#also how Elrond is chill about the first one

[red-dead-sakharine]

Elves reacting to dwarves throwing food

I can't be the first one to gif this, right? But I couldn't find it on a quick search. So have some elves reacting to dwarves being dwarves...

[thesummerestsolstice]

The voyage west at the end of Return of the King is extremely funny to me, because just look at who's on board. You've got:

Frodo Baggins, hero of the Shire, in need of healing but also excited to see Valinor and meet the legendary elves who live there, a gentle soul

Elrond Halfelven, as kind as a summer, looking forward to peace west of the sea, probably wants to go chill out in a cottage with his wife for the next thousand years

Which seems fine. And then we get to everyone else.

Gandalf, cheeky bastard who's gotten so used to being a weird old wizard in Middle-Earth that's he's forgotten what Maia are supposed to act like, will immediately cause problems

Bilbo Baggins, noted storyteller, definitely planning to break into Aule's halls to see his dwarf friends, will ask all the elves weird questions and then sing about their lives and deaths in front of them, will immediately cause problems

Galadriel, who came to Aman half for Celebrian and Elrond's sake and half to taunt all her cousins about being the only one of them to survive the First Age, enjoys causing problems, will immediately cause many problems

(Also, to be clear, these are not three isolated problem-causers, they absolutely spent the entire trip to Valinor actively planning to give Amanyar society and the Valar an aneurysm.)

I just love the idea of Elrond, now reunited with Celebrian, and Frodo happily having tea with Elwing and Earendil, with nothing to interrupt them but the gentle sounds of the tides.

Meanwhile Galariel, Bilbo, and Gandalf are collectively bullying Mandos into releasing Maglor Feanorian from the halls because:

Bilbo wants to read him his translation of the Noldolante, which is written as a cheery Hobbit drinking song

Elrond always complained about how Gandalf and Maglor were both insufferably vague about advice and Gandalf needs to make sure he's more infuriating than Maglor as a matter of his wizardly pride

He still owes Galadriel money

[hetalianskywalker]

Waiting

Pairing: Gil-galad x fem elf reader

Summary: I listened to “Would You Fall in Love with Me Again” from Epic the musical and went I need Gil-galad to say Penelope’s lines in Valinor.

Authors Note: I would be willing to write a version based on the whole song, but I couldn’t think of an equivalent for the marriage bed question that Gil-galad could ask the reader. So if anyone wants more, feel free to help me brainstorm. This is also my first time writing for this fandom even though I love Lotr and RoP so sorry if it’s rough.

Warnings: fluff. Spoilers for the end of his story line from The Silmarillion and other middle earth works, but based off his characterization in RoP. Referenced passed death. Kissing. Very self indulgent.

Music:

Word Count: 861

“Only my wife knew that.” Gil-galad uses that soft relaxed smile he saved for only those closest to him. His palm rests gently on the side of your face; his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. You relish in the sensation of the warmth of his hand mixed with the chill of his many rings on your skin; something you hadn’t even realized you missed. “So I guess that makes her you.”

Suddenly you're not in Valinor anymore, standing in the gardens of the Noldor palace in Tirion; you’re back in Lindon long ago. When the cities were bustling with elves and peace felt like it would last forever. Before Sauron had returned and it all went to hell. When it became so much harder to wash away your husband’s worry for just a moment. Before Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor and your husband, died.

The you of the early second age sneaks out into the surrounding forest at night for a moment of peace and quiet with your husband. You playfully half drag him along by the hand beneath the starlit sky and tree branches; his shoulders shake with silent laughter as he indulges you. You both know Elrond will say something along with giving one of his half teasing judgmental expressions in the morning, but you both decide to cross that bridge when you get there.

You feel like a completely different person now. There is hatred and pride intertwined in your feelings about that. But right now you feel so much lighter than you have at any point in the over three thousand years of being apart from Gil-galad. Maybe, you are still that lovestruck elven queen somehow.

He’s really here; I’m really here. Those thoughts and realizations continue to spiral through your mind and soul. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears as you watch his glossy eyes hold you in the moonlight.

“I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine.” The whisper slices into your very being: warm, desperate, and full of the same longing you had felt for him across the sea. He had stared east just as much as you had stared west. Waiting.

His forehead leans against yours as his hands move to your shoulders; he gives a soft squeeze, reassuring himself you are really there. Gil-galad takes a shaky breath and you notice yours is the same. His eyes close and you can’t help but smile as tears trickle down your face. You know that expression all too well: that look of concentration when he was praying he’s going to say the right words. You had so deeply missed seeing these little things.

“Don't tell me you're not the same person.” Your husband begs in the smallest voice you have ever heard him use. Your hands move to cup his face, unsure of how to give him comfort after so long apart, but needing to try. He leans into your touch as he opens his eyes again; a couple tears escape.

“You're always my wife and I've been waiting…” His voice is stronger now, summoning the High King you had followed into battle on more than one occasion and would do so still, but you are thankful to never have to again.

Gil-galad lets that word hang in the air between you for a long time. It carries so much weight and far too much sorrow. He swallows and you smile fondly up at him. He basks in the joy of you not pushing him to be faster in conversation; you always cared enough to wait for his genuine thoughts, not just what the king’s word was to mitigate the next disaster.

“Waiting…” He tries again, scarcely believing said wait is finally over. You are finally here with him.

“Ereinion.” The encouragement makes him grin as you wipe away a few more of his tears. The love you expressed in the singular use of one of his birth names makes him smile and his heart feels full, complete.

“For you.” You both linger in that moment, wanting it to end and never end at the same time. Your eyes flicker to his mouth and back to his eyes. You begin to slowly pull him toward you, but his mouth surges for yours before either of you can really process it. It’s warm, messy, and real. When you finally pull apart, his arms have wrapped tightly around you and your hands cling to his robes.

The wait is over. Finally.

“How long has it been?” His voice brings your thoughts back in order. You give a soft chuckle as you both pant, knowing you both know the answer already.

“Three thousand. One hundred. And forty one years.” The sorrow lingers in every word even as you hold on to one another for dear life. You had been on one of the last ships to leave for the undying lands, but there isn’t time to regret that now. What’s done is done and you are together now.

“I love you.” Your two voices say as one.

[live-laugh-legolas]

Hiiiiii omg your head canons for the fellowship are so cuttteeee I love it. Do you think you could write how the members of the fellowship would be around a character who has a dragon companion? I’m sorry I know that is soooo weird but I literally love dragons so much and Lotr so y’know. Preferably a f reader or just Gn. Sorry if that’s weird and no pressure!!!!🫶🫶

What a fun prompt! I’ve literally thought about this before. I’m picturing you show up at Rivendell just casually with your dragon. Totally breathes fire because that’s cool as shit.

How the Fellowship reacts to a dragon companion

Aragorn:

-Has to do a double take

-wtf

-He’s a chill dude, but this feels unhinged

-He will introduce himself with you only once you’re not with your fire friend

-Once you introduce the two he’s back to his chill self and act like this is totally normal

Legolas:

-Fascinated, and immediately introduces himself to you and your dragon

-Elves have a way with nature and animals so I don’t think he would be scared

-Wary, maybe, but he just wants to pet it

-He sees is as a big puppy

-Will tell you a billion dragon facts

Gimli:

-Listen, dwarves have a bad record with dragons

-Doesn’t trust you, and certainly can’t believe the “beast” could be friendly

-Keeps his distance and is definitely a bit cold to you like he is to Legolas, at first

-He eventually warms up to you but still doesn’t like your companion

-The dragon wouldn’t hurt him, but he doesn’t know that, and the dragon totally takes advantage of that and will scare him

-“I don’t like the way it looks at me”

-Big “it don’t bite, yes it do!” energy

Boromir:

-I just feel like he would not care

-He would be casual about it like the cave troll

-Totally sees the advantage of having a literal fucking dragon on their team

-Talks to it like a person

Frodo:

-You thought his eyes were big before? Well guess what? They are literal saucers

-Mostly knows only of Smaug so he doesn’t have a particularly positive view on the species

-But he’s also nothing if not curious

-Asks you so many questions

-This I think applies to all the hobbits except maybe Sam, but it would be so cute if they cuddled up with the dragon at night to keep warm

Sam:

-Big nope

-He’s heard Bilbo’s stories

-His main priority is keeping Frodo safe

-Probably wouldn’t warm up until he saw Frodo petting it with a big smile

-Would ask if it wants a bowl of stew when you all settle for the night

-Worried it might eat him if he doesn’t keep it fed

Merry:

-Guess what?! You now have a new biggest fan! Congrats!

-No fear in this hobbit

-Maybe that’s not a good thing, but he’s a confident boy

-“Hypothetically how would one go about acquiring such a creature?” “You can’t have a dragon Merry” “…I was asking for a friend”

-Will brag about knowing you and that he’s friends with a dragon when they eventually get back to the shire

Pippin:

-?????

-So confused

-He must have smoked too much and is now hallucinating

-Once he gets over that shock, he’s probably the type to watch from afar, but weary to ask to pet it

-“Do you think we could roast marshmallows with its breath?”

-It’s a genuine question. And yes, the answer is yes

-That is if you like your marshmallows burnt and basically disintegrated

Gandalf:

-He probably invited you to the council

-Wary because he knows what dragons are capable of, but trusts you so therefore he trusts your judgment

-He’s got his eagles, you’ve got your dragon, unstoppable duo

*Bonus Elrond:

-“Um…whatcha got there?” “A smoothie”

-Wouldn’t let you in until Gandalf convinced him

-Then he just decides he’s seen so much shit that he shouldn’t even be surprised anymore by anything

I definitely don’t love all of these answers, some feel ooc, so as always I may edit when I get a different idea. It’s like how my mind will be blank when doing an assignment but the second I submit it I have so many better answers

[annoyinglandmagazine]

‘more dangerous and less wise’ I’m sorry WHAT!? Is Tolkien seriously trying to tell us that the freaking Sindar are the feral ones out of all the Elven races? After the entire First Age? As for more dangerous, Galadriel is still here. You know, Feanor 2.0 the only one that actually survived. Using the Elven metric for being batshit insane yes, Mirkwood is weird, but not swearing blood oaths, setting everything on fire, murdering everyone in sight, telling the gods to go fuck themselves, challenging gods to one on one combat insane.

