#the silmarilion

[zeizeizeizei]

Finrod be getting it since day 1-

Seriously wonderful writing, go check it out.

Absolutely speechless at this commission from @mandhos of the berry fight from These Echoes We Have Left! I’m in awe at the details here and how perfectly they captured the scene. 😍😍😍 Thank you so much for this!!

From this excerpt:

They rolled back into the trillium and Balan scrambled atop him at last, pinning his arms to the ground and grinning down at him in triumph. “Bested,” he gasped, laughing still as he caught his breath and tightened his grip about the other’s wrists, eyes glinting. “Loose thine hand, I’ll have my vengeance.

But the other lay frozen, a sea of gold splayed about his head, and his eyes were fixed on Balan’s, unblinking. And again, as amid the dancing at Tol Sirion, Balan knew he might have him if he wished. The king lay at his mercy here within the trillium and violets, marked with the grass’ long shadows falling sharp against the golden light. He would yield. Balan could bend down now and press his lips to the other’s, stained bright with the berries’ dye, and no resistance would meet him. He could slip a hand behind his neck and draw him in, taste the tart fruit upon the other’s mouth and feel him fall away beneath his touch. And he had been dizzy with the knowledge of his own power.

“Open your hand,” he had said again, in his own tongue now, and obediently Nóm’s fingers parted. The airna’akran glistened in the sunlight, bright as blood against his skin. They had been crushed in the struggle, but held at least somewhat intact, and Balan shifted up slowly to gather them in his mouth. “There is a saying amongst my people—the nectar of justice is as honey upon the tongue.” His lips brushed the other’s palm and amusement rumbled through his voice. “But these you’ve left me are tart as gooseberries.” A trickle of juice had run down along the wrist and he set his lips to this in turn, little bothering to disguise the kiss as he lingered, the other’s pulse pounding against his mouth. It pounded too against his palms where they held Nóm’s arms pinned in the grass beside his head, and Balan hesitated for a moment, then let his lips brush along the other’s forearm as he drew back to meet the grey eyes once more. “A creature of flesh after all, ghomenno?”

“Never anything other.” Nóm’s voice had been scarcely a breath, shivering as it drifted up to meet him.

Read the full fic on AO3

[aylen-san]

Earendil arrives in Valinor:

Valar: "Why are you here?"

Earendil: "Your whole Arda project is broken."

Valar: "Why you?"

Earendil: "Because there is no one else!"

Valar: "All right, we'll think about it. Take the star as a souvenir."

[prying-pandora666]

I will never be over that Tolkien wrote Maeglin the way he did. A victim of abuse, isolated from others since childhood, watched his father try to kill him in front of everyone, watched his mother take the blow and die in his stead, and then stuck living with a stranger who happens to be his uncle, in a city his father always told him was emblematic of the Noldor’s hubris that had led to their suffering.

Imprisoned in Gondolin like he was in the forests of Eöl. Alienated and isolated now by the nature of who he is and how different he is on sight. Pining unrequitedly for his cousin, a taboo he knows he shouldn’t cross and yet desperate for someone to call his own.

And even after ALL THAT, the moment Maeglin tried to force himself on Idril, Tolkein wrote him getting thrown out a window.

And that is just… legendary.

Tolkien really said “I don’t care what your sob story is. Incels get yeeted!”

Lessons to live by.

[pursuitseternal]

Hello my partner-in-crime!

Could I pretty please have Sauron x Reader with prompt number 7: "Can you feel how much I want you?"

Love you! ❤️😘

“𝕿𝖔 𝕭𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊…”

First Age Sauron x f!Reader | Dead Dove | 3.7K

Summary: There is no hope in Angband, in the dungeons of the Dark Vala…. But there is the Servant. Sauron.

A master craftsman and artist, forever seeking perfection, obsessed with creating his own beauty, and yet a victim of torment by his master that twists his sense of creativity to something vile and precious only to him.

