#doomsman of the valar

[wingedluminarytyphoon]

Namo

[belegsredboots]

Námo and Nienna (I drew this myself)

[kudriaken]

Namo Mandos - Doomsman of the Valar and Ruler of the Dead. Continuing with Valar designs. I was really excited to do his design specifically, because for me he is one of the most fascinating Valar. I wanted it to be both ethereal, but minimalistic at the same time.

[glorf1ndel]

I am reading The Fall of Gondolin, and in the prologue, Christopher Tolkien writes that the Noldor were "most beloved... by Aulë (the Smith) and Mandos the Wise." Which raises the question: what does Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar, really think of Fëanor and his people, the subject of his Doom? I have seen some fandom interpretations in which Mandos can't stand Fëanor, and it is entertaining to think of long-suffering Mandos' patience being tested by this one fiery Elf. I have seen other interpretations in which Mandos is quite dispassionate, which is also interesting. Yet I think the truth about Mandos and the Noldor is in what Christopher Tolkien understood from the writings of his father: he loves them. Mandos, known for being the most grim of the Valar, is singled out by Tolkien (alongside Aulë) as caring about Fëanor and his people. Why? Perhaps Mandos cherishes the Noldor for their wisdom, before Fëanor leads them in the Oath. Perhaps he is simply fascinated by these Elves, who are so different from him. But maybe the answer is more complex, because Mandos knows nearly all things that will be. What if Mandos sees the future of the Noldor, in Vairë's tapestries or in his own mind? What if he rages against that future, all the while knowing that it will not change, because that is the Vision of Ilúvatar? Mandos is well-acquainted with destiny, although he cannot see all ends. Still, the Noldor are most beloved by him, in all their good and evil and moral shades of gray. What if Mandos knows what Fëanor and his people will do, and chooses to love them anyway?

[fistfuloflightning]

”You said the Vala in black is a mourner?” Maeglin looked up from reading through a handful of Salgant’s harp scores. A conversation from when the Lord of the Harp had first befriended a grieving , freshly orphaned young elf. When Maeglin had first learned more of the Valar than the brief words Aredhel could spare in Eol’s absence.

“Nienna is the Weeper, yes. She comforts those who have died. It is why she was invoked at the funeral.” There were lots of things Maeglin did not know about Noldorin customs, much of which Aredhel had simply neglected to teach him. But Salgant did not ridicule him for his ignorance, instead treating his never ending questions with patience. Even now he stopped his hands to give Maeglin’s question his full attention. “Though she is not the one to call the fëa once it has left the hroa. It is the Doomsman of the Valar who does that. Though there are those who simply refuse the call.” Salgant dropped his attention to the lathe before him, the mask he was shaping. The scent of cut cedar warmed the air. “Those who might not heed the call to Mandos, those who wish to remain Houseless—to say nothing of those who wish not to leave this land for one they’ve never seen.”

A surge of fear had Maeglin’s fingers almost tearing apart the parchment in his hands. He watched the older elf with wide eyes. Might not heed… “Will…will I be able to see Emel after she is reborn?”

But Salgant merely nodded as if there were no question as to Aredhel’s decisions. “I am sure of it. Should you die here—and I pray upon the grace of the Valar that you do not—you would also be called to the Halls of Mandos, where all the dead receive comfort and healing.”

Something tightened in Maeglin’s chest and he once more felt the prickle of tears in his eyes. He whipped his head away, ostensibly to examine the nearby masks Salgant had nearly finished for an upcoming festival, all tassels and gold and richly layered paints. “Is it…peaceful? In the Halls?”

Salgant gently set down the wooden mask he’d been shaping. He looked out the window at the plaza below, but Maeglin felt as if he was looking with those kind eyes at him. “I would imagine it is so. A place where you can lay your burden down. Where all pain and hurt is soothed away. At least, I would hope so.”

Maeglin remembered belatedly that Salgant’s brother died upon the Ice. Perhaps Salgant missed him just as much as Maeglin missed his mother. He dropped his watering gaze to the music scores in his lap.

A hand rested on the top of his head, patting softly. For a heartbreaking moment he could pretend it was Aredhel’s hand stroking his hair, as was her wont. But she was gone. And he wouldn’t see her unless the Ban was lifted and they could sail across to a world he’d never even dreamed of. She was so far away and Maeglin felt every inch of that distance.

