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I like Maglor with moles but I had the funny image of Macalaurë being a huge vain diva in Aman that prides himself on his artful array of beauty marks that are so unique and stunning. Only for Tyelko to come into his room without knocking and seeing Macalaurë painting them on. They stare at each other for a solid minute before Macalaurë tells him to keep his fucking mouth shut. Tyelko tells EVERYONE of course

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new neighbor’s causing problems. love the idea of Thranduil unintentionally dragging Elrond into a horror movie but Elrond is too devoted to let him deal w anything alone to mind, anyway we love scary things happening in the woods :)

also if thranduil were insisting he had a feeling the necromancer was sauron and that was always in the forefront of elronds mind the first meeting of the white council then gandalf confirming it is. going by book timeline not the cursed movie trilogy

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Good lord above I had to dig into the earth to find these XD first two are from my art class in elementary. The rest are from middle school when I was very ✨Edgy✨ and into creepypastas. I only very recently started doing digital art

WIP TIME

I probably won't end up finishing this one but it's meant to be Tar-Mairon holding Numenor in his hand. I just can't figure out what Numenor should look like so it's a very generic castle

And then down below we have ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) take a wild guess

Well-Formed One as The Birth of Venus by Eduard Steinbrück with Maglor kind reaching for his crotch bc I'm MaeMag trash Celegorm is the one with his back to us

Tag open to whoever wants to reblog from me QwQ

I got tagged by @nighttimepatrons

Yeah, I was sooo in anime a few years ago xd

+ my unpublished that I don't plan to color🤔 (Angrod/Caranthir)

aaaand wip maemags (please God give me the strength to finish this art)

I will tag: @corvustation @jolidei @parshipa @pastelsugar6w6

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I don't take pictures all that often so these are from my trip to Seattle last year and some random things I found interesting 🦀

Idk who to tag sorry QwQ open to anyone to reblog from me and add their own!

I was tagged by @moringottocake to post 6 pics (not selfies) from my camera roll and tag 6 people to do the same. Thanks so much for the tag!! :D <33

Absolutely no pressure tagging: @my-deer-legolas @lyragoth @queerofthedagger @starshadeemilyart @annarobots @crypticcuntking and anyone else who would like to participate :)

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Every single bagginshield starter pack!

I thought I'd put them all in one place (unfortunately the company didn't fit, but I'll post them all together too!)

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Old des

Fingolfin and Fingon

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One of my favorite Elrond headcanons is the idea that he starts out looking very much human and elvish. He has ears too pointed to be a man's, but not nearly long enough to be an elf's, his father's (grandfather's, really) blue eyes and brown hair that shines like an elf's, but gets tangled far too often.

Sure, some weird things happen around Elrond as a child– the birds that seems to follow him, the way some injuries mysteriously resolve in his prescense, the unusual flowers that bloom outside his windows– but really, it's easy to see those as distant remnants of an ainuric power that Elrond clearly didn't inherit. When he comes to Gil-Galad's camp, it's much easier for them to see Tuor or Beren in him than it is to think he's descended from Melian.

But then time passes. The changes are slow enough– happening over decades or centuries– that no one really notices at first. Elrond's hair darkens until it is as black as the night sky– as black as Luthien's was. His eyes leach color until they are gray– not Noldor gray, mind, but a strange, starry gray that some of the Iathrim whisper about. His voice changes, almost seems to take on an echo of itself, sometimes.

The strange things that happen around him only get stranger– the trees bend to shelter him, during storms, and sometimes when he sings, the birds sing with him. Elrond got a cat, right at the start of the Second Age– a gift from Gil-Galad. Somehow, it never seems to grow old or die. The parts of Lindon Elrond most often visits always seem to be in full bloom, no matter what season it is. His healing abilities surpass what is to be expected of a man– an elf– eventually, of what seems possible at all.

At the end of the First Age, it would've been hard to believe Elrond had more than a trickle of ainur blood in him. By the beginning of the Third Age, many have started to whisper about Rivendell– a new Doriath, ruled by a Maiarin lord with all Melian's grace, and her eccentricities.

