headcanons abounds

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@klonoadreams @iskraeon you guys are the only mutuals I have that I know are into Persona 5. That means I get to share stuff with you, right?

Fair warning: there are no plot spoilers in this. It takes place before the second Palace, and I haven’t even really begun the fourth yet so don’t worry; I’m not spoiling anything.

This is part of a WIP I’m working on because what even is self control. I have no chill. Also this will definitely be a oneshot, if a long one. Hallelujah.

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happenstance-abound  asked:

I gotta ask, do you yourself have any headcanons about josephine?

Oh, of course! Actors fill in the blank spaces just as fans do, in order to help bring these characters to life. I can share some of them, but I need to remind everyone that my headcanons are so completely personal and not official. If you would like to subscribe to my headcanons you are more than welcome to do so, but I don’t want to see anyone enforcing these or being a bully about them.

1- Josephine is so disastrously bad at fighting that it’s not even funny. Wait, that’s not true, because it’s hilarious. She tried to learn fencing when she was 12 or so, got a bruise on her arm from it, and refused to go back. (This is not a personal anecdote at all) So basically, her distaste for violence sort of started with her complete and utter ineptitude at the standard Antivan graceful noble forms, which of course culminated in the episode on the stairs, but even if she felt the urge to go back into barding (which she wouldn’t, imo, it defies her personal convictions), her combat skills would forever be sorely lacking. The joke during her personal quest was that she would probably contribute by throwing books.

2- Antivans are basically incapable of not casually flirting, so when Josephine was working as an ambassador, she became so bombarded with “you’re so beautiful bby~” that she’s learned to ignore it. I mean, everyone does that, right? Ha ha ha Inquisitor just wants to go on a walk with me it’s not flirting, is it? I mean I find them kind of attractive they warm my heart with their sweet words but everyone does that it’s just how people talk to each other professionally Leliana don’t mind me anyway as i was saying about the contesse—

[leliana voice] i will fucking murder u inquisitor

3- Josephine is very good at holding her shit together professionally, because it’s her job to put up with people being asshats with a smile. But that basically leads her to bottling her shit up, which normally leads to ranting (which is canonical, we saw that during the friendship balcony scene), but sometimes leads to her punching or muffling a scream into a pillow on her bed with teary eyes. She naturally apologizes to the pillow afterwards. The pillow did nothing to deserve this.

anonymous asked:

8. “Were you ever going to tell me?” with Thranduil/Legolas please :)

Here you are, anon! Three months to the DAY that you requested this prompt. I could tinker with this forever, but I decided that you have waited long enough.  Thank you for your patience. 5.6K words

A/N: Angst and sentiment ahead. (It’s VERY schmaltzy.)

A/N2: Headcanons abound.

Thranduil and Legolas, Rated T



All it had taken was one moment of exhausted negligence to undo centuries of great carefulness.  A simple matter of an unlocked door had put Thranduil in a position he had hoped to never be in.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Legolas asked, his voice soft and dangerous. He stood before Thranduil with his fists clenched by his sides, tension coiling within him.

A pang of guilt shivered in Thranduil’s stomach. For all the mistakes he’d made as a parent, he never intended to hurt his son. But it was clear he had.

Legolas’s searing blue eyes were fixed on his, demanding an answer, and they finally wrested the truth from him.

“No,” Thranduil admitted.

Legolas let out the breath he was holding in a furious grunt.  He took two steps away, then stopped and whirled back around.

“You are maddening,” he snapped, stabbing his finger in the air at Thranduil.

Perhaps Thranduil deserved his anger, but he had his reasons for secrecy.

While Thranduil would have otherwise bolted his chambers, he had left the door unlocked to allow his chief healer, Verya, to enter his rooms. He had been collapsed in his chair by the window while he waited for her to arrive, feeling brittle and old, and the smallest measure of trepidation.

It was very late– late enough, that as Thranduil sat there he had wondered if was more correct to think it was too early instead.  

Thranduil imagined that Verya would tisk at his frail state, examine him thoroughly as she had for thousands of years, then after a thorough chiding, she would supply a draught to ease his suffering and help him to bed. At least he hoped it would be this way, and not, as he feared the beginning of the end.