So when Salgant pulled him into a hug, he went gratefully.

Snippet from an unpublished fic where Salgant adopts Maeglin

[ibrithir-was-here]

Super need to go to bed and I'mma bout to but got hit by a thought.

The Endless have been made parts of other pantheons before, as we've seen with the Greek Pantheon, Morpheus in particular and have likely been pulled into many others over the eons of existence, so:

The Endless as part of the Valar?

Particularly I'm thinking of the Feanturi sibling trio of Mandos, Nienna and Irmo

Doesn't it totally work for Destiny, Death and Dream?

Mandos/Destiny as the Doomsman, dealing out fate and getting conflated with his sister Neinna/Death's role, whose compassion in her role is more emphasized by the folk of Middle Earth. And then, of course Irmo/Dream just speaks for itself.

[thelordofgifs]

Ten first lines from my ten last fics! Tagged by @welcomingdisaster, @swanmaids, @sallysavestheday, @aroace-moron and @maironsbigboobs, thank you all <3

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep. (the fairest stars, most recently updated on AO3 if not most recent)

The message is brief and to the point: Your presence is required in Himring, unsigned. (hold his own)

There had been too much bustle and clamour in those last few days for them to have had much time to meet, even had they wanted to. (pity for your hurts)

They had not known quite where to begin. (the salt of the sea)

“There was an Elf,” said Finwë, “of great beauty and cleverness; but he had no wife.” (Ilimbë)

The Doomsman of the Valar struck unpredictably. (Inflection)

The sky was already blushing a delicate golden-pink when Heledhel rose for the morning. (the glassmaker)

“I think,” says Maedhros, “I should learn to play the harp.” (The Stranger)

Maedhros was almost the last of his family to return to life; only his father still lingered in the depths of Mandos, and would, some said, until the end of the world itself. (Sundering)

Maedhros was a perfectionist. (keep it in remembrance)

And I'll tag with no pressure @polutrope, @melestasflight, @thescrapwitch, @eilinelsghost and whoever else would like to join in!

[actual-bill-potts]

Thanks @eilinelsghost for enabling me

Balan held on. By his fingernails, somehow, and his teeth if necessary. It was odd, because he was fairly sure most of his teeth had been gone by the time he died, but here they were back, and if they’d help him hold on then by all the gods he’d use them.

You must go, a hooded and cloaked figure had said when he first arrived. You do not belong here. Námo, he had realized with cold shock, the Doomsman of the Valar. He who had cursed Finrod.

Bright rage had flowed through his body then (so frail just a moment ago, and the juxtaposition between memory and feeling near made him fall over before mastering himself). "I will not leave until I see Nóm again."

Who? The tolling voice of Námo sounded almost puzzled, for a moment. Then the air seemed to clear. Oh. Him.

"Yes," Balan spat, "he whom you doomed."

He did that himself, Námo said, voice falling wearily like the pounding of great stones upon the earth.

Balan decided not to argue the point. "I won’t leave," he said. "I promised."

The feeling of a sigh seemed to manifest in the air around him. And what of your first wife, who has gone beyond the veil of Arda?

A pang. Esrid. To see her again, after all this time -

But Finrod had wept. Finrod had begged him not to leave, to stay for but another hour, another minute -

And Balan had left him.

"Esrid is gone indeed, beyond the world," he said, "but Nóm lives still. I will not leave him."

You must, said Námo - but was there hesitation in his voice?

There was.

Balan smiled to himself. "I will not leave," he said. "You do not command my fate. You cannot force me."

Námo inclined his great head. It will hurt, he warned. My halls are not made for mortals.

"I don’t care," Balan said.

The feeling of weariness, of great age, in the air intensified. Very well, Námo said, but neither can I help you.

"I don’t care," Balan had said again; but his heart misgave him. Finrod might live for a thousand years more. A thousand years, alone in the dark. He could not do it. He was not made for it.

Well, might as well try anyway, he told himself, and anyway I made a promise.

It was cold and dark for a long time then, and he was alone. He wandered in dreams, and tried to cling to happy memories: Baran and Belen, laid in his arms. Baran climbing a tree, eyes alight with happiness; Belen sat by the fire, eyes shining and far away.

