llunalovegood:

_{The thing about magical safes were, not only were the fiercely protected by goblins, half the time they were made just as much for keeping things in as keeping them out. One Miss Luna Lovegood found that out the hard way, as she was organizing her family assets after the war. Much had been salvaged from the ruins of her old home, yet even more had been lost, and she had taken it upon herself to sort through the wreckage and store the more valuable of it in the Lovegood family vault, so the trouble couldn’t recur. That day was likely the last she’d spent on the project, having gotten down to a number of old, worn trunks she assumed to be filled with books.}

_{Mostly she was right, save the last trunk. It was filled to the brim with a number of things she couldn’t figure what to make of, an adjusted and no longer working time turner, a reveler the wrong color, and a mirror with a thick gold inscription around the edges; the object showed no reflection. It did, however, mist over the moment she picked it up, and tilt the world on its axis the next. Years of experience with apparition, portkeys, and floo allowed her to keep her balance, but she was no less turned about to find herself standing in a rich forest rather than Gringotts. There was an aura of magic thick from the trees themselves, and she could hear the sound of…something not that far off. Lack any other options, the witch tucked the mirror into the purple knit satchel at her side and made her way towards the noise. Nearing after several minutes, she had the caution to check her wand was easily drawn and called out, “Hullo?” in an airy voice.}

The clearing was dappled with sun, and Finrod found himself almost falling asleep in the late summer warmth. Shaking his head to break from the doze, he concentrated on the task in hand. Making arrows was dull work at best, but he’d run into a platoon of orc about five leagues back and hadn’t fancied picking through their corpses for shafts that would mostly be broken. No, it was much easier to make more.

He was onto sharpening the thin shaft of ash for the seventh arrow when the sound of a twig snapping off to the right alerted him to the presence of another. Quick as a flash, Finrod grabbed his bow and quiver and darted into a thicket of trees that provided cover but allowed him to clearly see the stranger. It was only then that Finrod realised he’d left his haversack out in the open. He swore under his breath.

The figure was on the edge of the clearing now, and while he sensed no hostility from whoever it was Finrod was not willing to take any chances. At the call of greeting, he drew his bow and aimed it at the stranger. “Halt! Who goes there?”

lordofnargothrond:

goldenglorfindel:

Chuckling he looked at Finrod. “Nay, I am not. When I say Imladris I mean the whole valley here, not just the homes. I’m out on patrol so much that I’m not here so often anyhow. I must know every inch of the place, though quite little of…

Finrod looked at his hands. “I know it must seem selfish, since we have already lived so long in this land, but I often wish we had nore time. To put things right, to aid and to live for a small time more with peoples we shall never get a chance to be with once we sail.”

He sighed ruefully and shrugged. “Perhaps, if we had more time, we could funally have a peace between all races.” It was a fool’s dream, and Finrod knew it, but there had always been a part of him that thought the enmity between their races could be solved with just a little cooperation from each. “But you are right, as ever. It will be up to the Valar now, if the ever again decide to take an interest in Middle-earth.”

shelovedbeforehertime:

There is a she-wolf back in the North and she is lost in thought and lost among the crowds: sailors, merchants, soldiers, commoners. For once, the ghost that is Lyanna Stark is one of them and she is just another pale face, another girl on the wharf — observing the sea, the waves, the people. It is easy, isn’t it? A few coins and a friendly smile and they will let her go to anywhere she wishes. Dorne, Pentos, Lys, Meereen! 

She frowns and another ship goes away, sailing to lands that she will never know if she does not take a chance. For an entire life, she longed for the journey she is about to take. She prayed and wished and waited and died as the world slip through her fingers and all she had was blood, fire and death. She wanted a chance, the Old Gods granted her wish and she is alive, breathing, living. And she hesitates, she fears! Lyanna sighs and shakes her head. 

A stranger falls before her, all clumsy and distracted and she blinks, all surprised and unresponsive. It is a handsome, exotic man. As she inclines her head and arches one of her eyebrows, she notices his accent and she knows he is a traveler just like she is. “It was not your fault, ser. Are you alright?” — she asks, looking at him with these stormy silvered eyes of hers. “You could have fallen in the water and freezed to death.”

