polutrope:

For@aspecardaweek Day 5: Relationships, Prompt: Queerplatonic.

And She Forgave His Betraying Word

There Dairon grieving often stood
in sorrow for the captive of the wood,
and melodies made upon his flute
leaning against a grey tree-root.
Lúthien would from her windows stare
and see him far under piping there,
and she forgave his betraying word
for the music and the grief she heard,
and only Dairon would she let
across her threshold foot to set.

Lay of Leithian, lines 1398-1407

As Lúthien prepares to make her escape from Hírilorn, Daeron visits her for the last time.

Rating: T, No Archive Warnings
Relationship: Daeron + Lúthien (queerplatonic)
Characters: Lúthien, transmasc Daeron
Words: 1551

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nocompromise-noregrets:

Aspec Arda Week day 4: worldbuilding, community, change, family

This one’s for the ever-fabulous @verecunda, who prompted me Legolas for today! It follows on from A Fire To Be Lit, which I wrote for last year’s @aspecardaweek, and which features aroace!Pip talking to ace!Gimli and demi/grey-ace!Legolas about being different, and Legolas beginning to figure out that actually he’s met someone he could feel That Way about (there is a brief reference to his relationship with Imrahil here, but very fleetingly; meanwhile Pippin has found a way of shutting up his family and keeping to canon while also not compromising his identity :D )

…

“So let me get this right, laddie,” says Gimli, puffing on his pipe, and the scent of the finest Longbottom Leaf drifts down to where I am half-sitting, half-lying along the front of the bench outside the front door of Bag End. Gimli and Pippin are sitting on the bench, watching as Sam weeds the borders and Merry leads the assorted Hobbit-lasses and -lads on an intrepid adventure around the garden, telling tales that bear only the faintest resemblance to the true story of our adventures some years ago. We are visiting the Shire, Gimli and I, spending the summer with our friends, and none of us quite like to mention it, but the gap that Frodo has left behind him is there in the corner of our eyes everywhere we look, an ache under the skin that never quite goes away.

Gimli coughs before he can finish his sentence, the Hobbits’ pipeweed a little stronger than he’s used to, and Pippin thumps him on the back.

“Get what right?” he asks, and Gimli coughs again and harrumphs, taking a somewhat shallower puff before he tries again.

“Well,” he says, “I heard young Sam and Rosie say that you’re married these days. And I thought to myself, that cannae be right, he always said that marrying wasnae for him, but Sam and Rosie swore up and down that it’s true.”

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