The line of Oropher isn’t even Thingol levels of mental. They’ve never even touched a silmaril or a ring of power! They’re downright sensible by first age standards! They’re arrogant sure, they have low self preservation instincts and seem pretty xenophobic (dwarf stuff). Also depending on your point of view there might be colonist undertones. All of which is just toned down versions of the First Age Sindar. They probably have developed weird customs from living in the murder forest so long and being pretty isolated but there’s nothing to indicate they’re all that bad. I mean they’re still alive and they’re holding on to their kings at a relatively steady rate.

I absolutely agree with takes going around that this is some sort of deliberate protection technique they have to ward off trespassers and that Thranduil is sitting there in his cave coming up with rumours to spread about all the messed up things they do to people. Because in the book they seem kind of chill? And this becomes a million times more funny to me if he bases the rumours off stuff he heard about from Elrond.

As in ‘Yeah we totally eat giant spider meat, that’s definitely a thing we do,’ and everyone’s reacting as horrified and scared or not falling for it while Elrond’s believing every word and just looks sympathetic, ‘Aww you guys have food shortages? I hear you, supplies were pretty shit during all that destruction of an entire continent in the War of Wrath. You know if you wanted more options I wouldn’t recommend raw orc meat before you build up a tolerance but I can defo show you how to butcher them properly!’ Thranduil just staring back at him like ‘Fuck you. I was trying to make up some story to scare children at night with, you guys actually did this shit? How hard is it to come up with something you fucking Noldor haven’t done already?!’

And also: Thranduil proceeds to take out a notepad, ‘Ok so tell me again about what the kinslayers did to interrogate those prisoners?’ And Elrond replies, ‘Oh, that wasn’t Maglor and Maedhros, that was a story about Gil Galad’s army in the War of Wrath.’ Thranduil ‘I’m sorry WHAT the actual fuck.’ Elrond nodding understandingly ‘Too much for the Third Age?’ Thranduil rapidly taking notes ‘No it’s perfect keep it coming.’

[malkaleh]

So @nocompromise-noregrets and I were chatting (as we do) and I was like listen I have a giant fanart wishlist and my gold cages one is Extensive but the really vivid image in my head is what I’m calling The Dol Amroth (Founded By Arondir and Bronwyn who are FINE and now have a second child) Beach Day. It is also important to note that Miriel and Elendil are also married with a baby daughter. So like some image highlights:

Gil-galad is wearing Ben Walkers sunglasses, drinking an iced tea and reading the most delightful romantasy novel the elves could produce. He is absolutely chilling.

Galadriel is doing a flip off the cliff. Islidur and Theo are taking video on their phones, completely awestruck.

Celeborn is like 😍 MY WIFE and he and Arondir are chatting under a tree a little bit away from the water because the sea is still a little bit hard for both of them, because of Doriath etc but they are learning.

(Galadriel is absolutely going to get Celeborn to do the Bond Boy walking out of the ocean in a bit because She Can)

Elendil is the most hot dad at the beach (he’s holding his and Miriels new baby and dipping her little toes in the shallows and also ISILDUR I DON’T CARE HOW OLD YOU ARE REAPPLY SUNSCREEN)

It is important to note that yes, Elrond is Rob!Elrond but biracial so he’s olive skinned with those gorgeous dark curls and star light eyes and he is so happily helping with Soraya and also Elendil and Miriels baby and Gerda and Gamli and it is So Beautiful and the kids all adore him.

Celebrian is there and is just :blatantly looking at Elrond delightedly like yes, she is going to marry him: while chilling on a towel in between cliff diving because she is her mothers daughter.

Bronwyn is just laughing with her toddler because Soraya adores the ocean beyond reason and yes, now they are both soaked but it’s the best thing ever.

Celebrimbor is sitting under a shade umbrella on the worlds most comfortable beach chair and is being Very Seriously Consulted by Gerda and Gamli who want to make shell necklaces for their parents and aunts and uncles who are all here. It’s the first things he has created since Sauron and everything and like, listen Celebrimbor is such a great teacher in my head and he is so good with small beings and it’s so so sweet @verecunda

Disa is actually chatting to Bronwyn and Miriel about Queen Things and Durin is absolutely working on lunch.

[thelordofgifs]

Friday Fic Recs: Long WIP edition

I’ve been thinking a little bit about the (very arduous) process of writing longfic, and how much of a difference support and cheerleading can make on that particular journey; so, although it’s been a while since I’ve made a Friday rec list, I thought I’d put one together celebrating all the incredible in-progress longfics in the Tolkien fandom I’m keeping up with at the moment!

Atandil series by @eilinelsghost. Such a gorgeous graceful moving exploration of Finrod and his relationship with Men, and the slowest and most sensual of slow burns in his romance with Bëor. The amount this series has made me THINK – about love, and hope, and memory, and Taliska grammar – is off the charts, and to top it off it’s written in the loveliest most Tolkienesque prose.

we will make this place our home by @leucisticpuffin. Ohh this AU is just like a warm gentle hug after a long day. The “kidnap fam but make it a classic children’s novel” concept is so so inspired, all the characterisations are so nuanced and moving (Maglor my beloved!!) and the OCs will steal your heart.

And Love Grew by @polutrope. On the other end of the kidnap fam spectrum, this complex and careful examination of the time after the Third Kinslaying is SO brilliant. Incredible characterisations of all the key players, some truly fascinating OCs (Dornil!!) and of course beautiful graceful prose.

tongues of the sky series by @welcomingdisaster. The first fic in this series, seabird, was written for me and I can be SO obnoxious about this :) but also it’s a wonderful moving ultimately hopeful fix-it AU with note-perfect russingon and m&m dynamics. The sequel, sparrowhawk, is currently in progress and soooo good.

ashes, ashes, dust to dust — the devil’s after both of us by @that-angry-noldo. This is SUCH an original and fascinating take on an AU where Maedhros and Maglor take Finarfin captive to bargain for the Silmarils, featuring incredible character dynamics and a terrifyingly eldritch Eönwë.

and all his towers cast down by @actual-bill-potts. What if Finrod survived the events of the Leithian? Well, angst and trauma, to start off with. And also beautiful beautiful writing, impeccable characterisation and a Maglor-Lúthien teamup!! I adore this AU.

All That Glitters Gold Rush AU series by @allthatglittersisnotgoldrush. This one is LONG LONG LONG, but also SO worth it. Ever wanted to see the entire Silmarillion retold as a western, complete with a terribly tragic and complicated Maedhros, Morgoth the terrifying slave-owner, and a beautifully multicultural Doriath? The authors have you covered.

And the Stars Shine the Same series by @runawaymun. OC-centric fic is such a rare delight and this series set in early Third Age Rivendell is just wonderful, tender and complicated and with a truly incredible Elrond.

Retelling the Hobbit comic by @retellingthehobbit. Something a little different, but I binged all of this comic retelling of The Hobbit on a plane recently and GOD it’s so so beautiful. A truly gorgeous art style, and slowly converting me from a Bilbo/Thorin sceptic into an enjoyer!

In Heart by @tanoraqui. An AU where Fëanor takes the Doom of the Noldor as a what-not-to-do manual and ends up making better choices! Featuring incredible worldbuilding and fantastic characterisation.

Please add on the longfics you love in the reblogs! Let’s get some love going for these difficult beasts!

(Couple of incest recs under the cut.)

naught green upon the oak series by @welcomingdisaster. A CoH-inspired Maedhros/Maglor AU in which Maglor winds up with amnesia after his encounter with Glaurung. I’m SO insane about this series that I can’t be coherent but it is fantastic and chilling and devastating with the most beautiful prose aahhh.

Strange Currencies by @jouissants. Maedhros is re-embodied at last only to learn that he is married to Maglor: a touching and painful post-canon fic interleaved with incredible flashbacks to the First Age.

[rings-of-power-realm]

RopWeek2023

Favourite Original Character

Arondir

When I saw the first proper trailer and got a glimpse of him with his bow, I suddenly felt overwhelmed because somehow I knew from that moment that the show would be phenomenal. Ismael had such a presence in that trailer that quelled any doubt in me (since I was worried beforehand about this show that it would not honour the Middle Earth I love) but it did.

He can do it all, from action to soft romantic scenes, to inspiring scenes of hope and the way he got Theo to trust and confide in him was beautiful.

Arondir represents all the things I admire about Tolkien characters. His strength and grace, his fierceness, his loyalty, his love his unwavering belief, the sadness that simmers below and his absolute selflessness and courage to do what is right.

I adore him and am loving watching his journey. It particulalrly means a lot since Ismael always wanted to play an elf and finally, his dream happened and he has knocked it outta the park.

Special mentions: I truly adore all the characters so wanna say how much I also love the Harfoots, their determination and fact they stick together is truly touching plus I love the friendship between Nori and Poppy and it broke me when they parted.

Bronwyn. Her strength and love is an inspiration.

Disa (my beloved Disa!) As soon as that gorgeous scottish accent rolled out and she beamed I fell in love with her she's incredible <3 Her relationship with Durin and Elrond is one of the highlights of the show and in her own right she is a wickedly entertaining and sunny presence who can also protray the sadder moments. You just feel her warmth in every scene.

The Stranger. What can I say but what a ride it was with him, even in the finale I was still like no don't be Sauron! His power coming through and when he realised he was good was so beautiful and the fact Nori never wavered in supporting him even when we were in doubt to his true nature. His eyes gave so much emotion. What an impactful beautiful character he is and I enjoyed his scenes immensely.