CW: Dead dove: Do Not Eat, graphic violence, torture porn, bondage, temperature play, forge sex, corruption, marking branding biting, mind breaking, mind control, body worship, First Age Sauron, if evil why (literally) hot

Ao3 link | Tolkien Masterlist

You can see your breath, hear your heart beating slower and slower with each passing hour. Languishing. A slow death. A painful death. A merciless one that meant to break you without hope.

There is no hope in Angband.

Even the floors here are ice. Not even prison rats scurry around your cell. Your pointed ears have long grown deaf to the noises of the dungeon, numb from the icy chill of this evil frozen North. The chains on your neck and wrists have long since frozen to your skin. Death will be a relief, you sigh, when once again you’ll see the shores of Valinor and find comfort in the Halls of Mandos.

That thought makes your heart warm just enough to last a few more beats. But then you hear them—footsteps—lighter than Orc, more graceful than Balrog… and your body stiffens as you hear that sound on the icy air.

Humming. Music. Means one thing. Ainur.

Please not the Dark Lord, you beg to divine forces too far away to hear you. Your pleas have fallen on deaf ears. But you hope not this time.

“Do not fear,” that voice croons from the shadows. His presence seems to instantly thaw your extremities, warmth seeping in where there had only been cold for so, so long. You see eyes and movement in the darkness, but from his stature and bearing, you know it’s not the Lord of Angband…

It is the Servant.

His gaze is sharp, eyes darting over your crumpled mess of a body nearly frozen to the floor. His hair is bright; reds like blood and oranges like flames hang in long waves down his back and shoulders. His voice seems to tickle right in your ear, even at this distance, even as he stalks closer towards the bars of your cell. “Do not fear, I’m here to free you.”

“Wh-what?” You croak, the truth of those words do not deceive you, no matter how much you long for them to be true.

Those lips twitch as with a wave of his hand, the iron door swings open, the groaning hinges echoing against stone. “Well,” he suddenly sounds sharp, exacting, “free you from your cell, Elf. You are by no means free, not in body or in will, nor will you ever be again.”

Reality smacks you, your chest constricting.

“The Dark Lord has no need of such a small, frail Elf like you,” he strides in, grasping your chin in fingers impossibly hot. His touch sears like the fires of the forge, the stink of brimstone and smoke fill your nose. “You’d make a weak, pathetic Orc.” Then he shoves you by your face back to the ground at his feet. Your manacled hands catch yourself just in time to keep your nose from smashing against stone.

“Fortunately, what is unfit to serve the Master is deemed worthy of his Servant,” that voice returns to such silken, lilting tones, and you look into his face. His bright brown eyes rake over you, assessing and evaluating your worth, as if you were a precious gem examined for the flaws in your cut.

Those eyes, the more you stare into them, the brighter they seem to shine, a mix of golden browns that bubble and simmer with flame. You see them, the ripples of his power that creep beneath this disguise of a mortal form. “Come,” he orders you, those frozen irons and chains melting from your skin to clatter on the floor around you. “There is much work to be done.”

His grip on your wrist tightens, and you realize with certainty that his skin is hot… flushed and searing you by touch alone. It would frighten you, if it wasn’t for the sense of reprieve it gives from the biting cold that has settled in your bones from your imprisonment. If anything, you draw your scantily clad body closer to his, seeking that thawing sensation…his black robes barely brush your flesh, The bared skin of your arms, even patches of your torso where your gown has shredded to rags with violence and time crave to be nearer.

It feels so… good. After so long in the cold alone, to feel another’s touch, it makes you melt. He guides you through the dark, and even though your jaw aches from that fleeting ferocity in your cell, you can’t help but wish for more warmth shared against your skin.

The memory should terrify you but… it doesn’t. Your mind only remembers how good those fingers felt, their warmth, their command…

And you crave more against your better judgment. You would call it hope, but there is no hope in Angband. No hope. Only craving. As if you know that the only thing that awaits you is fire and blissful burning.

Shadows deepen as you walk, those brown-orange eyes flicker at you beside him as you both ascend the darkened stairs. That scent of smoke and ashen stone that clings to his skin suffocates you. Your frail lungs burn with every inhale, and as you reach the ascent, you see why.