The affliction had come upon him again, as it did from time to time in the years since he had been nearly killed by a great serpent in the north. A great specter of his past, the weakness haunted him, until moments like these when it loomed large to remind him what he was, as if Thranduil could ever forget it.

Over the past few days, the weakness had crept into his bones, making his hands shake and his shoulders droop with the weight of his years.  The simplest of actions required the utmost effort and concentration.  Thranduil had realized that another bout of infirmity was coming upon him with enough time to make arrangements for his commitments until his strength returned.

With sharp variances in equilibrium and strength, this attack felt more severe than the last time. It was worrisome, but he forced this concern out of his mind.

This, too, will pass, Thranduil had assured himself.  

It was not common for elves to succumb to illness. For all his fortitude, Thranduil had been irrevocably weakened by the dragon’s fire that had left him half dead and permanently disfigured more than two millennia ago.  He had been told many times by Lord Elrond that it was a miracle and a testament to his immense stubbornness that he had survived.

His recovery had taken decades, though it had not appeared this way to his people.  No amount of time nor force of will could make his deformed body become whole again.  Veiling the damage from disgusted gazes, including his own, Thranduil had learned to reconstruct his form with magic. A glamour was almost permanently fixed to his body. To all who looked upon him, he appeared as whole and as beautiful as he’d always been.

Vanity ran deep in Thranduil.  He had accepted this flaw in his character long ago.  When he had realized that he would never fully heal, his gristly appearance had thrown the king into a depression until he began applying magic to his appearance as he would jewels.

This magic was potent, and difficult to wield, but he had learned how under the careful tutelage of Elrond and the wizard Mithrandir.  After millennia, he had become its master. The glamour was second nature to him now, and did not falter when he slept nor if he lost consciousness.  He could even make his skin feel unscarred when others touched him.

In exchange for this magic, Thranduil went through periods of extreme weakness that left his true self exposed. There were some discernible patterns that preceded an attack. It was when his damaged body was pushed too far, when he did not take care of himself by eating and sleeping well, when the forest he, as Elvenking, was linked to grew sicker, when he was emotionally drained, that Thranduil succumbed to these periodic bouts of weakness and lost control of his body.  It was the price for commanding a magic such as this.

But it was not vanity alone that compelled him to seek out such a costly a magical facade.  

Thranduil was the Elvenking, and a king could not appear weak.  Enemies could not know he was vulnerable on his left side, permanently blinded in that eye, that his left arm was never quite as strong as it had been before the fire.  Though enemies might underestimate his cunning by seeing his misshapen form, Thranduil would not invite attacks on his people.  

They had all worked too hard and lost too much for him to be so feckless. And his fearsome reputation had grown because of his deception. Many trembled before him, or dared not step foot in his realm lest they tempt his wrath. The Elvenking had tasted dragon’s fire and survived, he had maintained rule near Dol Guldur, what a fearsome creature he must be.

That much is true at least, Thranduil had thought.  I have survived, though this moment may be my undoing at last.

There had been little warning– an abrupt knock followed by the soft groan of the door opening.  For a brief moment Thranduil had thought it to be Verya, but then there was a sharp gasp, and Thranduil looked up to see Legolas standing in the doorway of his private chamber, frozen in shock and alarm as he gaped at his father’s deformed face.

“Ai, Valar!” Legolas had gasped. Color had blanched from his cheeks as his eyes grew wide with concern, his brow scrunching in confusion.  He had shaken his head as if coming to his senses and sprinted toward Thranduil.

But before he could reach him, Thranduil had risen unsteadily to his feet and commanded, “Stay where you are.”

His voice held the authority of the king, and Legolas being a well trained soldier, obeyed, coming to an abrupt halt.

There were only a handful alive who knew Thranduil’s secret, and Legolas had not been one of them.  When Thranduil became too weak to cast the glamour, or do almost anything else, he confined himself to his rooms, attended only by Galion, who had served him faithfully since he was an elfling. The rest of his staff asked no questions, fooled by the image he had curated of a mercurial king.

When the weakness had last come to him, Legolas had been away on a patrol, and by the time he had returned, Thranduil had recovered enough to deceive him.  The time before that his son had been an elfling and easily deflected by Galion.

