping back to put some distance between you. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t,” you say.

“Then you didn’t steal it?” he asks, and you flinch. Chief Watcher Grimbriar is just on the other side of the little roadside cabin that serves as a guard-post along the Greenway north out of Bree-town, and while a glance tells you that he has not yet tuned into this conversation – he is seated on the top step, bending over a sheaf of papers and occasionally marking a map that sits beside him with a piece of charcoal – if the Dwarf maintains this line of questioning he certainly will.

“You can’t make an accusation like that one without evidence,” you say, a little sharply.

“Then that wasn’t you loitering about my shop all this morning?” he asks.

“Your shop?” you repeat. “I don’t know where your shop is. And why would I want to steal a sword? Helena won’t stop making them, even though nobody buys them.” This is not strictly true: Helena is new to swordmaking and most of her attempts so far have not been of high enough quality to be sold. But you are mostly talking to buy time, as you run over your morning in your mind. It had been long and slow; you had arrived in town as the sun rose and gone about gathering work – tailoring work, that is – orders and clothing to be refitted and resized and mending for those too busy to manage it themselves, or wealthy enough to hire the service. This had been done in an hour, but somewhat later in the morning you had had an obligation for the other sort of work you do, and so to pass the time you had purchased a stuffed cabbage from Darin Whitflor and brought it to the Stone Quarter to eat, perched on the jutting foundation of a house just down the street from where several Dwarves share a prolific little smithy. Now you recognize this individual as Lofar Ironband, a craftsman well-known for his quality steel, and the owner of the Dwarf-smithy. You had indeed spent several hours loitering near his shop once you had finished your breakfast, making a start on some of the simpler work in your bag and then catnapping, for the house was built inexpertly, and the foundation offers quite a wide ledge, and the sun had warmed it delightfully.

“It was me,” you say. There is no use in denying it. “But if I was looking for an opening to steal something, I shouldn’t have done it so brazenly. Anyway –” you raise your arms to the side and turn in a quick circle, showing that you are carrying nothing but your work bag “-- do I look like I’ve got a sword on me?”

“No,” Lofar admits, “but you could have done away with it already. Resold it to one of your Man-smiths, maybe? They’re always jealous of Dwarf-craft. Well, I want it back.”

“I don’t have it,” you say bluntly.

Lofar begins to turn, and as you follow his line of movement you realize with a start that Chief Watcher Grimbriar has taken an interest, though he is not looking your way yet. His hand has stilled, and he holds himself with the air of someone who is listening to a conversation that he is not part of.

“Wait!” you say quickly. “I didn’t steal it and I don’t have it, but what do you want? To not get the guards involved, I mean.”

Lofar eyes you suspiciously. “If you didn’t take it, then what’s the harm? If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

“Except two nights in the city jail while they investigate!” you exclaim. “I can’t spend time in jail. I’ve got work to do. There’s another babe come in that’s not been weaned, that’s two now! and two wet nurses that have got to be paid for, not to mention food and clothes for twenty-one, with the winter coming on and all.” You nervously bite at your lower lip. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find out who took your sword.”

Lofar frowns, but he turns to face you, crossing his arms in a manner that brooks no nonsense. “I suppose I know your name and where you live,” he says. “It’s not as if you’re going to skip town in the night.” You could, of course, but you don’t feel that information is likely to be helpful in this circumstance. “I would rather have the sword back than anything. Bring it back and I won’t ask where you got it or who stole it.”

As you shoulder your work bag and turn back toward Bree, you reflect that you will certainly be asking who stole it. There are many people about who, unlike you, have ample reason to steal a sword, and enough of these are not people you particularly trust with one, especially a stolen one. If nothing else, you have a bone to pick with the thief on your own account.

You have no better lead to follow than Lofar’s own suspicion that it was one of the smiths of Bree. You doubt very much that any of them took the sword; you have always known them to be honest, though their rivalry with the local Dwarf-smiths is widely known. Perhaps one of the less experienced young pickpockets who hang about the Mud Gate might have considered it a worthwhile risk, but you very much doubt it. Everyone knows that the best money is in jewelry and coins and other small objects that can be quickly pilfered and easily hidden. And if it was a commissioned burglary, a client paying a thief to take the sword, such arrangements go through Albra Lowbanks, and she will tell you nothing, as sure as the sun rises and sets. Nor will you ask, for she keeps your secrets as well.

The smiths, of course, are patently offended at your questions, and with no better ideas you return to the Stone Quarter to look over the smithy there, but you see nothing out of place. The Dwarves there have seen nothing, save one, who eyes you thoughtfully and asks if you weren’t there earlier in the day. His voice carries no suspicion, and it seems that you will find nothing here, before he mentions almost offhandedly that he has seen more Men here today than in the past week.

“Your lot don’t come down here too often,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron, “meaning no disrespect. But it was you and that other fellow today, and the last one before that was a Ranger. We don’t –”

You cut him off, rather rudely, but this is the first lead you’ve dared entertain. “Who was it?” you ask.

“The one they call Strider, I think,” the Dwarf says. “What do you want to be knowing that for?”

“I apologize,” you say. “Not the Ranger, the other man who was here today.”

“Oh, him,” the Dwarf says. “I don’t rightly know. Young-looking fellow; taller than you, but then most Men are. Red hair. I used to see him at the Man-forge by West-gate quite a lot, but he’s been scarce in the past month.” You crease your brow in thought, and he crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Well? Just because Dwarf work is better doesn’t mean your lot’s never come up with a trick or two. I’m allowed to learn wherever I please, if you please!”

“I agree!” you say, raising your hands defensively. “And thank you! That’s what I needed to know.”

You quickly take your leave of the Dwarf and turn northward, walking at a brisk pace. You do not recognize the description, but a smithy-worker who has been absent for a month can only be one of the new workers at Thornley’s Work Site. Nearly a month ago Thornley had brought on a great many new workers, in response to the increased brigand activity in recent months. None of them are fighters, as far as you know, but you can certainly imagine why they might want a sword, out in the Bree-fields without even a fence around the site. There is a reason Helena has recently taken an interest in making them.

You have little interest in encountering Lofar again on your way to the work site, so you leave town through the North-gate and skirt along the ridge east of the Greenway. This allows you to avoid Lofar and Grimbriar both, and you are congratulating yourself on your cleverness when you stumble across the body.

The wind is in the south, or you should have smelled the blood and avoided it. As it is, however, you step out from among some dense bushes onto a trail that leads down into a shaded hollow, and there you discover what remains of someone who seems to have fallen afoul of the boars that live in the hollow. There is not much left to identify the man, but as you approach you notice the hilt of a sword lying on the bloody ground where he must have dropped it. The blade is snapped off and nowhere to be found, but the hilt is brand-new and shows no signs of wear, and the detailing is distinctly Dwarven.

You consider, briefly, taking the hilt back to Lofar and washing your hands of the whole business, but the poor sap deserves a burial, if nothing else, and the body cannot be left here. Thornley’s Work Site is close, anyway, so you continue on, twirling the hilt idly in your hands as you walk.

When you arrive at the work site, you ask the first Man you see for the foreman. He raises his arm and opens his mouth to answer, and then he catches sight of the hilt held loosely in your right hand and goes deathly pale. He appears terrified, as if the presence of the hilt spells terrible news, and you can’t but conclude that there are more layers to this mystery than you thought. “What do you know about this?” you ask quickly.

“Nothing!” he says, even more quickly, if that is possible. “Please go away! I – I have work to do. Foreman Rosethorn is over there.”

This Man matches the description the Dwarf at the smithy gave you. “Now look here,” you say, sternly but not unkindly. “I’m not going to rat you out. But I very nearly got pinned for this, and I don’t imagine Master Ironband is going to be too pleased at its condition when I return it.”

The man wavers for a moment, and then says, “Fine, I stole it, but I had a good reason! I wasn’t trying to pin anyone. It was for my family! Nate said he would hurt them if I didn’t make a sword for his captain, Blake. But I didn’t have the iron to forge one, so I took the Dwarf’s! Please, you must understand, it was to save my family! Please don’t tell the constable!”

