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z-h-i-e · 2 years

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Back to Middle-earth Month: Claiming & Creating Starts March 1st!

It's almost time for B2MEM (Back to Middle-earth Month). Here's the basics; links under the cut for all of the goodies.

B2MEM is an annual creation celebration for all things Tolkien, mainly focusing on his legendarium. What can you do for it? Literally anything. Post something new. Finish something you already started. Rec something you did. Rec something someone else did. Give warm and fuzzy comments to someone. B2MEM runs from March 1 to April 15. For more details and links to all of the galleries with new prompts, check below the cut.

Mathom Marketplace 2022's theme is 'Mathom Marketplace'. You can find the long list of 'what do' and 'how to' here. You do not need to use the list to participate, you can always do your own thing, but if you're looking for inspiration and getting in on the fun, check out the prompts found below! Claiming of prompts and creation of stories, art, and other fun things for B2MEM begins on March 1st. Here is the list of prompts, grouped by type:

Artie Greenhands’ Studio (Art) (updated 2/24/22) [10 submissions] Bingo Boffin’s Bingo Ball (Bingo Cards) (updated 2/17/22) [17 submissions] Chubbs’ and Grubbs’ Snack Tent (Story Starters) (updated 2/17/2022) [30 submissions] Gammer Diggle’s Odds & Ends (General Prompts) (updated 2/17/22) [169 submissions] Harper Hornblower’s Harmonious Tones (Playlists) (updated 2/21/2022) [8 submissions] Joy Gardner’s Big Mood Café (Moodboards) (updated 2/17/2022) [12 submissions] Lightfoot’s Darkroom (Photo Prompts) (updated 2/22/2022) [40 submissions] Proudfoot & Goodbody’s Costumes, Clothes, & Coiffures (Cosplay) (updated 2/24/2022) [6 submissions] Twist Roper & Smith Clayhanger’s Crafting Workshop (Crafts) (updated 2/24/2022) [13 submissions]

There's also a presentation here from the 2019 B2MEM on ideas for what one can create, beyond fanfiction and fanart. It references the Bingo theme that year, but the ideas are all still valid.

Trade Show at Mrs. Bracegirdle’s Boutique This is an opportunity to collaborate and/or exchange specific items in trade. Maybe you want to draw pictures of Frodo in Valinor and want someone to write a story for them. Maybe you have been working on a story about Indis' childhood, and are looking for an illustrator. Maybe you want to collaborate on a story about the first Dwarves in Middle-earth. You can post your trade offers here. Posting & Viewing Works Beginning March 1st, 2022, works can be posted to the AO3 collection. This collection never closes, so while the event will wrap by the end of April, you can always add works later as you are inspired and finish them. Socially Speaking... Want to chat with others about Spring Into Arda events? There are parties for B2MEM throughout the event and the server is open year round. Hang with other B2MEMers and Trade Show participants on Discord!

#B2MEM22 #B2MEM2022 #Back to Middle-earth Month #tolkien fandom #tolkien fanfiction #tolkien fanart #signal boost

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omgkatsudonplease · 3 years

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[ficlet, bagginshield] what hobbits do best (bridgerton au)

On the morning of the Great Smials Assembly, the doorbell to Thorin’s rented smial rings a couple times before Balin manages to answer the door. Bilbo Baggins stands on the doorstep, arrayed in a handsome green morning coat over a red waistcoat with golden buttons. In his arms he carries a basket of eggs, seed-cakes, and other sundry ingredients.

“The cakes are my mother’s recipe,” he says almost by way of greeting as Balin and Dwalin take the basket from him, as well as his hat and gloves. His mop of golden curls falls into his topaz eyes, which are sparkling merrily.

Thorin himself has just emerged from the study, wrapped in his robe. He starts to shrug out of it, wanting to look more presentable, but Bilbo shakes his head.

“This is your place; you’re welcome to wear whatever you like in it.”

Thorin chuckles at that, gesturing towards the kitchen doorway. “Shall we?” he asks, and Bilbo happily leads him inside.

Bilbo is an excellent teacher, demonstrating to Thorin how to fry eggs in a cast-iron skillet over the kitchen stove. He even lets Thorin try it himself, hovering by on his stool so he can observe Thorin’s technique. Thorin is more used to wielding practice swords and fountain pens, but the movements of egg-frying are simpler than that. The most difficult part is making sure the egg doesn’t stick to the skillet.

Bilbo also fries up a couple slices of ham and warms the seed-cakes up in the oven, so between the two of them they’re able to create quite a breakfast spread for everyone in the smial. Balin manages to find marmalade and honey in the cupboards, and the four of them sit down for a nice late (or second, in Bilbo’s estimation) breakfast.