No ice prison, he’s brought you to a massive forge. Torches burn and flicker, but no light is brighter than the gaping maw of a furnace. Orange flame reflects in his eye as he scans you. Grip deathly tight on your wrist, he leads you with graceful movements… lithe and sinuous. Like a snake.

Like a predator stalking his prey.

The faintest of smiles turns his full lips, and he stops you beside a great metal anvil… wide and long and big enough for any great creation. You recall the tales of such things from those of your kind who had come from Valinor, from the workshops of Aulë himself, or of Fëanor and his descendants.

It is on this warm, dark metal that he effortlessly lifts you up to seat you. Its surface is roughened with divets and grooves, the scars of the Servant’s work spanning its face. That relaxing heat creeps through the skin of your ass and climbs your spine until you feel a smile stretch on your cracked lips.

His fingers wander their soothing touch over your collarbone, the slightest push guides you to lay back on the heated anvil. You stare into the ceiling, seeing only the gathering darkness offset by rippling steam and flickering light. His touch continues to dance on your chest, tracing the parts of you where starvation has prodded your bones towards the surface.

And that sharp face, that handsome face, smiles… so warmly. “The Dark Lord insists that we each are forged in the shadows, that what has once been bathed in the light is made anew in the dark. Morgoth’s way is to maim… to ruin and torture and kill the light of beings he drafts into his service…”

You see a flicker behind his eyes, a memory of his own past perhaps, you surmise. A recollection none too pleasant as it darkens his gaze and stiffens the corners of his smiling lips.

Then, he turns that smile down upon you, spread so perfectly on his anvil. “But such is not my way. I am no jailer or executioner. I am an artisan, a craftsman of greatest skill, and I shall make you anew, my treasure.”

His fingers trace your gaunt face, warming it, caressing the spots that have grown stiff and lined with fear. His voice is dulcet, sweet and singsong as he purrs down, and you want nothing more than to feel those full, smirking lips on your skin and taste the sweet promises that drip from his tongue. Before you even realize your need, before you can name your inner burning as desire, two words fall from your panting mouth. “My Lord…” you whisper.

And the Servant smiles. It’s radiant, a flash of brightness in his eye and a brilliance to his grin. But he tuts his tongue, chiding you for the youthful creation you are. “Tsk, none of that. I am no Dark Lord. I am called many things… Admirable, Abominable… Gorthaur… Sauron…”

His hands come to rest at the top of your throat, a slight pressure around your neck as his thumb traces your lower lip.

“But you, my treasure, you shall call me by one simple word…. Hîr.”

Master.

Your breath catches in your burning lungs, your tongue already noiselessly testing out the syllable as it dances at its tip.

His reddish brows arch, pleased at your submission as he can see every little twitch of your mouth.

“You are a rare beauty,” he whispers, “the undiluted blessing of the One shines in the skin of the Elves, their eyes still bright with the memory of the Two Trees…”

He peers into yours, almost wistful, as if he longs to catch a glimpse of that Starlight to capture for his own. Sauron lowers his mouth, hovering just out of reach of your own lips. The scent of his forge is so strong, you can taste it, you are lost in the wash of his singeing breath on your face. “Hîr,” you obediently rasp, arching off the anvil to catch his lips.

And he lets you, lips and tongue so overwhelmingly warm, there is no sensation in your body other than his mouth as he devours.

Wave after wave of his mouth on yours, you fail to sense the snaking of chains around your arms and legs until they have chinched themselves bitingly hard into your flesh. Then you panic, your heart thundering no longer from pure arousal, but that wild rhythm of racing fear. You tug at them, fight them, and with one last desperate plea, you beg for Manwë, Varda… Eru himself to hear you.

But there is no rescue, no whisper of a reply to your prayers.

