Rewatching The Extended Fellowship Of The Ring Compelled Me To Make This Shitpost Video Of Legolas And

Steve's Young Daughter He Left Behind, is Scared by Sam and Bucky's Arguing

(Inspired by^)

Their arguing grew louder, more aggressive. Neither meant to escalate it, but Bucky was stressed and upset, and Sam was frustrated with it all. Their situation got increasingly more complicated the more time went on, and that showed no signs of stopping now Zemo was involved.

Sarah-Grace watched them with big eyes, huddled in a thick coat that had been draped over her by said Sokovian fugitive. The material kept her lovely and warm, almost to the point of lulling the girl to sleep. But she hated noise, especially shouting. Usually, her uncle Bucky spoke softly, avoiding making too much noise for her benefit. Same with Sam.

Hearing it now, Sarah curled into the warmth of the coat, trying to block it all out. She knew they didn't mean to scare her, but it was just too much.

Accidentially, she caught Zemo's eyes, then shyed away from them. He scared her a little, despite being nothing but kind to her so far.

"Guys!" He hissed, stepping towards them.

"What?!" Sam and Bucky snapped simultaneously, glaring daggers at him.

"You're scaring Sarah," Zemo said icily.

Their faces immediately softened, and they exchanged regretful glances. Bucky frowned, quickly moving over to kneel in front of her.

"We're sorry, Gracie," he said, voice returned to its soft hum, "I got too wound up. Are you okay?"

She raised her head, whimpering a little. Bucky's heart clenched, deadly afraid to see her scared of him. The idea had plagued him since the moment he realised what Steve did - once the anger dried up enough for other emotions to come through.

With her curly blonde hair and shining blue eyes, lightly flecked with green, she resembled Steve so much it sometimes hurt. Bucky believed she deserved better than him as a parent, but couldn't bring himself to give her up. If he was honest, this female reincarnation of his best friend gave Bucky the will to wake up every day.

She smiled meekly, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his metal hand. "It's okay. Promise you won't argue anymore?"

Sam nodded, crouching down beside them. "Promise. Sorry, sweetie."

She stood from the coat to hug them, her short arms only able to wrap around their necks. They leaned in to hold her, both making mental notes to keep their disagreements more civil from then on.

Over their shoulders, Sarah saw Zemo watching, and smiled at him. He returned it, misty eyed, still turning over the turkish delight in his hand.

Aragorn & Arwen

And they lived happily ever after :)

I had so much fun with Arwen´s dress and hair! I was a bit torn whether I should give her a hair comb, but I liked this version best without the hair comb just below the crown.

COMMISSIONS OPEN - Support me on Ko-Fi - get early access drawings + WIPs

““What’s new with you?” “Not much. An old friend just turned out to be a murderer.” “Same.””

— Cully and Ben, at some point, probably

I'm torn between a desperate want for the Pevensies to have lived out their lives in Narnia air fad, and the absolute beauty people come up with when writing about their return to earth. This is brilliant. Everything I love!

thoughts on the Pevensies returning home

Peter Pevensie was a strange boy. His mind is too old for his body, too quick, too sharp for a boy. He walks with a presence expected of a king or a royal, with blue eyes that darken like storms. He holds anger and a distance seen in veterans, his hand moving to his hip for a scabbard that isn't there - knuckles white. He moves like a warless soldier, an unexplained limp throwing his balance. He writes in an intricate scrawl unseen before the war, his letters curving in a foreign way untaught in his education. Peter returned a stranger from the war, silent, removed, an island onto himself with a burden too heavy for a child to bear.

Only in the aftermath of a fight do his eyes shine; nose burst, blood dripping, smudged across his cheek, knuckles bruised, and hands shaking; he's alive. He rises from the floor, knighted, his eyes searching for his sisters in the crowd. His brother doesn't leave his side. They move as one, the Pevensies, in a way their peers can't comprehend as they watch all four fall naturally in line.

But Peter is quiet, studious, and knowledgeable, seen only by his teachers as they read pages and pages of analytical political study and wonderful fictional tales. "The Pevensie boy will go far," they say, not knowing he already has.

His mother doesn't recognize him after the war. She watches distrustfully from a corner. She sobs at night, listening to her son's screams, knowing nothing she can do will ease their pain. Helen ran on the first night, throwing Peter's door open to find her children by his bedside - her eldest thrashing uncontrollably off the mattress with a sheen of sweat across his skin. Susan sings a mellow tune in a language Helen doesn't know, a hymn, that brings Peter back to them. He looks to Edmund for something and finds comfort in his eyes, a shared knowing. Her sons, who couldn't agree on the simplest of discussions, fall in line. But Peter sleeps with a knife under his cushion. She found out the hard way, reaching for him during one of his nightmares only to find herself pinned against the wall - a wild look in Peter's eye before he staggered back and dropped the knife.

Edmund throws himself into books, taking Lucy with him. They sit for hours in the library in harmony, not saying a word. His balance is thrown too, his mind searching for a limp that he doesn't have, missing the weight of his scabbard at his side. He joins the fencing club and takes Peter with him. They fence like no one else; without a worthy adversary, the boys take to each other with a wildness in their grins and a skillset unforeseen in beginner fencers. Their rapiers are an exertion of their bodies, as natural as shaking hands, and for the briefest time, they seem at peace. He shrinks away from the snow when it comes, thrust into the darkest places of his mind, unwilling to leave the house. He sits by the chessboard for hours, enveloped in his studies until stirred.

Susan turns silent, her mind somewhere far as she holds her book. Her hands twitch too, a wince when the door slams, her hand flying to her back where her quiver isn't. She hums a sad melody that no one can place, mourning something no one can find. She takes up archery again when she can bear a bow in her hands without crying, her callous-less palms unfamiliar to her, her mind trapped behind the wall of adolescence. She loses her friends to girlishness and youth, unable to go back to what she was. Eventually, she loses Narnia too. It's easier, she tells herself, to grow up and move on and return to what is. But her mourning doesn't leave her; she just forgets.

Lucy remains bright, carrying a happier song than her sister. She dances endlessly, her bare feet in the grass, and sings the most beautiful songs that make the flowers grow and the sun glisten. Though she has grown too, shed her childhood with the end of the war. She stands around the table with her sister, watching, brow furrowed as her brothers play chess. She comments and predicts, and makes suggestions that they take. She reads, curled into Edmund's side as his high voice lulls her to sleep with tales of Arthurian legends. She swims, her form wild and graceful as she vanishes into the water. They can't figure out how she does it - a girl so small holding her breath for so long. She cries into her sister, weeping at the loss of her friends, her too-small hands too clumsy for her will.

"I don't know our children anymore," Helen writes to her husband, overcome by grief as she realizes her children haven't grown up but away into a place she cannot follow.

My lord of the rings headcannon is that Aragorn secretly keeps count of his kills like Legolas and Gimli and silently compares his numbers without telling them.

Aragorn after Helms Deep: “they only got 43, I got 45.”

Happy birthday, women!! 🎉🎉🎉

They. Just. Love. Each. Other. So. Much.

to the great western wood (3/4)

when you follow the strange trails, they will take you who knows where

way out there - lord huron