Usually, breakfast is when his work as King begins. On most days, Balin would brief Thorin on the news while he eats, or ask him for his responses to the latest ravens from Erebor. Dwalin would clear the plates as they talk, the gentle clink of porcelain in the kitchen sink a smooth backdrop to letter-writing and speech-reading. In between his social obligations, Thorin still has tours of mills and farms, luncheons with the leading Hobbits of the Shire, and events supporting Dwarvish investments in this region of Eriador. The House of Ur, for example, is one of the leading exporters of Shire flax and cotton for their textile mills in the Blue Mountains. Thorin must appear supportive of their ventures, regardless of any past history and rejected suits.

But today, there is none of that. No thoughts of alliances, or politics, or economic investments and trade. Today there is only the simplicity of learning how to fry an egg, and the warmth of Bilbo’s hands at his elbow as he helps him with his technique. Today there is only the taste of egg yolk lingering as he listens to Bilbo spin stories about his numerous cousins, mingled with marmalade and honey as he turns his attention to the seed-cakes on their little porcelain platter.

Breakfast is usually when Thorin ends and the King begins, but today he holds off on the King for just a little while longer, for Bilbo’s sake.

“Thorin,” says Bilbo suddenly, drawing Thorin out of his thoughts. “Balin says you’re quite good at the piano. Is that true?”

“Balin flatters me,” says Thorin sheepishly. “I am passably well at best.”

“His Majesty is too humble,” retorts Balin with a knowing grin. “He has been known to compose music in the past.”

“Oh, colour me intrigued,” declares Bilbo, turning back to Thorin with a honeyed smile tugging at his lips. Thorin can almost physically feel his resolve crumbling inside him like a house of playing cards. “I think I saw a piano in the drawing room on the way here; I’d love to hear one of your pieces, if you don’t mind.”

Thorin chuckles, looking down at his now empty plate. For all intents and purposes, breakfast is swiftly ending, and Bilbo ought to return back to his home to await any potential suitors. He, too, ought to return to his study, to all the correspondences that he usually answers during breakfast and all the duties of being King.

But he doesn’t want Bilbo to leave. He doesn’t want to stop being Thorin just yet.

“As you wish,” he says instead of the right and proper thing to do, and excuses himself from the table. Bilbo follows him into the drawing room, one hand still clutching the mug of tea Dwalin had poured for him.

The piano in the smial here is nothing like the glorious instrument he works with back in Erebor, but its tone is still quite lovely and playful, even if a little brighter than what he’s used to. Thorin warms up with a couple quick scales, before his mind starts to wander back to the painting at the Mathom-house, and his fingers stray along with him.

For a moment, he’s not a King at all. Just a simple Dwarf in his little smial in the Shire, waking up every morning to the glorious roll of dawn across sloping emerald fields. He would have nothing to worry about besides filling his pantry with food and stocking up firewood, spending his days wandering through wildflowers and woody groves until it’s time for supper and bed. The sharpest thing he would own is a paring knife to cut fruit for lunch and whittle amusing little toys, and the most power he would have over other living things is the extent to which he will let weeds grow in his garden.

He would be a simple Dwarf, and if he was joined by a simple Hobbit with honey-gold curls and topaz eyes, well, he would not be complaining.

Thorin slowly returns to the present and removes his hands from the piano keys. The drawing room is silent for a moment, the warm tension flaring between him and Bilbo once more as he turns to see the Hobbit gingerly daubing at his eyes with his handkerchief.

Then Bilbo starts to applaud, rising to his feet. “You have poetry in your fingertips,” breathes the Hobbit, his cheeks flushed bright crimson as he does. Thorin feels his own ears heating in reply, especially when he glances to see Balin and Dwalin lurking by the drawing room doorway, smirking knowingly at him.

When Bilbo is finally seen off to prepare for the Great Smials Assembly tonight, Balin chuckles as he joins Thorin by the front window. In the distance, Bilbo has been largely swallowed by the crowd in Bywater, though Thorin has kept an eye on his golden curls and green coat the entire time.

“I told you so, laddie,” says Balin.

Thorin turns away from the window, his hands clenched so tight the nails dig into his skin. Though his heart has changed, he knows his will must remain resolute.

He shrugs out of the blue robe that he’d been wearing all morning, finally donning his coat.

“My correspondences await,” he says, and strides past Balin back into his study.