There is only Sauron’s shimmering toothy smile in the dark as his eyes dance over your form… spread so perfectly for him to work with. “Do you know, my treasure, why I’ve loathed the beauty of the Elves? Eru chose to bless you, to gift your kind the wisdom and graces first given only to me, to my kind… and you squander them. You cannot fathom, cannot see the greater purpose such power could serve.”

He’s pacing between your body and his tools, spread so evenly and orderly beside him. A long iron brand in his grip, he sticks it in the opening of the furnace.

The hissing of metal heating makes you shiver. Makes your skin crawl.

Fingers pull away the rest of your rags, baring every bit of your taut skin to his flickering gaze. “You are beautiful, but it is shallow, it is false. And I, my treasure, will purify you. I’ll remake you in my image and likeness, a thing of incomparable radiance ....” You whine as his hands wrap their warmth around your breasts. “You now are a thing to be admired… as I once was,” he croons down at you, pulling your ass to the edge of the anvil, your chain impossibly tight around your arms, breaking you in their unyielding hold as your legs hang down precariously.

Those lips press searing kisses down your neck, over the places where your mortal heart is thundering. His eyes flash up at you, and in that moment, you swear you see the reflection of the furnace beside you. Or perhaps it is more… the power that lies barely concealed in this handsome, sensual form. Those full lips wrap around one nipple, then the other, an inferno drummed up at his call races through your veins.

It is agony, hot and wild, that courses in your flesh. Never would one of your kind be so… wanton. Lust feeds your form, every bit of your skin wants to be touched… and the more he caresses your breasts and trails his mouth lower over the hollow of your belly, the less you care if that contact is pleasure… or pain.

They are one under his command, your mind purrs to your reason. Every thought reduces to the mere sensation of his mouth, his hands that press now between your spread thighs. The moment his tongue touches you, parting your folds to taste you, an unholy sound tears from your lips. Flames pulse through your veins, every lick and swirl of his tongue draws ungodly ecstacy. You weep for the feeling, the overwhelming waves of pleasure he coaxes from your nearly-broken body as if he drew your very soul, your fëa, to the surface.

Words tumble from your lips, nonsensical and varied in language until it is one word over and over again. You rasp it, cry it, scream it as he brings you right to the edge of your climax… Hîr… Hîr… Master.

His laughter tickles your flesh and your mind all at once, the sensation of his presence in your skull and his tongue in your walls throws you into oblivion. Your climax slams into you, all fire and heat and tension as he withdraws from you in that moment of bliss. Your chain grows impossibly tighter as you convulse on the metal beneath you, and for a split second, you wonder where he has gone….

At first you think it’s the ice of your prison again that slices through the warm pool of pleasure in your belly. But then, you open your eyes… it is not ice but white hot fire on your skin as his brand marks your inner thigh. The hissing, the steam, the scent of charming flesh takes over your pleasure, stealing it from your body. And all the while, he smirks down from between your soaked thighs. Orange hair catches the glow of the brand as he lifts it, a satisfied glint in the flames of his own gaze.

Fear races down your nerves, every corner of your being screams at you to fight, to run and resist… the pain almost breaks through those tendrils of shadow that have woven into your senses. And now, as you inhale, you can smell it.

Death. Ashen and purifying. You see him, eyes ringed in flame and breath blackened like smoke… your heart could burst from your need to resist…

Until you feel his hands on your skin again, that warmth somehow driving the dread back into the recesses of your mind.

That teasing touch traces the prongs of his mark, three of them, ugly and deformed, a perversion of the pronged crown that rests on the Dark Lord, the Dark Vala’s head.

Your body shakes with the shock of pain, even as he presses his lips to kiss that angry flesh. “Ninya,” he whispers against it. Mine.

The pain intensifies as he removes his touch, the euphoria of your climax dulling to leave you with only the searing agony he’s caused in its wake. “Mine, and like me, you shall be remade from admirable to abominable… and I will always possess you.”

The sound of liquid swirls in glass, the soft tapping of a brush against its rim… he stands over you, eyes roaming your bared form and lingering on the places he deems most worthy… or is it unworthy?

