#balrog speaks

[greaterbalrogcat]

new lion variant just dropped

[aureentuluva70]

You've heard of Grond but have you heard of MANWE'S LIGHTNING SWORD?

(From the War of the Jewels, The Lay of the Children of Hurin, and Morgoth's Ring)

[fingolfinwiththesteelchair]

*I know some parts of the legendarium state Ecthelion and his men killed scores of balrogs during the fall of Gondolin, but Tolkien's final note in the legendarium seems to state that there were only 7 balrogs at the most, so we're just looking at Gothmog's death for Ecthelion, to maintain internal consistency and to give Glorfindel and Gandalf a fighting chance

[thisisthe-way]

They showed the Balrog.

Then they showed Mordor.

And now all my millennial ass can think about is—

[doodle-pops]

Elrond With A Modern Medical!Reader in Valinor

Request: Not sure if this is fic or just headcanons but: Modern!reader in middle earth who was a neurosurgeon in her old life and is now in Valinor working with Elrond to translate medical concepts to elven language before she dies and help advance their medical practice. Some differences between elven and human biology are found out in the process, it’s all quite fascinating to them both. She assists in a few operations but I imagine they don’t have many surgical operations to do in times of peace because people just aren’t getting injured like they used to during the famed battles against Morgoth and Sauron in middle earth. She helps on occasion but them elves are graceful and not injury-prone. - Anon

A/N: I was having trouble turning this into a fic, and since you gave me the option, not minding if I did a headcanon, I went with the latter. I had fun writing this, I also made their relationship ambiguous. Enjoy!

When you happen to arrive in Valinor, dazed by its eternal beauty and tranquillity, Elrond, with all his calming presence and wise demeanour was the first to greet and help you settle down. He was kind to welcome you into his new home.

During your time there, you and Elrond spend countless hours in his extensive library, trying to translate complex medical texts and concepts into Quenya, while he marvels at the intricacies of human detail in neurosurgery. To him, the ability to heal the brain by getting so practical and up close was fascinating.

“You humans certainly love your precision and details,” he would say as he smiled while reading through a description of a delicate brain surgery. You on the other hand would laugh and tell him that not all humans are so meticulous, following up your comment by sharing more medical mishaps from your world.

It is when you discover the biological differences between elves and humans, that things in the work become all the more interesting. You discover that elves’ regenerative abilities allow for healing preparations to be cut down and rushed to the healing wing, unimportant. Just knowing this, leaves you speechless as he casually mentions recovering from an injury that would have left a human incapacitated.

“So you’re telling me that you can heal from a stab wound in a matter of days?” you ask, incredulously with jealousy lingering. Elrond would simply nod along with a serene smile as he continued to translate the prewritten text on the paper you provided. “I wish I had that. Would have saved me all those trips to the ER.”

Assisting in medical practices in Valinor is rare but rewarding. Elrond’s precise, yet holistic approach to medicine complements your surgical expertise perfectly. Together, you manage to save a few elves who came in with nasty injuries, mostly from hunting trips gone bad.

As time passes, you are further blown away when Elrond teaches you their famous art of healing through song and rare herbs, enchanting your understanding of medicine. You do find the elves’ ability to enter healing trances particularly fascinating.

“So you just…sing them better? Like kumbaya and poof! Healed?!” you asked one day as you attempted to wrap your head around the concept, prompting Elrond to chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

As time passes, your collaboration deepens both your understanding and respect for each other’s knowledge and expertise. Elrond is continually impressed but your surgical and modern techniques, while you are captivated by the elves’ natural form of advanced healing practices. This welcomed late nights in the library often turning into philosophical discussions as Elrond is thrilled by your stories of modern technology, and you are equally captivated by his tales of Middle-Earth.

You even meet a few of his family members during your stay as words of another human dwelling in Valinor. “Wait, you all fought a literal Balrog? Those fiery beasts?” you asked one evening as you sat around a table chatting with those who encountered the creature. “If you all were in my world, you could have used a fire extinguisher to put the flames out, or just douse water on them.” You leave most of them in laughter and confusion.

Due to meeting other elves beside him, you get the opportunity to practice your healing methods on them, though, they rarely allow you to since they usually appear fine even when injured. “So you couldn’t have hit your head a little harder for me to have something to examine instead of magically healing?” you disappointedly asked one of Elrond’s family members.

That has been the relationship for most of the encounters when an elf decides to come in sporting an ‘injury’. “You said you cracked your skull four days ago while hunting but I’m not seeing any injury. Do you mind if I hit you so I can have an actual injury to work with?”

Like you, even Elrond has his moments of being light-hearted, despite his dry sense of humour, when things don’t go according to plan. If the technique is too complex, he’ll jokingly say, “Of course, if all else fails, we just use magic.” Of course, you blink at him wondering if he was being serious or joking.

The partnership between you and Elrond as your work in Valinor developed certain areas of elven magical was tedious but also worthwhile. Even the relationship between you brought each other comfort and upliftment. “I suppose I’ll be remembered as the strange human who brought surgical scalpels to the Blessed Realm and threatened to beat people in their heads,” you joked.

Elrond usual response is filled with a sense of gratitude as he makes a toast in your honour. “You will be remembered as a pioneer and someone we are grateful to have encountered. I am glad you were brought here,” he fondly cheered.

Even as your time in Valinor progresses, you and Elrond continue to explore new ways to incorporate your medical practices into their elven healing. Each time an elf stops by for healing, you sometimes have to threaten them to come in with noticeable head injuries or you’d give them, while other times, you are lucky to have something to deal with. At least, during your years there, you managed to get a lot done.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @aconstructofamind @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio @lamemaster @elficially-done-with-life

[dreamskug]

[ SUBJECT INTERVIEW: ÍVARR ]

NICKNAME:

NOT "Gramps". Not for you, anyway. Just my name.

GENDER:

Male.

STAR SIGN:

Why, checking if we’d match? Hah. Was told I’m a Scorpio. 'That check out?

HEIGHT:

With platforms or without?

ORIENTATION:

If we vibe, nothing else matters. An incubus with neat taste in personalities, I guess.

NATIONALITY / ETHNICITY:

So, some Scandinavian blood in me - half, actually. Can speak the language, too - 'least something neat daddy gave me, not that the fucker's outdone himself in parenting. Mom’s an American, born in Badlands. Ever heard of her clan? Messed with witchcraft a lot, and summoning even more. Know what I’m getting at? A perfect fuckin' match, weren't they?

FAVE FRUIT:

- Yeah no. Don't even start with anything citrus. Especially don't peel this shit in front of me, alright? Nasty shit. [Interviewer]: - Just wondering, how do you feel about cardboard boxes? [Ívarr] : - Ain't purring for you, man. But nice one.

FAVE SEASON:

Fuck summer. You ever felt what's that like - the real winter nights? Pitch fuckin' dark - quiet so thick you hear the snow falling. First time I saw those snowflakes as a kid - can swear I thought they were bees.

FAVE FLOWER:

Cherry blossoms? The fuck I know, man. Ask my mainline, I grab whatever he likes.

FAVE SCENT:

Expecting me to be like - "Muahaha, the smell of fear"? Seriously, it's apparently a pheromone released in your sweat or some shit. C'mon I'm joking, it isn't my fav - keeps stinking up this damn city. Alright, a freshly baked cake is something I'd kill for.

COFFEE, TEA, HOT CHOCOLATE:

Yeah coffee I guess? Rich, strong, black, with a splash of something fun, make it whiskey.

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP:

Woke up just yesterday 'cause my mainline was pulling back my eyelid, imagine? Scared the fuck out of him, no seriously, can sleep through a fuckin' bomb and I'm not joking. Average hours - a shitton honestly? That's how I got my very first cat - Dad got enough of me breaking down every single morning, cause fuck mornings. And he'd be like - this is Snowy, she's gonna live with us and she already had her breakfast, so get the fuck up. How'd I argue with Snowy? You don't mess with Snowy.

DOG OR CAT PERSON:

See? Check it out - cat fur. Here too. I'm claimed, man - gave up cleaning it up a long time ago. Not to be dramatic, but if there's anything human in me left - it's for them. Fur kids, all mine, what can I say. Two of them adopted - and you bet each of them has a bigger personality than an average gonk.

DREAM TRIP:

Dream trip, jeez... Somewhere not fucking hot?

FAVE FICTIONAL CHARACTER:

Balrog has style, y'know? Gotta be honest, I feel for the dude. Imagine yourself sleeping deep within the mountains for thousands of years to get awoken by a bunch of motherfuckers? I'd go nuclear too. And this one too, ehh you know GoT? The Targaryen, her, yeah. Burn them all, girl. Boss move.

NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH:

Man, your questions. I dunno, a half? With my ass covered, or not at all. Bed king sized, lights out, make it pitch black with the window open and you got me passed out.

RANDOM FACT:

One doesn't have to actually summon a demon to get them to come play, d'you know? There's one watching you through my eyes right fuckin' now. Should I introduce him?

Late to the party, but I remember many of y'all have more than one OC or just created new pixel babies that haven't participated yet, so I'm tagging (with no pressure):

@therealnightcity @wraithsoutlaws @sammysilverdyne @theviridianbunny @th3irin

@a-pirate @chessalein @halkuonn @luvwich @shimmer-like-agirl

@kdval @cybersteal @cyberholic77 @chevvy-yates @morganlefaye79

@anxious--ace @mhbcaps @wormskul @silver-samurai @androgymess

@winkyblinkyandstew @astarionhistears @valsilverhand @drunkchasind @themermaidriot

@pinkyjulien @skelior @medtech-mara @lokiina @timaeusterrored

@tokyofuturnoir @aggravateddurian @sifofasgard @elfjpeg @aurorartz

@lucky38-2077 @dustymagpie @gloryride @stannussy and anyone else who wants to! Also pls DM me if you don't wanna get tagged🖤

[the-elusive-soleil]

Silm AU with the Feanorian death order reversed

I apologize in advance, but:

Maglor regrets the Oath and kinslaying on the voyage over. He stays aboard the ships, meaning to stow away back, but falls asleep (it's been a long day) and wakes up on fire. His brothers and father become aware of the situation when they hear the screams. Maglor's cries become a permanent echo in that area, much like Morgoth's at Lammoth.

Maedhros does not have the clearest head in the ensuing battle. He gets separated from the others and is beaten into the dust by balrogs. His family isn't even able to retrieve a body.

Feanor is very shaken and very mad. He doesn't parlay with Morgoth, not even for the Silmarils. He and his remaining people spread out across Beleriand and establish fortresses.

Things are chilly at best when the Helcaraxe group arrives thirty years later. Feanor does not yield the crown. The two groups don't fight, because Morgoth's a bigger problem, but they're not working together. Partially because Fingon refuses to speak to the Feanorians after he hears what happened to Maedhros, and Finrod won't even be near them after what they did to Maglor.

Feanor is very careful with his remaining sons.

Time goes on, the Bragollach occurs on schedule, and so does the Silmaril quest, except that C&C aren't in Nargothrond because of the Finrod-hating-them thing, so Celegorm never meets Luthien. She doesn't get Huan, but still manages just fine.

We do still eventually get to the point of "Silmaril at Doriath" + "no Girdle" + "stubborn Dior" = Second Kinslaying. But this time Celegorm's not grudge-fueled and Curufin's not having to cover for Huan and watch his back, and... Amrod and Amras die instead.

Elwing escapes to the Havens. Elured and Elurin aren't left to die, but Feanor has no interest in keeping around Sindar reminders of his dead sons. He has them sent away. (They don't know where Elwing and the Silmaril are, so ransom isn't an option.)