#the hobbit #bagginshield #tolkien #lily's dabbles #bridgerton au #king thorin just wants a cottagecore lyfe.mp3 #i like to think he played the main theme from 2005 pride and prejudice

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rohirric-hunter · 3 years

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Hathellang of Bree-land (Léonys of Rohan Pt. 7)

Part 1 | Part 6 | Part 8 | Part 10

So far I’ve only encountered one quest in LotRO that I found myself disagreeing with entirely. It’s during the Epic questline, just before the Battle of the Pelennor fields, and it’s called Reserves of Courage. The game has you encouraging some soldiers who are about to give up with rousing tales of your adventures, featuring such exemplary stories as: Balrogs, which TBH the soldiers probably didn’t think existed anymore. Mordirith, who you just found out yesterday is still alive and also can’t be killed and also is leading the assault on this city. Dol Guldur and its associated Nazgûl. Also the PC is explicitly losing hope themselves, and while there’s something to be said for a narrative of someone going through the motions to encourage other people with platitudes they don’t believe, I don’t feel that angle was effectively played. So. Yeah. This is my response to that quest.

The thing you gotta understand about Tolkien and LotR is “Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures” and also “I do not expect 'history' to be anything but a 'long defeat' - though it contains .... some samples or glimpses of final victory” but at the same time “the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.” Hathellang has always been much more “in tune” with LotR’s core themes than Léonys, a bit more hobbit-y, if you will, which is hard to showcase when the story isn’t told from his point of view (which is because I hate writing in his voice but that’s a whole other rant).

***

This is how it is to be Hathellang of Bree-land:

The basket in your arms is a heavy burden, and you gladly set it down with a dull rattling noise on the battlement beside Celonor, who gives you a quizzical look. You can’t blame him; you’d hardly explained yourself before heading off to the Thirsty Seer to fetch it. You draw back the cover and produce two mugs in one hand and a large jug of beer in the other -- nothing fancy, as you have precious little money left, but you tasted it and it’s of decent quality, something of a nuttier, lighter version of Barliman Butterbur’s favored homebrew.

Celonor and the men behind him brighten up as they realize what it is you’ve brought, and gather around, taking the mugs of ale you hand out and then spreading out around the walltop again, still eyeing you curiously as you fill one for yourself.

You settle down on the battlement, swinging your legs around so you’re facing out, eastward towards Osgiliath and Mordor beyond it, and you can’t help but suppress a shiver at the sight. The men behind you have given into despair. How can you hope to have victory, indeed? Somewhere in the ruined city across the smoking Pelennor fields stands Mordirith, returned from death somehow, unable to be killed, and the drink turns to ash in your mouth.

Léonys had stood before Mordirith in Angmar, hurling insults and threats even as the terror forced her to her knees, crouched over the body of Lorniel or trying desperately to distract him from Golodir when the Ranger was broken by false visions of his daughter. You had stood behind her, and behind every word she spoke, but that is how Léonys channels her courage; through anger, and through determination, and through fighting every step of the way, even when victory seems impossible. You have never been so strong.

You think, wryly, that you ought not to have followed the Grey Company at Léonys’ urging. Blind devotion had overridden the voice of sense in your head that whispered that she ought not to be left alone, not after the way she had followed Gimli out of the caves in the back of Helm’s Deep like a skittish goat, eyes darting everywhere and seeing nothing, and the high-strung way she had spoken to you and managed to say everything and nothing at once. Perhaps it would not have if you had known then what she had left behind in those caves. Even now you know very little, an incomplete and hastily told account from Candaith, who had not been present for most of the events he spoke of, and had been reluctant to tell you what Léonys had chosen not to tell for herself. If you could do that morning over, perhaps you would have chosen differently, but you cannot, and you did not, and now you must play the hand you have been dealt.

You straighten your shoulders and lift your mug to your mouth again, stirring yourself from the memory. How can you hope to have victory? There is no hope for victory. You do not belong here. You are not a warrior or a leader; you are a thief, and your skills lie in hiding and lying and misdirection. But there is no leaving the White City now.

“You said that Echadon wished for you to speak to us, but you have said precious little,” Celonor says. “Is it true then, that there is no hope?”

You close your eyes, and then open them, drawing your gaze closer, to one of many towers of smoke rising from the fields below. “What was the Pelennor like?” you ask.

“What?” says another voice, from behind you and to your right.

“Before… everything,” you say. “What was it like?”

Some shuffling and murmuring. You do not look back. “Andor lived there,” someone says. “Tell him, Andor.”

Another pause, and then another voice speaks, of an older man, tinged with fear. “I own -- owned a farm, to the south, over there. “We grew… beans mostly, but my wife had a flower garden.”

You look back to follow where Andor is pointing. In the darkness you cannot make out the farm, if indeed anything remains to be seen, but you nod knowingly anyway. “What kind of flowers?” you ask.