Balan could see, as if from very far away, the shining motion of spirits through and out of Mandos. He wondered absently if anyone he knew was in that great procession; then decided it was not worth the risk to ask, lest he be swept up with them.

One day (night? He was sitting in an endless dusk) his eldest son approached, spirit blazing as brightly as it ever had within his body. From far away he appeared old and worn, older than Balan had ever seen: but as he approached the years seemed to fall away, until he was again the study youth of twenty-two summers he had been when Balan departed for Nargothrond.

"Father!" he exclaimed, rushing to fling his arms around Balan; and Balan found to his surprise that he was solid enough to be embraced. "Father, it is so good to see you!"

"And it is good to see you," Balan returned, laughing and weeping at once, "my eldest, pride of my heart!"

"What are you doing here?" Baran asked when the embrace ended. "We are all going that way," and he pointed to the endless procession.

"I am waiting," Balan said.

"Oh," Baran said. His face fell. "Father, will you not come with me? I have missed you."

Balan felt as if he were being torn in two; but he had made a promise. He pulled his son close to him again.

"I must wait," he said gently. "I promised. Carry my greetings to your mother, will you? I love you, Baran."

"I will wait with you," Baran offered - but reluctantly.

Balan shook his head. "You have made no vows. My son - O my son! I am so proud of you!" He found himself weeping again. He had not remembered he could weep.

Baran’s tears were wetting his shoulder; but at last his son pulled away. "I must go," Baran said reluctantly.

"I know you must," Balan said. "Be happy, my son. Go and find light."

Baran smiled. "I will!" he said, for he was strong, and merry of heart, and after all very wise.

"Wait -" Balan said, as Baran turned away. "What news of Nóm?"

Baran turned back, briefly. "He visits us often, and plays with the children. But he grieves."

With that he was gone, and Balan was left blinking in the endless dark.

There were more, after him. Belen, soon enough; then his grandchildren, Boron and Baranor and Beldir, grown into old men whose years fell off them as they stepped into Mandos, and who shed their bodies as they stepped out of it. They recognized him, always; and he loved them, always.

"I will stay with you," offered Belen, and Belemir, and Bereg. Their high quick courage swept Balan with pride every time. His children surpassed him at every turn.

Always he shook his head. The years blurred together.

"What news of Nóm?" he asked Belegor, and Bregor, and Gilwen.

Nóm was helping rebuild their great hall, which had been destroyed in a fire that past summer; Nóm was being taught woodworking, and was comically bad at it; Nóm was visiting less, for there was trouble in the North.

He grieves for thee, they said. He grieves for thee. He grieves for thee.

The blink of an eye passed - or was it years? - and a man with Baran’s nose stumbled into view. He was bleeding badly, looking around in shock.

He - wasn’t old.

No.

As the man - Balan guessed he was one of Bregor’s children - approached, his wounds seemed to close, and he stood up straighter. Still he seemed weary and sad.

"Father?" he whispered as he passed by.

"Not your father, nor yet his father," Balan said, who after all had lived with Elves for many a year and furthermore had nothing to do in the endless dusk save amuse himself with riddles.

The man’s eyes widened. "Bëor?"

"Tis I," Balan said, "and what is your name, son?"

"I am - Barahir," the man said, and Balan felt a lurch in his stomach. But Barahir was so young! The youngest of Bregor’s children!

"There was - fire," said Barahir, seeing his look, "fire and death; and our lands are gone. My son -" he broke off. He began to weep.

Balan drew him close. "I am sorry," he breathed, "so sorry. You will see him again."

"I hope he does not suffer too much," Barahir whispered. "O Emeldir! Say not that she too has died in pain!"

"I have not met Emeldir," said Balan, "so she is not dead."

"Little comfort that is, in these times," Barahir said grimly; but his face lightened. "She led our people to safety. She is stronger than I. She will survive."

He began to move away, towards the ever-moving column of light that Balan refused to join; then he stopped as Balan said urgently, "Wait! Is Nóm - has he -"

"Nóm lives," said Barahir. "I saved his life, in fact; and he swore to me a life-debt in return."

Balan stood stunned. A life-debt? Why? They were all of them sworn to protect Nóm, as he was to protect them. Why would he…?