But Legolas had come of age centuries ago, and was no longer under Galion’s watchful eye.  He had noticed oddities in his father’s behavior– Thranduil had not held court today, had excused all his commitments for the week, and he had not taken a meal in their private dining hall for several days.

Something was certainly wrong, and after Legolas had returned from the evening patrol shift, he meant to find out what.  He could not have imagined what he was about to find. He had knocked only to make his presence known, and did not wait for permission to enter, having never needed permission before.  

Thranduil had turned away sharply, letting his hair cover his face, but it was too late. Legolas had seen his disfigurement, and Thranduil had seen his look of horror.

“Ada…” Legolas whispered, unable to say more than that for several minutes.  “The light was on– I saw you were up– Adawhat happened to you?”

Thranduil sighed, holding fast to what little strength remained in him.  Careful not to dizzy himself, he turned slowly to bear his unmarred side towards Legolas before addressing him.  “It is an old injury,” Thranduil began, “garnered before you were born.”

An eternity of silence seemed to pass between them as Legolas tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “I don’t understand,” Legolas admitted at last, and he looked frightened, no longer the poised, confident soldier in the presence of his king, but instead a child uncertain before his father.

My heart, I am sorry, Thranduil thought, seeing fear take hold of his son.

Despair sunk his spirit, and Thranduil steeled himself. Frail as he was at the moment, Thranduil would not be able to control his emotions for very long, though he fought desperately to cling to his last shred of composure.  

Legolas stared at him expectantly, waiting for his father to explain.

Tell him quickly and be done with it, Thranduil thought.  I cannot spare him nor myself any longer.

“This is what I really am, Legolas,” Thranduil said, gesturing up at his damaged face.  “I hide my true self behind a glamour.”

“How did this happen to you?” Legolas asked.

“A dragon,” Thranduil said.  “It was a long time ago.”

Legolas stared, his gaze far away as he tried to cull the memory from his mind, but he could not find what was not there.  And then realization came to his eyes– Legolas had not known because Thranduil had never wanted him to.

Yes, I have deceived you your whole life, Thranduil thought.

And then came Legolas’s accusatory voice: “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Legolas mistook his omission as a personal slight, a sign of distrust. Not knowing such a major flaw about his one remaining parent was quite obviously alarming.

“How could you keep something like this from me?” Legolas demanded.

The ire in his son’s voice raised Thranduil’s defenses, and he retorted, “It does not concern you.”

It was immediately the wrong thing to say.

Anger choked whatever words lay on Legolas’s tongue, and his eyes became an icy blue. He stood in stony silence for several minutes before he hissed, “You are my father. Anything that concerns you, of course, concerns me.”

Thranduil noticed how Legolas was careful to keep eye contact with his one good eye. Furious and disgusted all at once, he thought. Not ready to see the monster.

“Well, now you know,” Thranduil said.  “Take a good look, ion-nin.” He stepped towards Legolas, turning his ruined face to him, his curtain of hair drawn over his shoulder to reveal the grievous scarring.  As he looked for the first time at his father’s disfigurement, Legolas’s eyes glittered and his face fell. He took a reflexive step back, curling a hand against his chest.

“Can’t stomach what you see?” Thranduil sneered. His voice was derisive, but it was the only protection he could muster in the face of his son’s disgust. Thranduil turned away, reaching for the back of his chair for support before he buckled from shame. He could not bear his son’s repulsion.

Damn you,” Legolas hissed, his words explosive with frustration.  “You will spare me a moment to sort through this!” He stopped himself from saying more, with a sharp intake of breath, his chest heaving with emotion.

Legolas looked feral, eyes wide and trembling with barely contained distress. A single sob escaped him and then he looked down at the floor, trying to compose himself.

Thranduil could only stare at him, surprised by his reaction. This upset was not what Thranduil thought would come up. Fear and revulsion, perhaps, but not grief.

“Forgive my shouting,” Legolas said when he had gotten hold of himself. “My heart breaks that you have been so wounded, and is twice shattered that you do not trust me enough to share in your confidence.”

It dawned on Thranduil that Legolas grieved for him, for the pain he had endured.  His breath left him as it suddenly occurred to Thranduil that his son felt as possessive and protective of him as he did of Legolas.