Then they do learn where the Silmaril is, at Sirion. They attack. Caranthir dies.

Curufin has been doing increasingly badly since Celebrimbor forswore him right before Doriath. Celegorm decides the solution is to pick up Elwing's twin sons and get Curufin to help parent them.

Feanor isn't thrilled, but he can't say no when he sees how Curufin latches on.

Love grows after between them, as little might be thought.

War of Wrath happens. Feanor keeps his tattered family out of it, but contributes weapon designs via courier. The Host uses said designs, because even if he's problematic they need this stuff.

Afterward, the claiming and theft of the Silmarils proceeds. Curufin sends the twins to Celebrimbor to preempt another rejection.

He's hollow, disillusioned, attacking the camp. The guards don't have to work very hard to kill him.

Feanor and Celegorm escape. The Silmarils burn them. Celegorm starts laughing and laughing and can't stop, and backs away...right into a chasm of fire.

Feanor flings the Silmarils after him, hating the things he chased so long at the cost of his sons, and staggers to the shore as the sea encroaches.

No one knows what happens to him.

[bettyfrommars]

Breaking the Curse

a Gargoyle Eddie story

Words: 792

This is a short smut blurb inspired by a conversation I had with @2clones-1kamino about needing some balrog/demon/gargoyle Eddie, and of course I have to make it so he's in love.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5 Part4

gargoyle!Eddie Moodboard

It started out innocently enough. There was no way you could’ve known about the curse.

There was no way you could’ve known that the huge, 7ft stone gargoyle statue in your aunt's garden had once been a living, breathing man.

You used to visit every summer as a kid. You painted watercolor pictures of him and introduced him to your friends. You called him Goyle. He was your Goyle, and you truly believed that he looked out for you, even though he was just an inanimate statue at the time.

The years rolled on, as they do, and soon enough, you were an adult. You spent years away, having your own adventures, and making a life for yourself. Slowly but surely, you forgot about Goyle, until one summer, your aunt passed away, and you returned to pay your respects.

In the past few years away from the gargoyle, your life had taken a horrible turn. You’d lost several jobs and a relationship, and now your beloved aunt had died mysteriously. After the funeral, while still in mourning, you found your way out to the garden after nightfall, coming up behind his dark stone body hunched on a pedestal just beyond the archway hedge, near the rose bushes. The curve of his bare ass, long spade tail curled around his hip, and chiseled wings pulled down tight against his body, his big head arching down, as if in shame or penance.

You let your fingertips drag along his hip as you passed; the full moon was the only light you needed because you knew Goyle by heart. You knew that demon face with the handsome snout, full lips, two horns curled flat against his head, and wide-set eyes; he was carved from stone, but yet his expression always seemed to change for you. Tonight, you could tell he was hungry.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” you cooed, slightly buzzed on spirits, as you got on your toes to take his face in your hands and kiss his snarl of a mouth.

That was when two, big, flesh hands cupped your face in return, claws digging into your head softly, and your lips melted against his with unbridled eagerness. His tongue slipped out long enough to swipe the back of your throat; it tickled, and you pulled back to see that his eyes were a warm brown, and dark hair grew down along his demon face, making him half human.

You barely had time to whimper before you heard the stone crack as he jumped down from the pedestal with a swoop of his wings and a thud—the ground shook--- and then he took you into his arms. You clung to the rock-hard muscles of his back until he stretched you out on the grass so he could rut you with his face; smelling, licking, grunting, from your neck to your aching pussy that was now showing signs of your arousal.

You didn’t speak his ancient language, but just as his snarling mouth made claim to your swollen slit, he said, “need to taste you,” and “you’re mine,” before fucking you with his forked lizard tongue.

You grabbed onto his horns as his massive shoulders spread your legs wide, and the claws dug in, lifting your hips up so he could lick your slit front to back, making you shiver and cum; he was hungry to taste every inch of the woman he loved. The centuries he'd spent waiting for you had been long and lonely.

Mounting you from above, his demon face inches from yours, he could only get the tip in an inch before you cried out, stiffening under him, and his curious eyes found yours as he went slow, stretching you out with purpose, desperately needing to plant his seed deep inside your womb.

Your hips rose up to meet him, moaning, eyes rolling back in your head. His long hair grazed your cheeks, your hand clinging to the muscles of his thick neck. He was mumbling words to you in that old language you’d never heard before, growling at you in a way that made you say, “fuck yesyesyes,” as you came again, twitching, pussy pulsing on the biggest cock you’d ever had before as it impaled you.

He was grunting words as he shot endless pulses of cum inside, thrusting base deep, filling you to the brim until it poured out. His dragon scale wings opened up and his head tossed back in a primal howl. You wrapped your legs around him at the end, planting sweet kisses on his face, and whispered things to each other, words of affection that neither one of you understood.

The next morning, after an evening of too much alcohol and grieving, you wondered if it has all been a dream.

But your cunt bore the residual tenderness and your inner thighs were still sticky with his spend. Your fingertips feathered along the claw marks on your bare hips as you gazed out over the garden with a confused smile.

The stone pedestal was empty, and your Goyle was gone.

[chqolan]

general ed headcanons

A/N: i thought it'd be nice to just share some ed headcanons that i think about quite often for some odd reason

TW: hmm nothing really ! maybe some typos cus i didn’t proof read anything , yolooo

starting this off with a banger; ed can’t drive.

but it’s not his fault! when he thinks about it, he’s never had a reason to drive. being raised by balrog would mean that he also benefited from the boxer’s wealth.

and of course, balrog would always have both him and ed in fancy cars or limos getting transported wherever they wanted.

even though he’s older and more dependant on himself, ed settles on using public transportation to make his way around town.

he’d never admit to anybody how often he used to get lost on the subway when first getting used to travelling on his own though…

this might be expected, but ed also has pretty bad eating habits. if he’s not accidentally starving himself (busy with travelling, working, lack of appetite, etc), he’s treating himself to a bunch of sweets and snacks.

it’s canon/confirmed that ed hates vegetables and loves sweets, so expect him to just be snacking on things like chocolate mint ice cream, licorice (both are his confirmed favourites !), candies, pastries etc.

since ed was in balrog’s care growing up, i doubt that he knew much of his own german heritage. it’s believable that he was quite out of touch with german culture until meeting falke.

since meeting his older sister figure, he’s learned to speak/understand quite a bit of german and enjoy german food ! (which isn’t really much a headcanon considering this is confirmed and very much canon)

falke definitely made him use duolingo to help teach him german, and ed can confirm that he despises the look of the duolingo bird. something about the way it looks… it rubs him the wrong way.

ed isn’t very into social media, but he has an account created on most platforms. he’s a huge lurker online too.

his accounts are somewhat anonymous and he’ll never have pictures of himself posted anywhere.

all his accounts are private with 6-10 followers who are just his neo shadaloo friends, balrog and probably you/world tour avatar.

on some occasions he’ll post pictures of snacks or meals that he’s eating, but even then it’s still not much.

however, he does follow a handful of accounts that post things he’s into. and due to that he’s adjusted his algorithm on all apps to show content related to boxing, pool/billiards, baking and pastry videos etc !

ed is a hot head and he can’t stop himself from arguing in comment sections—he always has to speak his mind.

even if he’s not arguing with people, he’ll sometimes leave small comments under certain things he’s fond of.

there’s a video of a candy shop tour? he’ll watch the whole thing in awe and comment something simple like “i gotta visit here some day”.

ed most likely has a small 1 bedroom apartment in metro city. it’s not the cleanest home, but at least he finds it comfortable.

he has charts scattered with pins, messy handwriting, photographs and more that helps him keep track of the shadaloo bases that he and his team find while saving other test subjects.

he’s only really home when it’s time to sleep.

in public spaces, ed prefers to keep to himself unless somebody is actively trying to get his attention.

since ed is always on the subway, he makes sure to be ready with lots of games to play on his phone. it’s no shocker that he’s a fan of pool games! it’ll keep him occupied no matter how long his train rides are.

adding a small bonus since it’s father’s day while i’m writing this…

ed totally celebrates with balrog every year on this occasion. knowing both of them, they probably think it’s too sappy to consider it as them celebrating father’s day.

but deep down they’re both aware of it and they’re grateful for each other ! truly the best father-son duo !

[cilil]

✧˖ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 °.

Are you looking to name a Maia or Vala OC or to write about an Ainu character, but aren't sure how to name them/refer to them? You've come to the right place! Here's a fun little breakdown of Ainur names (there's also a tldr at the bottom for quick answers). Hope it helps!

Level 1: What others call them (near, far, wherever they are)

Much like other characters in the legendarium, Ainur have different names in different languages and their identities may be seen differently depending on which culture they're currently interacting with.

One great example for this is Gandalf. His original name in Valinor was Olórin (related to "olos"/"olor" which means dream or vision), while the name Gandalf came from old northern Mannish and means "Wand-Elf". To the Dwarves, he was known as Tharkûn, which is Khuzdul for "Staff-man", and his Sindarin name was Mithrandir, which means "grey wanderer". These are just a few examples of his various names and nicknames, but you get the idea.

If you have other characters referring to the Ainu in question, consider which language(s) they would speak and see if a name has already been given to that Ainu in the specific language. Otherwise you can translate one of their existing names or give them a new one based on how you think the culture/group of people whose perspective you're currently writing would view the Ainu. An example to illustrate the latter: On Númenor Mairon was referred to as Zigûr, which means "wizard" in Adûnaic - fitting for a sorcerer.

As for the Ainu(r) character(s) you're writing, consider that they may also need different names in different languages depending on who they interact with. Ainur are omnilingual and will typically introduce themselves according to the language others around them speak. Depending on how open they want to be with their identity, they may simply give a slightly altered version of their name that reflects the other language (for example the Adûnaic version of Melkor is Mulkhêr), translate their name, make up a new one or accept one that was given to them. However, the name they identify with and use in their inner monologue may be a different one*... and this is where we move to the next level.

[*Important side note regarding this: While Morgoth and Sauron are commonly used names for Melkor and Mairon, these names were given to them by other people and are intended to be derogatory, so even though it's not always explicit in the text, we can safely assume that they do not self-identify as such and stick to their more "flattering" original names.]

Level 2: Quenya

When Ainur are introduced in canon, a Quenya name is usually given as their "real" name. Again, Olórin is an example (one among many) for this.

Having a Quenya name is pretty essential for every Ainu who lives in/has ties to Valinor and can be important for the ones in Middle-earth too, depending on the time period and how they self-identify. Be sure to look up the Quenya names of existing Ainur characters and have a Quenya name ready for your OCs, unless they were never in Valinor and explicitly cut themselves off from their kin and culture. Gothmog might be an example for this, being an Ainu who is pretty much exclusively referred to with a Sindarin name and seems to at least not object to the usage of his "evil Balrog name"/isn't mentioned to identify with a different name instead. However, even in such a case consider that other Ainur might still remember the character in question by their Quenya name and continue to use it.

Level 3: Valarin

As you probably know already, Valarin is the language of the Ainur that they created when they began taking physical forms. While they still use it among themselves and some Valarin words were adopted into Quenya, the alien and at times unpleasant sound of Valarin prompted them to learn Quenya instead to converse with Elves.

Would the Valarin name be a more "accurate" name of an Ainu, given how it was their first language and they only later translated their names? You could say that, and some authors have chosen to use Valarin names for that reason.

