The Ring Of Barahir? Given To Barahir By Finrod And Passed On To Aragorn.

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Just amazing. Thanks for this! ✨

Lovely Thorn part 2

@zoya-olenko @ladyoflindon part 2!! I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT! MDNI! Idiots in love

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The soft light of the dawn seeps through the windows, waking you slowly, your body heavy and aching from the battle, though the pain is more of a dull throb now. The first thing you notice is the warmth of a hand gripping yours, firm but trembling slightly. Blinking, you shift your gaze and find Gil-galad seated beside your bed, his normally regal face shadowed by exhaustion and worry.

“Well,” you rasp, your voice barely above a whisper. “You look dreadful, Ereinion.”

His lips twitch, but his eyes don’t lose the edge of worry. “I could say the same of you,” he replies, voice hoarse and rough, though you can tell he’s attempting to keep it light. “Not your finest look, if I may say.”

You attempt to smile, but it hurts too much to try. “Then why are you still here, looking at me like I’m about to keel over?”

His expression falters, and for the briefest moment, you see the fear he’s trying so hard to hide. “Because, for a moment, I thought I might lose you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, the heaviness of his words making your heart thud painfully in your chest. You blink, and when you open your mouth to speak again, he beats you to it.

“Do you know,” he starts, his voice quiet and trembling just slightly, “that I’ve stood in battles most of my life? I’ve led armies, watched warriors fall under blades, stared into the eyes of death itself.” His gaze drops to your hand, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “But I have never been as terrified as I was seeing you lying there, screaming in pain.”

A lump forms in your throat, but you don’t let him see it. Not yet. You shift, sitting up gently, resting against the wall behind you. “I’m not that easy to kill, Ereinion.”

“No,” he agrees, his voice tightening, “but I think you’re reckless enough to send me to an early grave.”

You scoff, but before you can retort, he leans forward, his face just inches from yours, his expression deadly serious. “I’ve been a fool,” he says, his voice low and taut with emotion. “A damned fool for thinking that I could keep pretending I don’t care. For thinking that denying how I feel would somehow protect you.”

Your breath catches at the change in his tone. “What are you saying, Ereinion?”

“I’m saying,” he begins, his hand still gripping yours as if you might vanish, “that I love you. I’ve loved you for far longer than I care to admit, but I kept pushing you away, telling myself it was better that way. That you deserved more than the burdens I carry. More than a life tied to the High King.”

You blink, staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “And you didn’t think to tell me this before I got skewered by an orc?”

He huffs a breath, half a laugh, half frustration. “That would’ve been ideal, yes.”

For a moment, the tension between you flickers into something lighter, but the weight of his words quickly pulls you back down. You sit in silence, the realization settling in—he loves you. He’s loved you all this time, even while you two were too busy bickering over every little thing.

“And what if I said,” you start slowly, your heart pounding now, “that you’re an idiot for thinking I’d ever consider you a burden?”

His eyes snap to yours, surprised, wary. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” you reply, your voice sharper than you intend, “that I would bear any burden if it means being with you. If you thought I was going to walk away because your crown weighs a little heavy, then you don’t know me as well as you think.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence, before a smirk pulls at his lips. “You really are a thorn in my side, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “And you’re an insufferable idiot. What’s your point?”

His smirk softens, and he squeezes your hand, his voice lowering. “My point is that I love you. And if you’ll have me, thorns and all, I will gladly bear the weight of that love, every single day.”

For a moment, you can’t say anything. Your throat tightens, your heart feels too full. But then, as if the tension has finally snapped, you surge forward, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that speaks of all the frustration, all the longing, all the unsaid words between you.

He kisses you back just as fiercely, his hand slipping behind your neck, holding you close as if to make sure you’re real, that this moment isn’t some fevered dream. When you finally pull away, breathless, you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed.

“Meleth nin,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead. He goes to pull away, presumably to advise Elrond of your waking. Unwilling to let him go so soon you frantically pull his lips back to yours. 

A shocked sound comes from his throat. He chuckles against your lips, kissing you back just as frantically. Ereinion's hands roam across your body, exploring every inch of skin. He presses his body against yours, feeling the warmth and desire that flows between you.

You moan softly, arching your back as Ereinion's fingers trace delicate patterns on your skin. Your hands move to undo the laces of Ereinion's shirt, revealing his muscled chest.