“The light of the Valar still shines too brightly on your skin, so soft almost like pearls of the Sea… it too shall have to be remade,” he rasps. The black bottle in his hand coming closer, the wooden brush wiping the excess fluid before he brings it to your legs.

The bite of acid eats at your skin, burning you, tearing you inside out. That music in his voice invades your mind, warping the pain into a warm sort of pleasure. Every drip of acid on your flesh as he paints higher and higher… your thighs, your belly… it shifts into that hot coil of need roiling behind your navel.

He doesn’t slather you, he’s not destroying you… it’s painstaking and exact the way he draws into your skin, making it burn and hiss and bubble anew. Remaking. Whirls and swirls and swipes in the precise places his critical eye deems worthy.

It’s agony… blissful agony… Every scream from your throat breaks into a moan. The perversion of your pain into bliss brings a drugged sort of grin to your face. The grin of a fool.

He sets the brush back inside the bottle, his hand tracing the rises and valleys of your face, your sharpened cheekbones, the hollows of your cheeks. His fingers dance on your wincing face, warm and burning, a herald of the pain you know he’s about to inflict. Your heart will surely explode, and your death might just be the final offering you make… But then, he cups your cheek, fingers laced in the mess of your long and knotted hair.

“Don’t be afraid, my treasure. You are being oh so brave… oh so valiant as you are remade.” His kiss instantly numbs your pain and slows your heart, the torture of resistance in your mind instantly silenced. That coil of need flames anew as his hand wanders back over your mound, dipping that addictive touch into your slick.

You gasp, eyes rolled back, spine arching off the anvil’s metal. Then you look into his face, the abyss of fire and darkness behind his eyes sucks you inside, lost to anything but the sensations of his fingers that tease you and torture you in a different way. A more pleasing way.

His fingers slide so easily, playing you like an instrument in his grasp. Your moans are the melody of his composing, the bucking of your hips keeps a steady rhythm, one perfectly timed to the thrust of his fingers. His mouth on yours once more, the biting of his teeth on your lips, the growls of his own pleasure in his throat form a counterpoint so intoxicating, there is nothing left but the music of him finger fucking you.

All that pain that is bound in your nerves and coiled in your belly bursts… white hot and violent as you come. Then, you scream until your voice cracks, until your vocal chords are fried from the force and volume he demands from your spent form.

“Good, my treasure…” he rasps against your lips as they fall silent. “Ninya… you’ve done so well,” he purrs into your pointed ear as the world grows dark to your vision, as your body gives in and falls unconscious. Those little praises bring a twisted smile to your face as you drift into oblivion. “When you wake, you’ll be mine alone, mine forever… the most beautiful abomination I have yet crafted…”

And the final sensation to pierce through the veil of your slumber is the sting of acid on your forehead and cheek… the flicker of pain plunging you completely into the darkness at long last.

There is no hope in Angband… There is also no time. Only darkness and craving. Hunger and satisfaction.

Pain. And pleasure.

It’s a lesson you are taught nightly, at least you assume it’s nightly… whenever it is that Sauron returns to his chambers where you are kept sequestered away. The chains from his forge are gone, replaced with elegant links of gold and gem-entrusted trappings that hang on your frame. Your hands fiddle with them, where they drape down your arms in layers, where they sweep over your bare skin to your middle.

You’ve long forgotten the feeling of clothes. There is only the bed and your elegant chains, the heat of his touch and the sting of his biting teeth and burning brand and lashing whips.

You wish that your memories would dim… that the burden of your elven heritage would forsake you as easily as that fair, starkissed body you once called your own. Tears prick your eyes, your own fingers steadily tracing your once soft skin, touch dancing over blade scars and the rough ridges of his burning… the brands of his possession forever glaring at you from your thighs, not unlike those ghostly flickering eyes that haunt you each day… whether Sauron visits you or not.

“Mairaza…” the whisper brushes your mind before it settles in your ear. “My precious…” you’ve learned his new tongue… this speech he’s created for his servants, for you.