Barahir laughed at his expression. "That’s what I said!" he exclaimed. "But he insisted. I didn’t want to refuse. He was very badly injured. It will all come to nothing, anyway," he added wryly. "The ring he gave me is doubtless in some Orc trophy-hoard by now. More’s the pity. It was beautiful."

There was only one ring Balan had ever seen Finrod wear. "He gave you the ring of his father?" he demanded.

Barahir nodded. "He has not forgotten you," he said quietly. "I did not expect to see you here; but I am glad of it, for there are dark times coming. But my part in the story is done!" he added. "I go to await my wife and son, and see my father. I wish you joy," he added as he left.

In the retreating light of Barahir’s spirit, Balan reeled. He could near picture the scene: Finrod, wounded and tired - his heart bled to think of it - giving Barahir his father’s ring. Of course Finrod would do something foolish like that, he thought fondly, the second one of us did him the slightest favor.

He longed to see Nóm; but he hoped Finrod would survive Morgoth’s onslaught. He did not deserve to die in pain.

Balan settled himself in to wait again. He had mastered waiting by now. He laid his spirit down, gently, and closed the eyes he did not have. Let the stars he could not see wheel behind above his head; felt the soft hand of memory close in his own. There was peace in it, after all this time. But he worried. Was Nóm all right?

Suddenly behind him there came an animal cry, guttural and hoarse. Balan sat up so fast his head - which was more metaphorical than physical - spun. He whipped around as the cry came again and saw a body.

That was…not good. Wasn’t Námo supposed to take care of these things? Not let people suffer?

Balan waited a moment; but the Doomsman did not appear. The Elf - if Elf he was - was now breathing raggedly. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. When Námo still made no appearance, he sighed and approached. Perhaps he could offer comfort, before Námo came from wherever he was hiding and swept this one off to be healed.

The Elf was naked, and so thin and wasted that Balan could count every one of his ribs. His hair fell to his knees, but was so tangled and matted its color could not be seen. He was covered in blood: so much blood, Balan had never seen so much blood on a person!

He knelt beside the Elf and reached out, carefully, to touch his shoulder. "My friend," he said gently, feeling an odd stirring of familiarity and foreboding as he said the words, "can I help?"

A sharp intake of breath: and Balan knew already what he would see as the Elf forced his ruined body to turn and face him. Clear grey eyes opened wide, and Balan looked into the face of Finrod Felagund for the first time in a hundred years.

"Nóm?" he whispered, torn between furious joy and deep heartsickness. "Nóm, what happened?"

"Balan?" Finrod rasped. His eyes were filled with pain and terror. One of them was swollen nearly shut, and the left side of his face tilted oddly: something was broken in his face. "Balan, how came you here?"

"How came I - I died!" Balan said, exasperated. "And you, foolish Elf, were supposed to live! What is wrong?" He did not know what to do. He had nothing with which to bind wounds, and little skill in healing. The sight of Finrod in such pain smote his heart.

But as he continued speaking, Finrod sat up slowly and reached out a hand. It progressed hesitatingly towards Balan, inch by shaking inch; and as it extended the twisted fingers straightened, the bloodied wrist became whole, until the hand that cupped Balan’s cheek was as warm and solid as it had once been in Nargothrond.

"Bëor?" Finrod whispered. "Beyond hope I have passed - is this joy truly mine?"

"I waited for you," Balan said. "I said I wouldn’t leave you. I promised."

A sob; and suddenly Finrod was in Balan’s arms, shining and whole and weeping as if his heart would break.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Can I please request Namo x reader for kinktober with the size kink please? Maybe reader is either an elf or Maia and Namo is bigger than them, and reader loves how big he feels when they're having sex? Thank you!

Well hello! As for Mr. Doomsman being generously proportioned... Why not?

"Made for me"

Pairing: Námo x Fem. reader (elf/second person POV) | Location: Halls of Mandos

Themes: Smut (Lemon)

Warnings: Size kink | Dirty talk | Explicit language | Kissing | Penentrative sex | Rough sex | Cream pie

Word count: 1k words

Summary: Námo is never content with one round or act of love making.

Rating 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

It was a rare thing to be asked to be a companion for one of the Ainur. And rarer still, for that Ainu to be none other than the Doomsman himself.