“Who are Nate and Blake?” you ask. “For that matter, who are you?”

“Who are – why, didn’t you take the hilt from Nate?” he asks.

“If I did, then he’s dead,” you say. “Ran afoul of the boars in the hollow across the Greenway.”

“And good riddance to him,” the man says. “I’m Kenton Thistleway. Nate is, or was, a brigand. He said he was going to test the sword against the workers on the silo across the way. But this is terrible! What if Blake comes looking for his sword? I won’t have one to give him, and they’ll hurt my family!”

That seems likely to you. The Hackberry House has thus far escaped the particular notice of the brigands as they robbed and drove off most everyone around because orphans and abandoned children make for good recruits. Lady Hackberry’s do not, because she raises her children right and sees to it that they are loved and want for nothing she can provide, but you have never felt particularly inclined to share this information with any of the people slipping you shadowy notes promising adventure and freedom and wealth, and even less so in recent years, when the letters changed to offer power and fulfillment. You offer a bounty in sweet honey-cakes to any of the younger children who bring you such a letter, for once you have destroyed it they have no in with the brigands. More than one of them are taking advantage of this arrangement, but it is a small price to pay to keep them out of such mischief. All children, in your opinion, ought to know a few basic swindles anyhow.

You are unsure how much longer this arrangement will keep the household safe, however. It was mainly the Blackwold who recruited locally, and the past several days have brought dark rumors with them. They are outlandish, and you believe less than half of them, but all agree that the Blackwolds are no longer a power to be reckoned with in Bree-land. You are sorry, for you had several friends who had run off to sleep in the woods and live off the land and be their own masters, back when that was all the Blackwolds did. More urgently, the power among the various local gangs is out of balance, and you do not know who will fill the vacuum or what they will do. You fear it will be one of the new lots, composed mainly of strangers from the south, and before long they will come to your home and threaten your family, just as they are doing to Kenton Thistleway.

The Man in question looks deeply uncomfortable, and a little constipated. “Do you think,” he asks slowly, “that Lofar would make another sword? If you asked him and explained the situation, that it’s to save my family?”

“I’ll ask him,” you say. “And if he says no, I might be able to get you a near-endless supply of swords that snap off just above the hilt.”

~*~*~*~

“Another blade?” Lofar exclaims, when you have explained the situation to him. “Another blade? I’m already behind on other work, and now I’ll have to forge a new sword to fill the order this one was for. ‘Time is precious, don’t give it away for nothing,’ my father used to say…” He pauses, brow furrowed in thought. “Actually lost my father to brigands a few years back. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

“Bah!” he says, sounding annoyed, though it is not directed at you. “Give me that hilt. I must be getting soft. I’ll help that Kenton Thistleway, but with two conditions. First one is that if that brigand don’t come around looking for the sword, I get it back. Second, Thistleway gives me a hand and does some of the simpler work I’ve got piling up.” He fiddles with the straps on a workbag much like yours and produces a bellows. “These need new leather. Take them back to Thistleway and tell him I’ll send two or three more projects later today. If he fixes them all and I’m happy with his work, I’ll call it even on the cost of the two swords.”

You take the bellows under your arm – they are too big to fit into your work bag – and once again turn north up the Greenway. Once you have delivered Lofar’s message and bellows, you think, you will turn for home; you have much still to do this day, and you are hungry. The sun is well past its zenith now. You wonder if there are any honey cakes at the house, and if Gareth will have your hide if you take them.

Kenton Thistleway is nervously pacing when you return. You explain Lofar’s offer to him and he takes the bellows almost eagerly. He examines them carefully, and then nods in satisfaction. “I can repair this in an afternoon,” he says, “but I’ll need some leather to replace the worn patches.”

This whole affair is really no longer your business, but you hate to leave a task unfinished, so you quickly volunteer, “I can get you some.” Kenton ought at least to have a sword to bargain with, you think, before you can quite call this done.

He looks at you like you hung the stars, and you excuse yourself quickly and rather awkwardly. The Hackberry House is a short walk away, half an hour, perhaps, or less if you are willing to take a shortcut across Eric Dogwood’s fields. The outer fields lie fallow, as Eric and his wife Eltrys are too old to work so far from their home, and their son Horace had run off before the spring planting. Some of the children at the Hackberry House sometimes set aside time over the summer to assist them, especially Helena, and Léonys when she was not busy, but none of you had the time or resources to plant and maintain entire fields. If the harvest is not good, the Dogwoods may lose their farm – that is, if brigands and worse do not drive them off of it first.

The Hackberry House is larger than most other houses in the Bree-fields, except perhaps the Thornleys’. It boasts two stories and three outbuildings on a sizeable parcel of land: Lady Hackberry had inherited a comfortable fortune in land, livestock, and money from her father, though the latter is spread quite thin in recent years, with more children than she is really able to house about, and the brigands driving up the prices of whatever goods they don’t manage to steal.

The land is surrounded by a hedge, perhaps waist-high to you, which serves to keep some six cows, three sheep, and a dozen or so chickens contained. The only gate opens to the east, but you approach from the north and jump the hedge quite easily. Lady Hackberry has told you not to do this many times, but from here it is a clear shot to the tanning shed, where Léonys lays out and cures leather from her hunting trips. The place reeks, but you are more than used to it, and you slip in and begin browsing the drying racks, where finished leathers hang, ready to be sorted. After a few moments you find something suitable for bellows and reach up to undo the clamps that keep it on the rack.

“Hathellang?”

You turn with a start to see the form of Lady Hackberry framed in the doorway. “Oh! Lady Hackberry,” you say. “You startled me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “Will you be home for dinner?"

"I hope so," you say. "I just have a quick errand to run and then I'll be heading home for the day." You pull the leather down and walk towards the door, taking her hands in yours and squeezing them affectionately.

She smiles fondly. "Don't forget, you promised Anna you would help her at the forge this afternoon."

"I won't," you say. "I couldn't if I tried. She's spoken of little else since last night."

Lady Hackberry leans forward and presses an affectionate kiss to your forehead, and the two of you step out into the late morning sunlight.

~*~*~*~

You don't think you could have been gone for more than half an hour, but when you return to Thornley’s Work Site, Kenton Thistleway has abandoned all pretense of getting work done. Indeed, everyone has. He is sitting on the ground beside his forge, head in his hands, with some unfinished nails scattered on the ground about. The other workers are clustered in little groups, speaking quietly together or casting pitying looks toward Kenton. The foreman looks very displeased with the whole situation, but has made no move to encourage anyone to return to work.

Kenton looks up as you approach, and speaks before you can ask what happened. “Oh, it’s terrible! Blake, the brigand-captain who wanted the sword, came and told me he knew Nate was dead and that he knew I had something to do with it! I tried to tell him I didn’t, that I would have another sword for him soon, but he wouldn’t listen.” The man pauses and takes several steadying breaths. “He said he’s taken my daughter, Maribell! If I don’t give him another sword, and soon, he’ll kill her!”

This affair is really no longer your business, a voice in your mind says, but it’s a quiet one, and you brush it aside. “Get ahold of yourself,” you say. “We’ll get the man a sword, then. Where is he?”

“The brigand-camp in the Bree-fields, up to the west,” Kenton says. “Blake’s in charge there.”

You swing the rolled-up leather down from your shoulder where you were carrying it and drop it unceremoniously on the ground at Kenton’s feet. “Well, there’s that,” you say. “I’ll go get the sword from Mr. Ironband and take it to Blake.”

“Please hurry,” he says. You don’t respond, instead turning away and making for the Greenway at a light jog.

You are sweaty and out of breath by the time you reach the cabin guard-post, where Lofar Ironband still stands, talking to Chief Watcher Grimbriar. It seems to be a discussion of some importance, as both of them are consulting pieces of parchment and making notes on them in charcoal, but it doesn’t interest you. “Have you -- have you finished -- Thistleway’s sword yet?” you ask, gasping for breath and supporting yourself on your knees.