“Ai,” he laughed, meeting her eyes with his own deep blue, “I assure you I have braved colder climes and made it safely to the other side, my lady. You need not worry on my account.”

She was beautiful in the way that the Second Children were, her hair awry and her face alight with the joy of life only a mortal can achieve. He felt old and worn in comparison, a cracked marble statue condemned to see out the ages rather than to properly experience them.

Finrod remembered enough of Westerosi geography to know that she looked like she was of the North, her colouring far more reminiscent of the First Men of this land than the Andals or Valyrians that came later. But she did not exhibit the coldness of those hard northerners, and instead seemed bursting with a vitality that he had not seen since Beren and that made Finrod take an instant liking to her.

“If it pleases you, my lady, I could offer you a song or two by way of apology. I know more than a few, after all, and am always searching for someone to sing them to.”

ask-nazgul7:

The wraith listened intently; he heard murmurings and rumors when he had been Alive about Elves and their immortality, and had learned of the deeds of Prince Finrod. To listen to him speak, he inwardly squeaked, ‘tis too much! 

To keep reign over his historical ecstasy, he sifted through the puzzle of the monster. 

Nazgul #7 knew for certain that his Master did not create the abomination; his Master had, of late, been too busy dealing with a rebellious Gothmog, a doubt-filled Thuringweithil, taking over the empires of the East, and torturing the seventh Nazgul for the audacity of surviving the destruction of the Ring. 

Is Finrod correct, he thought, in thinking that Morgoth created this thing? If so, then why did Morgoth not release the creature during the War of Wrath to turn the tide, ere he became enchained in the Void? Morgoth could not have any reign on the thing once he passed beyond Arda! 

Then, a rather unsettling thought emerged from the recesses of his mind: what if Morgoth formed this abomination in the case that he failed and became imprisoned in the Void?

However, ere he could follow that thread, his eyes caught sight of something within a nearby row of bushes. After taking great care to step over the slime, lest he permanently lose a limb, he slowly moved toward the hedge, trying to discern the hidden object. The wraith reached out and brushed aside the leaves. 

“Eeeep, Eru!”

Finrod had been gazing absentmindedly at the slime in deep thought and had not noticed his unlikely companion wander off. He was snapped from his daze by the shout of the poor thing, and quickly leapt over the trail to where the sound had come from.

The undergrowth was thick here, and in the dappled sunlight Finrod could not see where the Nazgul had gone. “Sir Nazgul?” he called out, cursing inwardly at this awkward referral. The creature was not a sir. But then, what was he? Finrod couldn’t very well go about calling it ‘the creature’, could he?

As far as he could see, the Nazgul was not a bad sort, really. But Finrod had often come upon those who seemed fair but had shown themselves to be the foulest of them all. He resolved to give the creature the benefit of the doubt, for now at least.

Just as he was about to look elsewhere, Finrod caught sight of the wraith beside a hedgerow to his left. He sighed in relief - he didn't fancy taking on whatever this monster was alone, and he was beginning to grow fond of the unusual Nazgul. It was then that he noticed the thing that his companion had found.

“I say,” he called, a frown beginning to form between his brows, “what in Arda is that?”

ask-nazgul7:

“Agreed,” Nazgul #7 whispered as he stood, eyeing the slime with suspicion. “We shall follow the trail. If it leads to the next village, as you say, then we shall have new information with which we may discover more about this… thing, though at the cost of the entire populace. I would rather not have that happen.”

The wraith glared at the treeline. How could a creature so massive as to leave a trail this thick, he asked himself, not leave a single tree bent or damaged? 

Aloud, he asked as he stepped in the direction he had been traveling before encountering Finrod, “Might I ask thee as to how thou art alive?”