Much like everything else in his long existence, Námo chose his companion after a great deal of care and deliberation, observing all those who fluttered around him like pretty little moths flapping their wings. When one particular elf caught his eye, he made his choice. And he had been well pleased with it ever since.

"I could spend many a glorious hour between your legs." Námo sighed wistfully and drew back, his lips and cheeks already glistening with your slick. He had feasted on the sweetness of your folds, but that had not been enough. Another appetite needed to be satisfied.

His praise was a heady thing, and pleased you greatly. "You have done so already, my lord. Many an hour, I might add."

Námo moved to rest on his knees before grasping yours with those large, soft hands of his and pulling them apart. "True," he admitted, "but those delightful hours are not even the blink of an eye for one such as me."

"Indeed," you agreed, your lips twitching at the corners. "But do not tell me you did not enjoy them."

"I will not lie, my love, when I say I did enjoy them. I enjoyed them immensely." He chuckled sweetly, slipping his arms around you and rolling you in one swift motion. When he stopped, he was beneath you, and you were above him. "Go on, little raven. You know what you have to do."

It was too much, even from this position. Námo was exceedingly tall and well-made, even when he had taken the form of an elf. You had to take him into you inch by slow inch, your body tensing and clenching from his welcome intrusion. You grew lightheaded, dazed even. That rigid part of him filled you so much that it was almost painful. And so wonderful. Námo closed his eyes, trembling with a quickened gasp when you sheathed him, your hands splaying over his chest. His hands ghosted your hips, the tips of his fingers tracing delicate lines over your flesh.

Everything was forgotten. His duties and yours, the softness of the sheets against his back, the chilly air dancing over your skin. All that mattered was the sweetness of him inside you, of your warmth undoing him in ways he never thought possible. And you shook—Eru alone knew how much you shook—when skilled hands gripped your hips in a way that was all too familiar to you.  

The first cry tore through him when you rolled your hips. His hands moved, gliding and caressing, setting you ablaze where they touched. He cupped the swell of your breasts, toying with nipples that were already stiff and sensitive. Your moan was intoxicating to him. It made him crave more.

"You were made for me. Only you could make me forget myself." Námo made himself open his eyes, so eager was he to drink in the sight of you taking him into you again and again and again. "Do you understand this?"

His hair had spread all over the pillows in a spill of brilliant pewter and silver, glittering in the dim candlelight. His eyes, black to the center and specked with gray, had been fixed on yours; the sheer beauty of them and the devotion they held took your breath away.

"I do." You hoped and prayed that you did. Námo was not one of those Valar who made their choices without a care in the world. He weighed and measured each decision after a great deal of thought, even when it came to the matter of his chosen companion. That he chose you out of all those who gathered around him was a wonder in itself.

"Good." His hips moved in time with your movements, his thrusts pushing his cock deeper and deeper into your cunt. It made you see stars. You welcomed it—the pain and ecstasy both—every time he sank his length into the wet heat of your sex. Námo took command as he always did, setting a relentless pace, pulling your hips down harder and harder. You nearly lost balance and grabbed onto his arms for support. He moaned. Nothing in the world sounded as sweet as that.

Heat gathered and pooled in your lower belly, your entire body tensing like a string drawn taut. Your grip tightened, your hips undulating in sync with his movements. Námo lost himself in your flesh, in the wild euphoria that rose to claim him. His movements were frantic, desperate, wanton. His eyes flashed, the silver in them gleaming like tiny stars.

Again, it was all too much. The bliss that came with him sliding his shaft inside you, the sparks that surged through your veins—it was too much. The tightening in your belly finally snapped, even as you dissolved into pleasure. Time slowed down as your vision faded to dark, aftershocks still gripping your body. Námo held onto you, keeping you steady, fucking you through your orgasm. He shattered beneath you, your name on his lips, a wave of his spend spilling even as he finally went still.

Slow, carefully, you opened your eyes, as if you were waking from a most glorious dream. Námo was still beneath you, now completely satisfied. He knelt up in bed, taking you with him, bringing his lips to yours. His kiss was tender, sweet as the wine he had for dinner, and slick with the essence that still lingered. His breath mingled with yours, his silken hair brushing against your arms when you slid them around his broad shoulders. Námo finally sighed.

