Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.

saiyanqueenreads:

thebaconsandwichofregret:

thespectacularspider-girl:

Considering Elrond was born half-elven and was eventually made full elven by choice, while his twin chose to be human (and thus started Numenor) it makes sense, as Elrond didn’t grow up fully elven.

Elrond probably knows what it’s like to grow up as not-elven, around full blooded elves and knows what humans need.  He’s probably the one elf remaining on Middle Earth that COULD comprehend what Aragorn needed growing up, as a human.

ineffable-wives:

This is the best possible addition to this post

niche-pastiche:

Okay but what this potentially says about Elrond and the rest of the elves he was raised by is absolutely heartwarming. Because IRL humans need a certain amount of touch and affection and hugs and stuff. It’s particularly important for things like brain development and while it varies from person to person it’s still more than what elf kids need

And it honestly looks like Aragorn is not only comfortable with this kind of physical affection, he’s used to it. 

Which makes me think that instead of looking at young Aragorn, and asking him to be more like an elf to fit in with those around them. Elrond looked at this kid and and thought to himself “how can I be more like what this child needs to thrive” 

Aragorn has been raised by Elves since he was only 2 years old. So if we’re going by Piaget’s theories of child development, that puts Aragorn, (who would have been called Estel at the time) in the pre-operational stage. Or somewhere thereabouts. So Elrond is raising this kid when he’s learning to talk. When he’s constantly asking “why?” about everything. 

Young Estel would have grown up surrounded by elves and elf children and just by virtue of not being an elf, he probably would have had to deal with feeling less capable than those around him. He wouldn’t have been able to do things like run across snow, and didn’t have the ability to see as far as they did with their “elf eyes” and I am imagining all manner of bruises and skinned knees as he tries to keep up anyway. 

And it would take some getting used to his new surrounding, but  I can’t stop picturing the first time tiny little Estel runs full tilt across the room and hugs Elrond’s leg. 

And instead of scolding him or asking him to be more like an elf to fit in, Elrond consciously sets aside his own discomfort in the face of what this child needs to thrive. And if what Estel needs is hugs, then hugs he shall have. 

Elrond picking up itty bitty Aragorn in a great big hug, and being just as uncomfortable about it, but hiding it well because this child was entrusted to his care and he will not let the boy grow up feeling unwanted or unloved.

And so Aragorn grew up surrounded by elves, but he grew up to be someone who naturally and unselfconsciously displays affection. 

I think that speaks volumes about Elrond. 

He raised this kid from age 2 to age 20 (so the majority of his formative years and well through his teens) and it was around then that Elrond’s own daughter gets back form visiting her grandmother Galadriel and meets this boy for the first time.

So I have NO IDEA what the various stages of child development would be for an elf, but I doubt their exactly the same.

Sure, Elrond might seem distant now, but there is no way Aragorn became the guy who is constantly overstepping elves personal boundaries to display affection without Elrond choosing to sacrifice his personal boundaries for the sake of a child’s well being.

ineffable-wives:

True, but the momentary panic in Haldir’s eyes here is hilarious

image

Originally posted by thearkenstone-ck

willkill4pudding:

LMAO wasn’t Aragorn raised by Elves? He knows what he’s doing

ineffable-wives:

The funniest thing about LOTR is Aragorn constantly overstepping the Elves’ personal boundaries. They come from a race where touching your heart is one of the highest signs of affection and he’s over here pulling them into bear hugs and slapping shoulders like a brawny middle-aged dad

Aren’t children like, very deeply treasured by Elves?

What if Elves are incredibly affectionate with Elven children? And with Aragorn they’re like “well he’s only 150, we can’t stop cuddling him just because he got tall!”

Awwwwwww…. Just to ALL of this!

poemjunkie:

Throwback to that time in college when me and a group of friends were having an all-day Lord of the Rings marathon, and during the scene where the Fellowship is fighting the giant squid and Aragorn does something awesome, I turned to my friend and was like,

“Strider is so hot.”

Strider being one of Aragorn’s in-universe nicknames, for the uninitiated.

And one of the guys in the group, who I had never met before, was like “WHAT? Really???” with enormous eyes.

“Uh, yeah?”

I look to my friend, who makes confirmation noises. I look at some of the other girls, more confirmation noises.

Guy, now looking very uncomfortable, but realizing he made some kind of misstep: “Oh. I mean. Whatever you’re into, I guess. That’s fine.”

Me: “Okay??”

Then a SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT OF TIME LATER, either I make another comment or someone in the film calls Aragorn Strider, I can’t remember the context, and the guy goes: “OH! Strider is Aragorn. Okay. Okay.”

Me: “Who tf did you think I was talking about??”