“Of course I trust you, Legolas,” Thranduil said.  “You must understand that I have told no one who did not need to know. Only those who care for me have seen my true self.”

“And do I not care for you?” Legolas asked, and he chuckled without mirth. “I thought I knew you best of all elves, but I see now I am a fool. You have kept secrets from me. Of course you have, you are king.  You are always a king. I prove how naive I am to think that there would be a moment where you were simply my father.”

“To spare you, I have kept this from you!” Thranduil insisted. “And– to spare me, too. This is difficult for me, Legolas. I know not how to make you understand. Were that I was only a father, but I am never only any one thing, and cannot pretend to be. I am– ashamed of this deformity, of the weakness that lives in me. Is it unforgivable to have wanted to keep this one secret for my own?”

With all his defenses stripped away and his true face revealed, Thranduil felt as if his every insecurity was exposed.  Thranduil looked away, but it was too late to protect himself, Legolas had already seen how pathetic he was. The place of adoration he had once held in his son’s heart would never be regained.

But Legolas was not the demon-son Thranduil’s fear had conjured to condemn and ridicule him.  When Legolas spoke next, his words were soft but firm, and truly meant.

“You are right. You are never only one thing. At times you have been my father and mother, my friend and confidant, my teacher and king, my heart and cornerstone– No matter what happens, I will always love you,” Legolas said. “You must know that there is nothing that could drive me away, do you not?”

Emotion came upon Thranduil like a force of nature, sudden and unstoppable. Thranduil tried to fool everyone, even himself that he was not afraid of rejection, but Legolas was not fooled. Thranduil turned away, brushing tears from his face, as he tried desperately to control himself.

I do not deserve you, ion-nin, Thranduil thought, as relief came over him.

As if approaching a skittish deer, Legolas crept towards him.  His fingertips grazed his back, wanting to be close but not to overstep.

“You have caught me with my defenses stripped away,” Thranduil said.  “A father never means for his son to see such things.”

“I am glad I can be with you now,” Legolas said, “even if I am somewhat shocked.”

Thranduil sunk into the chair, his legs no longer supporting him. His hands shook and before he could clasp the armrest, Legolas grasped his scarred left hand and held it between his own, crouching down at his feet to look up at him.

“My heart will not settle,” Legolas said, pushing the flat of Thranduil’s hand against his chest. “I know this happened to you long ago, but it is as if fresh to me.”

“I think I understand,” Thranduil said, and he smiled a little as Legolas absently clutched his hand as he might have done when he was small. “It is done, my leaf. Try not to let it upset you.”

“Are you in pain?” Legolas asked, concerned pinching his features.

“No, but I am weakened,” Thranduil confessed, “as you can now see.  Sometimes, I am overcome by it.”

“That is why you did not hide yourself when I came in,” Legolas surmised. “May I…” His voice trailed off and he gestured to his own face, curious to see what had been inflicted on Thranduil, but not wanting to upset his father.

Thranduil nodded and held his breath as Legolas eased closer.

Now that he was up close, Legolas tried hard not to stare, but his eyes flitted over every detail as if mentally cataloging the damage.

Legolas peered into his face, looking from eye to eye. “Are you– are you blinded?” Legolas asked, his voice rising in alarm.

“Yes,” Thranduil confirmed. “In my left eye.”  

Adar…” Legolas gasped, his eyes wide in shock. “I had– no inkling! I am– I am so sorry.”

“It happened long ago and you were never meant to know about it.”

“Ai, Valar,” Legolas whispered. “Is that why you refused to teach me archery when I was small?”

“Yes,” Thranduil replied. “My hearing and sense of smell have developed more than most elves which help compensate for my poor vision, especially in close combat. But there are some distances that are too great, and I must guess. You are a gifted archer, and deserved the best instructor available to you. I would have taught you bad habits based upon my impairment.”

Legolas chuckled.  “I thought you were disappointed in me.”

“You did?” Thranduil asked. “Why would you think that?”

Legolas shrugged and his gaze dropped to the floor. “For not living up to your expectations,” he said. “I fall short of you in many ways. Not being as deft with blades as you are was just one more failing.”