"That was beyond everything I could have imagined." Trembling hands found their way to your hair, your cheeks. "Have I hurt you, little raven?"

Your body ached, your lips were puffy and bruised. And all of it was a mere trifle to the exhilaration he drowned you in.

"You have not," you returned, pleased to see the relief in his eyes. Námo may be stern at times, more than a little aloof, but he was never cruel, and took no joy in inflicting pain, even during moments such as these. "I would not trade one moment of what we just shared for anything."

tags: @cilil @edensrose @asianbutnotjapanese

[batsyforyou]

WIP Wednesday Thursday =)

Thank you so much for the tag @a-world-of-whimsy-5 !

This is related to the Namo Dad thing and the Mae x fem reader request I got for Valentines day. I figured that because this reader has a fair quantity of Namo's fëa it wouldn't be to out of the question for her to look like him.

Maitimo stood back chilled as he looked at her, though he refused to show it.  The Doomsman’s daughter.  He titled his head only slightly as he examined her. Hm, how strange.  Her skin was as white as bone and had the shen of a distant star. Her gaze was cold, eyes made entirely of a deep purple hue with a midnight blue swirl; the two colors were dull and lifeless. Her hair was much the same, a dark color, a black that had the potential to be glossy and full of life was hindered by a gray tint. It felt like he was staring at the dead.  Her eyes met his and his heart stumbled, her gaze may have been cold and lifeless but surely she must have been staring into his very fëa.  He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. She truly is of Mandos’s kin.  His father stepped forward, extending the Vala his hand, “This way My Lady.”  Her eyes were slow to move from his, dragging their feet to stare at his father’s hand. Slowly she lifted her hand and delicately placed it in his father’s upturned palm.  His stomach churned at the sight, did her skin feel as sickly as he imagined?  His father smirked, “I would like to discuss your reason for this visit.”  She blinked, seemingly unfazed, “Of course your highness. I don’t wish to keep you for long.” Watching his father escort the Vala to the parlor he hung back with the King. A Vala made of flesh.  It is curious how they hadn’t heard of her before but all things considered it wasn’t that unusual. The Valar weren’t always so keen on sharing. His eyes trailed down her frame as she moved, she was graceful and her movement was elegant if not eerie. It looked like her feet never lifted from the ground and her gown didn’t so much as swish.  If you asked him it was like watching a ghost. He could easily imagine her down an empty hall, unmoving, like in a child’s story designed to scare them into bed.   Her hooded cloak and attire did her no favors; she looked every bit like Mandos; the resemblance was almost frightening. He was under the impression that the Valar were unable to bear fruit.  He had never found such refined and beautiful movement to be so vastly unappealing before.

no pressure tags: @ruiniel@eunoiaastralwings@lynnhf@lamemaster@a-contemplation-upon-flowers@wandererindreams

[apihtawtoussaint]

Okay, okay, okay. Hades 2 but Lord of the Rings?

Hear me out; Legolas in Aman going through the Halls of Mandos to meet with Gimli in the Dwarven Halls after his death for a few moments before being kicked back out for being a living Elf.

The hub would be in Aman, maybe on Ezellohar for the drama? Fingon Astaldo and Elrond would be initially Legolas' biggest supporters. Elrond just because he's like that, and Fingon has a vested interest in seeing if it can be done. Galadriel would be neutral initially, but Legolas would win her over and after a number of runs she'd arrange for armour and equipment buffs.

Daeron and Thranduil could also be around for colour commentary. Thranduil would disaprove and just be there to make it known how hard he was disaproving.

Boons would be from the Valar; Aulë would be the first to provide assistance. He'd be all for this nonsense. The others would join in once they noticed that Mandos was letting this happen, and isn't that just the darndest thing? The Doomsman must have some knowledge that he isn't sharing.

The first section would be the rooms of the main waiting area of The Halls. Where most Elves are waiting to be reimbodied. Most enemies would be Elves who had fallen in battle and haven't fullen become consicous again yet.

There'd be lots of colourful tapistries everywhere, and Vairë could serve as the merchant. You'd trad spider silk or some other weaving material with her in exchange for whatever she had.

I'm not certain who the friendly encounter would be, perhaps Gil Galad?