Andor looks at you the exact same way Keeper Brombard Foxtail had looked at you when you had asked him about Mithril from the Michel Delving Mathom house, and it is that, more than anything, that brings the light back to your heart in that single moment as you stifle a laugh. “Primroses, mostly,” he says. “Snake’s head. Mostly primroses.” For a moment, silence reigns, and you scan the faces, confused, fearful, and heartbreakingly sad.

Andor continues. “There are great clusters of wood anemone beneath the Rammas in the south. She did not grow them; they are best kept away from farmland, and they don’t grow well in the open fields. But she loves them, and they are quite beautiful. Have you seen them?”

You are reasonably certain that you have, but you shake your head anyway, and Andor comes and settles on the battlement beside you. He is grizzled, not shaven well due to a scar that runs across his chin, and his skin corroborates his tale of long hours spent working in the sun, though he wears his armor with a comfort that speaks of habit. “They blanket the grounds beneath the wall, and in the woodlands beyond, clusters of leaves of the boldest green, and small white flowers with six petals. Our daughter calls them the eyes of the land, watching out for us.” He takes a long drink from his mug and then sighs. “I suppose it’s all dead now, though.”

You set your mug aside and draw your legs up onto the battlement, wrapping an arm around them. “I wish I could see it,” you say, and take a deep, shaky breath. “It’s beginning to be springtime, where I’m from. The wildflowers will be blooming in the fields; violets, marigolds, primroses. Mostly violets.” You raise your eyes to Osgiliath again as you continue. “Helena -- my sister, I suppose -- Helena will be starting her garden. She grows potatoes and onions, but last year she tried her hand at carrots. They were terrible. I can’t figure how you can ruin carrots but she did it, somehow. There’s a festival in the springtime; a hedge maze, baking and eating contests, horse races, dancing. Drinking. Lots of drinking. The winter rains move off and the new rains are gentle and warm.”

There’s an eerie silence on the walltop now. Even the wind seems to have fallen silent. You shiver in the suddenly chill air.

You drag your gaze away from Osgiliath and turn, looking at the eight or so men that stand behind you. Their eyes are bleak, as bleak as your own must be. You can read on their faces that they know what you are thinking. They do not -- cannot know about Angmar, or the Barrow-downs, or the orcs and bandits that roam freely across the fields around Bree-town, but they know that there is evil there, read the fear in your voice that upon your return, if you do return, there may no longer be eating contests, or a hedge maze, or horse races. And even if there are, if these things persist for a little in the face of Sauron’s inevitable power, how long? How long before even the memory of them fades?

This, then, is the difficult bit.

You throw back and drain your mug, setting it down with a harsh clatter on the battlement beside you. A stiff gust of wind sweeps past and you stand up, and draw your cloak about yourself.

“So there is no hope.”

It is not a question, but you respond anyway. “Not really, no.”

“Then why do we prepare for battle?” someone demands, and you hear the clatter of another mug hitting the stone of the battlement.

You shrug, turning back to face the men behind you. “What’s the other choice?” you ask.

Andor looks about, eyes darting shiftily, before speaking. “The Withered Tree promises mercy if we surrender.”

“Well, that’s definitely not going to happen,” you say, matter of factly, “if your orcs are anything like the ones back home.” There is some disgruntled murmuring; they can read the truth in your voice as clearly as they read the doubt. “It’s how most things worth doing get done,” you say. “You’ve come this far, so you might as well go a step further, and then a step after that. We’re here, and we can’t leave, so we might as well fight.”

There’s a long pause. “You are not a strong motivator,” Celonor says.

“Oh, that’s very true,” you reply, picking up the jug and pouring a little more beer into your mug. “I’m right, though.” You don’t wait for a response before forging ahead. “I probably won’t go home. It’s too much to hope for. But it’s what I want. And I want it enough to fight for it, even if I don’t expect it to happen.” You hold out a hand for Andor’s mug. “Does the Withered Tree promise a farm that grows beans and a flower garden with primroses and wood anemone in the woodlands?”

The man shakes his head as he hands you the mug, smiling grimly and sadly. “You have only been here a few days. There is no victory against the Enemy.”

“Of course not,” you say. “But there’s no victory in surrender.”

Celonor frowns. “And you’re willing to die for that -- for a hope that you don’t believe you’ll ever see?”

“I’m willing to live,” you correct him. “If I was dead, then I wouldn’t be worrying about any of this.” The mugs are plain clay, cracked glaze offering textures that you run your fingers over contemplatively for a moment before handing Andor his refilled cup. “I have a great deal to live for, and it would be nice, if I could see it again.” You meet his eyes, and the eyes of the men behind him. “Do you have nothing to live for?”