Halbrand. Charlie what an amazing actor. That charm and quick wit but with those chilling undercurrents and moments where you saw that darkness were really powerful. He got under Galadriel's skin, the manipulation was sublime and real. Don't they say that the devil would disguise himself as a handsome man? Truly incredible and when it was unravelling towards the end and his anger came to the forefront (though we had glimpsed it terrifyingly before) I was blown away by the change and the delivery, when you knew for certain who he was, its absolutely chilling.

[beck-a-leck]

I can't sleep, so I'm gonna ramble for a bit about an AU that's been entertaining me recently.

Lord of the Rings Summer Camp AU

Basically the War for the Ring is just one Extremely Intense game of capture the flag (ring) that happens every summer between two rival summer camps that share a lake or something.

Like, basic rules: Each camp designates one camper to be the Ring Bearer. They must keep the ring on them at all times. They cannot pass the ring off to another camper, except under special circumstances, or to a councilor. Their job is to find a way to get the ring to the other camp and put it in the designated place without getting caught or losing the ring. If they succeed by the end of camp, they win! If the other camp steals the ring and gets it to their rival's designated spot then they win. Rival camp councelors are allowed to take the ring if they can get it away from the bearer, but it must be given to their own team's Ring Bearer. Secrecy is often the key to success in this matter.

And now the cast:

Frodo, Sam, Merey, and Pippin: four new campers this year. They all grew up on stories of from Uncle Bilbo about his fun times at camp, and now they're old enough to go and super ready for their first time at camp! Frodo gets designated Ring Bearer (definitely not a rigged choice)

Gandalf: Nobody's quite sure if he owns the camp or he's like the Head Councilor. Sometimes he's actively engaged in camp activities, other times he's off doing Old Man Shit. Very frequently can be found chilling with Bilbo as they watch the game unfold

Aragorn: he's one of the camp legacy kids. Been coming every summer since he was little (his sorta-dad works there) and now that he's old enough he's become one of the Junior Councilors. Aka the almost-adult they trust to run the kids around and supervise them in the woods and during Ring Shenanigans

Boromir and Faramir: their first summer at camp. Boromir's Aragorn's age and also a Junior Councilor. For whatever reason he's got beef with Aragorn and totally deals woth it in a healthy way. Faramir's just under the age cut off for Camper vs Councilor. (He didn't even want to come but their dad said he had to) and he spends most of his time chilling with the other guys around his age and also at the stables.

Legolas: sent here because his dad thought a summer away from home would be good for him and also he should see his cousin (arwen) more and his paperwork was half-done (a d daddy's off to europe for a month byeeeee) so nobody's quite sure how old he is, so sometimes they think he's a camper and other times he's a junior councilor and he just kind of rolls with it off the vibes of the day. (So he's definitely not telling his birth date)

Gimli: an older camper, but his first time at camp. For some reason he immediately imprints on the four teenies (the hobbits) and decides he's just gonna tag along with their group during camp. Couldn't possibly be because Aragorn and Boromir are their councilors and Legolas tags along after Aragorn.

(The chaos in this camp drives Elrond Bananas, but Gandalf just kinda shrugs and always counters with 'the kids are having fun. There's no harm in it')

Arwen and Eowyn: its not a co-ed camp, but their dads are both staff members so guess where they're spending their summers. As the only two girls, they became friends out of necessity. Elrond maybe actually owns the camp? He's at keast the guy keeping things organized and moving. Eowyn's uncle owns/runs the stables, so she's most often found working there. Her brother and cousin do most of the riding lessons for the campers and she's often left out. (The adults tend to turn a blind eye when Goold Old Dernhelm, who's definitely been a camper since day one, shows up to activities)

Other folks from the story probably have various filler rolls. Generally vibing with the idea that leaders/kings/queens are the Adults TM and actual Camp Councilors and Staff.

Galadriel is probably camp nurse. Her office is the one air conditioned building in camp, and yeah getting hurt or severely dehydrated sucks, but spending a time in the Lothlorien Cabin is just So Rejuvenating.

Meanwhile in the other camp... Camp Mordor:

Sauron: there's no ambiguity here he owns the camp, he runs the camp, he's in charge. Though he's not above using underlings to get most of the work done

Saruman: he thinks he's second in commant, and generally Sauron lets him be, because he can't be arsed to micromanage every camp group's activities. There's some feud between him and Gandalf that's honestly funny to watch. Takes the Ring Games almost as seriously as Sauron.

The orcs: generally they're the campers in Camp Mordor. Some of the older ones might be in the role of Junior Councilors, but they're all the kids who are going to do most of the work during the Ring Games.

The Nazgul: theyre the adult camp councilors. Easily identified by their uniform shirts, which are black (and honestly the worst choice for a summer where it can often reach 90 in the shade). They take their ditues very seriously. Most of them are legacy campers who eventually aged into councilors as they got older.

Oh my god i nearly forgot Gollum/Smeagol!

Genuinely nobody is sure where this poor kid came from. He might just be some wild kid living in the woods. Nobody claims his as a camper. But also, they're not gonna let some (possibly homeless) dirty child starve, and Bilbo ends up feeling really bad for the poor thing whenever he wanders into camp. So they feed him and let him join in on camp activities when he's around. He's extremely shy of the adults and often doesn't let them see or catch him (they barely got his name from him and nobody's sure if Gollum is a self-appointed nickname or not). Nobody is convinced that he's not really a secret agent for the Other Side. He seems to have an unhealthy obsession with the ring and has been known to steal it from the ring bearers in both sides and run off into the woods to hide with it (Aragorn's usually the one who tracks him to his hidey hole)

Also, Bilbo's just like a financier or something. Not camp staff, but friends with Gandalf and he just spends his summer also watching the Ring Games (rumor is he started the first ever Ring Game when he was a boy at camp). Often found enjoying the comforts of Not Being a Camper and doing Old Man Shit with Gandalf.

[sorrowssinger]

1, 8, 12, 16, 18 😘😎

the character everyone gets wrong

Only one huh? .......... eh.... Maglor. Next question.

common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

Tolkien: Everyone must be shipped but no one should be related at all. (Forgetting he wrote Galadriel and Celeborm who were cousins of some sort.)

Zelda: No one should be shipped in fiction where there are multiple Links, or Link should be shipped with every possible female available. There is little in between of those two. (I like ships but come on, chill people.) Also... the Hero of Time is an oblivious and childish person. (personally I take issue with that given how mature he is in both his games, he can have childish moments but he isn't super childish overall.)

the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

Tolkien: Denethor, the guy does absolutely care about his son. He would have thrown hands for him even in the movie. Like he was asking for music and eating for a distraction over the likelihood of losing his son not because he didn't care about him.

Zelda: Navi, sure after the first play though she seems annoying to the players... but the Link she is traveling with is like 9 or 10 and has never left the forest, probably never been away from the village without Saria, so she cares so deeply about Link that she wants to make sure he knows everything she can tell him, she wants so much to keep him safe even at the risk of her own well being. (the last fight in the game is after she says she was repelled by the dark magic but she is determined to try to help anyways) Also she is a little blue fairy, what is not to like?

you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

Tolkien: Maglor plays music at ridiculous times when it would bother others. (The 4 am practice sessions) Like this guy would not but everyone loves to reference him doing so. (Also see point 1 above thanks.)

Zelda: All Links are terrified of Cuccos. Sure in most games you can trigger the killer chicken attacks but they are so so useful for getting to some places and some other things. Like sure there are some reasons to fear them but they aren't that bad.

it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

Tolkien: Elrond, raised by Feanorian War Lords, the Best Healer in Middle Earth, one of the Wisest People alive then. Let him be off, let him be capable of ripping someone's spine out but he's enough of a gentleman not to. Just sure he is Kind as Summer but not all Summers are gentle and sweet some have the kindness being the shade of a tree outside because elsewhere it blistering and too hot.

Zelda: The First Link, the one from the Manga in Hyrule Historia. Like the dude was imprisoned because he told the truth, and when that is discovered and he is released he STILL saves everyone. This guy should be more loved, not ignored in favor of the whole 'The Hero of the Skies is the first Link because of the Time Travel' thing. Let him exist, let him be the badass he is, he was a well known and respected soldier, and just yess I love him and he deserves better. (Picture below for reasons)

[gwaedhannen]

au ideas? 👀

AU ideas! (Also thanks to the anon who asked)

Oh Eru this got long.

One of my first goals when I got into silm fic was a series of works depicting different ways in which canon events could have happened, ranging from different variations of canon compliance to off-the-wall AUs. And of course I decided two of the most controversial parts of canon would be the best places to start: Aredhel and Eöl, and Elwing's leap. I doubt I'll get to these fics any time soon, but I've got some ideas for the variations sketched out:

Ways in which a body strikes the ocean at terminal velocity

Elwing sends Elrond and Elros to hide, and runs the other way to pull the Feanoreans away. Cornered at the cliff, yells at them, jumps.

As before, but Elrond and Elros are captured and dragged before her.

She hands it over, and it burns. The holder walks off the cliff himself (and the other brother follows?)

She throws it away, and either gets stabbed and tossed off the cliff for that, or a brother walks off in despair.

Eärendil is also there. His cousins have made him a kinslayer. He's not happy about that.

Elurín and Eluréd are the leaders of Sirion instead. They leap together. Ulmo can only save one.

Ambarussa are the surviving Fëanorians instead of Maedhros and Maglor.

Ways in which the White Lady of the Noldor was lost in the darkness of Nan Elmoth

Generally canon compliant but give Aredhel a bit more agency (she was content at first, and Eöl's assholery doesn't become as much of an issue until after Maeglin is born, at which point she's unwilling to leave him behind if she flees).

As above, except Eöl has a crisis of conscious and admits his enchantment and manipulation while Aredhel is pregnant. She ditches him for Himlad.

Going off the NoME version where Eöl is an Amanyar Noldor and part of Fëanor's host, and he and Aredhel were followers of Melkor. In which Aredhel takes part in the kinslaying but Eöl doesn't, but Eöl somehow is on the boats when Fëanor and co. slip away. He's not happy about that, fucks off from Mithrim ASAP, and wanders into Nan Elmoth to chill out. Aradhel incidentally walks in 300 years later and shit's awkward.