Remorse filled his heart as he realized the shame he had engendered in his son. Whatever good Thranduil had created in the world certainly lived in Legolas. That Legolas could doubt his capacity seemed absurd to Thranduil.

“Look at me,” Thranduil said, waiting until his son obeyed before continuing. “You make me very proud, and you always have. I knew you were dismayed that I would not teach you, but I did not realize you thought it had anything to do with you. I assure you, the inadequacy was all my own.”

Before more could be said, there was a swift wrap at the door. It pushed open and Verya stepped through.  She wore no frills, her dark hair spilling unadorned down her back, but was elegant with her calm and direct demeanor. Though having no children of her own, she was a fierce caregiver to those who needed aid. She had been looking after the royal family and the soldiers of the king since Oropher brought them to the Greenwood thousands of years ago.

Taking one look at Legolas’s red, tear streaked face Verya said, “So you’ve found out. Good.”

Thranduil sighed. “Yes, Verya.  You were right, I should have not kept this a secret from Legolas.”

Verya said nothing but let out an amused snort as if to say, No kidding.  She came over to the where Thranduil sat, nodding a bow to both king and prince, and set her case down at their feet.  

“Step aside, my dear, and let me see our headstrong king,” she said, tapping gently at Legolas’s elbow.  He quickly moved to Thranduil’s right, hovering at the armrest.  If Thranduil wanted him to leave, then he would have to say as much for Legolas seemed to have no intention of letting his father out of his sight.

“Any pain?” she asked as she moved Thranduil’s hair away from his face.

“No,” Thranduil replied.  “I am merely not feeling my best.”

“I know you, my king, and you must feel truly terrible to admit that,” Verya remarked. “What is your main symptom?”

Thranduil’s eyes darted from Verya to Legolas and back. It seemed wrong to burden Legolas with this, but he knew he could no longer hide. “I feel ungrounded, as if I could slip away. Tremors, dizziness, fatigue– I have little strength remaining.”

Verya peered into Thranduil’s face, her eyes flitting impassively over the scarring. She pressed her fingers to Thranduil’s forehead, then swept down the side of his face to his ear, where she paused to feel the lobe.

“You have a slight fever, my king,” she said.  “And your fea is weak.” She gripped his hand in hers and said, “Squeeze my hand.”  The king did, and she prompted, “More. As much as you can manage.” He seemed more frail and pallid by contrast of her dark skin against his pale hand.

Thranduil complied, but could only manage it for a minute, before falling slack against the back of the chair, clearly exhausted by the simple test.

Verya nodded and frowned.  “Your strength is down too.”

“What has brought this on?” Legolas asked.

“Times of stress seem to cause an attack,” Verya said.

Darkness had spread across the kingdom at a rapid pace, sending more spiders, orcs and wicked creatures into their realm than ever before.  Their borders had to be guarded closer than ever, the roads that lead through the forest needed constant monitoring, some proving too dangerous to keep open. The king had had a steady stream of problems lain at his feet, and Thranduil had not refused to hear a single petition put before him.  Through it all he was composed and commanding, having no lack of answers or guidance for his disquieted people.  

But the stress and constant barrage of complications had taken a toll on Thranduil and he was paying for it now.

“No need for worry yet, Legolas,” Verya continued, “I have seen this before. My king, it is no worse than last time. Though if I recall last time was not easy.”

“What happened last time?” Legolas asked.  “How could I have not noticed my king laid so low? Why have I no memory of this?”

“You could not have noticed for you were away,” Thranduil replied.  “On patrol for several weeks. Just after the first major outbreak of spiders in the forest, seventy years ago.”

“That was a long time ago,” he replied. Legolas shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking between Verya and Thranduil.  “I do not know what to do,” he said, “but I want to help.”

“Of course you do, lamb,” Verya said. “You are a devoted son.”

“He is,” Thranduil agreed, smiling softly, his head lolling across the chair back to look at Legolas.

Verya’s gazed darted from father to son before her eyes widened and she said, “Actually, my prince, you are the ideal person to help your father. If you have no objections?”

“Of course not,” Legolas said.  “I will do anything he requires.”

“I will not allow it if it will weaken my son,” Thranduil said, leveling as fierce a gaze as he could muster at the healer.