Finrod nodded sagely, hoping against hope that the creature - whatever it was - would veer from a course which would cost more death and destruction. Even if it ventured into an empty valley, or a forest, that would be preferable to the decimation of countless villages and towns and the deaths of hundreds more humans. "Me neither, my friend,“ he said, "but otherwise we may never find the abominable thing.”

He fell into step with the Nazgul, pondering his question. “We elves, we do not die, per se. If we have pleased the Valar - those whom your master used to serve - we may be reborn into bodies similar to those our fëar - that is to say, our souls - used to inhabit.”

With a heavy sigh, Finrod looked to the ground. “I seem to be rather unique among my kin in that I was allowed another chance at life. I believe that most of their crimes were found to great to warrant rebirth.”

His heart still twinged when he thought of the needless slaughter at the hands of the Noldor, and the guilt he felt over not stopping them was almost too great to bear. With a glance at his companion, Finrod wondered just how much of the history of the Eldar Sauron had taught his protégé.

saelind:

Andreth turns at smiles brightly at the golden head of hair poking itself through the doorway. Finrod! He often came to visit her father to discuss political matters and had taken a shining to the bright girl, treating her much as a younger sister during his visits. She had not seen him since she declared her intention to become one of the Wise - she longed to tell him all!

She smiles and nods at Finrod’s excitement over the hot beverage, accepting it from him, gratefully. She holds it, wide-eyed, and examines it; the smell is invigorating, if bitter, “from a plant, you said — fascinating…” She is about to ask the origin of the plant from which the beverage is derived, when she hears Finrod’s description of her activities as “fun”.

She wrinkles her nose and laughs, “I suppose it is fun, from a perspective. It’s fortunate I love reading so much, but Adanel’s thoroughness might yet overwhelm me!”

“It is quite fascinating, isn’t it?” Finrod smiled, thinking of the joy in his sister’s face when Aiwendil had showed her the plant. At his friend’s admission, he laughed aloud. “I knew you’d say that! Anyway, it’s got to be better than listening to all those army types blab on. You’re living the high life up here, getting to read books all day and do no work!”

He was joking, of course, and knew that she was working extra hard to learn all there was to know. “But tell me, what have you learned so far?” Finrod was quite intrigued  He adored learning and discovering new things, as could be seen from his excitement over the drink. “Anything exciting? Any dark, hidden secrets?” he grinned. Tucking his long hair behind pointed ears, he picked up one of the books nearest to him and held it aloft, studying the cover. “What’s this one about?”

archerofmirkwood:

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Legolas chided with a light tone. “He is a good man, but he has many stern bouts. Very loud, and perhaps very opinionated. But he loves his people dearly, as well as his son.” He disliked that most assumed his father to be a rash man, at least in partaking to his son. True, the prince of the Woodland Realm had much imposed upon him; but he did not see that his father was a rather indecent parent. After all, Legolas had pledged and loved him for many years; even as he grew more restless and etched his way from the nest of Mirkwood and the duties of heir. The title of prince seemed to ring a little false, Thranduil would never pass and Legolas seemed uninterested in taking the throne. If he knew his father well, which he did, there was a distinct doubt that he would be travelling from the beloved ‘Greenwood’ to that of Valinor anytime soon. “And what was your father like,” the princeling hummed softly; perhaps in records of books he had. Why not listen from the other’s own words, though?

“Please,” the blond elf scoffed. “That would be preposterous, you are my guest. All that you require to give me is your presence. And even that, you do not have to give me much to make yourself uncomfortable. I will pay for your food and drink, I am honored to have you walk beside me.” Brightening his smile, the elfling compared to his companion simply seemed to show his guest the utmost courtesy. He had missed having people trudge through Mirkwood to visit him; the least he could offer was a small token of gratitude. “Share your stories with me instead, friend.”

“My father?” he asked, “My father was very… unique. Among his brothers, at least. He was not fond of the war that they so craved, that we so craved. Perhaps that is why he is the only one left alive today.” Finrod knew that Finarfin had disapproved of Feanor’s plans form the beginning, and had retreated after Alqualonde, ashamed of his half-brothers and their actions. He often wondered why he, too, had not followed his father home.