“You are right in this,” Celonor says, looking out over the field. “Men of Minas Tirith have much to live for. Let it never be said that we quailed before the hosts of Mordor, not while the White City yet stands.”

Andor nods as well. “My wife and daughter traveled westward, with the last of the wains. I would see them again, and no orc-host will let me live in peace with my family.”

Murmurs of agreement rise from the walltop, and with a small twitch of your lips you raise your mug. “To living,” you say. “Even if it’s not for much longer.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Celonor says.

“Aye,” says Andor, and mugs clink against each other, a tiny spark of life amid the dread that hangs over the Tower of Guard.

Part 1 | Part 6 | Part 8 | Part 10

#lotr #lotro #lord of the rings #lord of the rings online #lord of the rings online fanfiction #lotr oc #leonys of rohan

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faithlessishethatsaysfarewell · 3 years

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In the paradoxical emphasis on both community and privacy, Skara Brae does seem to effectively mirror Hobbit culture. The “central position of the hearth” implies a focus on a kind of centralized family life, gathered around a primary source of warmth and life, and the passages that connect the surrounding houses implies a great deal of value placed on communal life. At the very least, the villagers valued their fellows enough to have been able to easily visit and check in. At the same time, Barre describes a “drawbar of wood or whalebone” that would’ve securely fastened the door, suggesting that even despite the communal emphasis, boundaries of privacy were still politely but firmly drawn. Hobbits, of course, greatly value and maintain interpersonal relationships amongst themselves, even ones that they don’t particularly like. They leverage the news and gossip from different families as an important part of a social gathering, and take great pride in knowing all their relations closely. At the same time, we can see that even they know to draw boundaries, such as when Bilbo attempts to politely refuse Gandalf through variations of “good morning.” The hearth too, is a means of cooking, and its central importance translates well to Hobbits’ famous love of food and their multiple pantries. The “dresser” too, is in a place of obvious importance, and though what items and of what symbolism were stored there, one could draw a connection to Hobbits’ tendency to hoard mathoms and other objects that they had no immediate use for. Though it was discovered in 1850, the site was not extensively excavated until the 1920s. In its overgrown state, where the houses would’ve been sunken into the hill and the former turf packing extended into a larger mound of organic matter, it’s likely that the site pre-excavation would’ve rather closely resembled Hobbit holes. The similarity certainly leads one to believe that there must have been some inspiration taken here. Certainly, I find it cool to think about in the context of Tolkien’s intentions of framing Middle-Earth as being our world set in a pre-historic time. In-universe, it’s not Tolkien taking inspiration from Neolithic peoples for Hobbit holes, it’s Neolithic people taking inspiration from Hobbits for their villages!

#op #poor attempts at archaeology-ing #the shire #skara brae #tolkien

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reshirement · 3 years

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Sending one right back at you :) for the OTP questions, for bagginshield, 1, 6, 12, 27, and if you’re up for it 29 & 30! (no pressure of course I know it’s a lot)

hey, no worries @sunnibits! i love these! i used to have a friend where i’d post question lists that were sometimes a mile long, and she’d come into my inbox like ‘ALL OF THEM HAHAH’ so i’d have to spend two days writing an essay. 😂 not to say i didn’t do exactly the same thing 👀 but in any case thank you for the questions!

1. Who is the most affectionate?

This is a tough one because I think they’re both very affectionate, if in different ways. Physically affectionate, Thorin is going to top out on this one. If he wants to hold Bilbo (and Bilbo doesn’t seem to be in any kind of mood to stop him in a serious manner) he’s going to hold Bilbo or take his hand, give him a kiss, wrap him in his cloak and rest his chin on top of his head, that sort of thing so there’s absolutely no mistaking how he feels.

Bilbo, on the other hand, while he enjoys that sort of affection very much, I think would show it more in other ways. Rearranging meetings or taking on additional projects in Erebor when he thinks Thorin has too much on his plate, making sure Thorin eats more than once a day and eats well by cooking for him (honestly he will feed this dwarf hobbit style if he can get away with it, food is important), having a warm hearth, hot bath and a filled pipe ready for Thorin when he returns for the day from wherever he’s been, little daily things beyond the physical that absolutely radiate love and care.