The boss at the end, Huan I think. We're just accepting he'd be here, magic dog. He'd be very conflicted, Celegorm is in the next section of the Halls and he wants to keep Legolas away from him. After the Luthièn business, I think Huan would disavow Celegorm but he spent centuries as his protector and friend; very difficult scenario especially for a dog. Caught between his warring instincts, Huan would guard this section and wouldn't let anyone in or out without a fight.

After beating him, the mid sectiom would be for those who will be in the Halls for a real long stint. The Fëanorian Section.

Parts would be in flames (the ships) and others frozen (the grinding ice). Enemies would be restless, angry spirts who had been murdered in some way because of the Silmarils.

The friendly encounter wouls be my guy, Maedhros, of course. Very similar path to Achilles and Patroclus in Hades.

Maybe Eöl or Maeglin as a miniboss?

At the end of the section would be Fëanor, chained up and very angry about it. He wouldn't be able to do much, but one of his C sons would also be there (Celegorm, Curufin, or Carnister) and would be compelled to fight you on his behalf.

Once Legolas was done with him, he's have to sneak around the edges of the Halls, close to the Void.

Here there be monsters. Werewolves, spiders, vampires, orcs, the whole gang's here.

The friendly encounter? You know what? Ungoliant.

And the boss to get through to get to the Halls of Mahal wouod be Durin's Bane himself. Big ol' balrog.

Then would be a shorter maze of Dwarven traps that were mostly made just to pass the time.

And then finally, biggest boss, Mandos the Doomsman (but he's not being super serious about it, Legolas still has a chance)

30 runs later, once you've finally beaten him you get to go through the door. On the other sIde? Gimli.

But Legolas can't stay long term, so he gets brought back to Aman where he can try again. Because it's a roguelite.

[viviane-lefay]

Namo Mandos

by EKukanova

"He is the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, and the summoner of the spirits of the slain. He forgets nothing; and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar. He is the Doomsman of the Valar."

The Silmarillion, "Valaquenta: Of the Valar"

[thethirdtreeofvalinor]