The warmth of his body seeps into you from behind, that scent of fire, of ash and smoke and forge excites you now… it conjures that swirl of damp heat in your cunt. Already you grit your teeth, craving in excess, hungering for more. The thin chains of gold and jewels clink and jingle as those calloused hands caress your body. He lingers over his marks, the scars of his pleasure-pain that have molded you into his own creation.

“Can you feel it, Mairaza, can you feel how much I want you?”

You clench around nothingness, hoping beyond hope that he fills you soon and grants you release this time.

Soft words of his own invented tongue purr inside your brain, praising your scars, the healed-over bubbles of flesh from that day he claimed you…

Sauron turns you, your attention lost in the bottomless depth of his eyes as those magical fingers caress the scars that curve in serpentine shapes over your cheeks. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he rasps. “Can you feel how much I want you, body and soul?” his lips whisper against your own. “Can you feel how much you are mine, Ninya?”

The words do not come to you outloud; they flood your very being, racing to your awareness down the tether that binds you to him.

That taste of his mouth swallows you whole, and there is nothing left of hope and peace. All that remains is the fire of lust and the darkness of desire. You cannot escape, nor would you seek to anymore. No lies or deception are required any longer, for you feel his want and crave his attentions…

He is always in your mind, his marks always on your body… his greatest creation. For now.

A gift to @myfavouritelunatic for her ask, for @marimosalad for betaing and inspired by @ogyscrypt and his masterpiece of a nsfw audio you should totally check out… Link on Reddit

[cosmic-walkers]

Finally got around to my Celebrimbor!

Trivia, red is his color and this is how he dresses outside of the forge. The gown was actually given to him by Nerdanel before he left Valinor.

[spacesunderstairs]

Sometimes when I think about how the Silmarillion is the story of "the great and good", I remember that Galadriel's uncles got into a fist fight at a family function over which one of them daddy loved more. It's comforting to know we're all a little white trash, deep down.

[glorfindude]

maglor only ever did his taxes when he was raising elrond and elros because maedhros made him

[feanorianweek]

Feanorian Week Reminder!!

Hello Silmarillion Fandom! This is your reminder that Feanorian week will be taking place next month. Below are updated prompts (you are still allowed to suggest prompts)! When is it?:   March 25th, 2024—March 31st, 2024       

  

The prompts are as followed:

Day 1- Maedhros - > Childhood, Kingship, Angband, Coping, The Union, Relations with Different Races

Day 2-Maglor -> Childhood, Spouse,  Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s  Gap, Redemption

Day 3- Celegorm - > Childhood, Hunting, Orome & Huan, Strength & Beauty, Luthien, Nargothrond

Day 4- Caranthir - > Childhood, Spouse, Betrayal, Lordship, Dwarves & Humans, Marriage, Appearance

Day  5- Curufin - > Childhood, Spouse, Celebrimbor, Forge Work

Day  6- Ambarussa - > Childhood, Lordship, Regrets, Twin, Hunting, Nandor

Day 7- Nerdanel and Feanor-> Mahtan, Finwe & Indis, Marriage, Reunion, Traveling, Creation, Healing

Rules: You are allowed to post anything fanrelated on the days.  If the prompts are not to your liking, you can do your own thing.  The tracktag is #feanorianweek.  Tag your work accordingly!  Have fun and be nice to others. Disrespect towards others will not be tolerated. 

[windrelyn]

@feanorianweek 2024

Day 1 - Maedhros (and Fingon) - "Loyalty"

[daily-smol-silm]

Hi, if you take requests, can I suggest Feanor, Curufin and Celebrimbor as cat, kitten and smaller kitten who have exactly the same colour of coat and march one by one?

Day #114 - 3 generations of FLOOF

Literally squealed when I got this. YOUR WISH SHALL BE GRANTED OH MY GOD--

[aylen-san]

The Silmarillion is like a messenger chat room:

Iluvatar: Created the group “My Children”. Melkor: Renamed the group “My World”. Feanor: Left the group. Thingol: “Can you not speak kwenya?” Noldor: “No.” Turin: Banned by admin for drama. Iluvatar: “Deleted the world.”

