Tag: hrera

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Is this a lifetime employment? Elected by popular vote? How is suitability determined for this job?

He was recruited from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home on recommendation for his mousing skills.

He has captured the hearts of the Great British public and the press teams often camped outside the front door. In turn the nation sends him gifts and treats daily.

Larry, the Chief Mouser spends his days greeting guests to the house, inspecting security defences and testing antique furniture for napping quality. His day-to-day responsibilities also include contemplating a solution to the mouse occupancy of the house. Larry says this is still ‘in tactical planning stage’. [x]  < gov site

a leader the people can believe in

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I will never not re-re-reblog this.

determamfidd, this is totally something that Hrera would instigate in Erebor. Because kitties. 

SHE ABSOLUTELY WOULD

Hi :) Um, I sent an ask a few days ago, but my internet was on the fritz (fixed now though, yay!) so I’m not sure if it went through. It was about Hrera, and how you think she reacted as Thror started slowly being claimed by the gold madness? Also, I’m sorry for the hate you got. That’s one reason I worry so much about posting fanfics, the haters. You handled it really gracefully, though.

Hey Nonnie!

No sorry, I didn’t get it! Thank you for re-sending, hoo boy, that’s a tough question.

I think? That it was not a fast change, as with Thorin in BOTFA. I think that the obsession came upon Thror slowly, creeping over him bit by bit (and always urged on by that terrible and insidious force he carried upon his finger.) It would have been a very gradual change, over years and years. And many, not even those closest to Thror, could have pinpointed when it really began.

Hrera has pride that you can break diamonds upon. And so when she recognised that Thror was acting a little unlike himself now and then, she held her head high and continued on. He was still affectionate with her, he still played with his grandchildren and kissed her each morning and sat obediently to have his hair and beard braided. So it couldn’t be that serious, surely.

Perhaps he was simply stressed. He had been King for a very long time. Hrera made an effort to lift his workload.

To her unhappy surprise, he spent what little time she managed to buy him in the treasury.

Others began to give the King worried looks. But Hrera stared them down, and made a redoubled effort to bring Thror’s attention back to where it had always firmly been: with his family and people.

To her absolute dismay, the change in his behaviour wasn’t even precipitated by some random greediness. He would mumble about his wandering childhood, about protection and security. “We need enough to keep us all fed,” he would say, “from the smallest child to the eldest greybeard! Thranduil’s arrogance is endless, as is his jealousy. He only wishes us ill: he knows nothing of what we have endured. We will never be powerless again!”

It was with a sinking horror that Hrera realised that the dragon’s illness had gained a foothold in her husband through one of his most laudable traits: his love of his people.

He could still be drawn out by little Dis now and then, or by Thrain. He still sat and had his hair braided every morning. But his eyes travelled to the Arkenstone when he should have been paying attention to the day’s business, and his hand clenched and unclenched upon the arm of the throne as the anxiety and urgency washed over him in huge waves.

By that time, whispers circulated everywhere. Hrera made a mammoth effort to protect her family, particularly her youngest grandchildren, from being affected. But Thorin, who was older, noticed. Thorin saw everything, and heard the unkindest whispers.

Hrera was still Hrera, however. She lifted her chin, and carried on.

(and reached for the cold side of their bed every night, longing for Thror to come back from that golden gleam to see the love and fear and worry in her eyes.)

kailthia:

Small Sansukh headcanon for determamfidd: Thror and Hrera still stare at each other with dopily-in-love faces all the time. Because they are just that awkward. Hrera is sneaker about it. Thror is unrepentant. 

This is absolutely 800% accurate.

Hrera: no… no, I am regal, I am in control at all times. I like that coat on him. Regal, poised, elegant. That colour brings out his eyes. REGAL. IN CONTROL. Gonna tear that off him later – no. NO. 

Thror: Hot damn, my wife is hella.

Irresistible – applepieisworthit – The Hobbit – All Media Types, The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (Jackson movies) [Archive of Our Own]

flamesburnonthemountainside:

determamfidd I have tried to do your wonderful OC Hrera justice in the next instalment to my Durin’s falling over seires

AWWWWW BATTLEPIG!!! *hugs you*

Irresistible – applepieisworthit – The Hobbit – All Media Types, The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (Jackson movies) [Archive of Our Own]

I have a few Hrera-related questions. When and how did she die? Did she and Frís watch the Azanulbizar battle, and how did they react? What did she and Thror say to each other when he showed up in the halls? (I also apologize for the feels and angst this ask might bring you or anyone else).

Meet a Dwarrowdam: Hrera

A painfully upper-class Dwarrowdam from the Broadbeam ruling family, the Line of Telphor. Hrera is a silversmith known for her small and detailed work. She was wed to Thrór, King under the Mountain, in a match arranged by her father and the Council of Erebor. She moved to Erebor when she was barely eighty, and yet it didn’t frighten her in the least. Prim, proper and careful with appearances, Hrera enjoyed ceremony and tradition. She was never afraid to speak her mind, and thoroughly disapproved of “all this Longbeard stoicism”. In fact, she thoroughly disapproved of practically everything – except her grandchildren. She had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and a rather fanciful beard with diamond beads plaited into it like water-droplets hanging from a branch. She had one child, Thráin. Hrera was killed when Smaug attacked Erebor in 2770 TA.

When Thror finally fell to Azog’s blade, Hrera waited impatiently in the hall before the selpuchre doors. The minute they cracked open, she actually picked up her skirts and raced inside, heedless of her dignity for the first time in her existence. 

There upon the cold stone floor she found her husband, face in his hands.

Hrera did not speak, but simply held Thror close at last. After all his terrible tragedies, he had finally come back to her. Wounded, yes. But he would heal, and she would help. She would see to it.

When Thror’s tears had abated somewhat, she finally murmured, “your braids are a wreck.”

That prompted a new rush of tears from Thror – but he was half-smiling this time.

I have the feeling that Hrera made her husband late for a bunch of early-morning meetings in the early days of their marriage? And when someone dares crack a dirty joke (looking at you, Nar), Thror just puts his head in his hands and groans. He wishes. Hrera is just not satisfied with his morning hairdo. He must look impeccable. And majestic.

LOL, absolutely! 

But Thror loves it. He really does. It’s one of the few peaceful moments of his day.

(if you want your heart broken more about Hrera & Thror and his braids, you should totally read The Secret to Good Braids by renioferebor!)