However, the main issue with Valarin is that so little is known about it and it can be intimidating and/or infuriating to even try using it aside from the few known Valarin names, which are:

Aȝūlēz (Aulë) Arōmēz (Oromë) Mānawenūz (Manwë) Oš(o)šai (Ossë) Tulukhastāz (Tulkas) Ullubōz (Ulmo)

Alright, don't panic. Valarin is, at least in my humble opinion, not a must. The texts themselves use Quenya, the Quenya names are a translation of the Valarin names and the Ainur in general are known to self-identify by their Quenyan names a lot, for example Mairon liked calling himself "Tar-Mairon".

If this however isn't satisfying to you and you would still prefer to have Valarin names ready for the Ainur you're writing, but can't make much of what little is known (less than 20 words and names respectively), you can still "make up" your own Valarin rendition of the Quenyan names. Here's how:

If you look at the ones I listed above, you may have already noticed that there are strong similarities between the names. Manwë, for example, comes from the Quenyan root "man" with the ending "wë", and you can see these elements being present in his Valarin name as well. So I'd suggest you take the Quenyan root and simply... make up a name that sounds like it could be proper Valarin (yup, we cheese it). To give you an example I've seen floating around in fanon: Melkor's name comes from the Common Eldarin (common ancestor of all Elven languages) "melek"/"mbelek", which means powerful (root "bel"/"mbel"), and Valarin names people use for him are usually some variant of "(M)Belekorōz".

Level 4: "True Names"?

But wait, some of you may say, didn't you say that the Ainur only invented Valarin when they took physical forms? Yup, I sure did. The Ainur in fact existed before language was even a thing - as spirit beings who communicate telepathically (via good old ósanwë) by nature they don't need it among themselves.

And this why I think not even the Valarin names are technically the "true names" of the Ainur and that they in fact don't have a "one true name". Given how the use of ósanwë, especially in an environment like the Timeless Halls where no physical barriers exist, allows them to pretty much project their entire identity, emotional state and being to one another, there should have been no need for names. Rather, they would have "titles" or "descriptors", a sort of summary of who their identity and function. You can arguably see that in Melkor's name still: "He who arises in might".

Now, again, what I'm saying in the paragraph above isn't explicitly spelled out in canon, but rather the conclusion I've come to after researching and thinking about it. I would also advise against giving various Ainur half a sentence as their original "name" for your Timeless Halls fics - I thought about it, but realized it would be both obnoxious to write and unpleasant to read.

[TLDR] To conclude, my advice is this: Quenya as the original/default name is completely fine, you can create a Valarin version if you want to and otherwise you may need additional names in other languages depending on the setting and situation, as outlined in level 1.

With that being said: Happy writing and character creating!

[orange-demons-deactivated2024]

yknow what, fuck it, how about some nsfw ed stuff too while we're gushing about this man

hehe freaky hours just entered the chat. I had to take out 2 of them because i just kept repeating myself in the end. art is by @17tondemo71 on twitter mdni +18

afterwards — Contrary to popular belief, Ed does bother to do aftercare. He isn't going to put your body through hell just to roll over and sleep. Balrog raised him better than that.

As tired as he is, he'll run a bath for the two of you to soothe your aching muscles. And gives you his oversized clothes for you to sleep in.

If you're lucky, he'll cuddle you and massage your tense muscles throughout the night.

beg — Ed likes it when you beg. It's a sight for him to see when you can only sputter a few words with tears in your eyes. Are you begging him to stop or go faster? Speak up, he can't hear you.

He doesn't beg often but when you're edging him, he'll let out a couple of 'please' under his breath as you delay his pleasure.

body — Ed loves your hips. It's the perfect spot for him to grab you as he pulls you closer to him while rubbing his fingers on your soft flesh.

He can confidently say his arms are his favorite feature about him. He could see the way your eyes lingered on them when he wore his sleeveless jacket in the summer. Or when your hands wandered up to them when he has you pinned against the wall.

If you nip at it with your teeth, he's sensitive on his collarbones. The sensation makes him roll his head back exposing more of his neck to you.

clothing — To me, Ed seems like the type to be partially clothed when having sex. He'll have his jacket and his wraps on, but that's it.

It's not often it happens, but if you rile him up in public, he'll pull you to the nearest secluded corner and fuck you there with most of your clothes on. He'll undo just enough to slide under the radar but still punish you for acting like a brat.

cum — When he cums, Ed makes sure it's deep inside you, as far as his dick can go. He'll even plug you up with his fingers so nothing escapes.

Occasionally Ed will pull out and release his load on your stomach to see it splatter across your body. And cumming inside him will inadvertently make him cum as well.

delay — He only delays your orgasm if you've been a brat the entire day. Not gonna listen to him? Alright. Guess you wouldn't mind him delaying your orgasm when you decided to talk back to him.

That, or he really wanted to see you cry with the big ole crocodile tears in your eyes, as you tried to thrust into his fingers.

dirty talk — He initiates dirty talk and likes it when you talk back to him, it doesn't matter whose topping.

"Huh, is that all you could take?"

"Stop bucking your hips or else I'll pull it out."

"Keep your legs open, and don't you dare close 'em."

"Heh, I can practically see it bulging in your stomach."

drive —Ed has a pretty average sex drive compared to other people.

But it does change depending on the circumstance and if his partner has a different sex drive than him. If you have a high sex drive, he'll be able to accommodate most of your needs, but ultimately get's tired after the 6th or 7th round.

But if you have a low sex drive, it's cool with him too. He'll savor the moments he does get intimate with you and still make it enjoyable for the both of you.

And if he does have to have his needs met when you aren't feeling it, Ed would just blow a load in the shower like he used to do before you.

dynamic —Ed is a switch leaning toward Dom. You can normally tell how the dynamic will play out leading up to it. But a good hint is when he shoves you on the bed, so he can crawl on top. And the reversal is when he sits on the bed first and pats his lap for you to sit on.

eyes — He doesn't like being watched during sex, at all. Ed's very possessive and he doesn't take too kindly to prying eyes in his relationship. Especially when they can see every part of you.

The only time he likes seeing other people having sex is if he has more than one partner. For ex. If You/Bosch/Ed were together, Ed would sit back to watch you and Bosch get handsy with one another.

fantasy — A big fantasy of his is to see you play with yourself. He wants you to spread your legs for him and watch how you make yourself cum.

hair — He keeps his downstairs fairly trimmed. He's not nitpicky and doesn't care to wax or shave, but he won't let it grow into a messy bush.

humiliation — For Ed, teasing-yes, humiliation...maybe. He likes it when you tease and play with him, it really pushes him over the edge.

He does degrade/humiliate you when you get sensitive around your body. He'll make you beg and tell you to use your words.

Don't get shy on him, or else he won't let you cum.

impact — In the bedroom? No. He's not really a fan of impact play as much as his other kinks.

kink — Some of his kinks include dacryphilia, degradation, brat-taming, and overstimulation.

He's willing to experiment more in the future if you are too.

lingerie — It's cute and all, but he prefers to see you in your workout clothes. He likes how your clothes hug your body when you get soaked in sweat.

He especially finds it hot when you wipe your face with the bottom of your shirt and he gets a peak of your skin under your clothes.

Plus he doesn't think he has the patience to be delicate enough to remove the flimsy garments when he's trying to fuck you.

location — Ed prefers to be in a room with a bed. And he hates fucking in public because there are too many risky situations the two of you could wind up in where you're out. He'll only ever do it if he's pent up with frustration.

lube — If you're in his bed, he does lube himself to make it more pleasurable for the two of you.

He'll settle with plain lube instead of the flavored ones, because he doesn't want anyone to ask questions if they see the colored splotches when he washes his sheets.

But other times when he unbuckles your belt or pushes your skirt up in public, he doesn't have time to lube himself, so he'll spit on his hand before shoving his fingers in you to stretch you out.

marks — Bite his neck and dig your nails down his sides, Ed loves that shit. Your face would be buried in the crook of his neck, lips sucking hickeys onto his bare skin as he cups the back of your head firmly.

He'll also leave bruises along your sides when he pulls you close and clamps down on your neck to watch you squirm.

music — I think Ed would play music, but it's only to fill the background noise. He tries not to do it often because he knows the rest of his group will catch on once they hear the music kick in. So, sometimes you get it, sometimes you don't.

floki & lost soul remix | PMEAN

names — He'll bust the fattest nut if you call him a good boy while riding him. He won't admit it but he does have a praise kink that gets him worked up when you say that.

But when Ed tops, he calls you either a brat or slut when fucking you. They both appeal to his humiliation kink and will fuck you dumb until you can't process words anymore.

orgasm — You would know when he's getting close. Because his body would have a visceral reaction as he gets closer to his release. Ed's low grunts turned into gasps and he'll hold onto you tighter until he's done.

He isn't sensitive until after his 6th orgasm, so you have a waze to go until you can actually hear him whine.

positions — He doesn't really have a favorite but there are some positions he uses more than others. Like missionary, cowgirl, and doggy style.

praise — He'll tell you how good you're making him feel and sing you praises if you're obediant.

"Listen to how wet you are."

"What a good hole for me to use."

"Such a pretty little cum slut."

queen — He's not a size queen so he doesn't care about specific girth or lengths.

restraint — The furthest he'll go to restrain you is with his psycho power. He'll use it to hold your limbs together as his hands roam your body. He won't do anything that would delve deeper into hardcore BDSM, because it'll become more personal and uncomfortable for him.

sensation — There are specific sensations Ed gets turned on by. Like when you tug on his lower lip with your teeth. Or the way your tongue feels on his fingers after he shoved them in your cum covered mouth.

sexting — Ed doesn't do it often, but he does sext you from time to time. Sometimes it's the only way to let out his pent-up frustration when he isn't in Metro City.

He starts off by sending a picture of his chest and gradually works his way down. And if you've been good, he'll send you a picture of the aftermath too.

But if you initiate it, It'll be nice if you give him a heads-up because there have been so many times when he's accidentally opened your nudes in public.

size — I could see him pushing 7 inches. #f4c5c5. Circumcised.

His tip is super sensitive, so even if you lightly graze your tongue on it, Ed will melt like putty in your hands. Bonus points if you have a tongue piercing because when the ball of the piercing rubs against his slit, he'll cum almost instantly.

He's not the girthiest but Ed's long enough to reach deep inside of you to send shockwaves of pleasure pulsing through your body.

sounds — The sounds Ed makes range from grunts to moans. He doesn't laugh during sex nor is he super chatty unless it's dirty talk, then he could fill the void with his voice for hours.

stimulation — He loves it when you rub circles on his hips when you give him handjobs. The feeling makes him hot all over and Ed lets out broken moans as you jerk him off.

He enjoys seeing your face when you get overstimulated. Imagine thinking you're done and Ed keeps going. Your protests turn into a pleasurable pain. Ed won't let you leave with you pleading, sniffing, and trying to pull away from his grasp. Your crying only encourages him to see how much he can undo you.

strip — He never really cared about putting on a show when taking off his clothes, but his eyes would linger on your body whenever you removed your clothing sensually.

Notably, he'll pull your panties/briefs down with his teeth, similar to how grooms pull on the bride's garter during a garter toss.

style — Ed likes it rough and prefers fucking over lovemaking. He'll have a steady and even pace so you can feel it in your gut. Other times when he does make love, his pace changes from fast and rough to slow and gentle.

top or bottom — Ed often tops but he sometimes bottoms when he's too lazy to put in a lot of effort on his part. He doesn't mind being on the receiving end of penetration but he prefers it to be the other way around.

And he also likes to give/receive oral.