Your kisses grow deeper and more intense, a fiery passion igniting within you both. In this moment, you are lost in each other, blocking out the world outside.

As he pulls the sides of your garments apart, your eyes lock in a heated gaze. Ereinion's hands dance delicately along your stomach, making you shiver with anticipation. You moan softly as he kisses his way down your body, stopping to tease and nip at your sensitive spots.

You arch your back, begging for more as Ereinion slips his tongue inside you, exploring your depths. You clutch at his hair, urging him on as he continues to pleasure you. Your bodies move in perfect sync, and he growls like a man starved as he devours you.

He holds your hips down as you ride the waves of pleasure, gently coaxing you through it. He murmurs soft words of encouragement, placing kisses along your thighs, up your stomach and across your chest as he shifts to lay beside you. 

As you collapse back onto the bed, panting heavily, your heart still racing, Ereinion rolls onto his side to gaze at you. His face is flushed and bright with happiness, his eyes filled with love and satisfaction. He leans in to kiss you softly on the lips, tasting yourself on his mouth.

“I love you too, you stubborn king,” you murmur, your lips brushing against his as you speak.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and he smiles—a real, genuine smile that makes your heart ache in the best way. “Then stay with me,” he whispers. “At my side. Through whatever comes next. Be my queen, and together we will face the trials of the world.”

You smile, exhaustion creeping back over you, but there’s a contentment, a peace you’ve never felt before. “Always.”

Epilogue:

In the years to come, you stand as Gil-galad’s queen, a constant presence at his side as the dark shadow of Sauron rises once more over Middle-earth. The trials of the Second Age are many—wars, treachery, alliances tested—but you face them together, an unyielding pair bound by love and loyalty.

And though the crown is heavy, though the burden of leadership grows with each passing year, it never weighs you down. Not when you share it with him.

Side by side, through every storm, you remain—forever his thorn, and he, forever your maddening, beautiful king.

is anyone else wondering how annatar managed to get so much alone time with celebrimbor without GalGilCírlrond busting down his door to blow his cover orrrrrrrrrr

Just something about how Elrond is described as "kind as summer." You can't go wrong with that. Elrond is amazing.

But the history of Elrond is so fucking tragic — if anything, Elrond should be turned evil, like Fëanáro or Maedhros.

But he didn't.

He lost his parents, his brother, his foster parents, his wife, his daughter, etc... and yet he's an amazing person.

Elrond being one of the bad guys would have been understandable. But he chose to be a good person who helped maintain the stability of Middle-Earth.

Despite all his pain, grief, losses, etc — Elrond chose to stay patient and prevent more people from experiencing the same losses he did.

This just shows one of the many different outcomes of pain that Tolkien presents; rather than going mad, like Fëanáro, or becoming an anti-hero, like Maedhros, or even disappearing, like Maglor, Elrond chose to stay sane and be a hero for Middle-Earth.

An Unexpected Joy

A/N: A bit of Gil Galad fluff... making Gil Gadaddy a reality ;) Also- look at his haiiiirrrrr its so prettyyyyy

Pairing: Ereinion Gil Galad x reader

Word Count: 1.7K

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Your steps are light as you tread through the dimmed corridors of the camp, the night’s quiet punctuated by the soft crackling of distant fires. The mingling scents of smoke and herbs fill the air, earthy and pungent, the healers’ remedies still clinging to the battlefield’s recent memory. You feel the strain of conflict clinging to you like a shadow, its weight not yet lifted. Eregion has fallen, its people scattered across hills and ravines, each soul a flicker of light in the dark. And yet here you are, walking through the ruins and remnants, driven by a miracle you had only dared to dream, an ache of longing finally met.

The trail narrows as you descend deeper into the glade, down to a secluded grove nestled at the bottom of a ravine. You pause, the sound of water trickling nearby, a peaceful counterpoint to the fury you’ve left behind. The ravine is shrouded in a thick, quiet darkness, broken only by glimmers of starlight filtering through the leaves. You continue carefully, following the faint tracks left by those who came before, your heart guided by an unshakeable instinct. At last, you see them: Ereinion, your beloved, King Gil-galad, seated vigilantly on a low log beside the resting figure of Galadriel.

