Hi, I write for the Silmarillion fandom. You can find the rules in the pinned post. Feel free to request something
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Text
It is me. I am Thel. (I would like to be Rog but I am Thel 🤓☝️)
Lords of Gondolin Baking With You For The Holidays
Requests: May I request a baking with the Lords of gondolin for the festive season, sounds both fun and chaotic. Would there be anything to eat other then a mouthful of flour you threw at each other? Probably not. Unless you feel like eating cinnamon goop and crunchy burnt cookies. – anon
A/N: I really enjoyed writing this request, especially with Christmas approaching and the baking season in the air. Thanks for this request anon. Enjoy!
Masterlist | Navigation
Galdor
◇ He’s just too good when it comes to averaging ingredients, though he often got distracted by your playful antics each time you tried to eat the ingredients or break his concentration as he poured the vanilla syrup or honey. “Are you trying to sabotage my cookies?” he’ll whine when you throw flour at him.
◇ Might realise too late that you’re missing one of the ingredients—powdered sugar—and have to make a quick rush to the market. This unfortunately turns into a shopping spree where you two would return with extra ingredients.
◇ You’re the one to start a fight while Galdor is attempting to maintain the peace and his station clean, so your extra flour and eggs don��t end up in his bowl of cake batter. At some point, he got dragged into your ruffian behaviour and ended up covered in flour.
◇ Despite being the one making the cake and cookies, his knack for ‘quality control’ resulted in him tasting the batter/dough too often.
◇ When the first batch did come out of the oven, it was burnt which left you questioning all of Galdor’s ‘phenomenal’ cooking abilities he was renowned for. “I thought you were a great chef?” “I am, but when I have a little mouse in the kitchen, what else to expect?”
◇ Offended. At least there were a few cookies saved from the extra crispiness and the cake was decent to still enjoy your day’s labour.
Ecthelion
◇ He takes baking for the holidays the same as any military operation—detailed with a precise layout, and no straying from the outline. You will be gently scolded each time you attempt to do your own thing. Like measuring without measuring cups and spoon. He doesn’t do the whole ‘pour until your ancestors tell you to stop.’
◇ But Thel being Thel, still couldn’t resist breaking his own rules when the chocolate chip cookie dough was looking delicious and sticking his fingers to scoop a dollop. “Just checking to make sure they’re not poisoned.” As he shoves a spoonful in his mouth.
◇ You somehow managed to end up with too much dough? despite the way he was eating the dough each time you turned your back. He decided that you should share it, leading to an impromptu cookie giveaway.
◇ Spends a good portion of the evening walking through the streets of Gondolin handing cookies on trays to the citizens and his servants. Even Turgon is happy to receive his batch of cookies for the holidays.
◇ When it came to decorating, he took pride in it, the same way he takes pride in his appearance. He is in charge of the designs and hands out a sheet of paper filled with patterns for you to follow. Do not diverge from the original patterns, you’re ruining the aesthetic.
◇ At least in the end, you had the perfect batch of cookies to sit by the fireplace and eat with a nice glass of milk.
Glorfindel
◇ You’re never getting anything done on time, and surely your cake or cookies will be burnt because of his distractions. Which leads to you making a fresh batch and shooing him out the kitchen. He comes right back after sneaking in.
◇ Eats the dough like it’s food and gets all puzzled when you scold him for reducing the volume. “Laurë! We’ll have none by the time you’re finished! And you’ll get sick if you continue to eat the raw dough!”
◇ With a mouth full of dough, he looked hurt that you would deny him the right to taste-test the desserts to ensure the quality was up to his standards. “I just wanted to taste the cookies. Don’t have to be so mean.” Guilt trips you into letting him eat more.
◇ You obviously end up with less dough and Laurë earns himself a tummy ache from how much dough he ate raw. Some dough had less of certain ingredients while others had too much because he pulled you to dance in the middle of measuring, so you forgot and mismanaged.
◇ You end up with cookies that were undercooked, overcooked and er…not cookies? Still, it didn’t bother him because he was willing to enjoy the hard labour of your fantastic baking.
◇ “Baking is an art, and although it may not appear the way we intended, there is merit and beauty in the outcome.” He would cheer as he plopped a cookie into his mouth while you stood there with an exasperated look. Like he was the reason for the cookies being that way.
Egalmoth
◇ He wants to make gingerbread houses, cinnamon rolls, a ton of cookies and cake and roast turkey or chicken all on the same day at the same time. He’s elaborate about the activity if you haven’t caught on.
◇ When it comes to designing, he’s in charge and has everything in order, down to how to position the desserts and food on the table. Perfectionist, often redoing the steps to get them right. “Patience is key, darling,” he reminds you and boops your nose with frosting.
◇ Despite his meticulous nature, he loves a good laugh when things don’t go right. The image in his head wasn’t aligning with the image displayed after piping frosting on the cake to resemble the Christmas tree you drew on the paper.
◇ Mentions something about your artistry skills when it comes to drawing needs to be worked on so he could have a better understanding of what he was working with. That was enough for you to dump flour on his head.
◇ Did not take his clothes and hair becoming a mess because he put a lot of effort into appearing splendid to bake alongside you. So, if he had to look like a mess, so did you. “You look cute with all that flour and eggs—I might bake you instead to eat.”