Giving, Ed will hold your hips firmly to prevent you from squirming away from him. He savors your gasps and whines as you try to push his head back and eventually release in his mouth.

Receiving, Ed will let you take over as he lies sprawled out on his bed. And he'll groan and curse at the wave of pleasure you're putting his body through. So when you pull away from him, he gets a view of his cum coating your tongue and dribbling down the sides of his shaft. Ed pulls you by the back of your neck into a deep makeout session, tasting bits of himself in your mouth.

tease — Tease Ed by giving him kitten licks on his neck, he's the most sensitive on his sides and will have a hard-on for the rest of the day. Or maybe rub him through his pants when you sit next to him at the bus stop, and only stop if he's about to cum himself. It'll drive him mad.

He'll press down on your sensitive areas and move extra slow if you pissed him off. Not only that Ed will grind against you fully clothed. You better get off to the friction, because that's all you're getting from him.

toys — If he ever uses toys, it's never going to be used on him. Any foreign object penetrating him gives him flashbacks of when he was being used as a lab rat for Shadaloo. So they are a hard pass for him.

But he does like using bullet vibrators to push against your sex when he has you pinned to the bed. Go ahead and keep squirming, seeing your flustered face does wonders for his kinks.

turn ons — Pull on his hair when his lips occupy your collarbones. He feels a chill down his spine with each tug.

Dirty talk. Lots of dirty talk. Especially when you're the one initiating it.

Rely on him more, it strokes his ego when you come to him for comfort.

volume —Ed's one of those people who starts off grunting but gradually gets louder over time. If he knew his group was roaming around the base, then he would bite down on his fist to keep quiet when you service him.

If you touch his sensitive areas during sex, it'll break his rhythm and he'll let out a loud moan.

He doesn't have a preference if his partner is quiet or loud, but keep in mind he's living with other people so don't be obnoxiously loud to wake up the whole unit.

wet — He likes cold shower sex after being chased around by Shadaloo scum. It doesn't matter how messy you two get because the water gets the grime off his skin anyway.

He would have sex in other bodies of water if there's a secluded spot that hides you two. But be careful, he wouldn't want anything brushing up against you that's not him.

[greaterbalrogcat]

so what's the battle cats tumblr shortform? bcblr? ponosblr sounds bad we need something like rotomblr suggest names please

[chiliadicorum]

Was Feanor's Death Anticlimactic?

(thank you to @ckgoksoy's artwork and @nyarnamaitar's tags on it that inspired this)

I’m sure the fandom has seen this idea floating around, that his death was quite anticlimactic*, a letdown after all his hype and drama, so I won't elaborate on this common opinion, one that I initially shared. I instead want to challenge it. Furthermore, I posit that not only was his death not anticlimactic, but that it was one of the most glorious fights in the whole legendarium. *(I'm speaking of the whole scene in general that ended in his death, not the outcome of it - let's be real, self-combustion isn't boring and that epic circumstance was unique to Feanor alone)

Buckle up.

I'm not going to dive into "narrative bias" - it's a touchy subject and a deep discussion in itself - but it does need to be acknowledged here however briefly because it's so glaringly obvious that it directly impacts how we the Reader interpret Feanor's final fight scene.

My belief of the problem is not that there wasn't anything significant to report about Feanor's fight with the Balrogs, but that it was deliberately withheld from us. Let's look at Feanor and Fingolfin, two incredibly imperative characters to the drama. Compare the scene of Feanor's fight to Fingolfin's duel with Morgoth. In the silmarillion, from the moment he elected to go forth to the conclusion of his death, Feanor gets 1.5 paragraphs containing 344 words. Fingolfin using the same window gets 6 paragraphs containing 766 words. Of those 766 words, for text dedicated specifically to the actual combat alone, Fingolfin got 261 words.

Feanor got 29.

That's quite a gaping difference, especially when it's between these two. But you might make the argument that these two combats had entirely different foes. Feanor faced Balrogs, but Fingolfin fought Morgoth, the Enemy, the only occasion in which Morgoth emerged to fight anyone, so of course it should shine in the spotlight with some detail as to how it went (and yes, it should). It has nothing to do with bias against who was fighting, but what they were fighting.

All right. I'll pretend that this distinction is important. Let's turn to the other recorded Balrog-fights. Again, not including all the narrative revolving around their fight & subsequent death, but specific to the combat alone:

Fingon got 94 words Ecthelion got 144 words Glorfindel got a whopping 210 words

Feanor got 29. Now, length is not the deciding factor in this, obviously. The content contained within is what matters, and that's the rub: there's content. Which is why I literally figured out the word-count dedicated to what happened within the timeframe of the combats. Length is not important, but the point I'm trying to make with highlighting the lengths is that some measure of detail of the combat was included for ALL the other deaths-by-Balrog. Except Feanor's. So the argument that it was because of what Feanor was fighting that we were left with a truncated account is moot.

And remember, the three other Elves above were each fighting a single Balrog whereas Feanor was up against many. And I'm to seriously believe that there was nothing noteworthy to write about that? This was Feanor. Because that's another thing. The other three accounts were of minor characters (and Ecthelion and Glorfindel were very minor characters compared to Feanor). This was the legendary Feanor, the greatest of Elves to ever live, larger than life, powerful, intelligent and skilled beyond measure, and without who's driving force we wouldn't have had a story...and a few dozen words only are dedicated to his demise?

Now to clarify, Glorfindel's and Ecthelion's fights weren't included in the silm. Like I said, minor characters, so it wasn't surprising their combats were cut from the final draft. Their word-count was pulled from their accounts in The Fall of Gondolin. So, to be fair, I took the (really long) time and looked up Feanor's death in every. single. book. and, much to my genuine surprise, the silmarillion had the longest and most detailed account. The measly 29 words. What were those words? I should probably include them at some point since I'm going on about it:

"Long he fought on, and undismayed, though he was wrapped in fire and wounded with many wounds; but at the last he was smitten to the ground by Gothmog"

That's it. No wonder people are underwhelmed when reading it. So vague and containing absolutely nothing specific after he was surrounded. And it says "long he fought on", which means this fight was no short thing. This is an interesting element, because even Glorfindel's fight, which was given the most detail, was described as a fast event: "Now there was a deadly combat upon that high rock above the folk [...] yet it was over ere Glorfindel's men could leap to his side." Long he fought on. Logic dictates that Feanor's fight therefore would have the most to report of what occurred therein, but all we get is "wounded with many wounds" and "wrapped in fire"? (though that's an awesome visual to imagine, I have to say)

Am I really supposed to believe that every Balrog-fight was interesting enough to spend time writing about it except Feanor's? Especially when he faced not just one Balrog but many? And not one at a time, but all at once? (because it says he was "surrounded") And when this combat lasted a long time? All of these factors tied together hint at something awesome that happened, and you want me to believe it wasn't a jaw-dropping showdown?

This history was written by Pengolodh who, with reason, had a very negative outlook towards Feanor and, while he was a brilliant historian, he wasn't wholly objective and one way I believe this manifests is, in fact, in his lack of documentation of this fight. I'm only highlighting this factor and not the narrative he penned about the people he was writing because, especially comparing Feanor's and Fingolfin's accounts, that becomes very problematic and is a separate post entirely.

Feanor only got 29 words for his combat. I'll even be generous and say it was 35 words if we include the preceding line where it explains that Feanor was surrounded by them. What would happen if we rewrote Fingolfin's 261-worded duel with Morgoth and condensed it down to something short and sweet? Something like this:

"Fiercely he fought in rage and grief, and with Ringil he hewed at the Black Foe ere Morgoth crushed him to the ground. Thus died Fingolfin before Angband's gates."

Kind of anticlimactic, isn't it? (and yeah, I made that 29 words)

What an astounding difference detail makes for the conclusions we draw about these two fights. Now, if Feanor had died straightaway at the start of the fight, then yeah. Deeming it anticlimactic would carry a lot more weight.

Except he didn't.

Which brings me to my next three points. Because now after harping about the egregious lack of information, how can I dare suggest then that his combat with the Balrogs was glorious?

Ignore everything I've said up to this point. Dismissing the narrative bias completely, if I were of the opinion that it doesn't exist or its impact on the text is nowhere near as substantial as I've implied, the minimal detail of Feanor's death scene itself still convinces me that this scene was epic.

And yes, I do believe Feanor's fight was in fact glorious.

1: the Balrogs weren't able to kill him immediately

Those four words, "long he fought on" cannot be overstated. Fights with Balrogs in the First Age were fast, if you managed to live long enough to actually fight them, that is. And if you did, it was shortlived. Not Feanor's though. He was wounded with many wounds (so creative, Pengolodh), but he was never dealt the killing blow (I'll come back to this). The final wound Feanor received put him to the ground. Maybe Gothmog swept his feet out from under him with the fiery whip. Maybe this wound was to his thigh and caused him to fall to his knees. Maybe it took four of them converging on him with attacks for Gothmog to finally slip in. WE'LL NEVER KNOW. But he's on the ground and he's still alive. Still alive when his sons and army arrived to help and still alive when the Balrogs left:

"Then his sons raised up their father and bore him back towards Mithrim. But as they drew near to Eithel Sirion and were upon the upward path to pass over the mountains, Feanor bade them halt; for his wounds were mortal and he knew that his hour was come."

And still alive while they carry him away. Feanor didn't die on the battleground of his Balrog-fight. He died here, near the slope of the mountains. It says earlier in Feanor's account that he pressed on, thinking perhaps that he could reach Morgoth himself, which means they were far into the fields of Ard-galen, far from the mountain pass. From Eithel Sirion to the skirt of Thangorodrim's mountains, Ard-galen stretched around 70 leagues wide (one map has it around 100 leagues). Let's be generous and say this fight occurred at the midpoint; 35 leagues. If it takes an hour to walk a league, that's still 35 hours of non-stop walking without rest-stops, sleep or being weighed down by supplies and an army to get back to Eithel Sirion where Feanor died (some accounts have him being borne all the way back to Mithrim before he died).

At minimum, Feanor didn't die until at least a whole day later. He needed assistance getting up from the ground and moving, but he was very much alive, still talking, still coherent. Can you imagine how awful that was for his sons? The adrenaline of running as fast as they could to help him, the overwhelming relief that he was still alive, badly hurt but alive, they tend to his wounds as best as they can and get him out of there, probably smiling at their father being irritated by the outcome of the fight because that sounds like him, he's normal haha he'll be fine...But he's only getting worse with each league, face paler, can't move at all on his own, becoming so quiet. They keep tending to his wounds, try to keep him hydrated, steadily get terrified at how he gets weaker and weaker, and then he tells them to halt. The fact that he survived for a time, for many hours, led me to believe that whatever fatal wound he got, it caused severe internal bleeding, because his sons had plenty of time to patch him up and Elves' bodies are resilient and heal fast, but this wound was unstoppable.

Feanor fought against multiple Balrogs, and they couldn't kill him. He fought multiple Balrogs all at once, and they couldn't kill him. He fought multiple Balrogs all at once for a long time, and they couldn't kill him, one and done. He walked away from it, if for a short while, and that's amazing.

2: the Balrogs fled the scene

How has the fandom not lost their collective minds over this tidbit? Feanor gets struck down by Gothmog. He's on the ground, exposed, and it says he would have perished right then and there if his sons hadn't arrived to help. Feanor's vulnerable on the ground, unable to defend himself. Gothmog had to only strike him one more time and done, mission accomplished (he could've just stomped on him, just saying). Gothmog probably moved to do so, but didn't. Let me ask you a question:

What the hell did Feanor do in that fight to make the Balrogs AFRAID?