She lies on a bed of soft moss, her silver-gold hair spilled across the ground like moonlight. Her breathing is soft, a steady rise and fall, each breath a testament to the healing power of the rings. The harshness of battle has fallen away from her in sleep, leaving only peace in its place.

Ereinion sits nearby, his gaze fixed on her with a soft intensity, as though even in this quiet moment he must protect her from unseen threats. His face, usually so stern in the presence of others, is touched by gentleness in the solitude of the glade. The firelight from a nearby torch dances over his features, highlighting the weary lines etched by long years and countless sacrifices. His hair tumbles over his shoulders, dark and unbound, catching glints of silver in the starlight, and for a moment, you pause, heart full, seeing in him the king and the man you’ve loved for centuries.

Quietly, you approach, hoping not to disturb him, but the soft rustle of your steps gives you away. He turns, his gaze catching yours, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of relief, of joy, mingled with something deeper. Here, in this hidden glade, with the echoes of war left above, you find yourself on the cusp of sharing a revelation more profound than any you’ve carried before.

“Meleth nîn,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he turns to you. His eyes soften with an unspeakable relief as they meet yours, and he steps forward, closing the distance in one swift, unhesitating motion. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close as if you are his very breath, his anchor in this ravaged land. “You’re here. Safe. How did we escape without a scratch?”

You melt into his embrace, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you, steadying the parts of yourself still shaken from the day’s terror. “By some grace we did,” you say softly, resting your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart calms you, grounding you in this moment. You close your eyes, breathing him in, and for a second, all the fear, the grief, the worry dissipate like mist.

But as the silence deepens, your thoughts turn to Galadriel, who still lies in a quiet slumber. “And Galadriel?” you ask, your voice a mere murmur against his shoulder. “Will she recover?”

He sighs, a weight in his breath that you can feel deep within his chest. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, the flicker of sadness and resolve in his gaze unmistakable. “Her wound was dark, festering from the touch of Morgoth’s crown itself,” he says, his voice low and strained. “It was… worse than I could have imagined. She has endured great pain, more than any soul should bear. We feared the wound might take her, that the shadow clinging to her would devour even her spirit.”

His gaze falls to where she lies, his eyes softening with a deep affection and sorrow. “But the rings have done their work. She is healing, the darkness lifted, though it took all we had to cast it out. Now, she only needs to wake. It will take time, yet I believe she will return to us.”

You follow his gaze, taking in Galadriel’s peaceful, sleeping form. Her face, though still and pale, no longer bears the strain that had marked it before, her breathing deep and even. Relief fills you, mingled with a gratitude too immense to name. She has survived a shadow few could endure—and in some quiet way, that gives you strength. 

The words press against your lips, a tremor of anticipation and uncertainty, too immense, too impossible to hold back any longer. Yet as they linger, unspoken, a wave of nervousness washes over you. The enormity of what you are about to reveal fills you with both joy and fear, and for a moment, you hesitate, wondering if this fragile new hope should remain a secret for just a moment longer, kept safe from the harshness of the world.

But Ereinion is watching you closely, his gaze shifting from tender relief to concern. He pulls back, searching your face with quiet intensity, sensing the weight of what you hold back. "Are you truly alright, meleth nîn?" he asks softly, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "You look… troubled." His voice is gentle, and his brow furrows, the ever-present protector surfacing in his gaze.

You swallow, heart pounding. "I am," you whisper, voice barely a breath. But the truth wells up in you like light breaking through darkness, and you realize you cannot hold it in any longer. With a deep, shuddering breath, you close the small distance between you and rest your forehead against his, feeling the strength of his presence, his warmth, grounding you.

"There's something else, Ereinion," you say, your words trembling with the weight of them. Your hands, trembling but sure, reach for his and guide them to rest gently over your stomach. You press his hands there, urging him silently to feel, to sense the delicate, radiant spark of life that stirs within you—a light so faint, yet already strong, like the glimmer of a star.

His fingers curl instinctively over your stomach, and you watch as his expression shifts, disbelief dawning in his eyes, mingling with wonder. You feel his breath hitch, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. It’s as if the world itself has stilled, holding its breath for this impossible truth. And then, like a whisper only he can hear, he senses it—the faint yet unmistakable light of the fae stirring within you, growing, living.

