shout out to Karl Urban as Eomer for giving one of the most heart wrenching cries ever produced in cinematic history where you can essentially feel the anguish and shock that he is going through to find that his sister was on the battlefield, and is now injured, presumably dead. words cannot describe his pain.
Voldemort: hey Cissy, could you check the boy if he’s #deadT? Narcissa: sure, Dark Lord, no problemo~ Narcissa: *walks towards Harry* Narcissa: *whispers* is Draco ali– do you fancy my son? Harry: *play dead* Harry: *nods* Harry: wait, what? Narcissa to Voldemort: D E A D. H E ‘ S S O D E A D.
Nerves are bubbling in your stomach as your mother braids daintily crafted metal flowers into your hair. She made the metal and gemstone flowers for you, for your coming of age ceremony. Your father and her are the kings best blacksmiths because they can craft in such detail.
“Are you ready for your party (Y/N)?” your mother inquires as she finishes your hair. You’re finally ready we’ll psychically.
A long red dress with a golden belt cling to your form and your hair is in piles of fanciful raids. You couldn’t be more with pretty.
“I believe,” you reply and gulp. At the coming of age part for dwarves they choose a craft to pursue, suitors come forward to request courting, and man gifts are given. You are most nervous about the courting part.
“My sweet daughter all will be well. You do not have to accept any requests of courtship if you do not desire to,” your mother assures and kisses your forehead.
You’re concerned no one will request to court you. You’re rather unattractive in dwarvish terms and you haven’t many friends. The only close friend you have is Bilbo Baggins a dear friend of the kings. The kings nephews are very kind to you and the king is also polite when he sees you.
“Thank you mother,” you murmur and stand up. “Now it is time for us to get going. I would not want to be late for my own party.”
Your celebration goes smoothly through you choosing your craft and opening your gifts.
The courting part came up too suddenly for you.
“If any suitors wish to come forward and offer their hand to this dwarrowdam you are invited to do so now,” you father declares through gritted teeth.
From your read felt seat in the center of the large party hall you see no one stir.
And just like that all your greatest fears are realized. Now one wants to court you.
Trying to hold back tears you flash a false smile to the crowd and fluff your skirts.
“As I thought, shall we presume the festivities?” you suggest only barely managing to keep the waver from your voice.
“Wait,” a deep voice rumbles and your heart skips a beat.
Looking up you watch the crowd part and King Thorin stroll through to stand before you.
Whispers pick up in the crowd and you flush bright red.
“King Thorin? You’ve come to my celebration? I’m honored,” you say and move to stand so you can curtsy.
“Stay seated (Y/N),” he guides and you go till. “I have come to ask if I may court you.” Thorin kneels down and presents a bejeweled jewelry box to you. With shaky hands and a horde of butterflies in your stomach you reach out to it. Opening it up you find a golden tiara with shimmering gemstones encrusted in it.
“I shattered the Arkenstone to forge a crown for when you become queen of you accept my request,” he explains and the crowd gasps.
You gape at him in utter shock. You had no idea this was coming.
“I accept,” you say barely above a whisper. He doesn’t hear you so you inhale deeply. “I accept.” The grin that spreads across his face makes your stomach roll in happiness.
“Bless you (Y/N),” he breathes and embraces you. The crowd claps and cheers while your parents weep tears of joy.
“You were always so polite I just thought..” you trail off unable to think clearly.
“(Y/N) you possess a heart unlike any other and a true beauty that rivals that of the Arkenstone. Every time we met you made me feel truly young and joyful again. I’ve known from the start that you are my one,” he confesses and you can help but grin wildly.
“I’ve always wished for you to court me and now it’s real. I’m just so happy,” you admit and stand on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek.
“And I as well.”
Thorin and you court for a year before getting impatient and deciding to wed.
The crown fits you perfectly and you’re now known to be the heart of the king under the mountain.
Don’t imagine the elves of Mirkwood watching their king change after their queen’s death.
Don’t imagine Thranduil going mad with grief and loss and putting on a stone façade so nothing will be able to hurt him as much as this did.
Don’t imagine him chugging wine down to erase all the good she gave him.
Don’t imagine him drowning in alcohol to erase the memory of her.
Don’t imagine him working himself half to death every day to distract himself from coming back to an eternally half empty bed.
Don’t imagine young Legolas, still grieving over his mother, having to put his feelings aside and care for his father, emotionally unavailable and delusional, because he’s the only thing close to family that he has left.
Don’t imagine Thranduil quietly asking young Legolas to sleep in his room to fill the other side of the bed because he can’t stand subconsciously waiting for his wife to fill it.
Don’t imagine him panicking because the smell of her is fading off of her pillowcase and clothes; and no matter what he does, he can’t make or preserve the same smell and feeling that she left behind.
Don’t imagine him sobbing into her pillow, cursing himself for not being able to be the safety blanket he promised her he’d be and not being able to keep the one good thing in his life alive.
Don’t imagine him in a drunken stupor, stumbling around his room and crying out for his wife to “please come back” because he just can’t take it anymore.
Don’t imagine Legolas standing outside of his father’s bedroom and hearing his father’s cry out elvish words of immeasurable agony and thinking that this is what love really is.
Don’t imagine him and all the times he’s come dangerously close to fading because he got too sober to bear the weight of life on his shoulders.
Don’t imagine Thranduil not being able to tell his son that he loves him because he’s too scared of being attached to someone that might break him all over again.
Don’t imagine Legolas bottling every one of his emotions up for the next hundreds of years because he can’t afford to feel when trying to heal his father.
Don’t imagine Legolas knowing that, despite everything he might say, that deep down, his father loves his little leaf more than he can say.