This was one Elf, a single Elf that they were all piling on, they finally get him to the ground...and they run. They can finally kill him, but at the mere SIGHT of his seven sons, the children of this one Elf running full pelt towards them enraged and desperate, they elected to flee instead of taking the two seconds to finish the job. I can see it; Gothmog's eyes blazing down at this prone Elf, raising his weapon for the killing blow, hears yelling, looks up, sees these Elves coming, takes a second to consider and then nopes out of there.

What in the world did Feanor do to them during their fight to make the Balrogs believe that fleeing from these coming Elves was the better option? They're Balrogs! Monsters, demons of living fire, the greatest of Morgoth's servants...and they run at the sight of Feanor's sons and the people with them. See now why I'm so desperate for details of that fight? Feanor put fear into them. There was really nothing worth writing about?

3: Morgoth was desperate

"[...] Morgoth was dismayed. Ten days that battle lasted, and from it returned of all the hosts that he had prepared for the conquest of Beleriand no more than a handful of leaves."

Morgoth was dismayed. Can we not appreciate the magnitude of this simple sentence? Appalled, apprehensive, frightened, nervous, shocked - Feanor and the Noldor made Morgoth, mightiest of all beings, dismayed.

This was a landslide victory for the Noldor, and it's often forgotten because of Feanor's death in the hour of that victory. The size of Morgoth's army here can't be disregarded. This wasn't a troop or two he sent to kill the Noldor, this wasn't a regiment sent to take over Mithrim. This army was of such a gargantuan size that Morgoth intended to use it for "the conquest of Beleriand". Not just the Falas or Doriath, the entire continent. It was THE army, that's how huge it was. And the Noldor massacred them to such a degree that "no more than a handful of leaves" returned to Angband.

And that puny remnant was running for Angband as fast as they could, because these terrifying Elves were hot on their tail, Feanor at the lead. And he runs faster, pulling ahead. (the Elves are hot with victory, how did Feanor manage to outrun them by such a distance? dang dude) He's coming for them. For Angband, for Morgoth, his father's slayer and thief of his treasure. Vengeance is nigh.

And from afar Morgoth sees Feanor coming. For him. His army is destroyed, gone, and Feanor, blazing like the Spirit of Fire he is, is charging for his fortress with the army of Noldor in his wake. And I absolutely love that Morgoth's solution to this wasn't to send one Balrog but several of them, including his General. That's what he deemed was necessary to stop Feanor. The Balrogs probably went out thinking "kill that one Elf? Easy, no problem", until they started fighting him...and struggled to do it.

It's interesting because Feanor wouldn't have been able to breach the walls of Angband. Not even the Valar could, and Morgoth knew this. He knew Feanor wouldn't stand a chance if he actually reached Thangorodrim. But such was his dismay that in his fear and anxiety, that fact no longer registered to him. He reacted instead, and his reaction is so telling. The Balrogs were a last resort, a desperate attempt to get these Elves to stop.

And it worked.

Thus why I say that details of his fight were deliberately withheld from us instead of the idea that they weren't worth reporting. The question, then, is why? Why withhold it? Feanor's death scene was never anticlimactic. It was instead given such a disservice in the tomes of history, for the historians simply neglected to report anything about it (for the sole purpose of making it seem unnotable perhaps?). This fight was badass. And side note: "wrapped in fire"? There's no sun or moon yet, guys, and that close to Angband I'm willing to bet even the stars were veiled by Morgoth's gales. It's pitch black on the Ard-galen except for what light the Elves carry...Try to envision what his sons saw as they were running to him, in the distance, the whirling inferno Feanor was engulfed in, that lit up the entire fields up to the skies. (Were they confused at first? Thinking it was simply a manifestation of their father's fire until they saw dark shapes moving in it?)

How could anyone omit information about such a marvelous event? Feanor died very early on, but he made sure his final stand was so glorious as to put fear into the Enemy. Think about it; this day was the first time Morgoth learned to dread the Elves.

29 words. Why oh why did you withhold everything else? Yes, all these factors woven together coalesce into an incredible impression of what transpired, but it's remanded unto our mere imaginations to guess and envision. I'm fully convinced Feanor's fight with the Balrogs was jaw-dropping, and I'm resigned to being forever embittered that we were given a lousy account of that event. There is one thing, though, that pacifies me and with it, I'll make my conclusion to this long meta. Why was it withheld? There's one detail written about this battle in The Quenta that I think provides the answer:

"no tale can tell the valour of Feanor"

Perhaps I'm being too harsh on Pengolodh for his lackluster description of Feanor's last fight. Maybe it was less of a passive-aggressive hostility towards Feanor...and more so the simple fact that no amount of words would've ever done it justice.

[mask131]

About the "Tolkienesque renaissance"

The term "Tolkienesque renaissance" is of my own invention and creation, but it is a name I use to designate a very specific wave of fantasy fiction, or rather a specific phenomenon in the evolution of fantasy in the English-speaking literature.

As we all know, Tolkien's shadow cannot be escaped when doing fantasy. Tolkien's works being published began the modern fantasy genre as we know it today. D&D, the other big "influencer" of fantasy, would not have existed without Tolkien. The Peter Jackson trilogy began the fantasy renewal of the 21st century. Epic fantasy is a sub-genre explicitely designed after Tolkien's work.

And the massive influence of Tolkien over fantasy is the most felt in the second half of the 20th century, in English-speaking literature, through something I would call the "Tolkien cold-war". When you take a look at the fantasy books of the second half of the 20th century, you notice a fundamental clash and divide splitting it all in some sort of silent feud or discreet conflict. On one side, you have the "Tolkien followers" - as in, the authors who walk in Tolkien's footsteps ; on the other side, you have the "counter-Tolkien" offering what is essentially a counter-culture in a Tolkien-dominated fantasy.

We all know that Tolkien's success was huge in the early second half of the 20th century. The success of "The Lord of the Rings" and the "Hobbit" and the "Silmarillion" was especially important during the 60s and 70s - Gandalf for president and all that... People loved Tolkien's fantasy, people WANTED Tolkien's fantasy, and so publishers and others were happy to oblige. This began the "Tolkien followers" movement - but this beginning was a very unfortunate one, because it was one that relied on not just homage, imitation or pastiche... But in pure copy-cat and sometimes complete rip-off. Since people wanted some Tolkien, people were given LITERAL Tolkienesque fantasy. The most famous (or unfamous example of this would be the 1977 's "The Sword of Shannara" novel. This novel was designed to literaly be a simplified "The Lord of the Rings" with only a few details changed here and there. In fact, this is most of what people recall about this book - how blatant of a Tolkien rip-off it is. And yet, this book was a BEST-SELLER of the 70s fantasy, and it was a huge success, and everybody loved it, precisely because it did the same thing Tolkien did, and so you got to enjoy your favorite series all other again. Afterward, Terry Brooks, the author of the novel, expanded it into a complete series moving into much more original and personal directions, as he admitted himself that doing a Tolkien copy-paste was more of a publishing and editorial decision to make sure he would sell and settle himself in the literary landscape rather than an actual artistic project or personal desire. "The Sword of Shannara" got its own sequels, and became its own thing (though VERY reflective of what the 80s American fantasy was in terms of style, tone and content), but nowadays everybody remembers it for being the "Tolkien rip-off" in its first novel.

And yet being a Tolkien rip-off can sell well, and if the "Shannara" series hadn't proved it, "Dungeons and Dragons" did, since its first edition in the late 70s went as far as to just take Tolkien's inventions such as orcs, Balrogs and hobbits, and include it in its game. The same way the Shannara series then found its own tone and content, through the successive editions Dungeons and Dragons then began to build a world of its own... But it confirms what I said: it was the era of the Tolkien rip-offs.

In front of these "Tolkien followers", which were back then "Tolkien imitators", there was another movement that drove fantasy forward - and it was the "counter-Tolkien movement" so to speak. Works of fantasy that willingly chose to depart from Tolkien's formulas and archetypes and tropes, to do their own thing. Sometimes they did it out of an actual dislike of Tolkien's books: for example the "Elric Saga" was created because Moorcock hated the paternalist, moralist tone of The Lord of the Rings, and so he countered Tolkien's world with a protagonist serving the Lords of Chaos, using a soul-sucking evil sword, last remnant of an empire of cruel, decadent and demonic elves, in a tragic world doomed to endless falls and oblivions... (Though, ironically, Moorcock would end up initiating a genre of dark fantasy that Tolkien himself had explored in his unpublished texts...). Others did it not because they disliked Tolkien but wanted to prove you could do something else: for example Ursula Le Guin admired and appreciated Tolkien's works, but she was fed up with all the imitators and pastiches, and so she created her "Earthsea" world. No European setting dominated by white people, but an archepilago of islands with dark-skinned characters. No big war or political manipulations, the stories being about about the life, journeys and evolution of individual people. No sword-wielding hero or horse-riding paladin, but wizards and priestesses as the protagonists. No big prophecy about the end of the world, flashy magical sword or evil overlord ready to destroy the universe (well... almost), but rather philosophical and existential battles doubling as a fight against oneself and one's very existence...

This counter-Tolkien genre definitively peaked with the other big name of "dark fantasy" and what would annonce the "grimdark fantasy" a la Game of Thrones: Glen Cook's The Black Company.

But what about the titular "Tolkienesque renaissance" I speak of?

Well, if the "Tolkien followers" had only done bad rip-offs, it would have never lasted, ad the "counter-Tolkien" movement would have won. In fact in the 80s, it almost did! Tolkienesque fantasy was thought of as cliched and stereotyped and overdone and dead. People had enough of these blatant-rip offs, as the hype of the 60s and 70s had died out, and the 80s folks turned to other forms of fantasy - such as The Black Company (Dark Fantasy), or Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser (Sword and Sorcery), or various parodies and humoristic fantasies, but all far from the "epic fantasy". And yet, something happened... The "Tolkien imitators" became "Tolkien followers" or rather "Tolkien reinventors", and began the "Tolkienesque renaissance".

The Tolkienesque renaissance is this group of fantasy authors, most predominant in the 90s though they began their work by the late 80s, that decided they would make the Tolkienesque fantasy live on. Not just by copying it as their predecessors did, a la Shannara, no. But by reinventing it, freshening up the old ways for a modern audience and new times. They took back all the key ingredients, and the famed archetypes and the usual tropes of the epic fantasy a la Tolkien, and they reused them without shame... But in new ways, with twists and turns, playing on the codes of the genre, while carefully avoiding the cliches and stereotypes of the time. Giving what people liked about epic fantasy, while also producing new works that felt fresh and went into opposite directions - taking lessons from the counter-Tolkien movement.

It is commonly agreed that the series that began this renaissance was David Eddings' The Belgariad, published between 1982 and 1984. Just a look at the Wikipedia article mentions this best-selling, very influential fantasy series was the "last gasp of traditional fantasy, and the founding megasaga of modern fantasy"... Now, I actually have to disagree with Wikipedia's words. I do not consider it a "last gasp of traditional fantasy" since it already began the Tolkienesque renaissance and thus a new generation of fantasy ; and the other qualificative is ridiculous since modern fantasy already began with Tolkien, and the Belgariad is not a mega-saga, but just five average-sized books. But the idea of it being a link between an older and a newer generation of fantasy books is very true.