"A child?" His voice is barely audible, choked with wonder and joy, his gaze filled with awe as he looks down at your joined hands, as if the world has rearranged itself around this single, precious moment.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence, but then realization dawns in his eyes, followed swiftly by the gleam of pure joy. He clasps your hands, disbelief mingling with awe. “A child!” His laughter, bright and unrestrained, fills the air. He pulls you into him, pressing a kiss to your lips, as though your happiness has rekindled some part of him worn by the years of warfare.

When he draws back, you can see his mind already racing, the strategist within him awakening. “But what of the battle’s toll on you?” he asks, concern darkening his features as he cups your face. “Are you unharmed? You’ve been through so much—how can I be sure—”

“I’m fine, my love,” you assure him, pressing your hand over his. “Whole and safe. Our child is strong.”

He exhales in relief, though his eyes linger on your face, still assessing, still planning. “Then I’ll make sure that nothing will threaten you both,” he promises fervently. “You must have the best care, a fortified place far from the battlefronts. And when the battle breaks out again…” His thoughts tumble over one another as he strategizes how to keep you safe, listing every precaution, every arrangement, his love woven into each detail.

With a smile, you reach up and quiet him with a gentle kiss. “Ereinion,” you murmur, resting your forehead against his. “We’ll do this together. The timing may not be what we imagined, but together we can weather it.” The warmth of your words and touch stills his worry, and he nods, a faint smile lifting his lips. His hand covers yours, resting over the life you now share.

Before you can speak again, a dry voice cuts through the quiet of the glade, laced with humor and unmistakable sharpness. "I must be more wounded than I thought," Galadriel drawls, her eyes barely open but glinting with mischief. “Or perhaps I’m hallucinating… It’s either that, or I am far too injured to stomach such sickening affection.”

You and Ereinion both turn, momentarily startled, and find her watching you from her place on the moss-covered ground, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. Laughter bubbles up between you, spilling into the soft night air, as relief and joy mingle freely. Still chuckling, Ereinion lifts his gaze, meeting Galadriel’s with a smirk.

“Ah, but don’t strain yourself further, Lady of Light,” he replies, voice dripping with feigned reproach as he holds you tighter in his arms. “It wouldn’t do for you to exhaust yourself any more than necessary. Not all of us are accustomed to such stoic detachment from matters of the heart.”

Galadriel huffs, managing to roll her eyes in spite of her injuries. “I will recover, Ereinion, if only to save myself from enduring another moment of this spectacle.” But there is warmth in her gaze as it drifts between the two of you, a faint shimmer that speaks of her own hidden joy. Though she hides it well, you can see the spark of approval in her eyes, an unspoken blessing shared in the soft, knowing look that only a friend and ally can give.

You rest your head against Ereinion’s shoulder, and for a moment, the world feels untouched by shadows, your heart buoyed by this rare, shared joy. You steal one more glance at your husband, the glimmer of hope rekindling between you. Whatever lies ahead—whatever battles or burdens the future may hold—you know you’ll face it hand in hand, just as you always have.

that was so kind of him to do, god knows Prokofiev needed it

Dmitri Shostakovich at Sergei Prokofiev's funeral, 1953.

For context, Prokofiev and Stalin died on the same day- March 5, 1953. Because Stalin's funeral was such a major event in the Soviet Union, Prokofiev's was largely overlooked, despite the fact he was one of the leading Soviet composers of his day. Relatively few people attended his funeral, Shostakovich among them.

Shostakovich and Prokofiev were not particularly close, and had a thorny professional relationship- much of the correspondence between them that I've been able to find appears to be formal criticism of each other's works. As Prokofiev was from an older generation- he was born in 1891, while Shostakovich was born in 1906- they did not always see eye-to-eye musically; Shostakovich experimented with the avant-garde when possible, perhaps in part due to his musical maturation during the socially-liberal NEP era, while Prokofiev's style tended to be more conservative and neoclassical- picking up more influence from Imperial-age composers and fellow emigres to the west (he lived in France and the United States before returning to the Soviet Union in 1936). Their generational difference also partially accounted for how they responded to harsh government criticism- Shostakovich was impacted by the consequences of his 1936 denunciation all his life and, while he suffered greatly during his second denunciation in 1948, was able to develop public and private personas, in both the musical and ideological spheres, to preserve himself and his artistry. However devastating as it was for Shostakovich, the 1948 denunciations took a greater toll on many other composers, Prokofiev included. As Prokofiev did not believe he would be harshly denounced as Shostakovich had been in 1936, he was far less prepared for the censorship and attacks he faced in 1948. As a result of the denunciations, combined with his declining health, his artistic productivity decreased, and he largely regulated himself to writing basic ideological works towards the end of his life.

