the further he gets from erebor, the closer he holds the memory of it 

And they are.

Can we please talk about the fact that Thorin was actually out hunting when Smaug attacked?

I mean, for his character development this is much more powerful than the scene in the movie, can you imagine the desperation and the pain Thorin must have felt while looking at the inevitable and praying for his family? 

Can we please also address that he was only 24? In dwarves years he was basically a baby, probably not older than a 16 years old, and at this tender age he foresaw the end of the life as he knew it, feeling the guilt for not being there too to help. I mean, the moment before he was out hunting, having fun, carefree and brazen as he should have been, the moment after he looked up, saw smoke in the sky and heard shouts in the distance. Probably he ran towards the mountain.

Probably leaving his bow and everything behind.

Probably with his heart beating so fast he couldn’t breathe.

Probably already picturing the worst scenario ever.

Probably crying.

…

…what is my problem?

War

before & after angharad

        You’re more than welcome to come with us.              …  No, I make my own way.

#dying whale noises#ugh these two#mad max#he *knows* he’s in trouble here#and the only way to save himself more pain is to run as fast as he can but it already hurts#and she’s just… resigned to his answer#knew he wouldn’t say yes but had to ask#these poor hurting children can they please just hug each other when neither of them is almost dying (tags via @v8roadworrier)

I sit beside the fire and think     of people long ago, and people who will see a world     that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think     of times there were before, I listen for returning feet     and voices at the door

“I’ll be watching your back out there, Fareeha” “Then I have nothing to worry about”

consider this

in a world where color symbolism is everything to the hobbits, bilbo baggins runs out of his home in bag end wearing red, the color of daring, power and love (and courting, and he’ll probably end up wearing this silly coat for months, he thinks as he’s putting it on in a hurry, but hey, he’s gotten this far, what’s a bit more courage to a hobbit who’s willing to run after dwarves)

and then in laketown he receives the blue coat and is like ‘oh bother’ and someone like ori probably asks him what’s wrong, and he has not thought of color symbolism in ages, but he admits that blue is the color of mourning back in the shire and the dwarves slap him on the back and laugh and tell him there will be no more mourning, only victory and new hope

but a couple of weeks later, he’s kneeling at thorin’s bedside, wearing bloodstained blue, and of all the times he wishes he’d gotten the chance to honor shire customs, this isn’t one of them

Wow I hate you so much <3

Vuvalini History

thehopefulbluestocking broke my heart a little today:

Now I can’t write fanfic (my brain works in words but it doesn’t work in narrative fiction) but, still, this is breaking my heart a little and I keep seeing it all. I want someone to write real fic, but until then… (A lot of these deal with fiber work because I love how fiber arts, a traditionally “feminine” set of skills, have been reclaimed by women in such a big way in recent years. Also I wanted really worldwide names, but I think I’m still running too shallow.)

They’re unpacking all these things that they’ve carried for so long–because they might be useful someday, one way or another. It’s called a “wasteland” but you can’t afford to waste anything.

“Here, come here. Bradamante sewed up these pouches this way–you see, each one fits .45 shells perfectly. Exactly six in a pocket, one pocket on a side. She could reload without even looking. You almost couldn’t see her hands. That was her way. Fits you just like it did her.“ 

“Back when we were still in the Green Place, we had the last of the sheep with us. Maeve would tend them, along with Rachel sometimes, and they’d shear the sheep each spring. Luna and her aunties were the real spinners–I think Luna did most of the spinning Hippolyta didn’t want to do. Now. Lyta, which is what we always called her, couldn’t abide either spinning or being cold, so she’d always find some way to get someone to spin for her. That would be Luna. She made her spinning wheel from an old bicycle, as I recall. But Lyta, she’d knit quick enough when she needed something. I think she made this entire scarf in one afternoon. And it was summer, so imagine her trying it on to see if it’s long enough when the sun’s just blazing down…”

“Brigid was a smith–probably the best. She learned from her mother too. Iron or silver, didn’t matter, she could shape anything to suit her. Anything out of her forge was beautiful, bladed or jeweled. Here. She made these too. Oh, I can’t wear them to well these days.”

“If you get any more sun you’re going to burn and then no one will be happy. Here, put this on. I stitched this up myself, but it was my mum who wove it. My auntie dyed it–her hands were a thousand colors. Now, stop that, don’t fuss. Your skin peels off if you burn and no one will be happy, least of all me.”

“Kahina did all the stitching on this. She slipped off and found a cache of thread–it was one night when we were all sleeping; no one was as quiet as she was, and none of us knows where she found the stuff–and carried it with her. We were on the move by then, though. When she got tired of driving, she’d ride pillion and work and never dropped a stitch. Your hair looks like it’s driving you mad with it all in your face like that. Here, this’ll fix that quick enough, keeps it right out of your eyes so you can see who’s coming up over that dune.” 

“Tarabai was the one kept these bones. She knew the names of the creatures. Or gave them names.” (A long silence.) “I went back for her bones. All her bones.”

“But then, wouldn’t you know it, Cuhtahlatah–” “You mean Colestah.” “No–are you sure? I thought it was Cuhtahlatah who–” “Oh yes, I was there, remember. You’re too young to remember. Don’t forget that.”

“It’s easy enough to weave up a bit like this. Here. We’ve still got some cord. You take that end and I’ll show you. I can’t tell you how because if I slow down I can’t do it. But you’ll see the pattern fast enough.”

It goes on, but it gets sadder as it goes. They start recounting deaths, not just what was done in life.

But you will not see that.

#sobbing #because though aragorn was the divinely-chosen king descendent from the line of kings #boromir was the one who had grown to manhood among his people; grown up defending and loving them #to him they were not just a faceless mass waiting to be led #or helpless children in the face of the power of the east #they were the warriors that fought beside him and the women that sold their goods in the market and his brother and his father #the houses of healing and the white tree #everything boromir was or ever hoped to be was inextricably bound to gondor; to minas tirith #and here was this elf-raised numenorean who not only was rightful heir to the throne boromir thought defunct #but did not even have the decency to respect and care for the people he would be ruling from it #of course boromir is angry #of course he tries to make aragorn see #boromir you are my favorite until the end of time #the fleeting voice of falliable humanity amid a narrative of gods and heroes#humanity that loves and humanity that falls #ack (via notbecauseofvictories)