While The Belgariad has to be put first, second comes Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time, which probably is the most famous of the Tolkienesque renaissance works of the 90s and became this behemoth of fantasy literature. And to make a trilogy of iconic works, I will add another 90s success: Tad Williams' "Memory, Sorrow and Thorn". Another iconic work of the Tolkienesque renaissance, though lesser known today than the Belgariad or The Wheel of Time - which is a shame, because Williams' work as a huge and heavy influence on a famous fantasy story of today... "A Song of Ice and Fire", which takes a LOT from "Memory, Sorrow and Thorn" (I even call this trilogy the "missing link" between LotR and ASoIaF).

The thing with these Tolkienesque renaissance series is that today, to an audience that was nourished by Tolkien and D&D and Pratchett and other things of the sort, a superficial glance might make them seem like "yet other rip-offs, yet other stereotyped, yet other clichéed" fantasy series. You just have to see the reception of the first season of "The Wheel of Time" tv series - here there was a clash between two generatons of fantasy.

And what these people who take a superficial glance will miss is how inventive and fresh and interesting these series felt back then because they played with or subverted the tropes and the codes of the traditional fantasy. They all played by the usual archetypes - you have an everyman young chosen one, a magical mentor who must "die" at one point, an evil overlord in an ominous half-disembodied state, evil black-clad horsemen going after the hero, elves and dwarves and trolls... And yet, these series twisted these same ingredients they used to bring new flavors.

Let us take the Belgariad briefly, to see how the whole Tolkienesque formula was subverted. Like in Tolkien you've got an order of wizards appeared as elderly, bearded men - but here, they are definitively human beings unlike the otherwordly Istari, and their appearance is explained by them being the disciples of a god that likes to take the appearance of a bearded old man, and who by divine influence made them look like him. You've got a dangerous, all-powerful item the big bad is seeking to destroy the world - but here it is no evil, or corrupting thing. It is rather an item dangerous because of the sheer scope and range of its power, and the temptation isn't becaue it is "evil" power, but just because it is a power so massive it can break the world. You've got a missing king with a stewart/regent holding the throne for him until the lost heir returns - but when said heir returns, the stewart/regent is no evil vizir or scheming usurper, and gladly offers back the throne to its legitimate owner. Belgarath, your Gandalf-stand-in, is far from being the dignified guide and noble mentor of Tolkien, as he is a half-werewolf drunkard that hates any kind of official ceremony or garb and prefers running through the woods or rolling under a table in taverns. And while everything is designed as a Tolkienesque setting, you've got no elves or dwarves or orcs - but humans. And that's a big change compared to more traditional 80s fantasy (like D&D or the Krondor series or Shannara). You have your Nazgûl stand-ins, but they're humans. You've got your Istari, but they're humans. You've got your dwarves equivalent, but they're humans. You've got your orcs equivalents, but human too. And it is shown that it is all a human vs human combat, despite being a world of magic and gods, placing some relativism into it all. (Though the fact they decided to subvert the Tolkienesque good vs evil wordlbuilding by having humans on both sides did cause other aspects of the series to age badly but that's another topic).

I can go on and on but I think you see my point - and this same subversion can be found in the other two series I talked about.

The Wheel of Time begins with the chosen one going on a quest... But which chosen one? That's the problem - there are multiple candidates, and so we begin with a guessing game. And the Aes Sedai are clearly an answer to Tolkien's Istari - but all women instead of all men, and much more numerous and pro-active. As for "Memory, Sorrow and Thorn" we have benevolent trolls that are actually more akin to Tolkien's dwarves and have some Inuit-influence, while the Tolkienesque-elves turn out to either be the big bads of the series and the evil guys ; or to be sheltered, useless side-characters that are not helping anyone and cause more problems than anything (I'm exaggerating a bit here, but you get the subversion). Spoilers - but the Galadriel equivalent literaly gets murdered during her second actual appearance, to make it very clear what kind of subversion we are into.

Because this was the game of these books - and the reason they were such huge successes. It wasn't about avoiding or setting themselves free from the tropes and code and archetypes of the genre. Rather it was about reappropiating them, reusing them, twisting them and modernizing them in order to get rid of the stale cliches and frozen stereotypes. It was all a game of imitation yes, but also of derailing - a subtle, discreet, derailing so that everybody got on board of the same type of train, but said train took different tracks to another landscape and worked on a different fuel. (If it makes sense?). It is a game of subtle twists - but unfortunately it is often this subtlety that makes these series overlooked, as people just focus too much on what is identical/similar and not much on what is different... Despite the differences being key here in this effort of renewing what was a dying style. Placing back these books in their context highlights even more how "fresh" they felt back then.

I have one specific point that illustrates this, but I'll need to write a whole post for it...

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

A Lord’s Proposition

Prompts “bite me” ”if you insist” and “each of my thoughts about you are improper”

Pairing: Melkor x Fem. Reader (Elf / Finwë’s daughter with Miriel and Fëanor’s twin| second person POV)

Themes: Slowburn |  Smut (lemon-ish) | Soft

Warnings: Corruption | Oral (Male receiving) | Fingering | Kissing | First time | Marking | Penetrative Sex | Cream pie

Wordcount: 4.9K words

Summary: Melkor had kidnapped you and kept you confined to a tower while he travelled to Utumno. He has now returned, and asks for you.

Rating: 🔥🔥 Minors DNI | 18+

For rules and tag form, read here. 

To the person who requested this, I hope you like it. 

You looked out a barred window, your heart aggrieved by the sight that befell your eyes.

There was no starlight here. None could be found in Angband. The sky was murky black from the thick smog of smoke from the keep’s many furnaces. The air was damp and cold and foul. The scent of ash and smoke and worse crept in through the windows and clung to your garments. Some days, the smell was so strong that it made your eyes water and bile rise at the back of your throat. You had no choice but to bear it all in silence. You were a prisoner, utterly dependent on the favor of the one who held you captive. 

Still, you supposed, it was a better fate than most. You turned your attention from the sky and peered into the gloomy courtyard. Thralls scurried to and fro like mice desperately trying to escape the talons of an eagle. They were like wraiths, mere shadows of the fair and glorious beings they once were. That was how your captor liked to see them: fearful, half-starved, and brought down to the lowest point of their existence.  

Not just them, you realized with great dread. I am one of them. The daughter of a race he loathes with a murderous passion, so the poets and singers say. How long will it be before I am made to sip from the cup that was forced onto them?

Your skin prickled out of fear. You closed the shutters of your window and sharply turned away as soon as a wretched scream carried through the courtyard. You did not want to dwell on that sound or from whom it came. There was no need to feed your nightmares with fresh fodder. 

You studied your chambers like you always did, ever since your capture. The walls and floors were bare black stone, the pelts were thick, and the rushes were new. Besides the old hearth, there was a basket filled with blocks of peat instead of wood for a fire. The bed was small but comfortable. You reflected on the remnants of your last meal. The bread and roasted meat had been fresh, the water was clean and cool.

Mine may be a wretched lot, but it is still better than theirs, you reminded yourself. Much better than theirs. 

Someone knocked on the door. It was loud and insistent. You made haste to answer it, your shoes clicking over the floor. You expected to find a thrall and came face-to-face with her instead.

Thuringwethil, they called her. Woman of the secret shadow. Herald for the Dark Lord. The first vampire. Her eyes gleamed like new rubies. Her wings dragged behind her whenever she walked. A gown was draped over one arm.

"My lady." You quickly dipped to your knees even as the words stumbled out of your mouth. Anything to not anger her. 

A gale of laughter greeted you. It was shrill and painful to the ears, like nails over brittle glass. You had to stop yourself from physically wincing.

"You certainly have good manners, little elf," Thuringwethil replied, and looked over you critically. "That will serve you well with him, I think."

"With him, my lady?" You sputtered in disbelief. "Which him?"

Your mind was a roil. There was more than one him here in Angband, and each one was as mercurial as the next. Was Thuringwethil speaking of Mairon, Melkor’s most favored advisor? Or was she speaking of that Balrog high general? The one who could change from a creature of great beauty to one that inspired nothing but sheer terror? Or was it the Maia who found great joy in changing into a giant cat and tormenting everyone who crossed his path?

"Him," she said, and moved around you in an elegant flourish. Her wings trailed behind her over the floor, all black and deep crimson. You took a deep breath and sighed wistfully. The very air around her smelled like a meadow in full bloom. It did not surprise you. Thuringwethil used to be Yavanna’s Maia after all. "Lord Melkor, no less. He has returned from Utumno and wishes to dine with you."

You gave her a measured look. You were a prisoner, captured and carried off after a daring raid in the heart of Valinor itself. And now you have been invited to dine with your captor, the Lord of Angband, no less. The prospect frightened you. 

"I… I hope I will not offend Lord Melkor," you blurted out, and hoped this invitation was not a ruse to heap unspeakable agony upon you. 

"I see you truly are nothing like that heedless, foul-tempered brother of yours," Thuringwethil observed, not unkindly. "And I promise, he will not be offended by anything you do." 

She did not give you time to think or frame a reply. She went on to add, "Thralls will see to your bath now. An orc will come to fetch you once you have finished."

You shivered and nodded in fright. Thuringwethil took her leave of you, practically floating out of your chambers in a swirl of wings and lace and night-blooming roses. You walked over to your bed and ran the flat of your palm over your new dress. It was soft to the touch and dripping in gems, and finer than any gown you possessed before.

So lavish, you mused. What does he want from me?

There was another knock on your door. This time it was hesitant and timid. "Come in, please," you said, and moved away from the bed. 

Thralls walked in carrying pails of clean, warm water. Another pair brought with them a small copper tub and a towel. A thrall filled the tub with water before adding fragrant oils. Another helped you out of your robes, her eyes downcast. Her fingers fumbled with the sash; it was as if they had all turned into thumbs. You wanted to talk to her, to ask how she came to be here. All you did, in the end, was bite your tongue.

I must take care of what I say to them. It may cause more trouble for them if I do. 

The sweet-smelling water was a welcome relief from the smells of the outside world. The thralls sluiced water over your hair before gently brushing out any tangles. One of them went to work on your nails and feet. It felt strange, to have them wait on you in such a manner. It was stranger still, given the cause for such pampering. 

She said nothing I do could offend him. I am certain now that he must want something from me. What is it? 

You had seen Melkor before. He had come calling on your brother; his words like honey. You were by an upstairs window, looking down on the gardens where they stood. Fëanor had been furious with the Vala’s intrusion. He grew even more enraged when the Vala glanced up and caught you looking, his lips curling up at the corners. Their exchange grew heated. Fëanor sent Melkor away, but not before Melkor managed to steal a second glimpse of you. That was all you saw of him until after your capture, when you were presented to him like a prize, your arms and feet bound in iron, your clothes reduced to rags. He said nothing. All he did was sit on his lofty throne and look down on you, his eyes roaming over you in a way that made a flush creep up your throat.  

You never saw him after that. Melkor kept you confined to the tower you now lived in. No one was allowed to see you save for the thralls that had to tend to you and Thuringwethil. The other Maia were allowed nowhere near you. Even the orcs were allowed nowhere near you, until now. 

It is as if he does not trust the others with me.

A thrall held out their arm, to help you out of the tub. You stood still while they toweled you dry, your cheeks ablaze when they first helped you into the wisps Thuringwethil brought with her. The garments were so soft, you did not even notice them. Next came the dress, an airy confection of lace and silk that clung to your body. Then came a pair of soft slippers and finally a perfume, one that was dabbed on each of your wrists and behind your ears. The thralls wanted to style your hair, but you declined, insisting on wearing it loose.

"The master calls," insisted the orc that came to escort you to Melkor’s private chambers deep within Angband. "Come."