Galadriel wanders into Nan Elmoth instead. Dunno exactly how this one goes but there's probably explosions involved and at least one of them dead (likely Eöl) within a year.

Nan Elmoth is hungry, and Eöl is trapped there as much as Aredhel is.

Other ideas:

Unwritten AKA "Dior DGAF"

In which Dior noclips out of the Halls of Mandos immediately upon arrival and goes right back into his body. He picks up his sons and walks out of the narrative layer.

The Dusk, the Dawn, the Earth/Dear Shadow Alive and Well/And I am Left

AKA the Beren/Lúthien/Thuringwethil OT3 series. In which Thuringwethil, irrevocably altered by Lúthien taking her bat-fell and partially re-singing her, knocks on their door demanding Lúthien undo whatever change made her start feeling things like "guilt" and "love". Lúthien, horrified by what she did (effectively partially rewriting her personality) agrees to help make a new fell. Beren's along for the ride.

For the fur, she joins Camlost on the hunt. Under his quiet direction she crafts traps for rabbits, whispering her thanks to Yavanna’s bounty as her teeth pierce their necks. She stalks foxes until she is near enough to dive upon them with her claws, Nessa’s most ancient name on her lips for sure steps and bursting speed. She fashions a bow from a young yew sapling, crafts arrows from reeds fletched with Tinúviel’s gifted feathers, strings it with her own hair, and praises Aulë’s ingenuity in searching chirps as the replies guide her aim to a grazing deer. And finally, she calls Tulkas to witness as she hefts Camlost’s spear towards the growls of a desperate wandering wolf bereft of its master. As each prize is skinned, she asks Oromë if she has taken too much from the wild, and trusts in the silence of his answer. The rabbits she consumes entire. The foxes she drains, and leaves the remains for the vultures. The deer she carries back for Tinúviel to prepare venison and jerky. The wolf they burn.

Also featuring the inherent trauma of watching your spouses die and giving your son the cursed jewelry you can tell will one day destroy him.

Children of Dior roleswap

In which Elurín and Eluréd escape with the Silmaril, and Elwing is captured (and not thrown into the woods for whatever reason) and raised by the Fëanorians and not told the details of the Kinslaying. She's thoroughly unhappy when she finds out.

She wants to scream until the entire hill crumbles into dust and ghosts. Murderers, murderers! Maedhros with his dead eyes and nightmares only she can sing away, Maglor and his endless laments for his own failures, Amrod with his maddened silence and vivisecting gaze, Amras desperate for salvation and haunted by guilt—not haunted enough! How long did they mean to continue the lie? Now she knows why Maedhros refuses to train her beyond basic self-defense. Why Maglor only teaches her Songs of healing and succor. Why Amras never brings her more than a mile from the citadel to practice woodcraft. Why Amrod gives her nothing at all. She is a hostage without need for chains and locks, with no way to survive the wilds and roaming orcs should she run. If she looks east and a little south, can she pretend she sees the shoreline kingdom where her brothers reign? She doesn’t even know their names.

Yet another Gil-Galad origin theory

In which Gil-Galad gets adopted by no fewer than three Finweans and yet is blood related to none of them.

Still-untitled "Fëanor takes the Helcaraxë" AU

Second problem: how exactly is he going to get his people to Endórë? Tol Eressëa is anchored, and regardless Ulmo would not move it again for them. The Noldor have little skill in boatcraft, and even if they did, the sheer number required would take decades to build. But there are already fine ships in Aman, are there not? Well maybe he should've thought of that two hundred leagues ago.

Túrin and Nienor live

Unfortunately they're still cursed.

[babybat98]

I wish you would write a fic where... Thranduil and your Legolas sibling characters all come to Minas Tirith for Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, and Legolas and the whole Fellowship now have to deal with the whole Mirkwood family being there. Especially poor Gimli.

I just love everything you've told me about these elves, and I want to see them Causing Shenanigans.

Refering to this post

Oh but there'd be so much shenanigans though!

Like just Thranduil alone would be enough to turn everyone's hair grey. Or at least he will be after he stops clinging to Legolas like a particularly stuborn koala. Gondor comes very close to loosing their favourite wizard becasue the moment Thranduil hears the word 'balrog' he's off after Gandalf, sword in hand. And then he goes after Elrond. And probably Aragorn to, once he learns of the Path of the Dead... In the end Legolas just straight up hides his dads sword and puts a bottle of wine there instead.

Ok to be fair Gandalf and Elrond are gonna have the entire damn forest after them when they learn of the balrog and sending their baby prince to Mordor business, so instead of mentioning that for every character just imagine Gandalf and Elrond doing a very nervous powerwalk away from an angry forest mob.

Now for my OCs we got Thondaer(he/him), the oldest of Thranduil's kids. For being a wood elf from Mirkwood, he is strangely chill. For being the child of Thranduil and Lannien(Thranduil's wife) he is alarmingly chill. He got his dad's regal aura but not as much of his temper. He's probably also more subdued than usual due to being injured in the war up northtotaly don't have a fic about that coming up oups. And that pissed Legolas off because why is he not being babied when he was the one who had an actual near death experience curtecy of a poisoned arrow???

Thranduil: Oh don't worry, you are both grounded the second we get back home<3

But at the end of the day Thondaer is still a Tranduilion, and his siblings tend to bring out the worst in him, so it's not long until he and Legolas pick up their long standing competition of 'The Most Stupid Trick Archery You Ever Did See'. At one point an arrow flies in through a window to catch a single leaf of Thranduil's crown, who just sips his wine and goes 'boys will be boys' as the nobility of Gondor freaks out.

Yes it was Legolas showing of his new shiny bow, what else did you expect?

Second child Lagoreth(she/her) on the other hand... She cares a lot less about being proper than her older brother. She would actualy punch Gandalf and Elrond for sending her brother of into danger like that. But her anger is both explosive and short lived, and once she thinks there's been enough broken noses(and Legolas talks her down a bit) she mostly stops being angry. She'd probably get along pretty well with Elladan and Elrohir tbh. She's more into swordfighting than archery, and I can see them exchanging tecniques. Those 3 becoming friends is the forst time anyone's ever seen Thranduil truly nervous.

Ok so I know you technically only said Thranduil and the siblings, but you also did that 'the whole Mirkwood family' and that was your mistake. Because there's just a few more pointy-eared nusiances running around and I'm dying to go off about them. This is gonna get long so enjoy the read more lol.

First we got Doro(they/them). They're Thondaer's spouce, and I'm a bit on the fence on if they'd come along or stay back home to keep doing their job as a healer, but I'm gonna say they're coming this time just for fun. They'd probably not cause to much mischief, but there's a little surprice in store for Thondaer for sure. How do you think he'll take being a father?

That leaves Legolas's closest friends, the young elves of Mirkwood, and part of the last generation to be born as the shadow fell over their home. Forget turning all the humans hair grey, then these guys will have everyone, human dwarf and elf, go white as Gandalf before the end of the week.

Tinnu(he/they) is a sarcastic little shit<3 If you thought Legolas was bad with his off to find the sun then you have not heard the snark on this elf. I think growing up so close to Thranduil gave them a weird view on authority and how you treat nobility. But because he's part of Legolas's friends, and Thranduil pretty much sees the gang as his own children, he can get away with waaaayyyy more than he should. He's also visualy impared and uses a cane to navigate, and is not above exploiting the fact that Men tend to underestimate him for that. Like, if they forget that his ears still work just as good as any other elf? Then that's on them. Also their puppy dog eyes are dangerous.

Dûrwen(she/they) is kinda what happens when you take the impulse control of a Took, puts it in an elf, and teaches them to fight. They're loud, obnoxious, and the fastest way to get her to do something is to begin with 'I dare you to-'. She's the one who says "hey, let's get every single bird in a 3 mile radious to congregate in the royal meeting room" or "let's see who can break into the kings bedchamber and steal the most shoe laces". But she is also loyal to a fault, and is the first to get along with Gimli. Even if he did wonder a lot about the giant toad in his boot.

Nagor(he/him) is in general the most layed back of them, but also curious and stuborn. He'll drive everyone, but most of all Gandalf and Elrond, completely bonkers with questions. Like you know when a child gets started on the 'why' train? That, but dialed up to 11 and them compresed into a tiny ass elf. At the end of their stay Gandalf insists he'd rather just have gotten punched again. Nagor would make friends with Merry and Pippin so fast and the kitchens are never safe again. And for a change of pace Legolas will for sure be clinging to him, because Thondaer was not the only one injured in the war up north.

Thilion(they/them) is the mom friend, and probably the only reason Minas Tirith is still standing. I mean they're not opposed to hiding under the meeting table and tieing everyones shoelaces together, but they are the one who manages to figure out a plan so they don't get caught doing it. Can't have your friends end up in trouble now can you, so best make sure no one can ever prove it was them :) Probably gets along realy well with Aragorn.

Crithril(she/her) and this barbieelf has ADHD. She has a habit of stiming by braiding peoples hair, and there's a big missunderstanding between her and Gimli for a while before Legolas and Thilion manages to sort things out. Eventualy Gimli manages to either aquire or make some dwarven stimtoys that successfully divert her from his hair and beard without hurting any feelings. Crithril also has a favourite position to be in, which happends to be upside-down, and many a Gondor noble has been shocked by her just casually hanging from the cieling like it's completely normalit is. But no one dares say anything, because there's 5 other elves there and they all have knives and oh hello Thranduil your highness, no I was just... admiring your peoples acrobatic skill and deffinintely not judgeing your sons friend haha please don't kill me.

I think that's it for now, phew :D

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

and i'm forced to deal with what i feel (forgive, morinel ft maglor)

morinel has. a lot of feelings about this actually (10 pages worth, actually). this whole situation is a goddamn mess help. also, your honor that is morinel's emotional support mithril thread spool and one day i will write a fic about how she Aquires it and Why it's her emotional support mithril thread spool.