Lofar looks at you as if you had asked him if he had managed to lay an egg. “Do you know how long it takes to make a sword?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Listen, Blake came back and told Thistleway that he has his daughter Maribell up at the brigand camp west of the Everclear Lakes, and he’ll kill her if he doesn’t have a sword and soon.”

The Dwarf’s face softens. “This is bad,” he says. “No, I don’t have a sword. I have a few in progress and I sent word to my assistants to finish one as soon as may be, but I don’t have it yet. I know these types of fellows. they won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. They’ll kill that girl! You’ll have to mount a rescue.”

You turn and look expectantly at Chief Watcher Grimbriar.

“No,” he says. “Brigand’s Watch? They have a fortification built up there, and can see for miles around. They see a guard anywhere nearby and they’ll kill the girl without a second thought, and do who knows what else. I don’t have the men for a full assault.”

“So you’re just going to leave her?” you ask.

Grimbriar looks at you long and hard, and at length he says, “You’re the one who broke into the Briarstones’ estate last month, I know it. Slipped right past their dogs, somehow.”

“Well --” you say, “you can’t prove that.” You are actually quite proud of the feat, and don’t often get the chance to brag about it. Lady Hackberry feels it’s an inappropriate topic of conversation for mealtimes.

“Unfortunately, no,” the Chief Watcher agrees. “But I know it’s true. And if anyone can make it into Brigand’s Watch undetected, it’s the man who got past six bloodhounds without getting caught. What do you say?”

“I’m a tailor, Grimbriar,” you say. “I don’t adventure.” You know that he knows this is not true, but it’s only good form for him to keep up the ruse when he doesn’t have any evidence.

“So you’re just going to leave her?” he says.

~*~*~*~

The brigands have left one approach to their camp unwatched, and that’s the northern side, where the land rises up into a cluster of foothills around Starmere Lake, nestled beneath the Wildwood to the north and the Brandywood to the west. It is no small wonder; the land is wild here, too rocky for farming and too overrun for grazing. A few hunters come here occasionally, or so you have heard, but not many. It is far from Bree-town and Léonys has told you that it’s more trouble than it’s worth to haul a kill back from these woods, not with the Chetwood so near the town.

They’ve erected a palisade around their camp, but it’s a rush job, just a lot of logs driven into the ground and lashed together with rope. They’ve felled a great many trees to the south-east for this, which serves the double purpose of clearing the land between them and the town, and the farms and homesteads between. It doesn’t seem much like the other brigand camps you’ve seen -- the Blackwolds had watchmen, but their main camps were always nestled in comfortable ruins. This feels like they expect an attack of some sort, and it puts you on edge.

Not so on edge that you aren’t able to approach the palisade undetected. You hear voices on the other side, slurring with alcohol, but after a moment they pass on. You test the logs -- they’re placed sturdily enough -- and then quickly pull yourself up by the rope lashing the tops of them together, swing a leg between the sharpened points of the logs, and then throw yourself the rest of the way over, landing in a roll on the ground. You scramble to your feet immediately and duck behind a nearby tent, tucking your cloak close around you and hoping that to the casual observer you will look like just another bundle or blanket scattered around the sleeping area. But no one seems to have noticed your intrusion, and after a few moments you stand and quickly glance about.

You see no sign of any captives, but people typically keep things they don’t want to be stolen inward, rather than outward, and you imagine the same applies to prisoners they don’t want to escape. There is a gap in the palisade nearby, and from the outside you had seen a smaller compound here, tucked between two steep spurs of rock in the cliff behind. You quickly walk toward it, hoping anyone who sees you will assume you are simply one of their own, and slip inside.

There is a cage built on wheels inside the little area, and inside it you see a young woman sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. She looks up as you approach, but does not speak at once.

“I’m here to help,” you say as you examine the lock. It’s a simple two-pin lock like thousands of others you could pick with your eyes closed, but the workmanship is odd -- shoddy. The metal is not formed well and it seems to you that someone tried to cool it too fast, and perhaps also form it when it was not hot enough. No smith in Bree-land that you know of would put their name to such work. You wonder where it came from.

“I filched the key a while ago,” the girl, Maribell, says, sitting up and reaching into her pocket. “I was too scared to use it, though. There are so many of them.”

From her voice, you think she’s about Helena’s age. She hands you a key that is somewhat better made than the lock, but still not good. “All right,” you say. You unlock the cage door, but even as Maribell slips out, you hear a sound to your right.

The cage is not the only structure in the little inner palisade. There is also a tent, larger than the ones outside and with blankets and furs covering the floor inside, and from this tent a man has emerged. He is holding an ugly rowan club, little more than a broken branch that someone has tied some rags around for a handle, and he looks angry.

“That’s Blake!” Maribell hisses, and you see why Thistleway was so intimidated by him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps. “You’d better have a sword for me, boy.”

“You know,” you grumble, stepping forward to face Blake, “if I had a silver for every time someone asked me if I had a sword today, I would have two. It’s not very many, but it’s odd that it happened twice, seeing as how I’m very clearly not carrying a sword.”

Blake charges, raising the club high. You stoop to the ground, catch a handful of dust, dry grass, wood shavings, and small pebbles, and then straighten up and throw the lot directly into his face. He stops short, dropping the club, and clutches at his eyes with both hands. Almost in the same movement you step forward, snatch a dagger from his belt with your other hand, and drive it upwards, into his abdomen.

You turn away from Blake before he hits the ground. “Quick, over the palisade,” you say, pointing at a stack of crates behind the cage. Maribell nods and climbs the crates, gingerly pulls herself to the top of the palisade, and then slips over it. You follow as quickly as you may. Even as you stand up, you hear a shout from inside the palisade behind you, and you take Maribell’s hand and the two of you begin to run.

~*~*~*~

Thornley’s Work Site is probably the nearest safe place, or safer, at any rate. The two of you hurry north for some distance before turning west to pass the Everclear Lakes on the north. You are both exhausted, but you don’t stop running until you reach the work site. Work has not resumed in the past few hours, and murmurs and then cheers arise as the two of you approach. You slow to a halt, leaning against the foundation of the building in progress to catch your breath, but at the sight of her father Maribell seems to gain a second win and she runs ahead and throws herself into his arms.

Kenton Thistleway catches his daughter and pulls her close, holding her tight. Someone offers you a waterskin and you accept it gratefully. You aren’t used to so much running after a heist; usually there is a hiding spot much closer that you can retreat to until everything blows over. And you dearly hope this blows over. Hopefully none of the brigands got a good look at your face -- else this might lead to dire consequences for you and your family. The Hackberry House is not too far from Brigand’s Watch.

You aren’t sure how long it is before Kenton approaches you, Maribell just behind him. He clasps your hand in his and there are unshed tears in his eyes. “Bless you,” he says. “You’ve returned my daughter safe to me! I cannot thank you enough!”

“How about some more water?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood. Really, you would rather not think about what might have happened to Maribell, for a number of reasons.

“Get the man some water!” Kenton shouts to no one in particular, and although you know he has no real authority here, someone passes up another waterskin, which he presses into your hands. “You’ve done so much for me,” he says. His expression darkens. “What about Blake?” he asks.

“Blake is dead,” Maribell quickly says. “He --” she looks at you and you realize with a start that you have not introduced yourself to her.

“Hathellang,” you say.

“Hathellang killed him,” Maribell says. “And good riddance to him.”

The foreman pushes through the workers and scowls at Kenton. “Thistleway,” he says, “take your daughter and go home. Take the rest of the day off. And next time you’re getting blackmailed, don’t just come in and not say anything about it. Tusks o’ fury!”

Kenton gathers his tools and he and Maribell head south along the Greenway. It is not the quickest way back to the Hackberry House, but you opt to walk with them. There is safety in numbers, and you would rather see them safe at least as far as the guard’s cabin, since you’ve apparently decided to make this affair your business.