◇ By the time you two were finished, the way you two were a mess, might as well hop into the oven to bake. More ingredients were wasted than used, and you found yourself eating the remaining frosting and dough off your hand.
Rog
◇ Rog’s all about efficiency, turning your baking session into a well-oiled machine. For him, it feels as though he’s back in the forges, about to craft an art piece with meticulous create and precision.
◇ You ought to expect his knack for improvising, often adding unexpected ingredients into the mix with confidence. “Trust me, mírë. It will taste great.” As he throws in peppermint, nuts and extra vanilla.
◇ Between the two of you, you’re the one who steals dough from the bowl when he isn’t looking or bribes him with kisses to have extra cookies. So easily he falls for your charm because he can never say no with those puppy eyes.
◇ Somewhere in the mix, the oven malfunctioned, which was no strenuous task for Rog to fix. You got to stand by and hand him his tools while watching his muscles flex and look like something to take a bite out of.
◇ With his skills and confidence, you two will end up with a variety of cookies, some traditional, others experimental. “A little bit of everything makes the holidays nice.”
◇ You two made just enough cookies to eat and also share with his fellow Lords and craftsmen he works within the forges. He left the wrapping and little notes for you since he prefers your handwriting suitable for the holidays.
Maeglin
◇ He was surprisingly enthusiastic about baking, eager to try new recipes with you and make new memories. The entire time, he would stand close by as he listened to your instructions and your patient voice as you guided him on how to mix or measure.
◇ Did have a tendency to get lost in the process, forgetting to remember the baking or resting period, so you might get burnt cookies and overrisen bread. Can’t blame him, you’re in the kitchen, an obvious distraction.
◇ He compares his crafting to baking cookies and wonders how could something so simple be difficult as he held up a burnt cookie that didn’t match the snowflake stencil.
◇ Discovered that you should leave the decorating to him when you explained piping the frosting on the cake and icing on the cookies. Even the gingerbread house was a masterpiece after leaving it in his hands. He designed an entire castle.
◇ When you happen to run out of frosting and icing, or the edible beads, he suggests a trip to the pastry shop for more items which results in Maeglin growing excited at the assortment of decorations and requests to buy out the entire shop.
◇ By the end, most of your desserts are more decorations than cake and cookies to eat. The layers you might have to bite through before you taste the pastry is immaculate. At least he had fun participating.
Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @aconstructofamind @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @zheiya @lamemaster @eunoiaastralwings @elficially-done-with-life @addaigio @hermaeuswhora
#silmarillion x reader#silmarillion imagine#silmarillion headcanons#galdor x reader#lords of gondolin#ecthelion x reader#glorfindel x reader#egalmoth x reader#rog x reader
40 notes
·
View notes
Text
Reading The Book Thief is like going back to my Athrabeth angst.
And the death pov is killing me because there's no way I'm allowing myself to sob on a train full of bros
0 notes
Text
Liv Tyler as Arwen continues to be perfect 🤌🏻 I love her so much. Despite respecting Mr. Balrog Slayer I am happy we got more of her in the movies.
LOOK AT HER (bby coded elf fr)
P.s. not Elrond trying not to cry behind her
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Remembering the time when I use to spell Mahtan as Manhattan unironically.
(I think I might have traumatized @animatorweirdo)
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Gremlin's Dream
AN: Felt cute. Might delete later.
Genre: Modern male reader in ME (sorry ladies and other folks this couldn't be gn)
Summary: Without thinking, you grab Beleg’s hands. "Don’t do it," you hiss. "Don’t save Turin Turambar. That guy is a walking disaster. Leave him to his tragic fate, trust me. It’ll save you a lot of trouble."
"Ahhhh!" "Ahhhhhh!" another voice echoed back, just as horrified.
You blink into the darkness. One moment, you had been enjoying ice cream with Princess Diana in what you assumed was a perfectly normal, if slightly bizarre dream. Now, you’re here, yanked into an unfamiliar scene.
"It is I, Beleg!" Hands shoot out of the gloom and grab your flailing arms.
Standing before you is a tall, glimmering figure with the kind of ethereal glow only an elf could pull off. Behind him, another figure shuffles nervously, looking just as confused as you feel.
"What the fuck?" you whisper, your heart pounding. You squint at the elf, and then it clicks. "Beleg Cuthalion? The guy from The Silmarillion? The chad who dies? Holy shit!" Your eyes dart to the gleaming blade in his hand. "Is that… Anglachel? Oh my God, it’s the doom sword. The smooth, freaky sword of doom! Later to be forged into Gurthang."
Beleg nods gravely, as though your outburst makes perfect sense. "Yes, I am Beleg."
Your brain short-circuits. Maybe it’s time to cut back on caffeine before bed.
"And I am Gwindor," the other elf adds, stepping forward with an awkward smile.
You blink, trying to process this. Of all the moments from The Silmarillion to dream about, your subconscious decided on The Children of Hurin. The part with the most tragic, dramatic nonsense. Clearly, your inner mind is a sadist.
Without thinking, you grab Beleg’s hands. "Don’t do it," you hiss. "Don’t save Turin Turambar. That guy is a walking disaster. Leave him to his tragic fate, trust me. It’ll save you a lot of trouble."
Beleg frowns, his expression skeptical but patient. He doesn’t pull away as you, driven by sheer desperation, launch into a frantic explanation. You ramble about Turin’s endless brooding, the accidental wife situation, and, of course, the dragon.