Mithlond is somehow even emptier than Morinel remembers it being nearly a year ago, silent save for the song of the waves crashing against the shore.

She returns to the palace, standing in the deserted foyer, though she is too lost in thought to really realize who Elrond is talking to, tucked away in a corner.

She pays them no mind and goes to pass them so she can return to her room and start packing–

The hooded figure looks up – looks at her – and there is a moment of terrible realization that makes Morinel feel sick with conflicting feelings.

“Maglor.”  There’s ice in her voice, and she clenches her hands at her side so tightly that her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. 

Her uncle’s– Maglor’s eyes are foggy like sea-glass and there’s barely any Treelight left in them.  

“Isfin–”

“Don’t call me that,” Morinel snaps, sharp like iron, sharp like the crackle of lightning in her runes, or the sharp burn of her fire, sharper than she means. 

Elrond’s brows crinkle and she exhales, trying to calm herself – at least a little. 

“I haven’t gone by that name since…” Since before the War of Wrath, since before the breaking of Beleriand, since before everything changed, since before– 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says stiffly.

Morinel cannot help but glance to the stairway that leads to the hallway that leads to her room. For a few tantalizing seconds, she wonders if she could extricate herself from the conversation and make it up the stairs but–

“What ought I call you then?” There’s that faint bite of not-quite-sarcasm that she remembers all too well from Amon Ereb and Belegost and Taur-im-Duinath. 

“Morinel.”

Maglor says nothing at first but his brow quirks upward for a half-second, which she knows all too well for surprise (she'd disliked that name when she was little, after all) before it smoothly crosses into approval.

“It suits you.”

“Thank you.” 

(She nearly laughs at how bizarre this is – the two of them exchanging polite pleasantries as if they met by chance in the marketplace.)

The wind rustles outside, and raindrops splatter against the roof, and in the distance, lightning flashes. He pushes his hood away from his face and for a half-second, she sees his hand, burnt and blistered, and she wonders what could've made such a mark–

The Silmaril. 

So it did burn him.

(She remembers that night, after the Host of the West had wrested the Silmarilli from Morgoth’s crown, when they stole through the camp and cut down the guards, eyes burning like wild animals, not Eldar, blood on their sword even to the last–)

“I had thought you drowned in the wreck of Beleriand.” It’s with concentrated effort that she keeps her voice level and disinterested. “Were you here this whole time?”  

He nods and something twists within her like a coil that’s been wound far too tightly. 

She closes her eyes and bites her tongue and tries, for Elrond’s sake, to ground herself and keep from lashing out.   “Where?” 

Morinel’s pendant feels heavier than the entire weight of Arda at the moment and her cloak – meant to keep out the chill – feels like it’s made of lead. 

She hopes, desperately, that the answer isn't what she thinks it is.

He shrugs, palms upward, and the light catches on the angry-looking burn. “Here. East of Himring – mostly – as I always have been.” 

As if to emphasize his words, lightning strikes the sky and she can see the lonely island out in the distance.

Arinya flickers and shines in the candlelight and suddenly all she can see is hands dipped in silver and crowns of holly and she can only taste the burning char of stone that sticks in her throat and – 

“This whole time?”

His face twists with pain and his eyes are shadowed when he answers as lightning cracks in the distance. There is sorrow in his voice when he speaks. 

“If this is about Ty–”

Thunder rumbles. 

“Of course this is about Celebrimbor!”

Heat scalds her throat, as if she'd used one of her runes, and she takes a breath before she continues, focusing on the texture of the soft mithril thread between her fingers.  

“Do you know what Sauron did to him?” Her voice is dangerously low, and she knows that this is unfair, but she can’t be bothered caring. “He cast his hands in liquid silver, and made him into a banner, beaten and bloody and barely recognizable.”

Maglor winces and Elrond’s face twists into disapproval. 

She cannot stop now but, by all the Valar, she wants to, she does not want to have this outburst here, in front of Elrond, she does not want to have it at all, she does not want to be emotional when she is already stressed from travel, she does not want to be vulnerable. 

But it would be easier to stop the sun from shining, or to stop the ebbing of the tides, because the words are already bubbling up into her throat, and pouring from her mouth the way the Gelion flowed into the Helevorn.

“Where were you? Hiding on the coast when you could have helped.” Lightning cracks again, bright and throws the room into sharp relief. The words feel like they burn her, and Morinel exhales, and the ill-made pendant rises with her breathing. “We needed you too, you know, but you ran, like you always do.” 

She regrets the words the minute she says them.

Uneasy silence lies between them all, and she stops to listen – the rain has slowed, and the thunder stopped.

She takes advantage of the moment to flee, taking the stairs nearly two at a time, and shutting her door behind her.

Morinel tosses her sketchbook none too gently onto her well-worn chest of drawers, and locks the door behind her. 

She takes a seat at her desk and pushes The Coming Into Eldamar away, and pulls out her letterbox again, carefully paging through each one – half-heartedly, she knows she doesn’t have the heart to throw any of them away. 

When she’s done, she places it on her bed, and turns to her bookshelf.

Her thoughts spiral and twist as she works, mostly to the tune of that was uncalled for, even if you were angry or how are you going to fix that or dark hair isn’t the only thing you inherited from your father –

An hour goes by, and the anger has passed — or, more accurately: turned to a dull simmering — when someone knocks, softly, at her door when she is nearly through organizing her books.

Morinel freezes, then unfreezes to pick the last book off the shelf. More likely than not, it’s probably Elrond and she sighs.

She is not looking forward to her talking to, but it must be gotten over with sooner or later, mustn't it?

Morinel unlocks the door but waits until she’s back to the books before she calls over her shoulder: “It’s unlocked.”

The door creaks on its hinges. 

“May I?”

Blood drains from her face.

Not Elrond. 

“If you wish.” Morinel’s voice is icily polite. 

(She hides the strain very well, if she must say so herself.)

Contrary to his request, Maglor stays on the threshold and she spreads the books out on her bed and begins to sort them into piles: keep, unsure, and give away. 

Ainulindale: A Translation – illustrated by Lorindol of Gondolin – is placed into the Keep Forever pile, while A Treatise On Stone by Arelleth is placed in the Give Away pile – after all, why would she need a book to help with the planning of cities and great buildings when they must be a mirian a dozen in Aman?

Moments tick past.

Morinel cannot stand silence.

(She never has, and she never will be able to. Maglor knows this, and she knows Maglor knows this, and Maglor knows she knows he knows this.)

She exhales.

“Are you going to stand there or come in?” She still is not facing him as she sorts through her books, though in truth, she is barely even really looking at them. “This room gets cold, and I would like the door shut before I freeze, either way.”

There is the shuffle of fabric and the door creaks again. Then the floorboards creak too, as footsteps come closer – though they stop a few feet away from her.

Maglor is still not just yet in her peripheral.

“You were never so affected by the cold before,” Maglor’s voice holds a hint of something… she doesn’t quite know what it is. “That sounds like something that would affect those who crossed the Ice.” 

Morinel feels she’s allowed to be a little petty about the whole thing.

“Yes,” she says succinctly, stacking the books with a little more force than necessary, “But being in a coma due to the dark arts of Sauron for three thousand and twenty-five years causes many changes in one’s hröa, most of which I am still coming to terms with.” 

Her shoulder throbs as if agreeing with her as she watches her words land with a sort of sickening pleasure, and she hates herself for taking satisfaction in the way discomfort flickers across Maglor's face.

“I suppose so. I might've known."

Morinel laughs, but there is no humor in it, only bitterness. “How could you? You weren't here.”

She glances up then, to see how his lips purse into a thin line, like how it did in Belegost or Amon Ereb before telling her and the twins something he knew they wouldn’t like. 

Her eyes narrow, and her hands still.

“That is–” Maglor pauses, taking a step toward her. When he seems convinced that she isn’t going to commit violence to preserve her personal space, he continues, “– not entirely true.”

Morinel goes very, very still.

“What do you mean?” Her voice is low, and her hands have stilled, clutching the spine of one of her older books. 

“I was not as good at hiding as I thought,” he says, with a rueful shrug, and her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. “Elrond found me, not long after Tyelperinquar…”

His voice fades into a soft silence, and the sound of the waves shushing through the windows fills the room. 

At this moment, Morinel doesn't know whether she is more angry at Elrond, for keeping Maglor’s existence a secret from her — of all people! — or at Maglor, for staying away so long. 

But Maglor is not finished speaking. 

“After that… I was in Imladris,” he says, softly, so softly she almost can’t hear him, but she can, if only just barely, and that’s almost worse.  “Occasionally. And I was there when…” He pauses, no doubt trying to figure out how to phrase his next words diplomatically. “...you came back.”

Morinel blinks very slowly. 

The knot of emotions in her chest gets tangled even more, like when she was first learning embroidery and left herself too much thread.  Suddenly, she remembers first waking from the coma, the harp song in the background when she mumbled to Harthalín and—

“That was you, wasn’t it?” The words are accusing, even if the tone isn’t. 

He blinks.

“When I woke up,” she says, frowning. “You were the one at the harp, weren’t you?”

He bows his head – whether from shame or acknowledgement, she cannot tell.

“So–” Heat scalds at her throat again. “So…” She hates this, she hates stammering, she hates not being able to articulate her point. “Why? Why did it take you two ages?”

“The Silmarils burned us,” Maglor says, as if that were the only explanation needed. 

“Do you think that matters to me?” She snaps, finally able to look Maglor in the eyes, to see pain reflected there. “Maybe that line worked on… on the Morinel in your head– but–”  

She takes a deep breath and rises from her bed to pluck half-heartedly at her loom – carefully avoiding Maglor's eyes as she fidgets with her shuttle. 

“Oh, Morinel,” Maglor says, his voice soft and tired and despairing. “You didn’t want me around, not really. You say that now but you don’t understand.”