When you arrive at the cabin, Lofar is still there. He looks up as your little party approaches with a broad smile. “Excellent!” he calls. “Glad no harm came to the lass.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kenton says. “I’m so sorry for stealing your sword. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lofar says gruffly. “I sent you some work to do. What about it?”

“I haven’t finished it,” Kenton said. “I’ve barely started. I haven’t been able to focus much today. But here’s what I have.” He pauses to swing his workbag from his shoulder and draw out what you recognize as a set of old bellows-leather, marked to be used as a template for a replacement.

“Well, I can see you know what you’re doing,” Lofar says. “What’s all this?”

“The leather was cut wrong at the ends,” Kenton says. “It was putting too much strain here and here when they were used. They still worked, but that’s why they were wearing out so fast. I’ve added an extra measure at each end and I’ll reinforce these stress points when I replace it, so they’ll last longer before it needs replaced again.”

You think you see a spark of respect in Lofar’s eye, but he just nods and says, “Very good, very good. That’s good sense, that. Almost as sharp as a Dwarf-smith, this one. You can expect more work from me in the future, Thistleway.”

“Thank you,” Kenton says. You think he recognizes the high praise for what it is, coming from Lofar Ironband.

“I’ll be off, then,” you say.

“Not so fast,” Lofar says.

You scowl. “I have work to do too, Ironband,” you say. “Don’t tell me you want me to find another sword for you.”

“No,” Lofar says. “Actually, this is for you, seeing as how Thistleway doesn’t need it anymore.” He holds out a long, suspiciously sword-shaped bundle wrapped in cloth. “My assistant just brought it to me not an hour ago.”

You stare at it for a long moment. “Sir,” you say at length. “What am I going to do with a sword?”

Lofar scowls. “Consider it compensation for the fact that I accused you of a crime you didn’t commit and then tried to get you arrested,” he says.

“All right,” you say, taking the weapon. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Just don’t actually be stealing anything from my shop.”

You look pointedly at Chief Watcher Grimbriar, who is standing behind Lofar with smugness and frustration warring on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ironband,” you say.

“Bah!” Grimbriar says. “Get out of here, Hackberry.”

You consider a parting barb, but think better of it, and instead you hurry ahead, down the lane that leads to the North-gate. More work to be done; you have to get rid of this sword. You have no use for a sword. But at least it should fetch a good price, if not at the market then among the Man-smiths near the West-gate. After you have dealt with this, you promise yourself, you will be headed directly home and you will not go out again today.

As you pass the Windview Estate and near the Sandheaver home, you stop short. You would recognize the bright green and red jacket up ahead anywhere -- but Léonys cannot be here. She’s on a hunt, in the north-eastern Chetwood, up away past Archet. You break into a jog, and call her name, but she does not hear you, and she turns and walks towards the West-gate, and when you round the corner and look after her she is gone.

You turn back to where Lily Sandheaver is standing outside her house. “Was that Léonys?” you ask breathlessly.

“Yes, it was,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“What’s she doing here?” you ask.

“Nothing, anymore!” Lily says, and chuckles at her own joke. “She just bought some traveling rations from me, and firewood from Pasco Underhill up the hill. Said something about going into the Old Forest and not wanting to risk cutting wood there.”

You stare at Lily in disbelief for a moment. “The Old Forest?” you ask incredulously. “Whatever would she want in there?”

“Well I don’t know,” Lily says. “And what’s more, she said she was going by way of the Barrow-downs! It’s quicker, she said. Seemed in a terrible great hurry.”

What could Léonys possibly be thinking? You glance down the road to the West-gate, and then drop your eyes to the bundle in your hands. Well, perhaps you have a use for a sword after all.

“I’d like to buy some travel rations as well,” you say.

“Of course,” Lily says, and she collects a small bundle from the crate she keeps on her porch to sell to workers and travelers leaving town who have forgotten their lunches. “Forty-eight coppers, please.”

You count out the money, and bundle the meal into your pocket, then unwrap the sword. It’s a nice thing, sturdy and well-made, Dwarven designs worked into the hilt and pommel and running up one side of the otherwise unadorned sheath. You undo your belt and slide the scabbard loops over it, settling the weapon on your left hip, and then with a nod at Lily you turn and leave Bree behind, following Léonys out the West-gate, towards the Barrow-downs.

#lotro #lotro fanfic #the wind will set me racing #lotro oc #love my idiot son #my idiot son loves his idiot girlfriend #im an idiot too btw. were a trifecta

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captainderyn · 8 months

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The way you said “I love you”: 25. Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave

*stares in this being in my inbox since September 2019* I'm so sorry

Instead of this rotting in my drafts, I'm pulling another "that's not really what this prompt is" and wedging it into my needs for a little fic. So this will stop haunting me. Ugh.

Wulfwryn/Raenor (general spoilers for Vol 2 of the Epic questline I believe)

(Reading My World Is You will provide super helpful context)

Wulfwryn had dallied beneath the golden boughs of Lothlorien for far too long.

It was selfish, self-serving; she should have stayed in the deep and dark halls of Moria after handling matters in Zurr-thurkh. Her business was with Brogur, and with finding the lost dwarves who had been hustled away while Mazog toyed with and tortured Raenor.

It didn't matter that Brogur and Corunothiel both had directed her back to the sunlight, perhaps seeing that she was fighting to hang onto the single thread holding her together, directed her back towards Raenor. Every moment she spent with him as he healed, every morning she woke up pressed against the warmth of his body, guilt gnawed at her.

It was still too soon as she tightened her horse's girth and tied her saddle packs behind the cantle. Her hands were steady as she made sure both her sword and shield, repaired and shining from the forges of Caras Galadhon, were securely fastened to her saddle, but her mind was anything but steady.

"Wulfwryn," Her heart faltered at the soft, ragged plea in Raenor's voice.

His beautiful voice, still not fully healed from the foul concoctions Mazog had forced down his throat in an attempt to turn him into one of the brutal creatures of darkness that lurked in Moria's deepest pits.

She shuddered as she fought off the image of him in Azanarkâr, bloody and broken, burning with a fever from the poisons. She'd hardly slept a sound night since she'd returned to him healing here in Lothlorien, waking every few hours to check that he was still there with her.

Yet here she was, planning to leave all over again.

"Wulfwryn," Raenor repeated and she turned to face him, schooling all thoughts of him in those dark caverns from her mind and expression. His eyes searched hers, still finding what she tried to hide, "Please don't go."

"I have to." She left her horse where it was tied, slipping close to Raenor. He shook beneath her gentle touch as she slid her hands up his arms, settling one on either side of his jaw. His hair, shorn to his shoulders after being hacked at with orcish steel, slid through her fingers as she brushed it back, "I cannot leave the dwarves to Gorothúl's plans."

Raenor grasped her wrists, the bandages still covering his hands and arms rough against her skin. He leaned his cheek into her hand, pale eyes pleading, "Please do not go back into those evil halls."

For Moria called her back. Always the towering stone halls of Moria.

"The path to Gorothúl is there."

They both already knew this, she'd included Raenor in all of these plans at his insistence, even as he healed, even as each mention of Moria bled the color from his face.

"Then take me with you." Raenor's grip tightened on Wulfwryn's wrists as she look aside, agony ripping through her chest at the break in his voice, "Do not fight those horrors without me by your side."

Though she didn't trust the burning in her eyes to not overflow as the words she had to say built in her throat, she forced herself to look back at him anyway. To face the genuine fear written stark across Raenor's face.

"My love, you must stay here to heal." She brushed her thumb across his cheekbone, swiping away the tears that were falling. They'd never been separated, not like this. Never when one could go where the other could not follow. "The healers here at Caras Galadhon are the ones who can restore full use of your hands to you, who can make sure what happened there will not haunt you so."

Squeezing his eyes closed, Raenor took in a sharp breath through his nose, "I don't want to lose you down there."