Gwindor, meanwhile, looks increasingly uncomfortable. His eyes flick to Beleg, silently asking if this is normal behavior.
As Beleg leads you through the dark woods, you marvel at your dream stamina. Somehow, you’re keeping up with the elves’ impossibly fast pace. Is it adrenaline? Dream logic? Or sheer pettiness keeping you going?
Maybe this is your chance to rewrite The Silmarillion. Who needs Turin when you could have political drama and Thingol being weirdly tall? You start plotting.
If you can get Beleg to return to Thingol’s court, maybe you can even catch a glimpse of Queen Melian in action. This dream is shaping up nicely.
Eventually, Beleg settles for a camp closer to Melian's Girdle. His mind has not forgotten the limits of your mortal body.
Beleg's heart visibly twists as he gazes at you, his friend, now under some trickery of the foe.
Gwindor stares into the flames, his voice hesitant. "It isn’t unheard of. Perhaps the orcs… tampered with his mind. He will recover. At least Queen Melian should know."
Beleg nods glumly. Something is deeply wrong.
You continue to ramble about visions where Beleg is slain by your-Turin's, as you refer to yourself in third person, hand . The madness in your eyes unsettles Beleg in ways he can’t articulate.
Meanwhile, you crouch by a river, staring at your reflection. Your very handsome reflection.
"Wait," you mutter, tilting your head. "This isn’t me."
The face staring back is sharper and stronger, with piercing gray eyes and long dark hair. Freakishly tall now, you, proud short king that you are—can’t entirely hate the change. But the realization hits like a boulder.
"Oh, come on," you groan, burying your face in your hands. You’ve transmigrated into Turin Turambar’s body.
Standing frozen in the clearing, you look up, wide-eyed. Beleg and Gwindor turn to you, concern etched across their faces.
To their shock, you begin to laugh. The sound is wild and unhinged, echoing through the woods like a battle cry. Birds scatter. Squirrels flee. Even the trees seem to lean away in discomfort.
"Fuck you, Morgoth!" you roar, grinning from ear to ear. "Here I come!"
In Angband, Morgoth frowns. The sudden, inexplicable dread that fills him is a foreign sensation. Somewhere, the melody of Arda trembles, a discordant note twisting through the fabric of the world.
Hurin, chained high in his seat of torment, glances down into the woods below. His breath hitches. His son, standing alongside two elves, is giggling with a manic gleam in his eye. For the first time in years, Hurin feels a pang of something other than despair.
You catch your father’s distant gaze and give a little wave, your grin bordering on maniacal.
"The game is on," you whisper to the skies before skipping back toward Beleg and Gwindor, leaving behind a clearing filled with scattered leaves and stunned silence.
#the silmarillion#children of hurin#hurin#beleg cuthalion#modern guy in middle earth#modern reader in middle earth#fluff#posted for shits and giggle#turin#turin x beleg#male reader
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Varda the mortal hater:
"And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered;" (The Silmarillion)
I cannot tell you how salty I am. Like, queen I deserve your love. No wonder elves are all Elbereth this and Elbereth that.
Like what did we do to deserve this treatment Varda? Damn bro. Varda is an aesthetic girlie with a preference for blonde elves.
Varda ranking best people in Arda- Ainur>Vanyar>Other Valinor elves>Teleri>Sindar>Drawves>Men :(
I am hurt. And BITTER
#the silm#varda#silmarillion#tolkien#delete later#nothing hurts me more than rejection from the silmarillion queens
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
textbook curufinwe
#tyelpe got his build from his mommy#i would love to imagine Curufin with an absolutely jacked wife#has someone written this? fic#tyelkormo#little tyelpe#curufin#silm art
297 notes
·
View notes
Text
I know in my heart that every feanorian has wound up at the bottom of a pile with their siblings on top of them at least once
182 notes
·
View notes
Text
Jingle Bells and Chaotic Elves
Request: @wareagleofthemountain I’m new to your blog and love your writing! If it’s okay, may I request a fic where Glorfindel and fem reader are newly weds and, as they begin to build their life together, reader gets a letter from her friend who is a horse trainer. The friend informs her that they have a colt in need of adoption and the reader knows that Glorfindel is in need of a horse. So they take a trip to pick up little baby Asfaloth and raise him! Thank you! 💕
Genre: fluff
Pairing: Glorfindel x Reader
Summary: How best boi Asfaloth came to bear the canonical bells
AN: Thank you for requesting this! I am sorry for being so late but writing animals is something I am still learning! I hope you like it🐴he's bby I love him (had to go back and add asfaloth pov becoz I'm stupid)
It had to be a surprise. Convincing Glorfindel to stay behind while you traveled was no easy feat, and escaping the entirety of Rivendell, an unrivaled hub of gossip proved an even harder bargain.
The only viable plan was to leave during his week of patrol duty, a decision you knew would be a shock upon his return. But you dearly hoped the letter you left, reassuring him of your safe return, would ease the blow.
Once your errand was done, you would seek his forgiveness. A month away, you promised him in that note. Surely, he could wait just that long.
The surprise? A colt.
Your friend Gwendel of Rohan had written to you urgently, detailing how he’d stumbled across the abandoned creature during an evening stroll. Despite his best efforts to find the mare or its owner, no one came forward.