“It will require some effort, but not enough to harm him. You two are bonded by blood and love which has a power that a hundred healers could not summon,” she said, gesturing between them. “I will mix a draught to ease your mind, my king, and Legolas will speak the invocation.”

As she stooped to retrieve her bag, Verya glanced towards Legolas, and said, “Now help your father to his bed.”  

Legolas nodded, opening his arms to him as Thranduil pushed himself up from the chair.  It was so unlike him to stumble, yet Thranduil swayed unsteadily as he rose to his feet, the world starting to spin.  He felt suddenly hollow, as if he would blow away with a strong wind.

Sturdy hands came around him, upholding him. A pillar of strength at his side, Legolas drew him near, letting him borrow vigor.

With every step Thranduil felt the weight of his years bearing down on him, and by the time time he had reached his bed, he could scarcely walk. He all but collapsed onto the mattress.

Verya followed with a bottle and a glass in each hand, and a pouch tucked under her arm.  She poured a few ounces of a milky liquid peppered with small black seeds into the glass, and handed it to Thranduil before setting the bottle down on the bedside table.

“Drink all of it at once,” she instructed. Thranduil sighed, and knocked back the vile tasting draught.

As he put the glass down on the bedside table, he watched Verya pull athelas from the pouch, and beckon Legolas towards her.  Legolas hesitated as he realized what she had. Athelas was used to treat serious wounds, and the sight of it must have unnerved him. But he paused not more than a moment before cupping his palms together to accept the herb. She whispered instructions to him, words Thranduil could not hear.

Verya rubbed her hands together, and Legolas did the same, rolling the athelas between his hands, and releasing the pungent and sweet aroma.

“Lay your hands on him,” Verya instructed.  

Legolas did not hesitate. Turning to stand before him, Legolas held Thranduil’s face between his palms in a gentle, but resolute hold. His hands felt cool against Thranduil’s feverish skin. Thranduil could not help but lean into the soothing touch, breathing in the peppery sweet smell of the athelas.  It filled him as never before, having mixed with the scent of his beloved child, so much like his mother and a sunny breeze of the wild forest he lived in.  No one had touched him with such tenderness in a long time.

Legolas leaned down to him, bringing his forehead to Thranduil’s. Letting his eyes fall shut, Legolas simply breathed in time with him.

Warmth spread through Thranduil as Legolas’s energy surrounded him, like water enveloping him in the bath.  The bond between them thrummed with vitality. The threads that bound their souls together suddenly grew hot, becoming a searing, wounding thrill.  

There was anger crackling below the surface of the bond, Legolas’s frustration and displeasure at him slipping through– Liar. Mistrustful. Belittled me. Glimpses of betrayal, vulnerability and umbrage simmered and crept through. But his vexation was born of a spirited devotion.

Overwhelmingly, there was love– Protect you. Heal you. Cherish always. Dearest to me.

Though Thranduil felt undeserving of the honest affection from his son, there could be no denying the waves of love washing over him through the bond. Legolas loved him wholly and without reservation.

Legolas’s grip tightened around him as he spoke the prayer Verya had whispered to him.

“Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gűr hen.” Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart, he prayed.

Peace flowed through Legolas and into Thranduil, a sense of ease and comfort he had scarcely felt before seeping into his bones.

“Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin ‘raw hen.” Great earth, may you give your strength to this body.

It was too much and Thranduil wept, tears of shame spilling down his cheeks that he had ever doubted his son’s pure, unselfish heart. Thranduil was lost to this love, upheld from pain and darkness only by the sentiment, but he was unafraid for he was cradled by his son’s strength and devotion.

The heat subsided, and Thranduil came back to himself slowly, feeling kisses on his lips and cheek, and hands smoothing his hair over his scalp as he was maneuvered to lie back on the bed.

As his vision focused and Legolas came into view hovering above him, Thranduil was shocked to see tears spilling down Legolas’s face too. The depth of love they had for each other humbled them both.

Thranduil stretched a hand towards him, but sleep claimed him before he could reach him.


The light spilling into the room was dim and blue, the first breaths of morning. Thranduil woke in phases, recognizing light, then feeling the heaviness in his limbs before he had presence of mind again.

