r[A♥]

Hello, I'm Irian and this blog consists of queer and geeky. Beware.
Posts tagged "Lord of the Rings"

edgebug:

morgarine:

This isn’t a fucking competition Legolas

Any time anyone says Tolkien isn’t funny, I bring up this scene.

To put it in context, Aragorn is a ridiculously good tracker. He had just been literally lying flat on his belly on the ground, his ear pressed to the dirt, so he could listen for footsteps of the army that was way, way out of sight. We’re talking miles away, here. Aragorn was listening to the ground. And from that, he figured out that there were a lot of riders, on hecka fast horses, heading right towards them, with the intention of fucking their shit up. Pretty badass, right?

Cue Legolas, a.k.a. You Little Shit. Legolas is an elf. His eyesight and hearing is ridiculously good. Like, it puts any human’s to shame.

He literally let Aragorn lie there on the ground and strain to hear footsteps in the distance for no reason. And when Aragorn got up, the little shit drove the point home by saying “Oh yeah, I see them, I’ve seen them this whole time, there’s a hundred and five of them, oh yeah and they’re all blonde and they’re carrying spears nbd”

Cue Aragorn gritting his teeth in frustration and Legolas smirking like the sassy pointy-eared fuck that he is.

This may actually be my favorite part of LOTR okay

(via sayonaramidnight)

notbecauseofvictories:

also that whole tale of aragorn and arwen thing where he saw her in the woods at twenty and fell instantly in love and it’s very beren and luthien? lies.

aragorn decided he was going to marry arwen when he was like, six.

and everyone thought it was just the cutest thing, baby estel with his little crush on the great immortal evenstar, and everyone would tease him about it relentlessly and he would get so mad, and pout, because how dare they doubt his word.

(arwen spent a lot of time biting back smiles and nodding very seriously when aragorn brings this up with her. no, estel, I do not know why they are laughing perhaps they have remembered a particularly funny joke.)

and then aragorn grows into this gangly teen and oh my god can you imagine being a pimply greasy teenager around fucking elves it’s a wonder he has any self-image left. His voice breaks every other word and the laundresses are beginning to wonder if something is wrong with the sheets because estel keeps washing them himself and aragorn wants to die, god, arwen is never going to marry him if he stays all elbows and skinny knees and he can’t even look her in the eye anymore without blushing, eye contact is probably something to look for in a husband—

(arwen, who never had to go through puberty because elves don’t do anything so undignified, tries to comfort him by saying she likes his blemishes. aragorn gives her a look of such utter, miserable despair that she starts laughing.)

(this is a mistake. he spends the next three weeks nursing his wounded ego and refusing to see her.)

estel is twenty when he asks for her hand. he is lean, slender and fair as a new tree, and so arwen does not feel guilt in kissing his cheek and gently refusing. he is still green, he will weather greater storms than this—and he takes it as he should, clasping her hand and swearing to ever be her loyal friend.

they write to each other—when she is in lorien, when he wanders with the rangers of the north, fights alongside gondor, travels to distant lands. it is an inconstant tie—he is rarely afforded time enough to put pen to paper; she is reserved so as not to encourage what may not be. (she signs her letters always, your friend. She likes him too well to be cruel in this.)

the years pass. his weariness and strife creeps onto the page, and she sends him tokens to fend off the darkness—leaves from lothlorien, the ribbon from her hair, snippets of poems. it is not enough it is never enough I am sorry, she writes.

his reply is gentle: you are enough. do not stop writing.

(she carries that letter tucked inside her sleeve for a long while, like a talisman—though against what evil, she does not know.)

she is in the house of her grandmother when a familiar voice calls out to her: my lady luthien!

this is when arwen looks up, sees aragorn—broad of chest and rugged, still wearing his battered mail, with one hand balanced lazily on the pommel of his sword. All the trees of caras galadhon are gold but he is shadow and silver, kingliness resting lightly on his shoulders—

and arwen thinks, oh fuck

(via nudityandnerdery)