megif: the hobbit

I was rewatching The Hobbit Trilogy...

… and come again over this scene:

Tauriel: “If this is love I do not want it. Take it from me. Please. Why does it hurt so much?” 

Thranduil: “Because it was real.”

You know what? I relate this to what people in fandoms feel about fictional characters. People keep saying that they are not real and that these feelings are not real. But they are. As Dumbledore said, just because it is in your head does not mean it is not real, and when I watched this scene (for the billionth time) I saw Thranduil as one of my friends who always despised my feelings for fictional characters admiting it was real after I caught her crying over the death of a fictional character.

Promise

A Drabble Games fic requested by @immathrowabrickatyou and @toknowtheweirdingway, featuring Dwalin

02: “I think I’m in love with you and that scares the hell out of me.”
57: “I see the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” 

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The little pool of light from a lone lantern in the armory was the only hint of Dwalin’s presence, and you walked carefully to avoid debris on the floor as you balanced a bowl of hot stew and a mug of ale in your hands.

He looked up in mild surprise, even sheepishness, from the axe he was halfheartedly sharpening.

“What brings you here?”

“No one’s seen you since breakfast,” you said, offering the food and drink. “I thought you might need something.”

“Aye,” he admitted, after a pause. “Thank you.”

He stood to take them from your hands, setting the mug on an empty shelf while he scooped a large bite of stew into his mouth, grimacing and taking a swig of ale after he’d swallowed.

“Rubbish.”

“Well, Bombur’s doing the best he can with limited provisions,” you pointed out. “It may not taste like much, but it’ll keep you alive.”

“Aye, ‘least until Thorin gets the fight he’s spoiling for and we all end up on slabs,” Dwalin answered bitterly.

It was the nearest he’d come to denouncing the friend and King whose descent into dragonish madness was breaking his heart, and you fell silent, chastened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more gently, shaking his head with regret, “’m not very good company just now.”

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The Great Middle Earth Bake Off

Bard Bowman flexed his fingers nervously as he and the other eleven bakers headed into the bake off tent for the first time.

He had promised himself he wasn’t going to be nervous, it was just a baking competition, no, actually it was the baking competition.


It’s that beautiful time of year again: Bake Off (aka the only good thing about summer).

So I am shamelessly self-promoting that Bake-Off au I wrote alongside it last year; featuring a main course of barduil with tasteful and complimentary side dishes of bagginshield, dwori, farawyn and angbang. 

Bakers: Bard, Thranduil, Bilbo, Ori, Bombur, Beorn, Balin, Faramir, Arwen, Éowyn, Radagast and Mairon

Judges: Galadriel and Samwise Gamgee

Presenters: Merry and Pippin

On Your Marks! Get Set! Bake!

Promised

This is part of my Drabble Game and is written for @increasinglyweird

Prompts: ‘He held her for what felt like decade.’ and “It just…hurts.”

Ilona was numb. She could not hear the voices surrounding her, or taste the food in her mouth, nor could she see through the haze of shock threatening to boil over in tears. All she could do was sit and stare at the dark stones of the wall. Even as those around her shared in congratulatory mirth, she could not be shaken from her trance. Her breath barely kept coming as the news sunk like an anvil on her shoulders, weighing her down, crushing her beneath it.

Fili was smiling. That was what had hurt her deepest. When Thorin had told of his engagement to Andra of the Iron Hills, the rusty-haired dwarrow from the cousin kingdom. Oh, that smile had caused pain she could have never imagined. And Andra entering in her sapphire blue gown of cutout brocade over silver silk, looking more radiant than any dwarf should. It had all brought Ilona’s doom down upon her.

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Thranduil blames the Dior and Elwing for the destruction of Doriath and Sirion just as much as he does the Feanorians. He holds them accountable for the lives lost too.

He is appalled at the fact that Dior even brought a Silmaril into Doriath. He’s terrified. He sees no logic in baiting the Feanorains, knowing what they already did to the  Teleri. They are sitting ducks. He tries to counsel Dior, tries to make him see how wrong it is to have the jewel in Doriath. But he does not listen.

And when the Feanorians send a letter wanting it back, Thranduil is enraged when Dior refuses. So knowing full well what will come, Thranduil starts planning an escape route

He isn’t surprised when Doriath is destroyed, and he puts as much blame on the Feanorians as he does his own King. Dior could have saved them.

He hears of Elwing, and her survival, and is glad for her and the survovirs that follow. Though when he learns she carries the Silmaril—the same one that saw Doriath ruined—he feels sick to his stomach. Though he himself did not travel to Sirion originally, he sends word to Elwing, pleading with her to return it to the sons of Feanor. Those are his family members in Sirion, friends as well. He warns her what will become of them if she refuses, he tries to remind her of his father, yet she does not listen.

And weeks later, Sirion is laid obliterated, Elrond and Elros are taken, and Elwing escapes with her life….and the Silmaril. By this point, Thranduil can’t even be angry anymore. The blame is still there, but he didn’t expect any less from a daughter of Dior.

Though when he learns of the Arkenstone, and he sees what it is doing to the dwarves, he tries to warn them. He even gets personal, or attempts to, but they do not listen. So when the dragon comes, he simply doesn’t care.

He’s become desensitized to such things.