You followed him silently, walking through lofty corridors and vast halls, each as empty and dimly lit as the next. Your footsteps echoed all around you even as you sunk deep into your thoughts. Melkor had insisted you be brought to him alive. He had kept you in a tower, apart from the thralls and other prisoners. He had provided you with decent food and drink, even new garments. No one was allowed to harm a hair on your head. And the way he looked at you when you were presented to him, his eyes dark with hunger. The memory alone was enough to give you pause. 

You shook your head. No. It could not be. Melkor desired nothing but the complete dominion of Arda. He treasured nothing but power and causing pain. That was what the songs said. That was what your father and brother said. And yet…

And yet…

He kept me safe. Made certain my needs were seen to. Did nothing to cause me harm. Were they all wrong? 

The orc stopped by large wooden doors, each more than twice your height. "Let her in," he snapped at the guards. They obeyed and opened the doors for you. "Get in," he mumbled almost in politeness. 

You meekly stepped over the threshold and made your way into a chamber as large as the halls you had passed. There was a soft thud. That was the sound of the doors closing behind you. You were truly trapped now.  

The room you were in was nearly as silent as a tomb. And poorly lit. There were no lamps, or torches. Just a dim fire sputtering away in the hearth. 

"Come closer, little elf," a deep voice called from behind you.  

You gulped in fright but turned in the direction of that voice.

"Closer," it called. "Come closer."

One measured footstep followed another. You walked on hesitantly, not stopping until you reached a smaller chamber filled with the light of several candles. There was a large bed in one corner, and a small table at the far end. This room, too, was empty. You were confused now. Where did that voice come from?

"Does this please you?" 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard the voice behind you. You turned on your heel and found yourself looking at your captor. Melkor was studying you with a quizzical gleam in his eye. "My lord," you murmured, and gracefully dipped to your knees, remembering your courtesies. 

He laughed merrily. "Thuringwethil was right. You do have nice manners." 

You looked at him, shocked. She spoke to him about me. Why would she do that? 

Melkor smirked and looked at you approvingly before walking over to the table. He pulled out a chair and gestured for you to join him. It confused you even more. The table was devoid of food and drink. 

"The food…" you breathed out and struggled for words. Melkor was as glorious as the day you first saw him. The image of him standing there and watching you was enough to muddle your mind. "There… there is no food, my lord."

"There will be food," he replied, "for later. For now, sit."

You obeyed and made your way to the table, your skin prickling the entire time. You glanced at Melkor and found his eyes following your every move. There was something dark and primal in his eyes, something you could not quite describe. 

"I will not mince words,” he said. “The reason why I summoned you," Melkor waited till you made yourself comfortable before moving to the chair opposite yours. "Is because I have a… proposition to make."

"Proposition?" You repeated, baffled. Melkor was one of the most high. There was no need for him to ask anything of anyone when he could simply take whatever, and whomever he desired, without so much as a "by your leave."

“Yes." Melkor studied you before saying, "A proposition. I wish to make you my companion. I made this offer to your brother. I was hoping he would put a word in where your father was concerned…"

The day he called on your twin. He had asked for you. You kept asking why and Fëanor refused to explain the cause. He grew angry whenever you asked. Your father finally forbade you from broaching the topic. 

"But the fool refused," Melkor snorted in derision. "Now that I have you here with me, I would like to ask this of you myself. Will you be my companion and bind yourself to me?"

You swallowed and wrung your hands. His companion, he said. You did not even know what it would mean. What little you knew of intimate relations between elves came from the books you read while the others were away. "Your companion, my lord. What would I have to do? Read to you? Play the harp?"

Melkor laughed again, softly this time. "Your family has kept you ignorant of many things, I see. I do not wish you to merely read to me and amuse me with music, little elf. To put it in simpler terms, I want you to share my bed."

Your cheeks were aflame. To share his bed. You had read enough books to know what that meant. "To share pleasures with you…" you sputtered, "but if I go back, if the other elves find out what I allowed you to do to me, I will be ruined."

"The other elves will not find out.”

“Why not?”

“Because your brother is not coming for you," Melkor said simply. 

"He is coming for me!" you insisted. Your eyes stung with hot tears threatening to break free. Melkor was the prince of lies. That was what they all said. You refused to believe him, thinking he was lying to you even now. "Fëanor is coming for me!"

"He is not, little elf," Melkor replied gently. "Fëanor is not coming for you. His hunger to create the silmarils has consumed him."

Despair of the acutest kind settled over you like a thick fog. The creation of hallowed jewels, each containing the light of the two trees, was all your twin talked about. He would think of nothing else until such priceless treasures rested in his hands. You knew him well enough for that.  

"And your father’s thoughts have been consumed with the new family he is creating with his second wife. No one is coming for you." Melkor reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. He gave it a gentle squeeze. "Say yes, little elf. Take my hand, and every comfort imaginable will be yours. I will be yours."

You sat there, feeling alone and wretched. Your brother was not coming for you. Your father was not coming for you. Days had bled into weeks and weeks into a wholly different season, and no one had come for you. There had not even been a whiff of an elf seeking you out. Your kin had abandoned you to your fate, and the knowledge of it was too much to bear. It made you want to cry, to scream and tear out your hair, but such acts were useless. They would not set you free, and they would not make your kin search for you. You turned your attention to Melkor. He offered a life you were once accustomed to. Perhaps he was not lying. Perhaps he was telling the truth. But still, to say yes to him and take him inside of you…

"The others… your servants…" you whispered, "What will they say?"

"Nothing." Melkor smiled and spread his broad hands. "Life in Angband is different. You can be with whomever you wish, whenever you wish, and however you wish. No one will say a word in protest."

"No one?" You glanced at him, trying to get a sense of him. "Not even you?"

Melkor ground his jaw and growled. His eyes narrowed to thin slats. "You are mine, little elf. All of you belong to me."

Goosebumps rose all over your flesh when he said it. The sheer possessiveness in his tone was enough to make you forget your sense of dread and excite you to the point of actually considering his offer. 

"Before I say yes," you licked your lips nervously and confessed, "I… I must tell you I have neither the… skill nor the… experience… in such matters. What little I know has come from books."

Melkor’s lips tugged at the corners. "I thought as much. But first, you must say yes."

To say yes. To take his hand and bind yourself to him for all time. You thought of your suitors, how all of them bowed their heads and walked away without a second glance the moment Fëanor denied them. Then there was Melkor, who willingly risked war and doom to bring you here. You knew what your answer would be.

"Yes."

"Come."

He rose and took you by hand, helping you out of your chair and leading you straight to his bed. You eyed the silk sheets and the soft pillows. To just lay in that bed was temptation enough. Melkor did not give you time to think of much else. He grabbed your arms and kissed you before you could say another word. 

The books spoke of kisses that were sweet and soft, like feathers. Melkor’s kiss was none of that. It was all heat and wildness and hunger. His tongue glided over the seams of your mouth before pressing against your lips. You sighed helplessly and parted them for him. His mouth tasted like some dark spice you could not get enough of. Melkor smirked in triumph, his breath heating your flesh.

"How easily you yield, little elf!" he cried when you tugged on his tunic to pull him closer. "And how fortunate I am to have you in my grasp!" He laughed again and placed his hands over your shoulders, pushing you down onto the edge of the bed. "Tell me," he cooed softly, "What else did you read in these books?"

You looked at him, your eyes widening when he undid the buckle of his belt. "I…" You glanced at him, then at what he was doing. He was loosening the drawstrings of his breeches. "I have read about certain acts, but…" Your cheeks heated when he tugged it down just enough to free his cock. "But…"

"It was not enough?" Melkor asked and caressed your cheek. "Then I will guide you. Open that pretty mouth for me, little elf."

He waited, neither forcing nor demanding that you obey. A thumb glided over your lips, making you look at him. "Open little elf," he insisted gently, "Go on."

The sight of him all exposed and hard proved too tempting. You opened your mouth, eager and willing and curious, struggling to breathe while he sank his length. Melkor moved slowly and gently, his hands delving into your hair and keeping you steady. He groaned and shivered when you ran your tongue along his shaft and let curious hands skim over his thighs. His hand glided over to cup your cheek. You opened your eyes and found his fixed on yours; his mouth parted in a silent moan. 

"I have been thinking about you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, little elf," he confided, whimpering when your tongue brushed over his tip. "Each of my thoughts about you have been improper."

Melkor was gentle with his instructions. "Loosen your jaw, little elf." He caressed your cheek again to catch your attention. "You clench it too much."

It was easier after that. You reached up and clutched the edges of his tunic, your mind going hazy with bliss. Everything you felt, from the hands brushing over your hair to the little ridges brushing against your lips to the soft grunts you heard, was dark and sinful. You had often wondered what such acts would be like while reading books forbidden to you, but no words could describe what you were feeling now, all feverish and wanton. 

Melkor drew back and pushed you onto the sheets. You gazed at him, surprised, and more than a little disappointed. "Move further up, little elf," he chuckled, running his thumb over your swollen lips. "I want to claim you as mine."

Again, you did as he asked, even more eager this time. You moved further up the bed, trembling whenever you felt the wetness between your thighs. Melkor undid the clasps of his tunic one by one. You expected to find vast parts of him withered and deformed, as the songs said. What was slowly revealed instead was the stuff of a maiden’s dreams: a fana that was all supple muscle and devoid of flaw. His skin was the color of new steel, and his arms were large and strong. 

Not once did he use that strength to force me, you mused, flushing when the mattress sank and he crawled into bed with you, boots on and all. Melkor pushed your thighs apart with his. His hands slid under your skirts. 

"I…" You found yourself trembling with growing need when the flat of his palm glided over your leg. "I thought we must be undressed, my lord."

"Next time," Melkor promised. He hiked your skirts up to your waist and shoved his hand down your undergarments, ripping them apart with one tug. "For now, let me do this."

His fingers grazed your slick heat. The friction was delicious enough to make you see stars. Melkor trembled. He actually trembled. His touch was gentle, almost worshipful in its exploration. He propped himself on his free arm, just so he could watch you while he slipped a finger inside of you. It made your breath hitch when that finger slid deeper and deeper. 

"My lord," you moaned without even realizing it. He dipped his head and ghosted his lips over yours.

"I am here, little elf," he purred softly, brushing his hand over your hair. He dipped his head again, nibbling your earlobe and sighing when your arms circled his back. 

He had been thinking of me since he first saw me, you remembered. When was that?

"M-my lord?" Your back began to arch with each thrust of his finger. He inserted a second as carefully as the first, groaning whenever your warmth clenched around them. "W-when did you first see me?"

"When I was allowed to return to Valinor," he confessed softly against your neck. "I saw you with your father and brother near the Ring of Doom. I stayed in the shadows and watched you. Even then, I knew I had to make you mine."

The Ring of Doom. When your father was called to hear the Valar’s verdict on his appeal to remarry. That was a full century before Melkor approached your brother for you. 

A hundred years was but the blink of an eye for an elf. Lesser still for a being such as him. But still...A hundred years. He had been seeking me out over a hundred years. Your hands brushed over his hair while he nibbled at your earlobe. The thought of him marking you with his teeth was enough to make your pulse scramble. You grew a little bolder. 

“M-my lord?" You mumbled shyly. "W-would you c-consider marking me?" 

“Bite you, little elf?"

"Y-yes. B-bite me."

Melkor raised his head, his dark eyes darkening even more. You heard a low and otherworldly growl. The sound inflamed you. "If you insist," he said, leaning in and running his tongue over the hollow of your throat. "Turn your head to the side, little elf."