Elrond doesn't realize just how much he's changed until the day, late in the Third Age, when he finds Maglor wandering on the shoreline. Nothing he says will convince Maglor that he isn't Luthien's spirit, returned from death to haunt him.

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Swordpoint part 2

[a continuation from this little fic here]

Maitimo sits by his little brother’s body, watches as the light from the Two Trees dances across his face: eyes and mouth closed, the hole in his neck sewn up and covered with a silk scarf. Blue, the edges embroidered with tiny gold forget-me-nots. One of Makalaurë’s favourites. It will burn soon, along with the body, once the pyre is finished being built.

Makalaurë is dead. Fëanáro killed him. 

Fëanáro killed Makalaurë. He is dead. 

Over and over the sentences twist in Maitimo's mind until he is nearly sick. 

Temper was never something he allowed himself to indulge in, not when everyone expected him to be calm, to be as wise and anchoring as his mother. But now? Now it blazes within his heart, a fire that burns with each breath that can barely be contained. They will not tell him where Fëanáro is. Every time he asks - and he has asked, again and again, demanded to see him immediately - he is refused an answer. His grandfather is gentle, steering him to other tasks. His uncles and cousins claim ignorance, which he believed at first but has grown more suspicious of with each passing moment. The servants only shake their heads, shuddering at whatever it is they see in Maitimo’s eyes. 

Fine then, thinks Maitimo. Let him hide from this. From me. I will find him eventually.

His other little brothers are safe with Nerdanel, assisting her with all the strange minutia involved in planning and preparing a funeral while carrying this new grief. Maitimo has done several himself, deciding what clothes to decorate the body with and what flowers to weave into the wooden pyre and who would be invited to watch as his little brother’s body was turned into ashes. Responsibilities are nothing new. It is his job to bear most of them as the eldest of seven -

It hits him, then, a fist to his heart, that he has now become the eldest of six. That a hole has been punctured through his world so deeply that the very language he has defined himself by has been altered. 

How could you do this, Atar? To him? To us? 

He reaches out and grasps Makalaurë’s hand. It is cold. The fingers do not squeeze back, do not tap out a melody, do not try to tickle him. The body beside him has been cleaned and mended and dressed beautifully, like a sleeping prince from one of Makalaurë’s operas.  

“Findekáno asked if his father could come by later,” says Maitimo, desperate to fill the silence. “I think he was worried that I would refuse to let him see you. I told him it was fine. That I hold no blame towards Nolofinwë for this. I hope you do not mind.” 

A few tears trickle down Maitimo’s cheeks. How does he still have more of them? If not for the rage burning hot inside him, the grief of it all would swallow him whole. 

“I don’t know what to do once the funeral is over,” he continues. “How am I supposed to exist in a world without you in it? You will not be long in the Halls, will you? You will - you have to come back. Won’t you? Surely it will be too quiet for you there. Surely you’ll want to return to your room, and your harp, and to us. There’s still so much music you haven’t finished writing. Of course you’ll come back soon.”

“How quickly he returns,” says a low voice, “depends on how deeply he has been wounded in spirit.” 

Maitimo turns. Melkor stands in the doorway, half covered in shadows. 

“What do you mean?” asks Maitimo. Proper etiquette means he should be on his feet, bowing in reverence, but he does not get up. Getting would mean letting go of Makalaurë’s hand and he cannot. He cannot. 

Melkor does not take any offence to his lack of manners. Instead, he walks further into the room so that he stands beside Maitimo. There is a coldness in the air around him, making Maitimo shiver. “To be killed so suddenly is a horrible thing,” says Melkor. “It tears into the spirit not unlike how your father’s blade tore into Makalaurë’s flesh. Add in the shock of such violence that it was done by his own father, and the fear that such a thing could happen again…well, all of that would be enough to keep a soul safe within death for several centuries at least.”

“It will not happen again,” says Maitimo, tightening his grip on Makalaurë’s hand. “It was an accident.” 