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

Hm. If you asked him, I think Bilbo would mention Thorin’s blue-grey eyes, the strength of his arms, the silver-threaded fall of Thorin’s hair. Things you can wax lyrical about in a sonnet or a story, things that make sense to share in conversation. But really, his favorite bits of the dwarf are probably more intimate, personal details, like the curve of his ear, visible on the rare occasions Thorin puts his hair back in a loose tie, the slight curl of the smile hidden just under his beard when he’s teasing. The roughness of his hands, the paler, almost dainty skin of his feet always hidden by heavy boots (once he stops chuckling about them, anyhow). Pieces of Thorin that feel like they’re just Bilbo’s, those are his favorites.

As for Thorin, I think he mostly appreciates Bilbo’s softness both in face and body (something the dwarf has not had much of in his life, and indulges in with Bilbo), watching the laugh lines develop around his eyes and mouth, the smirk Bilbo gives him when the hobbit feels he’s done something exceptionally clever, or when they share a private joke.

I also think he probably also has a fascination with Bilbo’s ears, but never brings it up because that’s just asking for a teasing volley about their pointed similarity to the ears of elves (which Thorin would vehemently disagree with both on principle and because honestly they look absolutely nothing alike, he’s spent a lot of time considering this, you see).

12. Who initiates kisses?

Depends on which part you’d consider ‘initiating.’ Thorin, for sure, is the one to swoop in for a peck on the cheek, a full snog or anything in between whenever the whim strikes him, but Bilbo is what I like to call a kiss angler. He’s the one who is going to make eye contact and tilt his head just so, or lean in just a bit too close over Thorin’s shoulder to see what he’s working on, probably with an additional, unnecessary hand on the shoulder that will tilt their faces that much closer.

This tactic is often subtle, and is meant to draw the dwarf in without technically shifting his focus from anything else, and honestly is such a common occurrence that the movement won’t even register with Thorin before he complies and Bilbo gets his kiss (not that he would mind in the slightest!)

27. Who would sing to their child back to sleep?

Both of them. Thorin has nephews he raised, so I’m sure that move would be old-hat to him, and as a lighter sleeper, it would probably be him most often rising in the night to see about a child’s distress.

I think Thorin would absolutely sing to soothe a child as a go-to method, crooning a lullaby or two, and while I’m certain Bilbo would sing as well if a child wanted him to, he’d probably have to be asked first. After all, Bilbo’s a story-teller, and more likely to offer a tale over a song to calm and distract a little one from fears in the night.

29. One headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart.

I think Frodo is right, Bilbo knew the value of the mithril quite well, but I don’t believe he knew at first when it was given to him, or had any inkling of it’s value, other than as a gift from someone he loved (whether he realized it yet or not) that he was profoundly worried about given the dragonsickness and the armies at the time.

But eventually, Bilbo found out. Whether from a dwarf friend visiting him in his home, or an old history book he was perusing years down the line, eVENTUALLY Bilbo learned what the mithril was, how incredibly valuable, how profoundly irreplaceable, and Thorin had handed it over freely with his heartfelt ‘It is a gift’ to Bilbo whilst in the throes of dragonsickness where he trusted not even his own kin.

Now as I said, years down the line, Bilbo’s at home, he’s coping, he’s living. He’s pushed it down in the traditional hobbit style of ‘I’m going to keep everything right here and then one day I’ll die.’ (considering the people he lived with in the Shire, there wasn’t exactly another option for him.) He’d loved Thorin then, and still does, but it’s a painful, perhaps romanticized tragedy, one that exists solely in the writers’ mind. Perhaps other than a double-handful of small moments, there was no real tangible proof that Thorin felt as he did, and it would be easy to convince himself over the years that whatever connection they appeared to have was perhaps a one-sided one. That they were dear friends, nothing more. After all, it’s easier to grieve a personal loss if it’s confined to the tragedy, and not the shape your future might have taken.

But the mithril, once the gravity of that gesture truly sinks in, what it meant, what it means. I can imagine that unlocking some terrible floodgates, and all of a sudden the battle was only yesterday and he’s grieving because Thorin loved him too, and he’s angry, furious. Angry at Thorin, angry at the both of them for not saying anything sooner, angry at himself, the dragon, the armies, the sickness.

Angry at what he lost, what they all lost, and I can’t imagine him being anything but horrendously overwhelmed, and feeling heartbrokenly alone. I think the mithril shirt would in that very moment go from a nostalgic comfort to a terrible burden, and I believe the night that Bilbo discovered the true worth of the mithril was the same night it ended up in the mathom-house.

30. One headcanon about this OTP that mends it.

Now that that godawful headcanon is out of the way, how about this one for the book!verse? After the Battle of the Five Armies, Erebor held too many ghosts. Thorin did not fall, (though perhaps he meant to fall, what with the leaving behind of the armor before making that suicidal charge) and abdicating was not only the best option considering his actions under the goldsickness and how that might impact Erebor and future treaties with neighboring kingdoms, but also he fact that he’s lived his whole life for his people, he has succeeded in securing their ancestral home, and maybe carving his own path is now a desired option. He’s free.