Some had tried to claim the colt, but its fiery temper rejected them all, even Gwendel, whose every act of kindness had been met with resistance. Worse still, the colt refused to eat, its health deteriorating rapidly.
Normally, such an errand would have fallen to Elladan or Elrohir, but Gwendel’s letter stirred something within you.
Glorfindel.
Your beloved had never fully accepted another horse after losing his steed in the First Age. Asfaloth’s absence haunted him, and though his rebirth had brought him back to Middle-earth, his companion’s loss weighed heavy on his heart. Glorfindel grieved for Asfaloth as a father might for a lost child.
Gwendel’s letter had to be a sign. A colt abandoned in the world might find the love it needed in Glorfindel and perhaps offer him some solace in return.
That was your plan.
Until you reached Rohan.
The frail creature that greeted you from the corner of Gwendel’s stable wasn’t just any colt.
It was Asfaloth.
The beautiful snow-white steed that Glorfindel still mourned stood trembling in his stall. The colt’s amber eyes fixed on you, brimming with a light of recognition.
And then, as if time and space had never separated you, he stumbled toward you on wobbly legs, butting his head against your leg.
“Asfaloth,” you whispered, tears pooling in your eyes as your fingers tangled in his soft mane. “It’s truly you.” Bending down, you kissed the top of his head, your heart soaring with love and joy.
You couldn’t wait to tell Glorfindel. He would be over the moon.
That was the plan.
Until the mountain dumped its snows onto Rohan, trapping you there.
From weeks to months, your surprise turned into an adventure, long surpassing Glorfindel’s begetting day. The snow had made travel impossible, and you could only hope that the eventual reunion with Asfaloth would soothe any ire Glorfindel might feel at your absence.
Nestled beside Asfaloth in the stable, you braided his soft mane. His health had improved greatly, thanks to Gwendel’s care and thanks to Asfaloth finally allowing himself to eat.
“Oh dear, I hope Glorfindel isn’t moping in the halls of Imladris,” you mused aloud, to which Asfaloth unhelpfully shook his head, undoing the braids you had just finished.
“I know you miss him,” you sighed, feeding him a carrot. “But you have to be patient. You’re still too young to travel in winter.”
But Asfaloth had other plans.
Without warning, he stood and dashed out of the stable, hooves crunching over the snow. You ran after him, calling his name as the rest of the stable looked on in chaos.
And then he heard it—the sound of bells.
It was the bells he had heard first. The delicate tinkling of your bracelets, clear and familiar, ringing through the snow-covered valley.
Glorfindel had found you.
It had been months since you left, and while the logical choice might have been to wait for your return, Glorfindel’s patience had faltered. At the first clearing of snow, he had set out from Rivendell. If you were in Rohan, he would spend the winter with you.
And there you were, your laughter and bells filling the air.
But as his gaze shifted, his knees nearly buckled.
Standing before him was a colt. A tiny, beautiful Asfaloth neighing in excited greeting. Bells wrapped around the colt’s neck jingled with every delighted prance as Glorfindel knelt to hug his long-lost friend.
“You followed me once again?” Glorfindel whispered, his voice trembling as he knelt before the colt, his arms encircling Asfaloth.
The small steed, now nestled against his chest, let out a soft, contented whinny as Glorfindel buried his face in Asfaloth’s snowy mane.
The bells tied to the colt’s neck jingled faintly with the movement, their merry sound mingling with the shallow breaths of a warrior brought to his knees by the return of his oldest friend.
“You found me,” Glorfindel murmured, his voice breaking as his hand trailed down the colt’s neck. “Even after all this time… you found me.”
Behind Asfaloth, your bracelets jingled similar to Asfaloth's as you ran to meet him. The sight of you and Asfaloth together filled Glorfindel’s heart with a joy he hadn’t felt in ages.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” Glorfindel whispered. His tears fell freely now, vanishing into Asfaloth’s pristine coat. “But you followed me, as you always have.”
Smiling through the tears shining in his eyes, he cradled Asfaloth closer, his hand stroking the colt’s mane. When you reached him, arms wide, Glorfindel rose to meet you, his golden hair catching the sunlight as you embraced.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. “You brought him back to me.”
“In the wake of your begetting day, I fear my present was delayed,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. “But it seems you found him by yourself.”
“There is no celebration without you,” he replied, his hand lifting to caress your cheek, flushed from the cold and his nearness. “This is the best present of all. I shall be forever grateful.”
Before either of you could say more, Asfaloth squirmed between you, nudging Glorfindel insistently with his head and making his annoyance at being ignored well-known.
Glorfindel’s hand trembled as he stroked Asfaloth’s mane, his touch gentle yet desperate, as though afraid the colt might vanish if he let go.
“You’re my dearest friend,” he said to the colt, his words cracking under the weight of his emotions. “My brave Asfaloth. You’ve returned to me, and I will never let you go again.”
The colt nickered in response, leaning into Glorfindel’s touch.
Months later ~
Chuckling, Glorfindel reached into his satchel for yet another apple, discreetly feeding it to the colt. “What’s with the bells?” he asked, as though to distract you from his indulgence.
Surrounded by the fresh blooms of spring, you laughed, watching Asfaloth now a lively yearling attempt to stomp on an irritating bee buzzing too close to his hooves.