Guy: “The squid.”

bungobaggins:

So I’ve been  re-reading The Hobbit along with The Fellowship of the Ring and I noticed this:

“‘You will have to manage without pocket-handkerchiefs, and a good many other things, before you get to the journey’s end. As for a hat, I have got a spare hood and cloak in my luggage.’

That’s how they all came to start, jogging off from the inn on a fine morning just before May, on laden ponies; and Bilbo was wearing a dark-green hood (a little weather-stained) and a dark-green cloak borrowed from Dwalin. They were too large for him, and he looked rather comic.” (Chapter two of The Hobbit)

“Then [Bilbo] put on quickly some old untidy garments, and fastened round his waist a worn leather belt. On it he hung a short sword in a battered black-leather scabbard. From a locked drawer, smelling of moth-balls, he took out an old cloak and hood. They had been locked up as if they were very precious, but they were so patched and weather-stained that their original colour could hardly be guessed: it might have been dark green. They were rather too large for him.” (Chapter one of The Fellowship of the Ring) 

BILBO. KEPT. DWALIN’S. CLOAK.

DWALIN. LET. BILBO. KEEP. HIS. CLOAK.

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Anonymous: talk to me about boromir
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notbecauseofvictories:

Ten Things About Boromir the Bold That Never Made It Into the Red Book of Westmarch

I. His strongest memory of his mother was the smell of the sea she carried in her hair; how dark and tall she stood, looking towards a west Boromir would ever only long for in her honor.

II. Boromir did not ever doubt that he was loved. He was the first son of Gondor, swaddled in a walled citadel and rocked in Pelennor’s arms. He did not question why his father’s love was like stone, nor why his brother looked to him like he was the highest point of the ramparts. They were a city, and how else was a city to love?

III. For Boromir’s fourteenth year, the master of hounds promised him a pup of his own—One of Huan’s own line, the man swore, As befits a prince. What Boromir received, however, was the runt of that spring’s litter, a wheezing, stumbling thing that Boromir stubbornly nursed with a cheesecloth dipped in milk, then fed meat from his own plate.

Bellas, he called her, and ignored any who dared laugh.

Bellas never grew taller than Boromir’s knees, but she was strong and stubborn and loyal—for three years, Boromir went nowhere without her shadow at his heels. Bellas slept at the end of his bed; waited patiently during Boromir’s lessons; loped after his horse when he went riding.

Boromir was seventeen when Bellas was killed, her neck broken by an orc who had stumbled into their hunting party. She had put herself between her young master and the interloper, and afterwards, Boromir had carried her in his arms all the way back to Minas Tirith.

He buried her beneath a sapling tree on the slope of Mindolliun, and wept where no one could see him.

IV. Faramir looked west, and dreamt of great waves. Boromir watched him, heart heavy in his chest.

V. He had been in love with—well. He never said.

VI. Boromir was ill at ease in Elrond’s house, feeling too rough with travel, and heavy—all of Gondor on his shoulders, the knowledge that Faramir’s fine speech and strange visions might have meant something here, where Boromir, Protector of the City, did not. But he burned when they dismissed Gondor, his fingernails biting into his palms when the strength of Men was so questioned. (He had not seen any Elves come to Osgiliath’s defense, nor heard of any wizard-craft that kept the Corsairs from their brazen pillaging of Langstrand and Belfalas. What had these mighty peoples done to battle back the Shadow in the East except sit in their cool green palaces and speak in riddles?)

VII. He liked the Hobbits best, even after. They reminded him most of his own men, with their stubbornness and light-hearted complaints, their love of food and pipe-smoke and story. Three of them had left behind the whole of their world, to walk into darkness beside just one, and—yes, Boromir could respect such brotherhood.

VIII. (Aragorn remembered when Boromir was only a child, rosy-cheeked and happy to leave his mother’s side, to follow Thorongil around the citadel burbling in some tongue only Denethor and Finduilas could decipher. It was strange to meet the man that child became, to stand at a height with him, to wield a sword at his side, to listen to him speak of peace for Minas Tirith like other men spoke of lovers.

It made Aragorn feel very old, an ache deep in his bones that had not been there before. Careful, he wanted to caution the man, as he had once cautioned the child. Reach too high and you will fall.)

IX. One rainy night, when Boromir was keeping watch over the sleeping Fellowship, he sketched it out in his mind—the streets he would lead Aragorn through, the hidden corners of the palace he would show to Merry and Pippin, the great gates of the city whose craftsmanship he might justly boast of to Gimli. How Minas Tirith, that shining city, would chase the sorrow from the Fellowship’s faces, might shield them, might give them rest.

The rain dripped down his neck, cold, but he was gone to Minas Tirith—This is my home, he imagined himself saying to his companions, his brothers. This is home, may you always be welcome.

X. His last thought was of Faramir.

(Brother, little brother, I—)

beguilingblackness:

this is so beautiful