Fili and Kili also live, but don’t want the throne. They’ve been raised in the Blue Mountains, and they love their uncle, love Erebor because of Thorin, and without him there, they’re not super interested in entering the line of succession, so Bilbo and Thorin travel to the Shire because Bilbo is adamant that it would be good for him, and Fili and Kili follow. It is closer to their mother, after all, to visit back and forth.

And perhaps the book Bilbo writes is helpful to them staying on the down-low. Everyone important in their life is sure to know the truth, so what if these three unnamed dwarves are the other hidden residents of Bag End (or perhaps, just one hidden resident and two visiting nephews), kept safe from discovery from friends and family both, and Bilbo and Thorin, somehow, had their happy ending?

tl;dr: THE LINE OF DURIN IS FINE, EVERYONE IS FINE.

#asks #otp questions #sunnibits #sorry i wanted to make sure i could sit down and answer in full <3 #thank you for the questions!!#that last one I guess isn’t technically an headcanon as much as wishful thinking but ah well

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sweetteaanddragons · 6 years

Text

To Catch a Falling Star

Belladonna Took has had quite the satisfactory adventure. She has at last seen the sea, just as she wished to, and so perhaps tomorrow she should return home.

Just at the moment, however, she has nothing better to do than lie in the sand and look up at the stars. Her favorite is the Evening Star; she has always loved the stories attached to it.

For a moment, it almost looks as if it is getting larger, but she shakes off this fancy with a laugh.

Except it quickly becomes increasingly obvious that this is not just an illusion. The star is getting larger - and, presumably, closer.

Belladonna pushes herself up onto her elbows and her eyes grow wide. It’s quite close now, so close that she rolls to one side and puts her arms up over her face, as if that will do anything in the face of whatever is happening.

Sand sprays up into her face. Belladonna tentatively cracks her eyes open.

There’s a pretty little piece of jewelry in the sand beside her. A white gem blazes in the center of it.

She has no idea what kind it might be. Hobbits aren’t much for such things, and the stories don’t mention it. They only speak of a brave mariner set in the stars to honor his courage. An elf had started to tell her more once, but then Master Elrond had approached, and he had shut his mouth rather guiltily.

Still, it is a pretty sort of mathom, and if it really is a star, she probably shouldn’t just leave it lying around. What she should do it with it, she isn’t quite sure; take it to Master Elrond, perhaps? He is at least more likely to know what to do about it than any hobbits of her acquaintance, and perhaps if he has no use for it she can keep it as a souvenir.

She picks it up cautiously - it as a star, after all, and might well be hot - but it doesn’t burn her at all. She slips it into her pack and settles in to sleep for the night.

She does hope that brave mariner isn’t too worried about what’s happened to his mathom.

. . .

She hasn’t gone far the next morning when she runs into quite the most ragged elf she has ever seen. Perhaps he is on an adventure as well; she is all too familiar with what those can do to the wardrobe. She is hardly presentable herself.

“Good morning, Master Elf!” she cries cheerfully enough. None of Master Elrond’s people have ever been at all unfriendly, and she’s no reason why this elf should be any different.

“Good morning,” he returns. He tries to smile and fails rather badly. One hand clenches and unclenches at his sides.

“Are you alright?” she asks. She frowns. He is entirely too thin, even for an elf. “Would you like to join me for second breakfast?”

He laughs. It is strained, but genuine. She suspects she has surprised him. She has managed it with Master Elrond’s people more than once. “I cannot dally. I seek news of what occurred last night.”

“Oh! You mean the falling star?”

The elf stills. “Yes. I - Did you - ?” There is something terribly in his eyes, and his voice breaks on the words.

“It’s alright,” she assures him. She knows well how much the elves love their stars. “I found it. I thought perhaps to take it to Master Elrond.”

“Elrond,” the elf repeats, his voice barely a whisper.

“But you must know Elrond! If even a hobbit knows of him, I cannot imagine how an elf does not.”

“I knew him,” the elf agrees. The brokenness in his voice is no better. His eyes snap back to hers. “But you cannot have reached him yet. Where is it?” His voice is desperate, mad, and for the first time, Belladonna feels a little bit afraid.

She draws back a step. “I am not sure I should tell you. Your look is very strange.”