“Do not tell me how I felt then,” she says, more fiercely than she meant to. The spool of mithril thread grounds her as she reminds herself to breathe.

“I didn’t want people whispering about you,” Maglor says quietly, “Or Celebrimbor. I know they would have, if you had received visits from your kinslaying-uncle.”

She laughs despairingly, turning to face him again. 

“They already did whisper about us! A Fëanorian who works with thread –” and she lifts the basket full of spools as if to demonstrate her point, “– in weaving and embroidery both…” 

Morinel smiles bitterly then, tucking a braid out of her face. 

“You can imagine, I’m sure, the rumors that started and Celebrimbor always had it worse – as a smith, as the eldest of the two of us, for his resemblance to his father and to Grandfather.”

She takes a breath.

“We looked. I looked.” 

The words come out like she is carving them into marble, torturously slow but the tangle of knots in her chest unravels the tiniest bit. He makes a sound of surprise, and she smiles, though it comes out like a grimace. 

“Those first decades after the war were hard,” she says. “I had questions, and I’m sure he did too.”

She feels very young again, a child amidst the days of the War of Wrath. 

“I– We– thought you were dead.”  Then, so quiet, she’s not sure if he even hears: “And we thought that if you were not dead that you must have been angry with us.”

Silence again. 

Maglor isn’t looking at her this time, and she tightens her grip on the mithril spool in her hand for reassurance.

“I was—I was trying to protect you both.” 

The words sound as difficult to say as Morinel’s own admission. “I know how difficult it was to love Feanorians in those days.”

“Not as difficult as it was to be one.”  

(This time her response is easy, because it is true.)

They stand in an impasse, in silence. 

Finally, she manages to say what she’d been wondering (and fearing) the response to. “Why… Why did you show yourself to Elrond, and not us, then?”

A pause, and she watches the tossing waves in the harbor. 

“There was very little choice in the matter.”

Maglor’s lips quirk.

“It happened by chance. He saw the smoke of my campfire.” The words sting a little, and she knows that they should not. “And I think, part of it, is I was scared of your reactions.” He shrugs. “I was running.”

She winces as she takes a seat at her loom, and gestures for Maglor to sit at her desk. 

“I am sorry,” she says, after a long, long moment of anxiously passing her shuttle from hand to hand. “About what I said.”

Maglor gives her a crooked half-smile. 

“I deserved most of it, if it makes you feel better.”

She shakes her head and rises – almost as soon as she sits down, because she had never been one for sitting still – to start taking down the tapestry she’d finished on her last visit to Mithlond. 

“It doesn’t,” she says, digging through her basket before finding her favorite tapestry needle. 

With deft and skilled movement – she’s done this often enough it’s almost second nature – she weaves the loose threads at the top back into the weave.

“I hold myself to higher standards than that, and what I said was…” she pauses, frowning as she paused, looking for words. “Not kind. I am very sorry.”

She bends to do the same for the lower part of the frame before deciding to just sit cross-legged on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Maglor looks like he is going to say something, but decides otherwise at the last moment. 

She looks up to meet his eyes, halfway through the bottom half of the tapestry. “If you have something to say, I would prefer you say it, you know. I have been a little too honest, and it is only fair that you are offered the same.”

Another crooked smile. 

“I was only going to say that thinking before you spoke has never been your strong suit, but I was not sure if that would be too familiar of a thing to say after… everything.”

To Morinel’s surprise, she actually laughs as she goes back to weaving her loose ends back into the tapestry. 

“You aren’t wrong,” she says, shaking her head. “Though, I like to imagine that over the years as a councilor that I learned to be a little diplomatic. Clearly, I was too hopeful.”

She cuts through the looped warp threads holding the tapestry at the bottom and she stands to cut the loops at the top. 

The tapestry comes loose once she pulls it free, and she’d forgotten how heavy they could get as she staggers backward before she regains her balance, and drops it onto her bed. 

Morinel comes back to the loom and with the tapestry gone it looks forlornly empty – throughout the years she has always been working on something, though she could go months or years taking breaks from her current project. 

The only time she can truly remember it being empty was in the first few weeks after she’d commissioned it – those weeks were her trying to bring herself to actually use without feeling like she was tempting fate. 

This loom has been her companion throughout the ages and she knows its quirks and oddities better than any other she’d practiced on, and Cirdan had said, when she asked, that she could bring it with her if she wished. 

She’d been uncertain before, but her mind is made up now.

“Would you like some help, or would you prefer to handle it yourself?”

The request is made casually, making Morinel free to accept or decline, and she appreciates the choice.

“I think help would be nice,” she says softly, and her uncle rises to come stand by the loom.

Things may not be entirely mended between them yet, but they were getting there. 

[batsyforyou]

Hi! For the WIP folder ask game, would you share more about... (I know it's a lot but all perk up myne ears ^^)

Lunch with Glorfindel would include . . . 

Taking the elves to therapy would be like . . . 

Taking Feanor to therapy would be like . . . (Family therapy gone horribly wrong) 

Crawling into the tunic and shirts of the elves would include . . . (could also work as being overwhelmed) 

Eonwe the bird (as a bird) undercover work working as a human 

Distracting Caranthir 

Sorry for the late reply! I kept trying to answer and my brain was like "WrItE iT AlL" but I don't got time for that lmao so it took a minute.

Lunch with Glorfindel is my headcanons for how having a platonic lunch with Glorfindel would be like, 1st meeting lunch with Glorfindel and Elrond, all the way to romantic lunch with Glorfindel and yourself.

For taking the elves to theraphy I was mostly thinking about pairing certian elves together and what they might discuss, in a mini headcanon kind of way, to add as many elves as possible into one post and I was gonna expand on it in more detail later.

Taking Feanor to therpahy would be something simalir to the previously stated one but in a Feanor talking to Finwe about his mom, like "Why wasn't I enough?" maybe a little bit of dailogue with his brothers and then later his wife and how she might of felt about him leaving and then his childern and him talking about things I personally think would bother the sons of Feanor.

For crawling into the shirts of the elves I have some written already like Elrond for example. I wanted the relationships to be romantic because I can't imagine crawling into shirts would be very plantonic lol but idk. I wanted to do reactions of the elves some being like "WhO HuRt YoU" vibes and others like "aw baby" lol

I thought the Eonwe bird thing could be a fun set of headcanons for Eonwe doing a little bit of scouting in the human villages when he and the others first arrive in Middle Earth. Basicilly he was just chilling and as a bird got sniped by someone (not naming names lol) and the reader being a lady finding him because of his distressed cries of his "ARE YOU KIDDING ME RN!?!?!?" And how his day to day life of living with this lady is like while his wing mends and then later he comes back to the human village as an elf and/or human to see what she is up to and make sure she is safe because he has feelings of attachment to her though he isn't sure what kind. And him overthinking to a point of like "I shouldn't visit this village often. If the enemy hears of my visits here then these people would be put in danger" but really he is concerned about his girl. And I thought about writing a bigger piece of this in a mini series from him meeting her as a bird and him living there to visiting and then meeting her and then a while later possibly (maybe) burning building and her maybe dying in his arms and him still being nice enough guy to tell Sauron to go home.

POSSIBLE SUGGESTIVE CONTENT only because I haven't decided if I'm comfortable with writing that but its mostly how I imagine the reader would distract Cara (and me mentally poking this elf's ears lmao)

And thats it really! Thank you for being interested!!! <3

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Elrond and Celebrian’s wedding thoughts

I’ve had this really weird idea about how the brutality of the first and second age in which so many elves have lived could influence certain traditions, especially the Noldor exiles because I think they did a very sharp u turn from ‘all I’ve known is bliss’ to ‘the world is composed of fire and corpses’ and went well off the deep end a lot quicker than the Sindar did. Because the Sindar adjusted to the darkness a lot less violently and suddenly than the Noldor did and are just generally more stable seeming, less entirely batshit insane (because of course all the Noldor exiles present in First Age Beleriand are the batshit insane ones who either burnt the ships or crossed the Helcaraxe).

So the Noldor are so focused on war that it inserts itself into every aspect of their lives including ceremonies because how is anything meant to be binding without blood spilled? Bonds are forged by saving each other in battle, avenging a lost friend with a bloodthirsty rampage, how are words meant to hold weight or impact over the life and death situations that define them? So I think that in certain factions, at certain points, it becomes tradition for there always to be some form of blood involved in a wedding ceremony.

How varies, probably it originated from people just straight up getting married on the battlefield one time too many, seems like a very Noldor thing to do (no I’m not talking about the LACE kind of wedding before anyone’s mind goes there). Then it evolves to different things, scrapes along hands before linking them, cuts on knuckles before bringing them to lips, slicing a finger and leaving a bloody mark over the partners heart or on their forehead, or (my personal favourite) cutting the lips before kissing so the blood mingles.

This brings me to the main point of this ramble which is that Elrond and Celebrian by the start of the Third Age are some of the only people who still value this tradition. Despite their extremely different upbringings fundamentally, and this of course is up to personal interpretation as we know very little about Celebrian sadly, I’d say they were both born into the world at the point of apocalypse, desensitised to violence. Very used to the sense of impending doom and willing to take any hope or joy when they can. They are fundamentally children of the first age and it shows.

Mirkwood obviously doesn’t do this because they obviously aren’t Noldor and don’t have those kind of traditions (because they aren’t that mental) and Lothlorien probably wouldn’t because it’s predominantly Sindar (and also more chill) and since a good proportion of the First Age elves are either dead or in Valinor by the end of the second age suffice it to say everyone who is at their wedding thinks it’s concerning when they pull out their ‘good daggers’ and prick their lips before embracing, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes and grinning wildly all the time as if there’s nothing messed up at all about the fact they brought daggers to their wedding.