That is what grandfather has said, over and over. That is what others are saying out loud when they pass by Maitimo’s hearing. That is what everyone is trying to believe: that Fëanáro did not mean to cause violence. Did not mean to slay kin. That if Makalaurë had not stepped between them, the blade would only have been pointed at Nolofinwë’s throat.

Pointed, not pierced through. 

“Was it?” says Melkor. “Perhaps so, though I must admit to not liking the use of such a word. To call it an ‘accident’ feels as though all the blame were being taken from your father and put onto poor Makalaurë instead. As though his death was his own fault.” 

“Who is saying that?” Maitimo snaps, the words so hot he can feel them burn his tongue. “Who would dare?”

Melkor continues, ignoring the question. “Though I suppose I should not be surprised that the High King is encouraging such a narrative. How dearly he loves his son. A shame your father could not hold the same affection for his own children.” His eyes, dark and cold as the Void, drift to Makalaurë, and he reaches out and traces one finger down the body’s cheek. “Such a tragedy.” 

“My lord,” says Maitimo, struggling to remain calm, “why have you come to see me now? What is it that you want?”

“Only to give you this.” From the shadows, Melkor pulls out Fëanáro’s sword. A beautiful creation of steel, the hilt studded with gems, the tip still stained with Makalaurë’s blood. 

Maitimo still holds Makalaurë’s hand. He cannot release it. But he uses his free hand to accept the sword, to hold it so that its tip points upward. His reflection stares back at him: tear tracks on his cheeks, braids in a mess, eyes burning so terribly he almost looks like his father. 

“Why?”

“As a reminder,” says Melkor. “For all that your father has taken from you.” 

“I don’t - ”

“Fëanáro is not attending the funeral. Has your grandfather told you that? His own choice. He does not ask about the state of his son’s spirit, does not bother to send even a flower for the pyre. He has done nothing but wait for judgement from the Valar.”

It takes a moment for Maitimo to remember how to breathe, to speak calmly. “They will see him rightfully punished for this.”

“Will they?” Melkor nearly laughs. “I know my brother, Nelyafinwë. He will preach forgiveness and reconciliation, perhaps a short period of exile - not to anywhere abysmal, of course. No, no. Aulë’s halls, where he can work wonders with his old teacher, or Formenos, which is filled with everyone one can need to live comfortably. Then, after a dutiful number of years, Fëanáro will be returned to society and everyone will continue on pretending as though nothing had happened. As though he had not killed his second son, an innocent who only wanted his father to stop shouting, in front of everyone.”

Melkor’s voice has dropped to a whisper. He is closer now, looming right behind Maitimo. Each word he speaks wraps around Maitimo’s heart like links in a chain. He is not wrong. Maitimo can picture what he is saying clearly. His father, given the lightest of sentences by the Valar. His grandfather, hushing disapproval and covering history with excuses. What would happen to his mother, to his other little brothers? Were they all supposed to welcome him home with open arms, to forgive him for this ‘accident’? 

“I am no slayer of kin,” says Maitimo, though he only half believes it. In that moment, with the fire running white-hot through his veins and the sword in his hand, he could be.

“Of course not,” says Melkor. “But there are other ways to strike back at someone who has wronged you.” His reflection shines on the blade, smiling at Maitimo.

Makalaurë says nothing, cold and silent.

Gone. 

Because of Fëanáro.  

Maitimo meets Melkor's gaze and gives in to the fire. “I’m listening.”

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Maedhros: [unable to stop silently crying into the soup that he’s making as some odd nonverbal attempt at a heartfelt apology as it’s cooking]

Tiny Elrond:

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Firstborn boys

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crabs are so gentle, they can be so kind. their claws? precise little things, so careful in the sand, so careful with food. they do what they must to live and wave their claws to express their joy to the world for giving so much to them, for giving such kindness to these creatures known as crabs. please be gentle to crabs

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I accidentally made him look like Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring so I gave him a silmaril earring. As a treat.