This is a letter Shostakovich wrote to Prokofiev on the subject of his Seventh (and last) Symphony:

There's speculation as to whether or not Shostakovich was actually impressed by Prokofiev's Seventh Symphony. As Prokofiev was in decline at the time of writing it, the symphony has been criticized for being banal and not being particularly innovative; Rostropovich even claimed that Prokofiev added in its final flourish not for artistic purposes, but to have the piece nominated for a Stalin Prize, which would have meant money and a boost to his reputation after it suffered in 1948. (The Stalin Prize has its own complicated history in its role in Soviet music, and although it was the highest award a Soviet composer could earn, it could sometimes be awarded as a sort of backhanded punishment- an encouragement for composers to write the "right" sort of music, especially after they had been criticized for "formalism." Nonetheless, winning it after suffering a denunciation could mean financial and political security.) Did Shostakovich- who had often traded criticisms with Prokofiev over music- actually like this piece, or was this an effort to encourage a fellow artist to keep composing after suffering mental and physical ailments? This was a private letter and not a public statement, and Shostakovich was typically very straightforward about critiques, so if the entirely positive sentiment for the piece wasn't genuine (the only critique here is that Shostakovich says he wishes the entire symphony was encored!), the letter may have come from a place of concern.

Perhaps the most striking thing about this letter is the line, "I wish you another hundred years to live and create. Listening to such works as your Seventh Symphony makes it much easier and more joyful to live." Maybe by telling Prokofiev that he wished him another hundred years to live and create, Shostakovich was not simply praising the symphony, but encouraging Prokofiev- a composer whom he was often on icy terms with- that he needed to keep living and creating, during a time when it was becoming more and more difficult for him to do so.

ohoho the last bit

The Rings of Power Characters on Discord Call

THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE RINGS OF POWER (2022 - )

1.01 "A Shadow of the Past" 2.08 "Shadow and Flame"

one single thread of gold tied me to you: series (ficmas 2024)

whatever ties james to you feels ancient, like folklore—woven into the fabric of who he is. like the golden threads in that scarf, it pulls him toward you: effortless, timeless.

pairing: james potter x reader

series summary: james potter spent years chasing after lily evans, convinced she was the one for him but in fifth year that all changed when he met you. for two years, it was easy, perfect, even. then the summer before seventh year you ended things with him, insisting he belonged with lily instead. he didn't understand (or agree) with your decision then and he's not sure he does now. perhaps being lovelorn and bereft without you compelled him to follow your suggestion and he began dating lily. everything should've fallen into place like you said, it should feel right but it doesn't.

as snow falls over hogwarts and the holidays draw everyone closer, james can't shake the feeling that something is pulling him back to you and he's not sure he wants it to stop.

main tags: female pronouns, alternate universe, marauders era, pov switch between characters, gryffindor reader, friendly reader, casual invisible string connection, exes reader and james, established jily, sirius and reader friendship, lily deserves better, no bashing whatsoever, emotional infidelity, insecurities, angst, fluff, mutual yearning/longing, falling into old habits, obliviousness, miscommunication, off-screen mutual breakup (jily), getting back together (reader and james), time skip, implied marriage, domesticity, happy ending

notes: happy holidays!! here is my self-indulgent 2024 12 days of ficmas series 🧣 inspired by taylor's song invisible string. this series is a collection of vignettes set during the winter of their final (seventh) year. every part is centered on a winter-ish word prompt and connected to each other in the same universe. please read the tags. i tried to keep the reader a clean slate as much as i could but there are implications that they're a gryffindor, friendly, well-liked, and that they knit. if you don't like that, don't read it.

credits: divider [x] and gif made by my bff @jasntodds 🤍

masterlist 🔗 ao3 | other works | playlist

☆ day one: scarf ☆ day two: chocolate ☆ day three: mistletoe ☆ day four: snow ☆ day five: gift ☆ day six: gloves ☆ day seven: christmas tree ☆ day eight: cookies ☆ day nine: snowdrops ☆ day ten: tea ☆ day eleven: star ☆ day twelve: epilogue