He laughs. It is not the surprised laugh of earlier. It is far worse, and it ends in a sound like a sob. “Strange and worse than strange! My Oath compels me still, for all that I wish it would not, and I fear it shall drag me to one last fell deed, worse, perhaps, than any before. Already it torments me.” Pain rippled over his face, and he clenched his hand again. “I cannot restrain it long - No. Long we held it then. I shall hold it - Ai! I must hold it now, I must, but do not take it to Elrond, I beg you. Do not - “ Pain contorts the elf’s face, and he falls to his knees.

If she is going to run, now is the time to do it, but Belladonna cannot bear to leave him like this. She does not quite understand what is going on, but it is plain this stranger has sworn some sort of Oath about the pretty mathom in her pack, and all the pain is wrapped up in that.

The cure for his pain, then, seems very simple, so she reaches into her pack and holds it out to him. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

One clawed hand jerks toward the gem. The other makes an aborted movement to the hilt of his sword. “No. No, I will not be a thief again, I will not - “

“But I found it, so it’s mine, and I’m giving it to you,” Belladonna says firmly, and she presses the chain into his hand. The gem nestles into his palm.

He flinches back, and then stares down at the gem in wonder. “It doesn’t burn,” he whispers.

“I was surprised too,” she admits. “They say the stars are fire, so I expected it to be hotter.”

“It burned last time,” he says, still in a daze. “We stole them, and they burned us.”

Magic, then. It seems absurdly obvious. “Well, this one was a gift.” She begins rooting around in her pack. “I’ve some bread left. Shall we split that for second breakfast?”

He stares at her like she is just as much a wonder as that mathom of his. “You gave it up freely.”

“You seemed to want it more than I did,” she says with a shrug. She frowns as she considers the date. “And it might be my birthday in any case. It’s only right to give a present on my birthday.”

The elf laughs. He laughs so long that she is beginning to be considered it has become hysterical, especially when tears start flowing freely down his cheeks. “It is done, it is done, it is finally done. I have done it, Father! I have fulfilled your oath at last!” A wild grin split his face. “Here, catch it.” He tossed the gem to her, and she caught it, startled. “There’s no compulsion to take it back. I could throw it away. I could give it away.” Wonder spreads across his face. “I won’t have to go into the Everlasting Darkness.”

Belladonna’s mouth drops open. “The what?”

The elf calms himself slightly, though not by much. “My apologies. I suppose I owe you an explanation - I owe you everything, far, far more than an explanation, but I suppose that’s a start. I am Maglor Feanorian.”

Well, introductions are always a good place to start. “Belladonna Took, at your service.”

He blinks.

His name starts to tug at her a little, and she begins to wonder if his name was the explanation. “You’re in one of those elvish history songs, aren’t you? One of the sad ones.”

“Several,” he says, almost apologetically.

“I never paid much attention to those,” she confesses. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“I shall endeavor to offer a better explanation then,” he says and frowns up at the sky. “On the road, perhaps. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to take this to Elrond and hope he has a better idea what to do with it. I do hope his father . . . “

“But you said it mustn’t go to him!”

“Not with my Oath unfulfilled,” he says gravely. “But now it can, and should, and must. He has the greatest right to it of any left, and it was his father who so shortly ago was carrying it through the sky.”

“Oh,” she says faintly. “How do you suppose it fell?”

Maglor’s look grew grim. “His father is a mighty warrior, who once slew a great dragon. I cannot imagine what beast has emerged from the void to best him. Perhaps Morgoth has broken loose once again and the end of days is at hand. Well can I believe that Eärendil would cast away the Silmaril rather than let our black foe once more again it.”

“Oh,” she said again, more faintly. Then her innate sense reasserted itself, and she said, “Or perhaps he has merely tripped, and the silly thing fell off.”

“Silmaril,” Maglor corrects automatically. He appears rather taken aback, but something that is almost a smile is pulling at his lips. “And perhaps you are right at that! I suppose we shall know one war or another soon enough. To Elrond, then! Will you travel with me?”

“I suppose I had better, since you still owe me a story,” she agrees, passing the glittering mathom back to him. “And to keep you from jumping to the worst possible conclusion. First we must eat, though, and then we can walk, and you can tell me all about that mathom of yours!”

“Very well,” he concedes, and he takes the bread she offers. “I must confess, though, I am unfamiliar with that word. What, precisely, is a mathom? A jewel?”

“Or any other thing that’s pretty enough, but without much purpose,” she agrees. “The sort of thing you put on your mantle to attract dust and regift a hundred times before it’s regifted right back to you - are you quite alright?”

“Quite alright,” Maglor coughed out, the second he was done choking on his piece of bread.

#maglor #belladonna took #silmarillion #lotr #tolkien #au #fic

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