He did not know what time it was, but it had been well after midnight when he’d summoned Verya, so he could not have slept more than a few hours.  He was tired, and still could not conjure the glamour, but his fatigue did not feel as brittle and unsettling as it had before. With his son in command of his healing, he had recovered a measure of his strength more quickly than he ever had before.  It was remarkable what love could do.

Hearing a soft sigh, Thranduil glanced across the room and saw Legolas hunched over at the foot of the bed, quiet, save for the punctuation of sharp breath as he sobbed into his hands.

Thranduil’s heart constricted in his chest at the sound. Thranduil could not bear to see his beloved child weeping.

“Tithen las,” Thranduil said. “Please do not cry.”

Bolting upright, Legolas started, and wiped at his tears. “I thought you were asleep,” he replied, looking weary and so much like a lost lamb that Thranduil wanted to rise from his sick bed to corral him in his arms.

Frowning at Legolas’s red and puffy face, telltale signs that he had been crying all night, Thranduil commanded him, “Tell me.”

Legolas looked as if he might refuse him. With an expectant gaze, Thranduil held out his arm to him, beckoning Legolas forth, then patted the mattress beside him.  

Legolas let out a sigh, his shoulders drooping.  He crawled across the bed to flop in the empty place next to his father. They lay in silence for a while, Thranduil giving Legolas time to gather his thoughts. All he had learned in the past few hours had reasonably stirred him, and it was clear he wrestled with the knowledge.

“Have you remained with me this whole time?” Thranduil asked, and Legolas nodded in reply. “You’ve done much for me, tithen las. I appreciate the gesture, but you did not have to stay. You must be exhausted.” Thranduil said.

“I wanted to,” Legolas replied. “I needed to.”

Thranduil reached over and clasped Legolas’s hand, saying again, “Tell me.”

Legolas gestured aimlessly with his free hand, struggling for words.  Finally he said, “For many reasons, Adar. I am overwhelmed with sadness. You have been– damaged,” he replied, the last word coming out choked.  “And I am many millennia too late to do anything about it,” he added.  

“I am alright, I promise you, just a little tired,” Thranduil said. “In a few days, I will wear the glamor again and it will be easier.  You will see. How do you fare, ion-nin?”

“Ada… I am reeling,” Legolas whispered. “Things I knew to be true mere hours ago are not so, and I realize never were.”

“What things?” Thranduil asked.

“I suddenly see how foolish I am,” Legolas said.  “How childish, still! Even after twelve hundred years.”

Thranduil frowned.  “Explain,” he said.

“You are a mountain in my life,” Legolas began. “Unfailing, colossal, unmovable– you were invincible to me.  Now I see that you are made of flesh and blood, and are subject to death, like every elf is… like mother was. When I was a child, I believed that you were made exempt, just for me.  I reasoned that since I had suffered the cruel loss of one parent, that the Valar would not forsake me to lose both. I prayed to keep you. Somewhere deep down, I guess I still believed such a thing.  But it is folly. Foolish, childhood fantasy.”

“Not foolish– idealized,” Thranduil replied. “I cannot make you that promise, Legolas, no matter how I wish it.”

“To lose you–,” Legolas began, shaking his head. “It would undo me.”

“You think that now, for you have had quite a shock,” Thranduil said. “Yet you would bear my loss.  You are capable and strong like your mother.”

“Like my father, too,” Legolas amended. “When I said the prayer, and our bond became more intimate, I experienced some of your suffering, your grief and loss and torment. Even though I understand better why you kept this from me, you should not have done so.”

There was a rift in their relationship now, and Thranduil regretted that he was the cause of it. “I still have not accepted my disfigurement,” Thranduil said. “I do not think I ever would have been ready to tell you, though I am glad that you now know.”

“I apologize for my anger,” Legolas said. “I regard you as mine– my king, my father, my dearest kin. This revelation shook me, threw all I knew about us into doubt, and that frightened me.”

“Dearest heart, do not doubt us,” Thranduil whispered. His grip on Legolas’s hand tightened.  “I am eternally thine. I am sorry if my deception hurt you,” Thranduil replied. “I never intend to cause you distress.”

“I know,” Legolas said with a small smile. “We will find our way through this.  But by the Valar, I do not know how you shoulder all that has been thrust upon you.”