“Well then,” Finrod smiled softly, “If stories are what you ask then stories you shall receive. I have enough of them, after all.” It was not often that Finrod was asked to relate his stories, and he relished telling them. He sometimes thought that if he had not left Valinor when he did, he might have become a scholar. He loved learning and teaching above almost everything else, and was glad of the ellon’s interest. “But first, young one, I must have a drink inside of me.”

mellandwen-of-laurelindorenan:

“I traveled all over Middle-Earth looking for you and then I heard about that foolish quest and they said… They said you had been killed and I did not believe them so I kept looking but they all said the same thing! No no no it was not her fault! I chose to go on my own merit. I… There was no way for me to send word… It had risen with no way to return until the sea calls…”

Mellandwen felt hot tears running down her face as she clung to her father. Real or fake, she did not care. She was in his arms once more and she would let herself have this for as long as she would be allowed. “I have missed you so much… Why… Why did you leave? Why did you all leave?” Her voice made her sound small and unsure. It was a question that had long plagued her, since she was but a youngling by Elven standards.

Finrod’s breath caught as he considered the question. He often found that he did not know why he had not simply turned and followed his father, turned and left behind the fools who thought they could disobey the Valar and get away with it. But he hadn’t, and he rued that decision every day since.

“Sometimes, I ask myself that question. Myself, my brothers, your aunt, we wanted to explore, to live and laugh and dance in somewhere new and exciting. But then they… they killed… and- and we had no choice but to follow, even as your grandfather turned and left. For if Fëanor could kill his own kin, he could order his soldiers to kill us and they would have done it without a second thought. I had to. I had to protect them, and it was a decision I was forced to make.”

They would have, too. But it was no use trying to justify the situation. He had left, and the decision had been foolish and infantile and brimful of the idiocy and naivety of youth. The embarrassment of it still burned in his heart, and the shame of the obscenities he had witnessed and permitted his fellow soldiers to commit kept him awake at night. “I often wonder,” he said, unaware that he was speaking aloud, “why we were not punished more severely for our stupidity.”

elladanofrivendell:

Elladan chuckled before bringing the mead to his lips once again; strong it was, indeed. After licking his lips, he replied, “apparently it is an inheritable trait.” With the words came the curving of his lips; he was amused — and somewhat flattered as well, to be honest; he found being compared to his father was a welcome compliment. “Perhaps I will not; it is not much of a concern of mine though. What of you? Have you yet found anyone you thrive to be with?”

archerofmirkwood:

“You have not met my father yet,” Legolas chided after a moment, feeling himself smile along with the elder elf. Careful to keep a comfortable pace with the elder, he offered his hand after a moment to help support and guide him. Though clearly, the man was not old enough to feel his body degrade simply by visiting Mirkwood. All of the constant maneuvering one had to do amongst the trees though; that was quite the long trek. “He would tell you quite the different story; that the young need spend more time with their elders lest they turn renegade.” 

It was probably best that the other had not chosen to eat the fungi or mushrooms growing rampant in Mirkwood. It was not unlike a game of a roulette; one could easily fill the stomach while the other could cause a slow, agonizing death. Still, the smallest bit of food was always good on a strained stomach, he did not expect Finrod to keep up with him after how long he’d been going in circles. Even some of the best scouts and rangers struggled with navigating Mirkwood, he did not entrust even the slowly healing murk to fully shelter the Silvan. Nature was a testy mistress.

“Please, do not bow to me, mellonamin.” Legolas smiled, looking at the other as he seemingly eased at the mention of alcohol. They were at the edge of the city now, the grove of trees beginning to open up in what could be best described as a grotto. “Good to hear I will be having a drinking partner for the eve.”

immortalflameofawarrior:

lordofnargothrond 

Now here was a strange occurrence. An Elf in Rivendell that he did not know. From what he appeared, he seemed like one of great importance. Perhaps he was. It couldn’t harm to ask. Approaching carefully, he gently inquired to the man.

“Pardon me, but I have never seen your face. Might I ask your name?”