The memory of his infancy in Rohan came rushing back. The trembling colt, spooked by every shadow and sound, fleeing in a desperate, mad dash.
Whatever sorrow had clung to him, whatever shadow had haunted his young heart, had left him terrified and alone, wandering the dark woods.
The bells had been your idea.
You started small, looping one around his neck, letting it chime softly with every step he took.
The sound startled him at first, but soon, the gentle, repetitive ringing became a companion to his movements. A constant he could rely on.
With time, you tied more bells to his halter and to the saddle as he grew. You ran with him, letting the bells ring in harmony with your laughter, teaching him to associate their sound not with fear but with joy and safety.
The bells became a lullaby of sorts, drowning out the forest and glum world that once weighed on him and masking the harsher sounds of the dark he’d feared.
He stopped flinching at every rustling leaf or snapping twig. Step by step, he grew braver, the chiming bells now a comforting melody that guided him toward home.
But such tales were not to be shared with Glorfindel. This lifetime did not deserve such sorrow.
Instead, you smiled, shaking your wrist so the bells on it chimed in harmony with Asfaloth’s. The colt perked up at the familiar sound, his ears twitching as he trotted closer to nuzzle you.
“He’s such a pretty boy,” you said, stroking Asfaloth’s snowy coat with unabashed fondness. “We just wished to match our beauty.”
Glorfindel laughed, a sound rich and bright, as he slipped an arm around your waist. He tilted his head, gazing at you and Asfaloth with a softness that made your heart flutter.
“You’re both too beautiful for me to bear,” he teased gently, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “How is a simple elf supposed to compete with this?”
You chuckled, the bells jingling again as Asfaloth nudged between you both. Glorfindel turned his attention back to the colt, scratching him behind the ears. “It suits you both perfectly,” he added with a fond smile.
And so it was that Asfaloth, the steed who would one day carry the Ringbearer to Imladris, came to bear the sweet sound of bells
Asfaloth wandered, searching for his master.
He was smaller now, his once-proud form reduced to something frail and unfamiliar. The world seemed vast, darker than he remembered, and far more unkind.
He searched the forests, retracing the steps of his past, the places where he had once woken as a youngling. He had expected to find his master nearby, but the only thing that greeted him was the haunting echo of a distant horn. Startled, he had bolted, fear carrying him into the depths of the unknown.
For weeks, he roamed, driven by a desperate need to find the hidden city, the glimmering sanctuary where his lord resided. His heart clenched with unease at every shadow. When the forest buzzed with life, he would whine softly for his master, unable to keep the yearning at bay. But in the eerie silence of the darker woods, he dared not make a sound, fearful of what might lurk there.
His search came to a halt when he encountered a human.
The man had found him and, against Asfaloth’s will, led him away from his wandering. The human’s presence was strange and unwelcome, but Asfaloth was weary.
His strength had been diminished in this fragile form, and fear gnawed at him, keeping him tethered to the company of the human’s herd.
But he would not forget.
No matter how much time passed, no matter how many comforting gestures the mares or the other humans offered, Asfaloth could not accept their touch. His soul burned with loyalty, and he refused to bow to the men who came to claim him.
He fought them off, biting and rearing. He ran from the mares who tried to soothe him with soft nuzzles. Only one was worthy of that closeness. His master.
And yet, exhaustion wore him down.
One cold morning, the frost nipping at his bones, Asfaloth felt hands combing gently through his mane. Too weary to resist, too tired to keep fighting, he leaned into the touch.
It was warm.
For a moment, he allowed himself to succumb to the comfort, to let go of the ever-present ache in his heart. He had grown so cold, so terribly cold. And he missed his master with every fiber of his being.
Then, a soft sound stilled him. The faint, familiar chime of bells.
He froze, his breath hitching as a scent drifted into his senses, sweet and unmistakable. His heart surged as the scent enveloped him, filling him with a bittersweet hope.
It wasn’t his lord.
But it was you.
You, the one dearest to his master. The companion who had been his lord’s closest friend. The bringer of treats, the gentle presence he had trusted so deeply in the past.
At once, the cold vanished from his heart.
For Asfaloth knew.
He knew that if you were here, then his master could not be far behind. His lord—the one he had been seeking would come.
#the silmarillion#silmarillion x reader#glorfindel x you#glorfindel x reader#fluff#asfaloth#lord of the rings#lords of gondolin#fall event#🍂🍂🍂#I know it's winter now I am a terribly slow writer 😔
79 notes
·
View notes
Text
I LOVE NERDANEL SOOOOOO MUCH (SCREAMS INTO THE VOID)
10 notes
·
View notes
Note
Ooooh that burn 🔥 (I'm dead and now a ghost with him) A well deserved reminder that I can't win against the fire elf. YET
Dear Feanor,
Whilst you were sitting🧍🏻♀️🪑 around in the hall of Mandos, waiting⏱️, doing NISH0️⃣, I was out making moves 🏋🏻♀️(on your wife💪🏻).
So remain thee gone🏃🏻➡️ from my gate🪟, thou jail-crow of Mandos🐦⬛!
Tossing the letter aside, his eyes flared, and his lips curled into a dangerous smirk. The ghost of a laugh escaped him, sharp and biting. “Moves?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’d need a smith’s tools and a thousand years to craft a move worthy of her notice.” He leaned back, arms crossed, the fire of his spirit undiminished. “Stay smug behind your gate—while you can. It won’t hold forever.”