Thranduil expected there to be at least one disturbing Noldor feature of the day, his father gave him enough vague warnings, not that he ever thought he’d end up at a Noldo’s wedding, and he’d certainly no hopes of Celebrian being a tempering influence on Elrond’s blatant Feanorian sympathies with how much she loved to wreak havoc but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of little droplets of blood smearing on their mouths as they pressed their lips together, otherwise perfectly romantically. He does not attend any more weddings in Rivendell after that.

Galadriel and Celeborn probably married in a Sindarin way but they find the gesture touching anyway, not unusual in the slightest but more quaint, a true symbolic end to the previous ages in the joining of the last descendants of Finwë in the wartime fashion before an age of peace.

Is there a possibility Arwen and Aragorn did it too? Absolutely and Legolas has thoughts on it which he will be bemoaning to Gimli the entire ceremony.

[et-cant-phone-home-no-signal]

Reacting to: “Finding Celebrían” written by Tumblr user balrogballs

This is a reaction to this wonderful essay, please give the essay a read, and just a note that this is just me writing my rambling thoughts, feelings and reaction to this stunning piece of writing.

Celebrían did not mean much to me the first time I was exposed to the Lord of the Rings, in fact, I didn’t know she existed until I picked up the books for the first time roughly 6 years after I’d first watched the films at age 10. My relationship to Tolkien’s works is once of a long-suffering lover who knows and sees all of the faults, cracks and missing chunks, and forgives it anyway because the rest of it is beautiful and fulfilling, despite its faults. But as I’ve gotten older, and wiser, and more experienced in many different ways, I’ve come to appreciate Tolkien’s cracks and missing pieces, perhaps more so than the pictures that are yet whole to enjoy. Celebrían is one of these missing pieces.

The opening of this essay immediately had me going “yes, agreed”, because I too was expecting so much more when I first found Cel in those Appendices and notes. The emphasis put here on Cel’s torment is such an important thing to hone in on, because in a world where there is such beauty, which Tolkien describes readily, for the wife of such a great elf lord as Elrond to decide that the pain she had endured was so much, and so heavy, and so irreparable, that the better choice was for her to leave the shores of Middle-Earth, and her family, behind. Lovers of lotr and Tolkien’s other works are not unfamiliar with the concepts of torture, war, consequences of actions and of death, but it’s still a striking word to use, especially in the context of the Appendices. Seeing this being pointed out certainly made me feel some sense of relief, that indeed I’m no the only one who sees.

Now, The Fields means something specific to Miss Balls, and this entire segment of the essay had me putting my phone down and willing my gathering tears to chill out and leave so I could keep reading. The tone of this section, as well as the vulnerability, made me pause and reflect on why I was feeling so upset at reading it. What about this was resonating with me? I don’t see myself has having my Field, rather, I have many Fields spread across many places. I did not have a steady Field growing up, and the one that I wish I could return to, the original comfort, is something far-off and distant to me; a hazy remnant of my childhood, so old and wrinkly I can no longer be sure of its cosy details. All of my other Fields however… I start to understand why this section is making me want to scream into a pillow. Most of my other Fields are withered, and they too became things I could no longer stand to look at, though I myself have never even considered the concept of cPTSD being a part of my (already damaged) psyche, but this writing has definitely opened a can of worms that was simply waiting to be found. I’m not sure whether to thank you, or curse you out.

Anway.

Following Cel became a natural pathway to trying to understand what was going on with her, but also what was going on with me. By the time she became a true interest in my life, I was already knee-deep into my own lotr writing project, one that’s been years in the making. Suddenly, I had to think about where Celebrían would fit in this narrative, on what kind of things she might say, or do, or like. How do you write someone who exists only in footnotes? As nothing more than a name in passing, another female tragedy, another missing wife. Like Miss Balls, I tried to find her, and felt cold disappointment when I found little to nothing for my efforts. How awful, to be a part of a world so wonderful and bright and big as Middle-Earth, and still be left behind in the shadows, like so many others. “I couldn’t find her in the story.” - and I could not either.

Now, I quote an entire paragraph, because I must. “But I think that was always what drew me to her, that absence. I didn’t find myself in Celebrían, but in the footnote that gestured to her presence. It wasn’t that I understood her so much as I knew how to decrypt the desperate scratches left behind by someone who drowned on dry land. That was how she and I were truly alike: people who wanted to change the world, or a little part of it, and did, did something good - and had all of it forgotten, crammed into a footnote read with a tender, pitying fret.” - I had a whole paragraph of words lined up when I first read this, hell, I was practically cheering in my seat, going “yes! exactly!” as I felt a connection with the words on my screen, but I think the visual of that reaction alone tells more than I ever could in a measly paragraph. The way Miss Balls writes Celebrían, the joy and craziness, the sweet tooth, everything that makes her her, is born within whatever has been unwritten. Cel is not just what we make of her in writing, but rather what she can be to use outside of it, what she is to the world she lives in. I’ve been finding her in my own writing, her small eccentricities that make her more than a footnote. My Cel hates bees, and she loves the colour purple, and she delights in eating with her hands. When I read “I don’t know, if I’m being honest, whether Celebrían changed me, or if I changed her. Whether change is an instant or a process, whether this version of almost-Celebrían mattered to anyone but myself.” I understand, and I wonder just how many version of Cel are out there - how many of us have read this footnote and decided that she was going to be so much more than what is assumed of her.

For Miss Balls, leaving The Fields is written as this freeing (yet scary) necessity (and feel free to tell me I’m talking bullshit, because at the end of the day, I am just an outsider looking in and reading an essay that makes me feel like my heart is going to implode on itself). And it brings me great joy to read this section in which freedom from the place that you perhaps don’t actually know you want to leave, until all of a sudden, you just know, because yeah, it really do be like that sometimes. I can agree with and understand Celebrían being a guide of sorts, at least mentally, because yes, she would not judge, she would understand and applaud. She would sit both of us down, as we leave our Fields behind, and offer us a (too sweet) glass of lemonade and say ‘it isn’t over yet’ with the kindest smile and a twinkle in her eye. The concept of being a “cracked vessel” applies not just to Cel, but to me as well, and I hated being confronted with that, but it’s a reminder that that is not all you are. And now my words begin to make less sense, so let’s slow it down, shall we?

Miss Balls speaks true; all of us that are sucked in by Celebrían are mirrors of a kind. There is no such thing as one Celebrían, and I don’t think there ever could be. The beauty of loving a character who is nobody, is that she can be everybody. I too had to write Celebrían to find her, or at least my version of her, and all of her idiosyncrasies, some of which are still hidden to me. It doesn’t all have to be said, if fact, I think that most of it goes unsaid, in the ways in which she thinks, and walks, and talks, in the colours that she wears, in the shoes (or lack thereof), in the way she styles her hair… “I look at her now, as she is in my head, and there Celebrían is neither alive nor dead.” - And as Miss Balls looks into her dusty wing mirror, so I do too look in mine. My mirror is not dusty, and it does not belong to me, but it is cracked and holding on by a thread. The girl in that mirror is stuck in some of those Fields, and she looks different in every single one, but just maybe, she can be consoled. I know for a fact that my Celebrían would know what to do.

After note: Miss Balls you make me cry, but I’ve been meaning to read this essay since I first saw you published it. Now that I finally have, I just could not stop thinking, and these thoughts flowed out onto my keyboard with such relative ease (relative mind you compared to whatever my writing capability is at any given moment) that I almost felt like should have bit the bullet days ago. Anyway, I encourage everyone to read the essay, especially if you have any love or feeling toward Celebrían because damn. Damn.

Finding Celebrían

For Tolkien Meta Week — an essay on autofiction, archives, healing, and why I moved across the country after finding out Elrond Peredhel had a wife. Being an essayist irl, believe me when I say I was thrilled to see @silmarillionwritersguild have the personal essay form as a format for Tolkien Meta Week! Here's something from the heart - warning for discussion of cPTSD and (non explicit) references to violence.

When I first found Celebrían in a footnote, I wrapped up warm and followed, certain she'd lead me to where she truly lived in the text.

By that point, it had been a good decade or so since I first read Tolkien – I had been aware that Elrond had a wife, and assumed she was dead or hung up in some other cold meat locker alongside a procession of wives spanning literary history.

It was only years later that I properly came across her, and blinked, realising she was a cursory line which led to a footnote in Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, one which referred to her torment in passing, meant to explain why the sons of Elrond and to an extent Elrond himself, were the way they were. 

Fridging was one thing, but torment was another entirely, I thought — and so casually! Tea and torment in the Third Age, tra-la-lally traumatised into "losing all joy" in Middle-Earth and leaving the year after, taking ship to Valinor and leaving behind a grieving family. It was simple curiosity, really, until it turned into a cold, familiar grasp: the clear-cut knowledge of exactly what sort of torment it would have been, that drove away the wife of a noble lord living in what was very clearly described as being one of the last great sanctuaries in a ravaged realm. 

But to understand why The Footnote stopped me in my tracks, I need to tell you about The Fields. 

When I speak of The Fields (which are of course not really fields and neither are they called The Fields anywhere but here), I refer to one of the most beautiful spots in the country. The Fields combined the peaceful pastoral with quaint urban charm, rustic without being remote, safe without being detached. I lived in The Fields for several years, and made a little life for myself that grew into something bigger. 

I had been an activist in The Fields — moved from scrappy student to card-carrying revolutionary — and I did it because I loved where I lived very, very much, enough to think I could kiss it better. And I was good, I was! I belonged on the stage in that sense, I was invited to panel after panel, talk after talk, and I stood on little podiums that grew alongside me. I knew how to carry myself, present myself, leveraged my palatability and conventionality in return for rights and bare-minimum environmental reparations. 

Such wonders, of course, came with a cost I hadn’t foreseen — an incident, a couple really, that tossed a diagnosis of cPTSD into my lap and turned my lovely home into The Fields. And because I had been so good at presenting myself and clambering on podiums with shiny hair, the incidents became the talk of the town, and I in turn very quickly became a subject, the walking, talking cost of resistance. 