His voice was so hoarse she almost couldn't make out the words, even as her soul shattered at the desperation, the pain flowing freely from him.

Careful not to hit spots that were still tender she closed the distance between them, pulling him close and burying her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He wrapped her tight in his arms, whole body shuddering.

"You will not lose me." She promised, "You will not. I will return for you, I will always return to you."

A reckless promise to make, but every passing day made it more and more obvious that these were reckless times. Unknown times.

In a perfect world she would not be pulling herself from him. If she were a more selfish person, perhaps she'd turn her back on the dwarves in Moria, proclaim that it was no longer her battle to fight, that she had greater wars to wage.

But just as she'd forsaken Amdir for the grand idea that she must find her rightful king, Wulfwryn forsook her peace with Raenor for the grand quest to find Gorothúl and his stolen captives.

#captainderyn writes #lotro #lotro fanfic #lotro guardian #lotro minstrel #oc: Wulfwryn #oc: Raenor #otp: sing to me softly #I so badly want to link My World is You but i think that'll make this post wacky #damn you tumblr!!#separating them like this causes me so much pain #i really hope this shows up in the tags

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muse-write · 3 months

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Here’s a little something based on my LotRO playable characters, the Dunedan Hiravar and the Elven minstrel Tirwe. No knowledge of the game is needed.

Summary:

When 19-year old Ranger Hiravar comes across an Elf-maid in the wilds of Bree, neither of them have any idea what’s in store for them years later. But when they meet again by chance nearly ten years later, they’re determined to figure it out as the War of the Ring looms on the horizon.

#my writing #lotro fanfic #lotr #lotro

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doppel-soldner · 2 years

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I quite like the Wardens of Annuminas

https://redminstrelmain.blogspot.com/2022/07/in-evendim.html

#lotro #lotro fanfic #lotro oc #dunedain

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cozmos-artz · 11 months

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elf crush

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ed-art-studio · 11 months

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New painting of Gandalf, one of the few unweivering characters in all of Middle Earth!

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pathfinderswiftpen · 2 months

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Why must one *write* the fic? Why isn't enough to *imagine* the fic?

#writing #fanfic #aaaahhhh #been simmering this concept for a lotro fic and it's taking on another place and character set and I'd rather be doing something else but #it needs written #for Catharsis #but Actually Writing it? good gracious.

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gil-galadhwen · 1 year

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The Lord of the Rings | Elrond x F!Reader

Part 1 (Carrier of Messages) can be read here or on AO3

Notes: I'm still including as much LOTRO Lore Master goodness as I can but also making up a few things too (particularly with the spells.)

This one is a bit dark... there's blood, there's violence and there's a hurt Elrond so proceed with caution, friends x

Word Count: 2.3k

Edraith

Elrond stayed for the rest of the day, talking with you in the library while you reshelved books and rearranged spell cards that were stored in drawers along one wall. He was curious about lore mastery and how you came to be in Celondim. You told him you come from a long line of lore masters and your grandparents came from Celondim so your presence there was inevitable. He looked at you curiously then, as though he was trying to work out who your family was. You turned the conversation around to him as often as you could though, asking after his own family and life as the king’s herald. He was passionate about his work and respected Gil-galad in a way you found charming. Yet, the more you talked, the more you realised there was a loneliness about Elrond that he perhaps kept veiled by his attentiveness and concern for others. You wondered if anyone had ever been as concerned about him as he was for everyone else.

After a cosy dinner shared in front of the fireplace in your quarters above the library, Elrond left for Lindon with a promise to send a message as soon as he returned. But after seven days, no message came and no errand required you to return to Lindon. The silence felt ominous. It wasn’t like Elrond to not keep his word, so you decide to head down to Celondim’s market square and see if you could gain some insight into where the king’s herald might be. He wasn’t generally at the forefront of town gossip but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

With a basket in hand and a handful of coins from the library’s repository, you slid quietly through the stalls, pretending to take interest in the various inks and quills for sale, alongside reams of parchment and elegant scroll cases. As you picked up an adorable parchment weight carved from stone into the shape of a frog, the customer next to you sparked a conversation with the seller.

“Did you hear about the Bandits? They have built a camp on the border of Rath Teraig.”

“But wardens are stationed there.” The seller replied.

“Indeed. They were attacked last night by orcs that have been prowling the woods nearby. They had to leave their post to transport the injured back to the Grey Havens.”

The seller sighed, nodding their head. “Orcs are getting too close to the towns for comfort. The king needs to do something.”

“That is not all.” The customer leaned closer to the seller. “The bandits took the opportunity to move in and block the main pass to Lindon. Until the king can send reinforcements, Lindon is completely isolated. Nobody goes in and nobody goes out except for the king’s herald who apparently is missing—“

“Excuse me.” You interrupted, startling the customer. “Did you say the king’s herald is missing?”

The customer looked you up and down, taking in your lore master robes and the veil you liked to wear for aesthetic's sake. “That is what the stable master has been saying.”

“Since when? How long ago was this reported?”

“Two, perhaps three days.”

You calmly set the frog parchment weight down and nodded your thanks before stepping out of the stall.

Elrond was missing. That might’ve explained why you hadn’t heard from him but he left Celondim seven days before and the customer had said the bandit attack was three days ago. He should have passed by the Grey Havens long before then. You tried not to panic as you pushed the door to the library open and dumped your basket on the floor before heading straight for the main table where you’d spread out Elrond’s gift to the library – a detailed map of Lindon, the Grey Havens and the surrounding woodlands.

A grey paw appeared on one corner of the map and you smiled. “Freda.” You said, scratching under the cat’s chin.

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you but I have to run out again.”

Freda purred, rolling over onto her back for a belly rub. “I promise I won’t be gone long.”

You plant a kiss on Freda’s head before rolling up the map and casting the Dismiss Companion spell.

Freda disappeared as though she was never there.

***

Skilled lore masters could conjure animal companions at will, although unfortunately for you, you had yet to learn the spell for conjuring a horse so you headed down to the stables to borrow one.

The stable master was reluctant to give you one of his beloved mares due to the rumours about the bandits, so you had to make do with a young bay pony, only recently broken in.

“That will do.” You said, handing over the coin. “What’s the pony's name?”

The stable master shrugged, turning his attention back to a steed with a shining, black coat. You sighed, leading the pony to the road where you quietly cast a Calming spell. If you were going to be riding into orc-ridden lands, you couldn’t have an easily spooked pony run out on you.

“I’ll think of a name for you.” You said, as you set off up the hill towards Duillond.

***

You’d ridden to Lindon many times, always keeping to the roads and paths established by the king’s wardens. However, after consulting Elrond’s map earlier, you’d decided on a different route that would take you through a thick patch of woodlands. Considering the possibility of orcs lurking in the trees, you knew this was a dangerous choice. But coming across bandits on the road would’ve been much more treacherous.

Once you had settled into the saddle, you cast three spells; one to obscure you and the pony from sight, one to cover up your scents, and one to soften the pony’s footfalls. Orcs had even better hearing than elves so being scentless and silent would go a long way in passing them undetected.

As you moved through the first line of trees and into the shadows, the air became heavier with humidity and an eerie silence draped over you, unsettling and foreboding. Not a single bird chirped from the boughs as you passed beneath them and when a branch snapped somewhere in the distance, you felt the pony tense beneath you. With the reins gripped in one hand, you reached forward to rub his neck in soothing circles. You could do this. You both could. You just needed to be brave and find Elrond before anything happened to him.

After a few hours, you reached a stream that split the woods in half. While you were certain you knew which direction Lindon was in, you couldn’t be sure which way Elrond might have gone. The sun was already beginning to set so you needed to get out of the woods as soon as possible. You were about to guide your steed across the stream when you heard a sound of metal on metal followed by a snarl. You froze, willing yourself and the pony to stay calm. Whatever it was, wouldn’t be able to see or smell you, unless you’d done the spells incorrectly - always a possibility when under duress.