#♡{darling.hugs} ~ {feanor}#feanor x y/n#feanor x you#i felt that#now this is an imaginary argument in my mind#thanks mina ❣️
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
Don't make me blush 😳 Marion redemption is the only redemption I'm writing because Melkor redemption is for Manwe
Way Back Home
Request: @lanthanum12 Hello friend! I was wondering if I could request a story? I'd like a platonic Mairon & gender neutral reader or oc story. Preferably with a redeemed Mairon! Please keep the relationship between Mairon and reader platonic. Thank you so much! :D
Genre: angst/redemption/hurt no comfort
Pairing: Sauron/Mairon x Platonic Reader
Summary: Now, the dark lord, the tyrant, the bane of Middle-earth, he was your son. And though the world cursed his name, you could not sever the bond you shared.
AN: Thank you for requesting this dearest friend! I hope you like it. Honestly, he deserves this because he's just a baby.
“I do not wish to be kind. I do not wish to be noble,” Mairon whispered, his voice brittle as he lay in your lap. A note of complaint mixed in his whine.
Your fingers wove gently through his hair, brushing through the strands as if to soothe away the ages of torment he had endured.
It had been so long since you last held your son. Your estranged child, who had wandered so far from the path that once bound him to you.
He had lost his way. Lost his name. Forgotten his form and the very song of his being in his unyielding devotion to his lord.
And so you listened. Your heart ached at the bittersweet joy of his return, mingled with the pain of his proximity. Your throat tightened, choked with words you could not say, with sobs you dared not release. Silent, you let him pour his heart out. Your son was home, but the realization of how little of him remained broke you.
He had been so young. Decades-old, still a fledgling, when the Vala of darkness cast his shadow over him.
What began as an innocent infatuation, a harmless curiosity, had grown into something no one could have foreseen.
Now, the dark lord, the tyrant, the bane of Middle-earth, he was your son. And though the world cursed his name, you could not sever the bond you shared.
Mairon, born of the fragments of your song, had once been your precious child. His music had mirrored the light of Laurelin and Telperion, the brightness that once gilded the Blessed Lands. He had been your laughter, your joy, given form.
But your son had burned too brightly.
And the dark lord had coveted him, drawn him in, much like Fëanor’s Silmarils.
But you were no elven prince, bound by pride or vengeance. You were a Maia, simple, obscure, a servant of the halls of Vana, forgotten even by your own child.
Yet your love for him had never faltered.
"Do you remember me?" you wished to ask. "Did you ever miss me, as I longed for you? Did your heart ache for me when I did not come to your rescue? Forgive me. Stay with me, my darling Mairon."
Your thoughts rang loud and desperate in your mind. "Let me bear his pain. Let me repent for him. He is a child," you had begged the All-Father. Day and night, your life had been spent in prayer for him.
In all the vast expanse of Arda, there was one who prayed for him.
And now, you held your son. He still felt too small. Too fragile. Like the little flame you had once cradled in your arms.
“Mairon,” you whispered, and your tears came unbidden. “Mairon,” you repeated senselessly, nestling your face against his cheek. His name was all you had left of him.
Of all the speeches, the scoldings, and the pleas. Only his name remained.
You were weakened by all that had come to pass. Right and wrong had long since ceased to exist. You just wanted him close. Away from harm. You wanted to hold your precious.
With his head in your lap, Mairon fell silent. His form stiffened at the wet warmth of your tears against his cheek. The trembling of your fingers in his hair sent a shiver through him.
He pointedly avoided your gaze, his eyes falling shut as if to ward off the crushing wave of emotion threatening to break him.
And yet, even as he struggled to hold onto the fleeting fragments of his dignity, he did not pull away.
His pain was yours. Every act of his cruelty had been etched into your soul. You terrible son, you thought. You, who marred the world. You, who tore mothers from their children, and became the cause of grieving mothers.
Yet, parts of him had failed to fade.
“Meow,” a plaintive mewl echoed from the past. Mairon, a small kitten, struggling with the blades of grass your fellow Maiar of Vana teased him with.
Chasing after the green stalk, he had sprung from a rock into your waiting palms. Looking up at you with a whine, his golden eyes followed the blade, insistent and determined.
His first form had been that of a kitten. Endearingly known as Tevildo by your friends. “Hush, no teasing my dearest,” you had scolded them gently, earning soft laughter as Mairon let out a contented mew, finally victorious.
Tevildo had remained. A form that comforted him in the harshest of times, a fragment of innocence that lingered amidst the darkness.
Even in the marred forms of his being, your Mairon had somehow held onto his past.
Now, as his face remained hidden in your lap, you pressed a gentle kiss to his scarred cheek. “You do not have to be noble, my darling, nor perform acts of good,” you whispered, kissing the hands that had once been tiny paws.
“Just stay here...” Your voice trembled with restrained sobs. “In the light of Aman. Do not hurt others, Mairon. Do not let yourself be hurt. Do not isolate yourself. Find redemption and forgiveness, from the Quendi, from the Maiar, from the Valar, and from yourself. I know you can do it because you are my most precious darling.”
You smiled faintly, rubbing his shaking form.
“Look after yourself,” you whispered. “Learn to laugh and love. Make amends with Aulë. And Lady Vána too. She cares for you. Even Lord Manwë does. They know you were just a child. No one will deny you forgiveness.”