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Swordpoint

Maglor runs through the palace’s halls, gilded and shining like something out of a dream. He nearly trips on his robes, long embroidered things of silk and lace, finery he has not worn in centuries. He is unused to it; the jewels braided into his hair feel like tiny weights. Everything around him glimmers, Tirion at the height of its splendor, beaming beneath the light of the Two Trees. 

It does not make sense. 

An hour ago he lay on the beach, sand tangled in his hair and seasalt crusted on his skin, waiting for the waves to finally take him away. He closed his eyes, imagining the years of his youth, the years now more dream than memory. When he opened his eyes again he lay beneath a cherry tree in Indis’ garden, whole and hale with no scar upon his left hand. 

He is in Valinor, in Tirion, in the palace on the very day his father will draw a sword and aim it at Fingolfin’s throat. 

Perhaps it is a dream, or a trick of Sauron’s - though the Enemy had long since been erased from Middle Earth when his ring was cast within Mount Doom’s fires. Perhaps it is a bit of grace from Ilúvatar, finally taking pity on one of the most wretched of his children. Perhaps Maglor has finally lost the last of his sanity and is only running down the beach, with no company but a few curious seagulls. It does matter. Nothing matters except that he reaches the throne room. That he stops Fëanor from making this first terrible step in damning their family. 

He pushes open the door. A crowd has formed, watching as Fëanor and Fingolfin argue, Finwë sitting between them looking exhausted. Maglor does not listen to their words, or rather his father’s words, as Fëanor’s shouting eclipses whatever his half-brother is trying to say. Maglor continues to run, not daring to look for his brothers or his cousins. Fëanor’s hand reaches for his sword, his newest, bright creation resting at his side. 

Fingolfin snaps something cold, making a few of the onlookers gasp and Finwë raise his head with a frown. 

Fëanor’s eyes burn, bright and hot as dragonfire. He pulls the sword from its sheath. 

Maglor throws himself in between them, arms stretched out as he faces Fëanor and begs. “Atar, don’t!”

He cannot, suddenly, say anything else. 

Something is stuck in his throat. 

Something is cold, and wet, dripping down his chest, staining the beautiful silk of his robe. 

Maglor cannot turn his head to see the crowd, his eyes locked on Fëanor’s face, but he hears them start screaming. Hears one familiar voice cry out his name in agony. 

Maedhros. That is Maedhros, calling for him, though Maglor can never remember hearing his brother sound so scared. 

Fëanor says nothing, frozen in place. His eyes have gone very wide; his face ash-grey and horrified. Maglor tries again to speak, but liquid comes out instead of words. It splatters into the air and onto his father’s face, staining it red. 

Oh, thinks Maglor, his mind becoming hazy. His lungs are not working right; he can barely breathe without more liquid dribbling down his chin. That’s not good. 

The weight inside Maglor’s throat disappears. Fëanor’s sword crashes to the floor, and then Maglor is falling too, much slower. He cannot control his body, cannot do anything more in this impossible dream except watch. He feels arms cradle him close, joining him on the ground. Maedhros. Maedhros is there. Has somehow fought his way through the crowd to hold him. His older brother’s face appears above him, and oh, it is so good to see him again, even in a dream. Maglor tries to keep his eyes open. Tries to focus on everyone around him. Fëanor has stumbled beside them on the floor, touching the blood splattered across his cheeks with shaking fingers. Maedhros is still screaming, though Maglor cannot hear him, can only see his mouth shape the word “Makalaurë” again and again and again. 

Behind his father, standing almost unnoticed in the shadows, stands Morgoth, watching with a slight frown. Not displeased but curious. Plotting. 

Did I make things better, thinks Maglor, as his eyes begin to close. He cannot keep them open any longer. Or did I only make things worse? 

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beanie baby dragon is crossing your dash

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ive been playing way too much Shadows of War and having fun pitting warchiefs

But now im thinking about Maedhros being put in fight pits for Morgoth's entertainment

Strong, mostly naked Maedhros savaging orcs and ripping their throats out with his teeth 😳

Is this hot or am i just losing my mind?

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Feanorian Week Day Three- the Hunts of Celegorm

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