You turned your head slowly to look over your shoulder to discover there were not one but two orcs standing less than five feet away, and they didn’t appear to know you were there. Breathing out a sigh, you watched as the two orcs launched into what can only be described as a petty squabble. But it was what they were squabbling over that stopped you from attempting to eliminate them straight away.

“It’s mine!

“I found it first!

“No, you bloody didn’t! I’m the one who tripped the frilly elfling bastard!”

“Yeah? Well, Murag was the one who strung him up!”

“I don’t bleedin’ care what Murag did! The brooch is mine!”

You swallowed as one of them held up something as round and silver as the moon.

Elrond’s brooch – the one he always wore that you wanted to ask him about but somehow, couldn’t find the courage to.

A quiet rage filled your blood as you pulled off your veil, tucking it safely into your robes before reaching back for your staff and sliding down from the pony’s saddle to the soft forest floor.

***

As silently as you could, you led the pony to the stream to drink before casting a Stillness spell so it would stay put while you followed the orcs deeper into the woods.

You trailed them as they jumped over the stream, bickering as they stomped through the undergrowth. Eventually, they stepped into a small clearing where two more orcs stood around a blazing fire while a third, larger one stood to the side, tossing an axe from hand to hand. By the way it was looming over the others, you suspected it to be the leader of the group and likely this “Murag” the other two had been talking about.

“Where have you two pig-heads been?” Murag growled, stepping towards the others.

What you saw behind him almost pushed you to your knees. Elrond had been strung up by his arms between two trees, his feet barely touching the ground. With a hand clasped over your mouth to stifle a scream, you watched as Murag turned and pulled on one of the ropes. Elrond, like a puppet on a string, flopped backwards, his head tilting to reveal his face, bruised and streaked with blood. His hair was a tangled mess and his robes were torn revealing the pale gleam of his chest. In the light of the fire, it looked utterly horrific and bile rose in your throat but you quelled it down. You couldn’t lose your head now, not when Elrond needed you most.

Clasping your staff between your hands, you closed your eyes and muttered the incantation for the Obliteration spell. You knew casting this spell would break the ones you’d cast earlier, making you visible to the orcs, but it couldn’t be helped. A stream of blue light shot out of the staff as you swung it in a wide arc, sending the five orcs backwards, crashing into the trees. The force of the spell banked the fire to embers, plunging the clearing into almost total darkness, save for the scythe moon’s light through the canopy of trees.

As the orcs, dazed, rose slowly to their feet, you quickly cast a Friend of Bears spell and with a roar, your bear companion Brius appeared at your side, his large paws beating his chest in a show of aggression. He immediately raced towards the two orcs with the brooch, while the other two made a beeline for you but you pushed them back with a Blinding Flash spell, stunning them again while you hurriedly cast a Lightning Strike directly above them.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Murag move towards Elrond’s body and you roared right alongside Brius.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” You scream, casting a Power of Knowledge spell. Three spears of yellow light surge towards Murag and plunge into his chest. Dropping your staff to the ground you pull on them like ropes, drawing Murag’s power from him and transferring it into you.

Brius had made quick work of the two orcs, their bodies lying limp next to the banked fire. He was already running towards the other two who were attempting to escape. You weren’t sure how many more spells you could cast without depleting your energy levels and Power of Knowledge was an intense spell. There was one more thing you could try, so you like the spell diminish and pick up your staff. It was dangerous but it was the only way you could use the last of your power effectively. You took a deep breath as you cast the Burning Embers spell. Red-hot cinders leapt from the fire into the air, blazing hot as though they’d just been lit.

“Over here!” You shout and as Murag turns towards you, you cast a Gust of Wind spell to blow the embers right into his hideous face.

He fell to the forest floor with a heavy thud and your beloved Brius fell on top of him and tore his head from his shoulders in one swift movement.

The forest was silent except for your laboured breathing and Brius, whose bloody mouth brushed your arm startled you.

“Oh, Brius.” You patted him on the head between his ears.

“You're such a good boy.”

Brius whined and you realised then that he was injured; a long gash ran down the length of his left side. You knew that he was asking you to release him so he could recuperate, so with a final pat you utter the spell and he disappears into nothing.

You waste no time getting to Elrond, his poor, broken body slumped against the ropes that you fight to loosen with your energy so low. Tears blur your eyes as you use a Knowledge of Cures spell on the worst of his wounds. When you finally free him from the binds, you slide beneath one of his arms and carry him back to where you left the pony by the stream.

You were crying hard, overwhelmed by the fight and the fear that Elrond may not make the journey back to Celondim. Your heart beat wildly in your chest and you were weak, so weak you feared you’d drop Elrond and it would have all been for nothing. No doubt more orcs were in the area and could come looking after the noise the battle had made.

On knees that were close to giving out, you pushed on. Then a sound, quiet and breathy brushes against your cheek. You turn to find Elrond looking at you through bleary, blood shot eyes. His cracked lips forming a word you don't recall ever telling him.

Your name.

“It’s alright.” You reassured him, tucking a lock of damp hair behind his pointed ear.

“You’re safe now.”

... to be continued

#ridiculous how much i enjoyed writing this!#sorry there isn't as much elrond content in this one #i'm getting there i promise!#elrond x reader #elrond x f!reader #rings of power #lotr #tolkien #lotro #lore master #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing

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0sincerelyella · 8 months

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Special Adventure -Legolas

Summary: Legolas and y/n decide to go on a spontaneous adventure

Notes: THIS IS FOR MY FRIEND BELLE ITS HER BIRTHDAY TMRW (in almost an hour for her as i’m writing this) SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLE

also let’s pretend none of the plot happened and all the characters just exist as besties bc i said so BC I SAID SO😡

and ik legolas wasn’t in the hobbit book but he was in the movie LETS FOLLOW THE MOVIE FOR THIS ONE GUYS

i totally made literally most of this up just roll with it

The sun was shining perfectly through the forest. it was golden and beautiful. y/n raced through the forest on her horse, her hair flowing through the wind as she laughed. “Your going to slow!” she called, grabbing the reigns of her horse as she jumped over a river. A blur ran up to her, pulling up right next to her. “hello princess” Legolas smirked at her, his arrows bouncing on his back as the horse ran forward.

y/n leaned forward, speeding faster. as y/n saw the edge of the forest she jolted to a stop. “i win” she smiled proudly, as legolas stopped with her. “of course you did” he said, hopping off of his horse. y/n followed in suit. “where exactly are we going Legolas?” y/n asked, stepping on rocks to cross a stream. “Where ever the forest wants us to go y/n” he says, jumping across the river with his bow in hand. y/n giggled as legolas slipped and fell into the small stream. y/n couldn’t breath due to how much she’s laughing.

as she began to be able to breath more, she reached her hand out to pull legolas up, that was her first mistake. Legolas pulled her down into the water into his arms, laughing as she squealed. as the two lay in the water and against the bank, laughing and joking in each others arms, having too much fun to watch to stand up and keep moving.

the sound of horses and talking from the outside of the forest coming in interrupted the goofing off between the two elves.

both of the elves shot up in instinct, drawing their hands to their weapons. “What was that?” y/n asked. Legolas crouched down, putting his hand up towards her as he walked behind a tree. “I think it’s man” he whispered, his arrow still nocked. y/n stepped backwards, cracking a stick. she looked towards the intruders, only seeing a tall man in a dark pointed hat. The men on their horses looked towards us, immediately looking as if they pulled out their swords in fear of an ambush, hopping off their horses and exploring towards the two

Legolas shot an arrow in the opposite direction to throw the men off course and grabbed y/ns hand. He darted towards the horses with y/n following suit, gripping tight to his hand. she laughed as they fled from the mysterious group of people once she realized what she saw.

the two jump onto their horses, and y/n stopped legolas as he tried to run back towards rivendell. “Legolas,” she was in a fit of laughter as she realized how scared she had gotten which in turn put legolas into attack and protect mode.