Tears blurred your vision, making it difficult to gaze at him before the end. “Promise me, dearest,” you pleaded, pulling him to face you. “Promise me you will do all this.”
And the tiny face of a kitten rested on your palm. Tevildo let out a soft whimper, his tiny paws latching onto your robe as if to hold back the inevitable.
“Be my darling son,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Allow me this, my darling. Allow me one last effort for my son. My last labor as your parent, my precious.”
His cries rang loud, echoing through the halls of Mandos as the bleakness of the Void greeted you. Without complaint, you stepped into it.
This was your penance.
The first time Mairon had held the ring, his heart had soared with love. This soul had reached back to him from the engravings of his rings.
Cradling its warmth in his palm Mairon ran his fingers over the metal.
"My precious," the words that left his lips had stilled him. A face of the past came to mind. His heart trembled at your voice that rang in his ears.
"My precious," you had called him, your lips brushing his cheek with a loving kiss. "My Mairon." He could see your smile, warm and tender, and the memory struck him with unexpected force.
It had been too long, he had forgotten it. Or so he thought.
Holding onto his greatest creation, Mairon's first thought had been of you.
Two words that filled him with aching want to hear them. To be held and to be with the one who once called him with such love.
In the lush valleys of Vána, Mairon chased the green stalk that evaded his paws. He mewled at the elders who refused to hand it to him.
Reaching for it with determination, he ran in circles, surrounded by merry giggles. He was fond of the sound, yet his heart felt woefully wrong as he was denied the stalk despite his efforts.
He made his irritation known with wistful mewls, earning another round of soft laughter.
Lost in his game, his feet slipped over a rock, but a pair of warm, gentle hands caught him. Lady Vana’s touch was kind, yet it felt so wrong.
And in an instant, his heart filled with sorrow. A lingering grief, sharp and relentless, that sneaked up in moments like these.
For in those moments, his heart yearned for you.
Alone in Arda, his cries failed to reach you.
Cradled in Vana’s palms, his cries were inconsolable. Soft whimpers, heavy with a sorrow no one could soothe, silenced the company.
36 notes
·
View notes
Text
Your father and twin brother just died, and you were made chieftain of the Haladin, and now the weird elf lord in whose lands your people live is making what he thinks are f-me eyes at you.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Way Back Home
Request: @lanthanum12 Hello friend! I was wondering if I could request a story? I'd like a platonic Mairon & gender neutral reader or oc story. Preferably with a redeemed Mairon! Please keep the relationship between Mairon and reader platonic. Thank you so much! :D
Genre: angst/redemption/hurt no comfort
Pairing: Sauron/Mairon x Platonic Reader
Summary: Now, the dark lord, the tyrant, the bane of Middle-earth, he was your son. And though the world cursed his name, you could not sever the bond you shared.
AN: Thank you for requesting this dearest friend! I hope you like it. Honestly, he deserves this because he's just a baby.
“I do not wish to be kind. I do not wish to be noble,” Mairon whispered, his voice brittle as he lay in your lap. A note of complaint mixed in his whine.
Your fingers wove gently through his hair, brushing through the strands as if to soothe away the ages of torment he had endured.
It had been so long since you last held your son. Your estranged child, who had wandered so far from the path that once bound him to you.
He had lost his way. Lost his name. Forgotten his form and the very song of his being in his unyielding devotion to his lord.
And so you listened. Your heart ached at the bittersweet joy of his return, mingled with the pain of his proximity. Your throat tightened, choked with words you could not say, with sobs you dared not release. Silent, you let him pour his heart out. Your son was home, but the realization of how little of him remained broke you.
He had been so young. Decades-old, still a fledgling, when the Vala of darkness cast his shadow over him.
What began as an innocent infatuation, a harmless curiosity, had grown into something no one could have foreseen.
Now, the dark lord, the tyrant, the bane of Middle-earth, he was your son. And though the world cursed his name, you could not sever the bond you shared.
Mairon, born of the fragments of your song, had once been your precious child. His music had mirrored the light of Laurelin and Telperion, the brightness that once gilded the Blessed Lands. He had been your laughter, your joy, given form.
But your son had burned too brightly.
And the dark lord had coveted him, drawn him in, much like Fëanor’s Silmarils.
But you were no elven prince, bound by pride or vengeance. You were a Maia, simple, obscure, a servant of the halls of Vana, forgotten even by your own child.
Yet your love for him had never faltered.
"Do you remember me?" you wished to ask. "Did you ever miss me, as I longed for you? Did your heart ache for me when I did not come to your rescue? Forgive me. Stay with me, my darling Mairon."
Your thoughts rang loud and desperate in your mind. "Let me bear his pain. Let me repent for him. He is a child," you had begged the All-Father. Day and night, your life had been spent in prayer for him.
In all the vast expanse of Arda, there was one who prayed for him.
And now, you held your son. He still felt too small. Too fragile. Like the little flame you had once cradled in your arms.
“Mairon,” you whispered, and your tears came unbidden. “Mairon,” you repeated senselessly, nestling your face against his cheek. His name was all you had left of him.
Of all the speeches, the scoldings, and the pleas. Only his name remained.
You were weakened by all that had come to pass. Right and wrong had long since ceased to exist. You just wanted him close. Away from harm. You wanted to hold your precious.