[prying-pandora666]

Rings of Power is Insidiously Sexist

And I’m tired of pretending none of us can see it.

If you enjoy the show, please don’t take this as an attack on you. All media has problematic elements and we all do the best we can in a messed up world. My ire is reserved strictly for the people making these “creative” choices.

The way the show treats Galadriel is misogynistic.

Turning the kind, matronly sage imbued with divine wisdom by the light of the two trees into a naive, selfish hothead who gets ship baited with both the villain AND her son-in-law for titillation is incredibly sexist.

They wouldn’t have had Elrond kiss his father-in-law to “save” him. Everyone would’ve rightfully been disgusted. So why is it okay to do this to Galadriel?

Elrond wouldn’t kiss Gil-Galad, or Celebrimbor, or his bff Durin to “save” them. We would all recognize this as sloppy OOC writing just meant to stir up shippers. So why is it acceptable to do to Galadriel? Being a female character is not an invitation to use her as fan service ship bait. Not once but TWICE.

The way the score swells and the kiss is deep and framed as romantic (even though he’s handing her something and didn’t need to shove himself on her like that at all!), despite the fact that Galadriel is married and elves are by nature monogamous (so much so that forcing yourself on them can even KILL them). As if everything about the narrative framing is subconsciously telling you to ignore Galadriel’s POV and the discomfort she would be feeling and be moved by how “meaningful” this kiss is. But also it’s a deception so don’t get mad! So incredibly transparent.

The fact that they also made her an arrogant idiot that fell for Sauron’s manipulations, when in Tolkien’s canon she is described as one of first to see through him, is also a telling choice. Especially when it would’ve made more sense to have Celebrimbor be the one manipulated and fooled.

So why have it be Galadriel? Why not do their weird ship-teasing bullshit between Annatar and Celebrimbor? At least it might serve the story then.

It’s because she is “female elf”, and therefore she has to be mean, violent, selfish, and stupid. But she isn’t allowed to be criticized either! That’s their idea of a “strong” female character.

So yeah. Personally I find that incredibly sexist.

So for that, I rate ROP a big old “cast it into the fire”.

[likesdoodling]

>:)

[season-of-hope]

Okay NOPE. Can’t take it anymore, gonna ramble on this.

OF COURSE ORCS HAD FAMILIES YOU DOLTS

If this has caught yous unawares hi, I’m will. I like Rings of Power because even if it isn’t true to text it has that feeling I got from the og trilogy that the hobbit kinda lacked. I’m not want to defend it mind you, it’s just a show and I don’t have to. BUT WHEN ITS TOLKIENS OWN WRITINGS! Se that’s a different ball game.

Apparently a lot of people are angry at Rings of Power for portraying Orcs as having families. Said family below. Orc dad on the left, mum on the right, and baby orc swaddled in mum’s arms

Some people (you know what kind of people) got angry at this nuance added to the story. Not knowing that this is nuance that Tolkien himself added

Here is some stuff Tolkien wrote or felt about the orcs:

1.Was very uncomfortable making them irredeemable.

2. Wrote many orcs being as loyal to their comrades as the heroes

3. Wrote that they multiplied in the manner as the children of Ilúvatar (men and elves) I.e. they had sex to breed.

4. Gave them their own culture

5. Made it clear they HATED the dark lords. either because they wanted to be in charge or because they just didn’t want to be their fodder.

They were not mindless fodder. Soldiers in service to an evil being, sure. But it was strictly black and white. The only reason we never learn the ultimate fate of Tolkiens orcs is because he didn’t want to write about the fourth age.

Sorry, just….this is just really frustrating how dense you could be. It’s not even that you have to read the lord of the rings, or Silmarilion. You can literally look this stuff up.

Okay, ramble over. Gonna go lay down

[glorfindude]

Celebrimbor is both Fantasy Oppenheimer™ and resident catboy twink in the same breath and i think that's beautiful actually

[clockworkcrabofea]

Orome and baby Tyelko on Nahar