#mablung

[fingolfinwiththesteelchair]

Mightiest Elf Fight Club Side A

Vote on Side B HERE

These elves are competing in a tournament! I don't like brackets, so below, select the elf in this group that you think would come in LAST, I repeat, vote for the elf in LAST PLACE. The elf you vote for will be ELIMINATED from fight club

The sister poll with more options is located HERE

Find PROPAGANDA and MIGHTY DEEDS below the cut

Feanor: You love him! You hate him! It's Feanor, one of the biggest driving forces behind the entire Silmarillion! Feanor invented weapons before anyone else in Aman had done it. He called Actually demigod-Satan a bitch to his face, and then slammed a door in it. Feanor left Elf-Heaven, took the ships of the Teleri by force, and fought against the armies of Morgoth before the sun and moon even existed, falling only to a large group of Balrogs! Weaknesses: Silmarils, oaths

Finarfin: A High King of the Noldor, Finarfin was smart enough to stay in elf-heaven, but brave enough to venture into middle earth to fight in the War of Wrath at the end of the first age, leading the noldor from Valinor, helping to put an end to Morgoth's time in Middle Earth for good. Weaknesses: common sense kept him out of most of the Silmarillion

Finwe: The First King of the Noldor, and among the first of the elves to heed the call from the Valar and arrive in Valinor. When Melkor attacked, Finwe was the only one brave enough to stand his ground and fight one on one against Melkor. Weaknesses: Prophecies

Luthien: Luthien, fairest to have ever lived, used her powers to free herself from her father, gain the help of Huan the Hound. She passed through the gates of Angband, past the great wolf Carcharoth, and then used her powers and a dance to put Morgoth himself, and everyone there, in to a deep, enchanted. She then rescued her boyfriend, stole Morgoth's crown, and fled Angband with her love. Weaknesses: Beren

Thingol: When Morgoth returned to Middle Earth after centuries in Valinor, he attempted to attack the people of Middle Earth, but Thingol's kingdom repelled the attack, not allowing a single orc to enter Doriath. After all the time spent with his hot Maia wife, Thingol was left changed, and was the tallest of the Children of Iluvatar. Weaknesses: Dwarves

Mablung: One of the greatest captains of the Sindar, Mablung helped hunt down the wolf Carcharoth to retrieve the Silmaril the wolf had swallowed; Mablung was the one who cut the jewel - and Beren's hand - from the werewolf's stomach. Weaknesses: Heavy hands

Ecthelion: Ecthelion fought in, and survived, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Not only was he one of the few named characters to slay a Balrog, he was the one who slayed Gothmog, the Lord of the Balrogs. Weaknesses: Being too sexy to live, wearing armor in water

Fingon: He walked into Morgoth's domain, rescued Maedhros, and then flew right back out with an injured Maedhros, leaving Morgoth wondering what the hell happened to the elf had chained to a rock for thirty years. Fingon fought in many battles against the forces of Morgoth. When Morgoth sent Orcs to attack Hithlum, Fingon beat the tar out of them so thoroughly that Morgoth invented dragons. Weaknesses: Gothmog

[man2al]

trying new style and mehhh

eowyn

young eowyn & faramir

legolas and gimli, of course

nienor and mablung

undomiel and tindomiel

twt doodle account: @Ma_n2_al

🩵 do not repost, reupload, save or use my work elsewhere 🩵

[lyrien-arts]

Okay phew!! My biggest Tolkien-related art to date, part of a school assignment. featuring Mablung and Beleg and my OCs and one unnamed guy.

top row, left to right: Mablung, Lirien, unnamed elf, Taer, Faelon, Idhrenes, Beleg

bottom row, left to right: Pelinel, Pethron, Calithil

[whosthatsilmcharacter]

(All art used with EXPRESS permission of the artist)

[lycheesodas]

ship dynamic 💭💬

[violecov]

Doriath gang!!

(next ->)

[nevui-penim-miruvorrr]

Mablung

COMISSIONS OPEN !

8$-ONE character CHEST UP with color( every fandom, oc’s, etc)

10$ ONE character WAIST UP with color

16$ TWO  characters CHEST UP with color( every fandom, oc’s, etc)

20$ TWO characters WAIST UP with COLOR

25$-ONE character  FULL BODY WITH COLOR

40$-TWO characters  FULL BODY   with COLOR

50$-i don’t want put the word with nsxx or i will be flagged lol  + COLOR + FULL BODY  

i don’t do, mechas,background or armors too complicated

*only paypal

[fistfuloflightning]

I’m glad I came in time.

AU where Mablung doesn’t waste three years searching for Nienor 🥺

[batsyforyou]

A Wild Puddle Encounter!

Tags: Puddles, water

Author's Note: So, I went to bed last night and was smacked with this idea. It kept me really entertained so I hope someone gets a giggle out of it, cause I did.

Taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese

Would lift you over the puddle, help you over 

Glorfindel, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Beleg, Ecthelion, Thranduil, Gildor, Elrond, Finarfin, Fingolfin, Feanor, Finrod, Caranthir, Celebrimbor, Meludir

Would walk through the puddle and tease you about avoiding it 

Celegorm, Beleg, Mablung, Curufin, Feanor, Maeglin, Thranduil, Glorfindel, Fingon, Legolas, Celebrimbor

Would purposely splash the puddle 

Elladan, (me), Celegorm, Curufin (the not fun version), Meludir, Amras, Amrod, Fingon, Legolas

Would take off their cloak and put it over the puddle for you too cross

Finarfin, Fingolfin, Glorfindel, Gil Galad. Eonwe, Irmo, Finrod, Celebrimbor

Would avoid it, walk around

Erestor, Maedhros, Lindir, Curufin, Feanor, Elrohir, Caranthir, Turgon, Caranthir, Maglor

Would notice you avoiding it and make you “Embrace the suck” by making you walk through it

Sauron, Feren, Gildor, Namo, Haldir, 

Could not care it exists and walks straight through 

Eonwe, Celegorm, Mablung, Maedhros, Namo, Ulmo, Beleg, Legolas, Haldir, Eol, Sauron, Ulmo, Celebrimbor,

Would walk through the puddle while complaining or with a grimace on their face

Lindir, Turgon, Caranthir, Elrohir 

Happily splashes the puddle and later complains about their boots being wet

Elladan, Amras, Amrod, (me)

Would challenge it to a fight Pokémon style 

Glorfindel, Celegorm, Beleg, Fingon, Elladan, (me)

masterlist

[cryptidlark]

coming up with designs for my fave children of húrin characters

[annoyinglandmagazine]

I love the idea of Finweans being transported into Years of the Trees Valinor as much as the next person but you know what I think could be just hilarious for a crack concept? A Sinda being transported into Years of The Trees Valinor. Think Beleg, Mablung, Daeron or maybe even Thingol himself (preferably with no one knowing who they are) getting out of Mandos and into Valinor but they don’t realise immediately that this isn’t current Valinor.

Thingol sees Maglor Feanorian in the marketplace which is a shock already because why would he get out before him but he doesn’t even have the decency to offer apologies when he sees them, how dare he in fact wait a minute he’s waving at him? What’s going on here why is he being friendly, he shouldn’t be able to be that friendly after killing so many people? Does he feel no guilt?

Mostly though for Thingol’s world to get absolutely shattered at meeting Maitimo Nelyafinwe, who yes technically is Maedhros Feanorian but how?! He doesn’t recognise Thingol of course so when he notices he seems a bit shaken by something he’s all polite and considerate and guides him to a bench before clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly and fetching him some tea. With the two hands he now has somehow.

And he sits with him and tries to find out if he’s alright but Thingol’s too confused to run like his life depends on it (and since this is the infamous Lord of Himring it might) because what is he even wearing? That’s practically a gown, not one he’d want to see Luthien in either, he’s not even wearing armour or carrying a blade? And he’s still smiling and it doesn’t look even slightly forced and his hair is actually long, not normal long either it’s down to his thighs for goodness sake.

All hope of sanity disappears when someone who looks no older than 20, comes up to them and starts tugging on Maedhros’ sleeve impatiently, ‘Nelyo, Nelyo, I can’t reach the tools I need for a project.’ Why in all of Arda would a child be approaching Maedhros Feanorian for anything? Why would they not be running in terror and avoiding him at all costs?

Maedhros shot him a conspiratorial glance as if he’d enjoy being in on some joke with a kinslayer ‘That’s most likely a sign you shouldn’t be using them Curufinwë,’ Curufinwë as in Curufin, possibly worse than even Maedhros himself. Of course it was.

‘But Nelyo.’

He smiled apologetically and asked him if he was feeling well enough now. He assured him he was mostly to get him out of his sight long enough to process the interaction and Maedhros Feanorian beamed at him, ‘Alright then, just feel free to come to me if you need anything, I’m always happy to help and Uncle Ara is very good at giving advice if something’s bothering you if you’d prefer.’

Then he stood, making Thingol concerned enough about the loose swathes of material to look away as a precautionary measure (was this a seduction attempt? He’d never heard of the Lord of Himring employing such dishonourable tactics but did he really know anything anymore?) and swept the child who could not be Curufin into his arms spinning him around above his head until he was in fits of giggles, ‘Now how about we ask Ammë about your project and if she says no I can take you somewhere instead? There’s an exhibition on in the city you might like? Sound good to you?’

The person who has to have just stolen the face of the eldest son of Feanor walked off with the elfling balanced easily against his hip and chatting away. This must be a weird fever dream.

[cuthalions]

Then Glaurung passed into his lair, and the sun went down and grey evening came chill over the land. But MABLUNG hastened back to Amon Ethir, and as he climbed to the top the stars came out in the east. Against them he saw there standing, dark and still, a figure as it were an image of stone. Thus NIËNOR stood, and heard nothing that he said, and made him no answer. But when at last he took her hand, she stirred, and suffered him to lead her away; and while he held her she followed, but if he loosed her, she stood still. Then great was Mablung's grief and bewilderment; but no other choice had he but to lead Niënor so upon the long eastward way, without help or company. Thus they passed away, walking like dreamers, out into the night-shadowed plain.

— THE CHILDREN OF HÚRIN, CHAPTER XIV: THE JOURNEY OF MORWEN AND NIËNOR TO NARGOTHROND

[amethysttribble]

If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

[lyrien-arts]

A thing I made early this year

Beleg and Mablung coming back from Nirnaeth

Each rectangle(?)frame? separated under cut

[lycheesodas]

Distant Shores; my second entry for @tolkienrsb this year 🌌🌊 The fic written by @canipetthatdeaddove will be revealed on September 6th :D Thank you for picking my art to write for and for being patient with me as I make endless adjustments to the art xD

Beleg and Mablung, from the shores of Cuivienen to the Blessed Realm ; w ; I've always headcanoned them as being friends since literally forever ago and how they stuck by each other until fate pulled them apart </3 Something very tragic and satisfying about that for me

I’m so excited to read it > < and I hope you guys will enjoy as well :D Pls join me aboard this rare pair hahah

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