“y/n? we have to get back i don’t want you getting hurt”

“it was gandalf!” she said, giggling. legolas smiled, playfully pushing

y/ns shoulder. “y/n” he shook his head. “you had me thinking they’d hurt you!” he grabbed the reigns of his horse and turned towards the way they just ran. “no, send the horses back i have an idea” she speaks, jumping off her horse and climbing into a tree.

legolas followed in suit, following y/n through the forest. as they got to the trail, hiding themselves in the trees. Gandalf stopped, putting his hand up so everyone else followed in suit. “someone’s watching us” he speaks, y/n leans over, grabbing onto a branch for stability.

gandalf never looked back towards the two, only looking forward. “come out young ones” he speaks, a light hearted laugh following through. “is someone here to kill us gandalf?” bilbo asks, shaking with fear.

“no, just two makers of trouble” he speaks, and as he does so, y/n gracefully jumps on the back of bilbos horse. he lets out a girl like scream, and legolas takes that as his que to jump infront of bilbos horse. another girly scream. y/n jumped off the horse, running up to greet gandalf.

the two elves had their fun, scaring the adventure less hobbit. but they had both agreed to allow the group to have their journey.

y/n had decided she wanted to go back to rivendell, after the two had ran through the forest, play fighting and enjoy the company of the other. y/n had grown tired, adventuring with her love.

years ago, legolas’ father had made a deal with y/ns father. legolas and

y/n had grown up together. they had been adventuring the forest every day since they could run. y/ns father had promised y/n to legolas and they were to be married. in a rare case, instead of hating their parents for betrothing them to someone that wasn’t their love, legolas and y/n had always loved each other, and arranged marriage or not y/n and legolas would still have fallen in love and eventually married.

it was elven tradition for the parents to pick the spouses of their children, and it was pure luck that the two had been in love.

back in rivendell, y/n sat on legolas’s bed, her feet draped over it as he spoke to his father. “The wedding is soon legolas”

“i know father” he smiled, not angered or sad. he was happy and excited. “i’m glad you love her son” legolas nodded. “i’m glad you picked her for me, or i would’ve picked her myself” he said, in all honesty.

legolas’ father smiled. “i respect that” he told his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. “treat her right, she’s a sweet girl. like family to us” y/n smiled as she eavesdropped on her love and his father.

when legolas closed the door, he sat next to y/n on the bed. “melin le (elvish for i love you) legolas” she spoke, he placed his hand on her leg. “melin le y/n. my princess”

#legolas #lotr #lotr fandom #lotredit #lotro #lotr fanart #lotr fanfic #lotr shitpost #lotr memes #incorrect lotr quotes #lotr elves

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a-lonely-dunedain · 9 months

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tagged by @thalion71 (oops meant to do this sooner)

welp, as it turns out, I am Very New to writing fanfic and only have a grand total of [checks notes] 3 fics published ever but hey I'm not gonna turn down an excuse to promote them! I worked hard on those after all

so it seems a bit pointless to categorize them by most/words/comments/kudos/hits bc all of those would go to Of Bitter Ash and Stubborn Flowers, (99 hits, 2 bookmarks, 12 kudos, 9 comments) as it is currently my only multi-chaper fic ^^; alas, it's not finished yet either, but once I get my brain to finally cooperate again it will be updated! eventually!

that being said I might as well shoutout the other two fics I have while I'm at it

my personal favorite (and also the shortest): Run Away, Runaway that's my first thing I ever posted to Ao3! it's when the Meneldir-Brainrot finally got bad enough that it forced me work on to getting over my fear of showing other people my writing. Anyway I need more people to be obsessed with Meneldir so, go read that if you wanna maybe :unless:

and then there's Taz Rambles About Two Fictional Guys Being Sad For Like 7 Pages If You're Into That Sorta Thing which is exactly what it says on the tin. post-Sarch-Vorn angst, Gelesebdir and Tossdir get to be friends at least :')

and I have no idea who all has been tagged already SO if you wanted to do this but have not yet been tagged by anyone, consider yourself tagged by me (this is legally binding)

#it is surprising now that I think about it that I never really tried to do fanfic before the Meneldir-brainrot got to me #I was simply too shy I guess #lotro fic #tag games #ty friend!

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rohirric-hunter · 4 months

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8, Candaith

Oh yeah it's been a while. This is kind of a companion piece to something I haven't finished yet but it should stand well on its own. There's no inn in Morlad, but I decided to make the house directly in front of you as you enter town a tavern because *checks notes* it has a task board in front of it.

Because I realized I never said in the story, this is Hathellang's POV.

~*~*~*~

"Who did this to you?" you ask quietly, though you get no response. Candaith is unconscious, though at least it seems more like sleep, now that the host of the Dead has passed.

It had been a difficult ride to Morlad, following Aragorn's quickly whispered directions with Candaith propped up before you on your horse, with his own steed following close behind. The terror of the Dead had diminished as you had put some distance behind you, but you knew you had only a little time to get Candaith out of their path before they came sweeping down into the Blackroot Vale after Aragorn and the Grey Company. And when you had entered the town, you had been distressed to find it active and bustling despite the late hour. At least they had been reasonably receptive to your recommendation that they all go inside and lock their doors and stoke their fires, once you had mentioned the Dead.

The keeper of a tavern near the town gate had offered you and Candaith shelter and you had taken her up on it, dragging Candaith with her help into the building, then rushing out again to tend to your horses. The horses of Morlad are better used to the fear of the Dead, but even they pranced nervously as the air grew thick with cloying fear. Rochpher and your own steed, Poppy, were near to panic, but with your help the stable-master calmed them and led them in among the largest of her own horses, where they could take some reassurance from their comforting presence.

The tavern keep had called you back to her own door with a warning that she would lock it in a moment, and you had wasted no time rushing back inside and helping her bar the door behind you. She had stoked the fire and the room was bright and warm -- but that was hours ago.

Now the room is dark as the embers burn low, and chills creep in from the corners. You sit on the floor with your back to the wall beside the hearth, Candaith draped across your lap.

He had remained unconscious for the entire passing of the Dead, as you had clung to him and pulled close to the fire, the uneasiness that had hovered in the back of your mind since you entered Dunharrow growing into a sharp terror, and then panic. If Radanir’s assurance that it was the presence of the Dead that had caused Candaith's malady was not enough, he had curled in on himself, face crumpled in pain, and his skin had been pale and clammy. His back was icy to the touch, and when your hand had brushed across it he had gasped in pain.

There had been no sign of bleeding, but nonetheless when the Dead pass you lift his shirt to assure yourself he is not injured, and find the long, angry white scar that runs down his back, right shoulderblade to left hip. The wound has healed, but even your untrained eye can see that it is new, a month old at most. It has been tended well and does not need your unskilled hands; instead you adjust Candaith so that none of his weight is on the injury, and drape his cloak and your own across him.

Who did this to him? You can guess. The anger and grief on Radanir’s face and in his voice, and the concern in Aragorn's as he had glanced back into the caverns where once the Men of the Mountain had dwelt paint a clear enough picture. You think Candaith was not the only casualty of whatever treachery had wounded him, and remember with trepidation the pensive way Léonys had regarded the slot that led from Dunharrow to the Paths of the Dead. Had she been injured too? She had not seemed hurt, but then neither had Candaith until he had suddenly looked to his left and then collapsed unconscious before you on the journey through the darkness.

On the other side of the fireplace, the innkeeper stirs. "Are you -- are you hungry?" she asks.

You probably are, but you don't feel it. "Yes," you say, and after a long pause she rises and walks toward the kitchen, leaving you alone, cradling Candaith and waiting for him to wake.

#lotro #lotro fanfic #my writing #the wind will set me racing

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captainderyn · 10 months

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"In Joy" kiss for Raenor/Wulfwryn, please

The Midsummer festival gave me the perfect idea for this prompt :D

This is pure fluff lol, I'd love to add onto it and write out their whole experience at the royal wedding, if I find myself having the time.