A feature of cPTSD, one that sets it apart from PTSD, is the overarching dullness with which the emotional flashbacks grasp you. Not like being plucked off the surface of the earth by a monstrous thing, but rather drowning quietly in sludge you never realised was beneath your feet in the first place. There was never a thing that terrified me about The Fields, it was only ever a quiet, creeping mass taking over everything, and in being so — easy to ignore and disguise. 

I love The Fields, I told myself, even after. I loved The Fields, even though life had turned into air and static, and I had turned into an unfeeling thing. I lived in the middle of that little city but felt as though I was in a small hut on no-man's land, or a joint security area, suspended between towers. I couldn't stand the wonderful hills and valleys, so I tried my hardest to cling onto the reasons I loved them, tried to medicate them back into my heart with the forcefulness of a pacemaker. I shoved things down throats and up noses, walked back onto all those stages, turned myself into an electric hearse chasing a long-dead dragon. I would walk around The Fields on some nights, very cold and very young, the bleached bones left behind by something very promising. 

Can you see why I stopped still at Appendix A, at Celebrían? I tried to follow her, and see where her story began, and what wonders it would end in, because if Celebrían's story ended in wonder then maybe, there might be a chance, perhaps….. 

It would be easy, I thought, I was a writer, a journalist, a researcher - I trained in asking questions and knowing things, even sticky, stunted, back-of-the-throat things that you'd rather not catch sight of in a mirror. The History of Middle Earth book sets were ordered, fresh copies of all the old texts, magnifying glasses held over Unfinished Tales. 

I’d been so certain I would find her. That Celebrían would ramble across page after page, legs dangling over the edge and an indolent expression fizzing on her face. She would be stubborn and glorious and righteous in her fervor to change the world. I would find her in the flesh, and then no longer would I stand in The Fields each night, hollow-eyed, self-haunting spectre holding myself thrall to a single series of events in what has been, objectively, a lovely, loving life.

But a full month went by, and all I found was footnote after endnote after cursory mention, almost all of them clothing her in torment, growing stiff and sharp against the tooth of the page: vicious, like a blade angled backwards. For Celebrían and I, the richest text in the world turned into a landscape of loss. 

What a wonderful, rich, textured world you have!

All the better to swallow you whole, my dear. 

I couldn't find her in the story. I spent weeks and weeks on her, and I couldn't find her in the story and by then I had already fancied myself and Celebrían to be counterparts, like if she laughed, I would laugh too, like if she ran, then I would run too, and if she was lost, then… well. I suppose it shows the power of an enduring text. I had a PhD, at that point I had just gotten my publishing deal through, I'd spoken on all those podiums and done all those real-world, adult things, and still I was not immune to the indulgent tether of a good old self-insert. And then it turned out we were not counterparts but rather more akin to co-morbidities, that The Footnote and its friends were all I would ever know of Celebrían. 

It was summer, I remember, but my hands were cold — autopsy-fingers, my partner called them. Archive-fingers, autopsy-fingers, scrabbling around to find nothing, no indication as to how Celebrían's story truly ended and why I was the person I was. The texts shifted uneasily under my hands, like the Professor himself was turning out his pockets and shrugging, reminding me that it was neither Celebrían's nor my story, not really. Pointed me back to The Footnote like it was a pacifier, and still I turned in circles like a dog chasing its tail, looking for other instances of her name. I found nothing. I began to fear that I had wasted my life.

The Footnote started to blur across weeks, and soon it turned itself into My Footnote. The one I had found, a year or so before the hunt, in a fantastic, recently published book that spoke about activism in The Fields, where I came face to face with myself. But there, I hadn't been standing on a podium or being interviewed or writing pressure pieces or anything I had really, truly done, but I was instead a single footnote — condensed into the things that had happened to me, as opposed to the things I had made happen. As the months went on, I looked for references to myself in new books, newspapers, magazines — and I would find myself, but in the same scrap of footnote, wearing the same costume of torment, tragic poster children of a violent world. 

I sat there looking at the thousands and thousands of pages in the legendarium, the stack of books on things I had worked upon, statutes I had pulled down and little laws I had changed. And then at the scraps of Celebrían and I, reduced to scribbles and crossing outs in the margins. It was like we never lived at all. It seems a rather childish reaction, perhaps, to not finding the story you want in a book you bought. Still, that afternoon, when I put down the last page of HoME I had access to, I crawled into bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying very hard to not touch even the bedclothes around me.

But I think that was always what drew me to her, that absence. I didn't find myself in Celebrían, but in the footnote that gestured to her presence. It wasn't that I understood her so much as I knew how to decrypt the desperate scratches left behind by someone who drowned on dry land. That was how she and I were truly alike: people who wanted to change the world, or a little part of it, and did, did something good — and had all of it forgotten, crammed into a footnote read with a tender, pitying fret. 

But that's not canonical, is it? Yes, her absence shaped the story of the Ring War in certain regards. But who said Celebrían, Celebrían the Person, not Celebrían the Footnote — had ever changed anything, let alone the world in which she lived?

Simple – I did.

My Celebrían was a complete nutcase. I wrote her as a daughter born to a borderline-squirrel of a wood elf, who herself hated small creatures with a passion. I had her take off her shoe and beat earwigs to death, had her talk the ear off a perpetually grieving mother, irritate a kinslayer into planting a pine forest, and threaten the High King with a shovel. She would shove cotton in her ears to block out her husband's snoring, and put four teaspoons of sugar in her tea. She bribed her sons to dispose of a snake, and demanded magical healing for a little scrape on her forehead. 

I cut her into familiar shapes: the shape of someone who spent months unable to bear the slightest touch, whose loved one slept on the floor beside the bed, clinging to a listless hand dangled off the side. The shape of a small house in a forest, and the shape of a wonderful ending, in which she truly did change the world in all the ways she could. I don't know, if I'm being honest, whether Celebrían changed me, or if I changed her. Whether change was an instant or a process, whether this version of almost-Celebrían mattered to anyone but myself. I knew one thing though — my Celebrían is a thousand footnotes long, and counting. 

Footnotes, like most things in the archive, are of course caging things: keeping unpalatable violence in the past, or at least elsewhere, keeping the here and now good and quiet. It's easier to outsource healing and rediscovery to other places, to archives and museums and books and Valinor. Was being a footnote a punishment? What’s worse, being pickled wrongly or never being pickled at all? Was this yet another installment of the cautionary tale stretching all the way through time and reality from Celebrían to me; footnotes about women who held themselves thrall to the memory of violence, who lived as well as they could, till they couldn’t? Would it have been better if she never existed at all?

I don't know. All I know for certain is this: at some point between finding Celebrían and writing her, I moved out of The Fields and across the country.

It had been a long time coming. But for years, I had thought I would weather living in The Fields because even after the Torment, the Footnote, the Diagnosis, I never felt a disconnect from the place, because I was still extroverted and irritating and fizzing with the desire to stay in the Fields and love it, as I had always done. And then suddenly, I wanted to run.

It wasn't as if Celebrían burned The Fields down, leaving me there to watch flames eating its flat, starless sky. But what she did was this: carefully take off my rose-tinted glasses, and say run —- this earth has swallowed you whole. 

I had assumed it was my fault, my attachment to The Fields, that I was looking at things wrong, that I was maintaining unhealthy attachments to sites of trauma, prioritising the wrong perspectives, the body keeps an atlas and all that. But Celebrían did not call me crazy. Celebrían was not the kind of person who would ever call you crazy. She was the kind of person who would lay in a wide-open field beside you and ask you what you were looking at. 

And when you say "oh, just up at the big sky", she wouldn't probe. She would know exactly what you mean when you didn't say "-- because there is nothing ahead of me", and she wouldn't say a word about how the ground around you was soft with decay, reeking like a corpse, that you were caught in the straggling grass of its hair. 

She would instead shrug, wink, and point you towards Gollum, because of course she would. She would tell you that Tolkien, ever the Catholic, had drawn out a perfect depiction of what might have happened if Lazarus was left in that cave. And then she would say, run, for god's sake, girl, run, and you would. I did!

How stubbornly we all cling to the idea of staying fixed until being fixed, to the idea of a ready-made Valinor to sail to if we do well enough at life, stay still enough in the margins! How faithfully we believe that if you spend enough time being a very, very good cracked vessel, maybe one day you might feel the quiet triumph of bearing water again. Celebrían, not the Celebrían of The Footnote but my Cel, the manic pixie freakshow of Imladris, said shut the fuck up and run. That it was no use hungering for the impossible and thumbing listlessly though footnotes, and to instead run, and run, and start digging a garden at the ground you come to a stop at because it is only in new soil that something gentle could unfold unbidden. That as time passes, you will belong less and less to the ground you left behind and more and more to the ground you walk upon, to the new trees and new hills around you, to those who love you still.

Run! she said. How alive you looked, hunting for me. How badly you craved my story. See? There are still stories you crave. You are still human enough to crave. Run! 

I think many of us who love this brief, inexorable footnote of a Celebrían, whether we read her or write her, are bound by a similar truth: that in her we caught sight of something within ourselves. All around the world, these tiny, unflinching mirrors in Appendix A and the rest, tie together and create a hundred different Celebríans, all part of the same thread, each version carrying its own burden, though rarely do we ever acknowledge it in each other. It's a quiet nod, an unspoken connection, a reminder that we are all more alike and less alone than a cursory footnote might imply.

To find Celebrían, I had to write her. And in turn, she wrote me in her image. I look at her now, as she is in my head, and there Celebrían is neither alive nor dead. No, what is most clear in my mind is a girl in a dusty wing mirror, a life packed into boxes, sunglasses sliding down her nose. One hand sandwiched in an ordnance map, prying the pages open, hurtling at a perfectly legal speed down an M-road, The Fields growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller in the rearview mirror. Not gone, not truly, but invisible to the naked eye, unless you know exactly where to look. A grain of sand in a bucket of water, a single, sad-looking fish half-buried on a tropical beach. A finger to the past, a wave from a window, a footnote in an appendix.