irrelevant-insect

so one of the main reasons i hold on to my ‘elves do not shit’ crack headcanon is for the poetic, tragic, richly emotional moment it implies in the fellowship of the ring. when legolas, 20 minutes into the trip, smells the first fart he ever smelt in his life and just straight up curls into a ball and starts sobbing. and everyone is trying to comfort him because they think he’s having a panic attack or something right. which he is. anyway, imagine the hurt/comfort possibilities within that situation. a whole new genre of whumpfics could be born from this very situation.

imagine the sociopolitical dynamics of it as well. everyone blames gimli right off the bat because frankly early-fellowship gimli absolutely would do it just to fuck with legolas, and when confronted all he says is ‘fuck i wish i did it’. the hobbits hold council between them and they all blame pippin. again understandable. however, they also vote that the second most likely choice is sam, because classism runs deep even in the sweetest shire-dwellers. boromir is a normal person and doesn’t give a fuck. gandalf invents the non-aligned movement.

anyway. legolas lives in fear, confusion, and turmoil throughout the quest for the ring. bombarded with farts left right and centre. bro is literally fighting mustard gas in the trenches. ww1 metaphor is his daily reality. and this discombobulation means his elf nose gets overwhelmed and he can’t differentiate the various strains. he has no idea who hurt him so badly that first time. until aragorn’s wedding. which aragorn is very nervous about. and understandably, nervousness has several biological indicators. one of which results in legolas freezing up in the middle of the ceremony, eyes filling with tears. he looks at the groom. his friend. his comrade. his king.

illustration from forever months ago that never escaped the rough sketch stage, probably because it is too depressing to paint. words from my elwing fic, she that was young and fair

Stay

Elrond will endure as he has always done. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, bear a ring of power and watch as your wife departs these shores after unimaginable torment. He shudders, feeling a strange kinship with the goats and sheep of old Beleriand, helpless creatures watching a great wall of water careen towards them, unable to correct its course or atone enough for it to matter, unable to do anything at all but bleat feebly. He is gripping her like a vice, as if trying to pull her out. There is a sick, horrible hopelessness in his face.

"Stay," he begs, breathless in his grief. "Please, Cel. Three thousand years… please. Please stay. I'll try harder."

Elros and Elrond, aged 13: a moment of realisation — I will one day choose the kindred of men.

I did not wish to be the most exciting part of the greatest, most tragic of love songs in this land. Nor did I wish to be Dior and his sons, killed before I even knew there was a choice to be made. I did not wish for my choice to be a punishment for daring to throw myself from a window in despair. And most of all, Elrond—I feared the fate of Eärendil.

For I had always had a twin. Always, always beside me, I had my Elrond. Who was my playmate every day of my life, mine from womb to war, who joined in every game I ever played, argued against anything I ever said, squealed when I pinched him, with whom I halved every sweet I have ever received. Elrond, who would crawl into my bed at dawn because he swore his side of the room was too cold, Elrond, who would sit by my side as I looked out of the window and told him stories I made up just for him, Elrond, who had the audacity to be fast asleep as I did. That had been my life, all my life. And so, the story of Eärendil, the supposed reward for his deeds and the result of his choice of kindred, a choice he made for the person he loved most in the world, even the slightest possibility of such a fate struck only cold fear in my heart.

I could not bear to sail the skies alone, hingeing my hopes upon the breaking of the world. There is no eternity for me. Not without you. Not without my Elrond.

This was a lighting study of the adolescent twins from a couple of weeks back that characteristically got out of hand... Words from a longfic I’m currently cooking, featuring an extract from a letter written by a dying Elros to his brother, attempting to explain that he chose the kindred of Men not because he wished to be parted from his twin, but because he couldn’t bear the thought.

CELEBRÍAN: FOURTH AGE AMAN

latest finished commission piece, featuring Her™️. my everything™️. my Girl™️. waiting for her sad wet cat on the beach, dripping with diamonds. a woman who has spent 500 years cosying up to all the MILFs in valinor. as she fucking should. also featuring a little ear-tip prosthetic 🥰