He peppered the soft expanse of your throat with kisses that were bruising and almost violent. Every time his teeth grazed the curve of your neck, your nails would dig into his back. "Melkor," you sighed again. "There. Right there. Oh."

"Now everyone who sees you will know you are mine." He lifted his head and admired the canvas he had made out of your body. When he drew his fingers away, it made you feel strangely empty. "Rest your legs over my hips, little elf." Melkor hovered over you, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance. "And do not tense. Can you manage this?"

He wanted to claim your maidenhead. You looked up at him, trying to decide what to do. If he did, if you said yes to this, you could never go back. The other acts you could hide in lies, but not this. Never this. No elf would stay married to you once the truth came to light. Your family would never welcome you back. Your father would not wish to ruin the prospects for any child born to his second wife, and your brother… you shivered. You did not want to even think of what Fëanor would do to you. 

Why am I fretting over what others will say, when those others have already turned their backs on me?

Melkor’s knuckles drifted over your throat. He may never ask for you again. He could send you away and carry on like nothing happened. It would would you deeply if he did. But the memories would feel so sweet. 

You made up your mind. You moved your legs over his hips, the insides of your thighs rubbing up against the supple leather of his breeches. It felt strange but wonderful. "I am ready," you whispered.

“I will be gentle," Melkor promised, trembling again. His kiss was soft and so very warm. He kissed you until you were breathless, kissed you until you moaned, and your hold around him tightened. He guided his shaft inch by slow inch into your slit, stopping whenever you whimpered to give you time to breathe. His hand glided over your thigh, your belly, his words a sweet melody in a tongue you had never heard of in your life. It put your entire body at ease. He would move again, now slowly, now gently, filling you in ways you never thought possible. He stopped again, this time after claiming your maidenhood. He looked at you with questioning eyes, as if asking for permission. 

"Yes," you assured him, sighing when he moaned and started to move. 

He was so big, and it felt uncomfortable. And he was gentle, just like he promised. Pain and discomfort slowly gave away to a pleasure that had no name. Every time he moved, every time he found a place that sent jolts of deep ecstasy licking up your spine, you clung to him, moaning his name shamelessly. Melkor’s lips crushed yours in an all-consuming kiss. At your own urging, he went a little deeper, a little harder, a little faster, growling when his hips slapped against the insides of your thighs. It was too much. And not enough. And intoxicating all at the same time. Melkor knelt up and dragged you with him. 

"Kiss me," he demanded, "and make it count."

His fingers dug into the back of your dress, his nails ripping into the fabric the moment your mouth opened over his. His tongue tasted like wine when it pressed against yours, and his hair felt like silk when it slipped around your fingers. A tension that was sweet and drugging grew in your belly. 

"So-something is ha-happening," you mewled, not knowing what it meant. "I... d-do not understand…"

You may not have known, but Melkor did. "Soon, little elf," he whispered, latching onto the curve of your neck. A mixture of kisses and nips of the teeth skimmed over your throat. "A little more. Just a little more."

That soon came faster than you could have thought. Your muscles coiled and tightened, and snapped, like your body was splintering into a million different pieces. You could not think. You could even breathe. You were lost in a sea of untold rapture. You barely felt it, Melkor’s hold on you tightening even as your nails raked over his skin. You barely heard it—a deep grunt of satisfaction when he thrust one last time, and a torrent of his spend filled you.

The world had gone still, so very still. Your thoughts were still muddled when Melkor laid you on your back. You were silent while clarity slowly crept in.  

Melkor had claimed all you willingly gave, and so much more. He made you experience joys you had never experienced before. And now you braced yourself, your heart gripped in agony, thinking he might prove the tales told about him true and send you away, never to seek you out after that. The books did not prepare you for the pain of his rejection. You prepared yourself anyway, your body still shaking when the featherbed sank again under his weight. Melkor threw an arm over your waist and drew you to him. Both arms encircled you now, even as he buried his face in your hair.

"I will have your possessions moved to my chambers. Rest for now, little elf." He mumbled and pressed a chaste kiss over your shoulder. "When you wake up, I will bathe you, and we will dine together. Perhaps you could even read to me."

tags: @lemonivall​ @cilil​ @edensrose​ @wandererindreams​ @asianbutnotjapanese​

[erendur]

Beren and Lúthien and the role of magic in Tolkien

This is another post along the lines of “Why I don’t like Beren and Lúthien”. If you like Beren and Lúthien, good for you, enjoy, and Tolkien loves you. If you don’t like reading criticisms of Beren and Lúthien, don’t read this. Fellow non-enjoyers of Beren and Lúthien, welcome.

I’ve already talked in another post about the fact that I find the tone of Beren and Lúthein jarring. I personally do not want to read a fairy tale on the middle of my tragic tale of loss and destruction. Another thing that annoys me about B&L, and the subject of this post, is that I feel it breaks low-magicness of Tolkien’s universe, and it makes the story stand out in an annoying way.

So, bear with me. I think that, overall, The Hobbit, LOTR and the Silm have a rather sparse use of magic. Sure, there are characters who have magical powers, and magical objects, but the brunt of the action happens with non-magical means. The Hobbit is not solved by Gandalf making use of his magical powers ; actually he is sent away by Tolkien at a crucial point, so that the story can happen. LOTR is not solved by Gandalf or Elrond either, but by plain little hobbits. Magic takes a back seat.

In the Silm, I’d say that magic has a mostly infrastructury-role. The Valar shape Middle-Earth, then Valinor, and Ulmo (Ulmo ?) moves an island to get the Elves across the Ocean. The rest of the time, we don’t see them do magic. They don’t magically carry the Elves to Valinor : they have to take a long, dangerous trip. The Noldor go back to Middle Earth by boat, or on foot. 

Melian is a magical being, but the only magical things she does are a) the Girdle (a magical barrier to protect a kingdom - infrastructure) and b) use her gift of prescience to try and give advice that nobody listens to.

Magic also provides Gondolin with a protection (another magicy-infrastructure), and of course we have a couple (a couple ?) magical hidden bodies of water, plus the magic of the Silmarils. Ulmo turns Elwing into a bird. There are a couple of magical rescues by eagles. But that’s it.

The rest of the book, and the action, is pretty magic-free. The Noldor do not fight Morgoth with magic, they fight him with swords, cavalry and their superior physical strength. Morgoth himself, apart from the curse on Húrin and the spell on Maeglin, does not really use magic, or only to create creatures that he uses as soldiers against the Noldor. The Valar eventually defeat him not in a magical duel, Harry Potter style, but by sending a host of soldiers. Eärendil kills Glaurung, sure, but that’s not really the main action.

And I like that, because the story and the actions then happen because of the qualities, or the flaws of the characters. 

In Beren and Lúthien though, we have : Finrod somehow using magic to make himself, Beren and his companions look like orcs ; a magical song competition ; Lúthien escaping from her prison thanks to magical hair and a magical cloak ; Huan the magical dog suddenly choosing sides and speaking ; Lúthien defeating Sauron in another magical song competition, and Sauron shape-shifting and becoming a vampire ; Beren and Lúthien donning a magical disguise to sneak into Angband ; Lúthien putting the whole of Angband into a magical sleep ; a magical rescue by eagles (another one) ; a magical resurrection. 

It’s much more magic-heavy than anything else in the Silm or even The Hobbit, and for me it just lowers the stakes, and makes me care about the character less, because there is no real sense of danger, no real sense that these people are defying odds. I care about Gandalf because he is scared, and looks like a frail old man, and knows he can’t really take on a Balrog, but does it anyway. I care about Fingolfin defying Morgoth because I know he can’t possibly win, but he still manages to wound him. I care about Fingon on his magical rescue missions because, boy oh boy, without magical eagle interventions would things have gone wrong (or even before that). 

I don’t have the feeling that, at any point, Lúthien is in any danger, or not going to get her way (Beren is a bit different : he’s a strong warrior, sure, but a regular guy, and I do feel for him as he’s trying to get to Finrod, holding up the ring of Baradur, without getting shot by his sentries, or when he is in that dungeon with the werewolves - the minute he’s with Lúthien though, I feel like “Eh, he’ll be fine”). That’s also part of the reason why the Celegorm and Curfufin part of that story doesn’t stick with me. Not only do I find it nonsensical (they suddenly have two brains cells and are trying to invent diplomatic marriage, apparently, which would be a first ever since we do not hear of any such marriage in the whole of the Silm, and while most of the Noldor leaders (and Cirdan) seem in no hurry to marry themselves, diplomatically or not), but also, again, there is no real sense of danger. She already escaped once, from a far more secure prison, I don’t buy for one moment that C&C, exiled princes with their dog, of all people, are the ones who are going to best Lúthien. At this stage the only reason she doesn’t escape earlier than she does is because she either likes the food or want to not hurt their pride too much (I am, obviously, exaggerating here for effect…)

And because Lúthien is so powerful, her actions and its effects have to be limited, otherwise she could easily put an end to the story. So, of course, some people feel disappointed, and frankly, annoyed with her. That one so powerful achieves so little, when countless others try as hard as they can with much more limited means. Sons of Fëanor aside, what would Fingolfin have done, had he had a tenth of her powers ? She uses all this power for - what ? Marrying her guy (which she could easily have done post the Sauron episode, by the way - there were only the two of them, and she tells Beren that he could just forsake his oath and roam the face of the earth with her) and giving a Silmaril to her dad, who (checks notes) wanted Beren dead, and imprisoned her (and if we want to go all XXIst century on B&L and call Celegorm a rapist, can we go wtf on this one for a moment ?)

I also feel, and I don’t even know if that’s an aside or not at this point, that the story feels at odds thematically because of that. I see people saying that it fits with the overall theme of hope, but I don’t think the Silm is about hope. That’s LOTR. I think it’s about faith, rebellion, pride and destruction. The characters who drive the action (Morgoth, the Noldor) are the ones who rebel against a legitimate, sacred authority (Eru, the Valar), out of pride (and because of Morgoth’s lies, in the case of the Noldor), and who then reap the consequences of it (death, the progressive destruction of Beleriand).  We are told, several times, that Manwë would have listened to the pleas of the Noldor, had they sent him prayers. They don’t, and they keep suffering because of it.

The positive figures in the story are the ones who keep their faith in the Valar : Fingon pulls off the magical rescue because he cries out to Manwë ; Turgon gets his hidden magical city because he listens to Ulmo (and would have potentially saved all of his people if he’d evacuated his city when told to do so by Ulmo) ; Eärendil manages to save Middle Earth because he puts his faith in the Valar, and not a small amount of effort in trying to reach them. Cirdan, although a very peripheral figure, is also one that is deeply linked to the Valar, and I think that’s why eventually his realm and people survive (even if they take several severe beatings), and he raises/protects the non-arguably best High King of the Noldor ever (Gil-Galad).

The overall message of the story is also that these people are not going to beat Evil, not with their own strength only, not without faith. It’s the host of the Valar that eventually beats Morgoth ; in the Second Age, its a great alliance of Men and Elves that beats Sauron, but the one individual to deal the decisive blow, Isildur, is a mere, non-magical man, characterised by his faith. In LOTR obviously, we have repeated, again, the message that these grand kings, princes and sorcerers, are not the ones who defeat evil once and for all, because, as we’ve seen aplenty in both the Silm and LOTR, these people, the best of the best, get easily corrupted, unless they have faith.

Unless the overall message of the story is that you can’t expect salvation from the pampered daughter of a goddess and a mighty king, because she’s only interested in her own person. In that case, my little Republican heart agrees. Yeah, Beren and Lúthien, the secretly anti-monarchist story of the Silm.