Raenor/Wulfwryn

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No amount of cold water from the pitcher in front of her or sweet floral-scented summer breeze could soothe Wulfwryn's frazzled nerves.

She took another deep drink of water, flapping the collar of her black guard tunic to let air brush her sweaty skin. Though the weather was blessedly mild for summer in the White City, she'd rode and run enough around each level that she thought she'd melt.

"Captain...?" she groaned at the tentative voice of one of her young guards, pressing her hand to her eyes.

"I don't wish to hear another request." she said.

When she peaked through her fingers, the youngest guard in her company shifted from foot to foot, eyes wide with indecision.

"But Captain-"

"Ah, no more." Though she was messing with him, mostly, her guard looked close enough to distress that she softened with a chuckle, "What is it?"

"King Elessar sends summons for you. He was quite insistent that we track you down."

She carded through the incidents of the last several hours in her mind, trying to find one that she hadn't already handled. Crisis with the decorations, food, flowers, and ale had all been averted. She'd redirected the wedding planners from the mischievous misguidance of the hobbits. She'd even relayed to her dear friend the murmurs of discontent his marriage to lady Arwen that had spread through the Splintered Shield.

Her confusion must have flitted across her face, as her guard amended, "From his words, it is nothing bad. He actually insisted it was something you would be most pleased about."

Well, what she'd be most pleased about would be a long break and even longer nap out of the bustle of wedding preparations and guard duty. But unless Aragorn and Arwen married in secret--which she would not put past her friend, if his adjustment to kinghood showed any trends--she did not foresee that happening.

As she pulled herself to her feet, swinging back her heavy black cloak so it wouldn't snag on the chair, her muscles ached and protested. Why could her people's predecessors have build a less upward inclined city?

"Aye, well if Elessar says it then it must be so." She said lightly, still snagging on her king's 'new' name. She'd known him by so many now, she'd be lucky to ever keep then straight, "Do try to get some rest in my stead, your shift should be over."

Her guard sketched a bow to her, though it was wholly unnecessary and he flushed at her pointed look, "I will Cap...Wulfwryn. There's a horse waiting at the stables to take you to the Tower."

"Wulfwryn!" Aragorn waved her off as she went to settle to a knee in front of him. Though it earned her a good-natured glower, she still ducked into a quick bow, "I have wonderful news for you."

The joy written across his face could not solely be attributed to the end of the war. In the stretch between Sauron's fall to the encroaching wedding, she'd seen the weary, brooding look she'd come to know him with many times.

No, the closer to Arwen's arrival they were, the more weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. A spark alighted brighter in his eyes with each passing day and there was more bounce in his step. For his smile to be so bright...it lit a beacon of excitement in Wulfwryn's own heart.

While her king's happiness was something she would give anything for, if his bride-to-be was riding into Gondor then that meant her own love would not be far behind.

She cocked her head, smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth, "Did you summon me here to tell me of the elven company's arrival, my lord?"

With so many of his advisors watching, judging every move the new king made, there was only so much they could blur the line between friends and a king and the captain of his guard. Aragorn's dropping of her title had already caught one grimacing glance.

"I want you to greet the company." Aragorn smiled, more open and beaming than she'd ever seen it, "Welcome by betrothed and her wedding party to the White City, as one who is considered elven-friend."

She bowed her head as her heart skipped and danced with joy in her chest, "It will be done."

Aragorn stepped closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level, "And do give my regards to Raenor. The guard will not need your services the rest of today or tomorrow, welcome him to your city and make up for lost time my friend."

"Tomorrow is the wedding, should I not be standing guard on such an important day?" she asked, brows knitting.

She should have been ruffled by the way Aragorn waved her concern away, should have insisted his safety be paramount to her own desires. Though the desire to take his offer without question was tantalizing. It'd been too long since she'd last seen Raenor.

"The other guards will have no trouble keeping rowdy party guests in line. You are an honored guest tomorrow, Wulfwryn, as both a friend and a pivotal part of the war." Aragorn set a long look on her, "Now go to the gates, where the elves await."

She'd always learned not to argue with her rightful king, and this was not a battle she would pick. With one last bow for good measure, to his chagrin, she turned on her heel and hurried from the Tower.

The ride from the topmost level of the city to the gate was agonizing, unable to nudge her horse into more than a meandering trot as she wove through packs of guests, got stuck behind supply wagons, and dodged children and hounds running amuck.

Though it was the most alive she'd seen Minis Tirith since the end of the war, she still grit her teeth against the frustration roiling her her blood.

Finally reaching the gate did not ease her ire. The party from Rivendell amassed in the courtyard, a gentle glow emanating all around them.

She scanned the numerous faces, failing to find the one she wanted. Were she not in uniform, she might've stomped and thrown her arms about like a young child. Finding Raenor would be as difficult as finding a needle in a haystack!

Reigning in her irritation as much as she could, easier as Elrohir and Elladan greeted her with smiles and friendly words, she still looked at each elf that walked back and listened with half an ear to the brothers' joy and sorrow over their sister's wedding.

By the time she finally reached Elrond, she tried dearly to fully listen to the father's conflicted words. She'd resigned herself to never finding Raenor until the party filtered towards the guest houses. Perhaps tonight he would find her in her modest stone home within the city walls.

"Wulfwryn!" Her name echoed from deeper within the crowd and she snapped back to focus. A wave of movement, elves swaying back and forth in fine, rippling silk, rolled from the back of the caravan towards her.

"Goheno nin! Vanya, mechin! Wulfwryn!"

She looked to Elrond, wincing, even as she heard the apologies and pleas rushing closer, "My apologies, my lord Elrond, I-"

But the lord of Rivendell simply offered a bittersweet smile, following her darting looks to where Raenor finally broke free from the crowd, out of breath and flustered.

"He has long wished to be reunited with you, I will not stand in the way of that."

Before Wulfwryn could parse through enough of Elrond's underlying emotion to respond, for she knew all he'd done for Raenor in the centuries past, she was swept from her feet.

She squealed in delight as Raenor's familiar arms hoisted her up, spinning her round and round with a joyous, "Meldanya!"

Through giddy laughter she wrapped her around around his neck, fingers tangling in the long waves of his hair. Her feet found the ground again and she waved on her feet, gripping him tighter.

She couldn't even get out a greeting before his hands were cupping her jaw, tugging her up into one kiss, then another. His hands were warm against her skin, his musician's callouses rough.

Her laughter bubbled out of her, freely given, as her hands fumbled up to find his wrists as he peppered her lips, then each corner of her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, with kisses.

"I've missed you." She got out finally, pressing herself tightly to Raenor and wrapping her arms around his middle. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as out of breath as she was, his heart hammering an excited beat beneath his fine, blue silk tunic as she pressed her cheek to his chest, "I'm so glad you finally made it, my love."

Pulling her even closer, Raenor pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head, "I have dreamt every day since I left to be back here with you."

He swayed them back and forth, a joy so pure and unfiltered pouring forth from him that it was infectious, "And I do not plan to leave again, meldanya. Not without you by my side."

She titled her head back to look up at him, eyebrows pulling together, but he simply ducked his head down to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear, "I shall tell you later."

Though curiosity wracked her, and though she wondered if that were the reason behind Elrond's bittersweet look towards them, she pressed up onto her toes and captured Raenor's lips in another kiss, gathering the collar of his tunic in her greedy hands.

There was little worth questioning too hard in this moment.

Goheno nin: Sorry

Vanya, mechin: Move, please!

Meldanya: My beloved/my love

#captainderyn writes #touch prompts #lotro #lotro fanfic #oc: Raenor #oc: Wulfwryn #otp: sing to me softly #I love them so much PLEASE Raenor's reaction is making me emotional and I wrote it ;--;#he's so excited to tell Wulfwryn that he plans to stay in Gondor with her!!#my comfort ship for REAL coming back to writing them is always so easy

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