“Take heart,” Thranduil said. “Though your father has faced much adversity, he has survived it thus far. If nothing else, I am incredibly hard to kill.”

A grin spread across Legolas’s face.  “Just a stubborn elf.”

“The most,” Thranduil agreed.

Legolas leaned over and kissed Thranduil on cheek, his lips pressing against the damaged side of his face.  Thranduil held his breath in surprise, and then blushed with pleasure.  It was not the first time that he marveled at his son’s kind heart and compassion.

Legolas relaxed into the pillows with a yawn, and he all at once his energy seemed to leave him.  “I have many questions for you, Adar,” Legolas whispered as his eyes fell shut. “Will you teach me magic?”

“Queries for another day,” Thranduil replied. “Get some rest, ion-nin,” Thranduil whispered, and Legolas fell into a natural sleep clutching his father’s hand.


A/N: I do not know Sindarin. Elvish phrases taken from here: http://tara.istad.org/sind-phrases.htm#healing

A/N2: Apparently, I like them in bed together.

A/N3: You can read and comment on AO3 here. If you enjoyed this, please tell me so. Thanks for reading. :D

Fill from this prompt list: http://griseldajane.tumblr.com/post/161800487890/100-prompts

anonymous asked:

what are your asoiaf (maybe pre-asoiaf idk) ships? also merci for being in this shit-storm we call a "fandom", you light in darkness

ahh thanks <3

i had a lot of fun with this.  i’ve deleted more asks than i can count asking me about what ships i don’t like, so getting to squee about what i do and dive down a rabbithole was great!

because i’m a fucking parody of myself, get excited for some layered bullet lists.

Keep reading

headcanon: Haurchefant still absolutely wears a draconian rosary in full view. Just imagine the Uraeus coat necklace is the rosary and you’ve got the image. He never for a moment tries to hide who he is or what he’s been unless it’s before the end of the war and he crashing at the Convictory or hanging around Dragonhead to get word of Ishgardian movements.

BATB Couples As Songs From Musicals

Belle & Adam: ‘A Thousand And One Nights’ (Twisted)

Lumiere and Plumette: ‘I Have Dreamed’ (The King and I)

Garderobe and Cadenza: 'Everything (The Lovers Theme)’ (Paramour)

Lefou and Stanley: 'This Never Happened Before’ (Bonnie and Clyde)

Mrs Potts and Mr Potts: 'Some Girls’ (Once on This Island)

Cogsworth and Clothilde: 'I’d Rather Leave When I’m In Love’ (The Boy From Oz)

I have a lot of headcanons about gilbert finally really moving in with roderich and his mounting horror as he discovers how lazy and indifferent roderich is to cleanliness like behind that elegant get up is a man who does not know how to take care of himself or his house he was too lazy to learn after all the servants left he tried for like a week and kept dropping things and was finally like u know what fuck it so gilbert finds dustbunny empires under the sofa and the carpet and one day he just walks in on roderich scooping a bowl out of the dishwasher and he’s like I haven’t run that yet and roderich’s like ehh it looks clean, and gilbert is just standing there flabbergasted like


can you look like that

and yet


anonymous asked:

Is it ever said if the founders had wands, staffs or used wandless magic?

In truth, no one is really sure!

The HP wiki says that Rowena acquired a wand but that’s purely based on a picture in one of the video games so I wouldn’t call that a canon fact.

However, Godric is said to have been one of the best duelists of his time, which implies (but doesn’t definitely confirm) that he had a wand.

It’s entirely possible that they all had wands - they had certainly been about for a long time (Ollivanders’, for example, was opened in 382 BC, long before the Founders’ era) but I think it could also be possible that wands weren’t as prevalent as they are today.

Using our knowledge of the time, you could theorise that wands were perhaps a luxury item, something only richer witches and wizards could afford. It seems quite logical that wandless magic, while harder to grasp, may have been quite common in very rural areas where magicfolk raised each other and passed their knowledge on through familial ties rather than attending schools.

So knowing that magic learning was far less formal during this time allows us to think that magic usage was also less formal, requiring more natural talent and flair rather than rules and wands.

Anyway, like I said, no one is really sure! So headcanons abound!