With his head in your lap, Mairon fell silent. His form stiffened at the wet warmth of your tears against his cheek. The trembling of your fingers in his hair sent a shiver through him.
He pointedly avoided your gaze, his eyes falling shut as if to ward off the crushing wave of emotion threatening to break him.
And yet, even as he struggled to hold onto the fleeting fragments of his dignity, he did not pull away.
His pain was yours. Every act of his cruelty had been etched into your soul. You terrible son, you thought. You, who marred the world. You, who tore mothers from their children, and became the cause of grieving mothers.
Yet, parts of him had failed to fade.
“Meow,” a plaintive mewl echoed from the past. Mairon, a small kitten, struggling with the blades of grass your fellow Maiar of Vana teased him with.
Chasing after the green stalk, he had sprung from a rock into your waiting palms. Looking up at you with a whine, his golden eyes followed the blade, insistent and determined.
His first form had been that of a kitten. Endearingly known as Tevildo by your friends. “Hush, no teasing my dearest,” you had scolded them gently, earning soft laughter as Mairon let out a contented mew, finally victorious.
Tevildo had remained. A form that comforted him in the harshest of times, a fragment of innocence that lingered amidst the darkness.
Even in the marred forms of his being, your Mairon had somehow held onto his past.
Now, as his face remained hidden in your lap, you pressed a gentle kiss to his scarred cheek. “You do not have to be noble, my darling, nor perform acts of good,” you whispered, kissing the hands that had once been tiny paws.
“Just stay here...” Your voice trembled with restrained sobs. “In the light of Aman. Do not hurt others, Mairon. Do not let yourself be hurt. Do not isolate yourself. Find redemption and forgiveness, from the Quendi, from the Maiar, from the Valar, and from yourself. I know you can do it because you are my most precious darling.”
You smiled faintly, rubbing his shaking form.
“Look after yourself,” you whispered. “Learn to laugh and love. Make amends with Aulë. And Lady Vána too. She cares for you. Even Lord Manwë does. They know you were just a child. No one will deny you forgiveness.”
Tears blurred your vision, making it difficult to gaze at him before the end. “Promise me, dearest,” you pleaded, pulling him to face you. “Promise me you will do all this.”
And the tiny face of a kitten rested on your palm. Tevildo let out a soft whimper, his tiny paws latching onto your robe as if to hold back the inevitable.
“Be my darling son,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Allow me this, my darling. Allow me one last effort for my son. My last labor as your parent, my precious.”
His cries rang loud, echoing through the halls of Mandos as the bleakness of the Void greeted you. Without complaint, you stepped into it.
This was your penance.
The first time Mairon had held the ring, his heart had soared with love. This soul had reached back to him from the engravings of his rings.
Cradling its warmth in his palm Mairon ran his fingers over the metal.
"My precious," the words that left his lips had stilled him. A face of the past came to mind. His heart trembled at your voice that rang in his ears.
"My precious," you had called him, your lips brushing his cheek with a loving kiss. "My Mairon." He could see your smile, warm and tender, and the memory struck him with unexpected force.
It had been too long, he had forgotten it. Or so he thought.
Holding onto his greatest creation, Mairon's first thought had been of you.
Two words that filled him with aching want to hear them. To be held and to be with the one who once called him with such love.
In the lush valleys of Vána, Mairon chased the green stalk that evaded his paws. He mewled at the elders who refused to hand it to him.
Reaching for it with determination, he ran in circles, surrounded by merry giggles. He was fond of the sound, yet his heart felt woefully wrong as he was denied the stalk despite his efforts.
He made his irritation known with wistful mewls, earning another round of soft laughter.
Lost in his game, his feet slipped over a rock, but a pair of warm, gentle hands caught him. Lady Vana’s touch was kind, yet it felt so wrong.
And in an instant, his heart filled with sorrow. A lingering grief, sharp and relentless, that sneaked up in moments like these.
For in those moments, his heart yearned for you.
Alone in Arda, his cries failed to reach you.
Cradled in Vana’s palms, his cries were inconsolable. Soft whimpers, heavy with a sorrow no one could soothe, silenced the company.
#sauron x reader#x platonic reader#platonic relationships#angst#redemption fic#Tevildo#maia reader#the silmarillion#tolkien
36 notes
·
View notes
Text
A will of a single woman made this💪🏼
Tags: @batsyforyou
#aww im crying with you because how is it logical for Glorfindel to not exist either 😔#maedhros#silm art
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
Just realized I travel like the fellowship. Taking all the obscure backroads to avoid the highways because merging onto one will be the death of me
Strider would not be proud 😔
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
morning routines ft. the firstborn sons and their parents (who turned out WAY more lovey dovey than i intended omg)... i was inspired by this cute art from @/Worvies on twitter and decided to use it as a chance to draw how locked in i think they'd be when it comes to getting ready in the morning HAHAHA
in terms of who wakes up earliest to latest i think it'd go: fingolfin -> finrod -> nerdanel -> earwen -> feanor -> maedhros -> anaire -> fingon -> finarfin !!! i also never thought abt it before but. elves with makeup!!! i wonder what the various trends in valinor would be and how long theyd last....
#silmarillion#maedhros#fingon#silm art#finrod#gotta love morning grumps#Fingolfin and Anaire are adorable
369 notes
·
View notes