This took me daysss but here’s a condensed version of all Middle Earth books as

We Didn’t Start the Fire

Kanafinwë, Elenwë

Dorthonion, Manwë

Mordor, Númenor, Gondolin Falls

Barahir, Idril, Mîm

Rescue at Thangorodrim

Last Alliance, Valaquenta, Rohan’s Mighty Halls

Dagor-nuin-Giliath

Celegorm, Morgoth’s Wrath

The Fellowship of the Ring

Gil-galad is High King

Fëanor, Maedhros

Darkening of Valinor

Helcaraxë

Alqualondë

Namarië

Goodbye

We didn’t start the fire

It was always burning since the world’s been turning

We didn’t start the fire

No we didn’t light it

But we tried to fight it

Maeglin captured, Durin’s Bane

Pippin is the Shire’s Thain

Arnor, Bilbo, Celebrimbor, Noldor, Túrin

Rivendell, Samwise

Underhill disguise

Mirkwood, Radagast, Smaug, Húrin

Red Book of Westmarch

Wizards sent as old men

There and Back Again

Thuringwethil, Théoden

Doriath, Nargothrond, Finrod Felagund

Mablung of the Heavy Hand

Down goes Beleriand

We didn’t start the fire

It was always burning since the world’s been turning

We didn’t start the fire

No we didn’t light it

But we tried to fight it

Boromir, Bregolas, Nerdanel, Legolas

Aulë, Anduin, Misty Mountains, Bruinen

Beleg, Ancalagon

Galadriel, Ecthelion

Eärendil is a star, Children of Illúvatar

Frodo Baggins, Elwë, Beregond Eonwë

Carcharoth, Faramir, Aredhel poisoned spear

Turgon, Goldberry, Pelennor, Teleri

Grey Havens’ Shipwright

Bombadil Barrow-wight

We didn’t start the fire

It was always burning since the world’s been turning

We didn’t start the fire

No we didn’t light it

But we tried to fight it

Lórien, Haleth

Indis, Minas Tirith

Elwing, Déagol, Silmarils, Sméagol

Nienor, Thorondor, Caranthir, Gildor

Treebeard, Fingon, Melian, Daeron

Arwen, Celeborn, Boromir, Gondor Horn

Trouble at Amon Hen

Glorfindel lives again

We didn’t start the fire

It was always burning since the world’s been turning

We didn’t start the fire

No we didn’t light it

But we tried to fight it

Kalimac, Lúthien

Annatar’s back again

Dúnedain, Elros

Helm’s Deep, Rauros

Shelob, Tulkas, Vinyamar

Doomsman of the Valar

Sharkey in the Shire, Narya: Ring of Fire

Isildur, Erebor

Wormtongue, Durin’s door

Haradrim, Draughlin

Nazgûl, Éowyn

Elves departing from the shore

Beorn, Third Age Post-War

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

[anthurak]

So I’ve been on a bit of a Lord of the Rings lore-dive lately, and a thought just occurred to me:

Given RWBY’s numerous nods of LOTR, is it just me or is the Ever After kinda-sorta RWBY’s version of Valinor? aka, ‘The Undying Lands’ where the Valar, the Maiar and the Eldar live, and where Frodo, Bilbo, Gandalf and the other depart to at the end of the series?

The Ever After is centered around a great tree, which are a pretty BIG deal in Valinor. The act of Ascension, the way in which a spirit returns to the Tree to be reformed into a new body has a lot in common with how the Maiar and certain elves are able to be reborn after death by sending their spirits back to Valinor to be judged and reincarnated (which I guess would make the Blacksmith the equivalent of Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar).

Then there is the doorway that the Tree created for the Brothers, which would allow them or their creations to return to the Ever After, which I have to say feels a LOT like how when Valinor was cut off from Arda after the last king of Numenor kinda set the record for how much a man can fuck up, the Valar left a single ‘route’ open that one could sail from Middle Earth to Valinor, so that the Elves still living in Middle Earth could make the journey to the Undying Lands.

 Which in turn has some interesting implications for the Brothers. Like in this context, they’re kind of a cross between Morgoth, and also the Elves that leave Valinor to return to Middle Earth, namely Feanor. I mean, if nothing else I’d say the God of Light has a few fun parallels to Feanor: Both are associated with Light (Feanor is closely associated with fire) and the act of creation; the Brother of Light creating the Relics and Feanor creating the Silmarils (which themselves are strongly associated with Light).

And also both are utterly massive ASSHOLES who create no end of trouble for a LOT of people.

[bluezenzennie]

"The heart of the forest grove"

Pentadrabble

Pairing: Námo/GN!Reader Reader is one of Yavanna's maiar.

Themes: SFW, fluff.

Synopsis: Lately, you've noticed Námo crackling under stress with his duties laying heavy upon his shoulders. Despite his dismissals and denials for a break, you drag him with you to one of your lady's forest groves, to alleviate some of the stress.

Warnings: /

Characters mentioned: Yavanna, Manwë, Vairë, Irmo & Nienna

"Little crow-" "Námo." You mutter under your breath, exasperation laced all over your tongue, tired of his occasional excuses of getting back to work. A deep sigh escapes your throat as you turn your head to stare stubbornly into his viridian eyes... Which, of course, return the same kind of determined stubbornness, tenfold. You speak up again: "I am tired of watching you wander aimlessly in your exhaustion. Your role as the doomsman is important, yes, but so is your health. Anyone else would tell you this Námo, everyone is trying to tell you this." The smallest grunt leaves him, it is not one of disagreement nor agreement, perhaps one from somewhere in between the both, you're not too sure.

You had been dragging Námo towards one of the forest groves that you, yourself, usually go to when you're in need of peace, for what seemed like hours to him. When in reality it had only been thirty minutes and no less, that was how tired he was, and it worried you, like it worried his maiar and the other valar.

You hated when he forgot to take care of himself. You knew that when he didn't even listen to Manwë, Vairë, or even Irmo and Nienna, matters had to be dealt with immediately, before the doomsman burned himself out, snuffing the flame burning the candlewick with his own hands. Usually, the five of you would have your own turns at getting him to cave in and rest, even if it was just for a little while, and it succeeded most of the time! But when nothing seemed to work with anyone this time, you had given him a scolding.

It was meant with all the love within your fëa, and it was a habit you had picked up from observing and experiencing the way your lady Yavanna would scold when she was worried for someone. It was a light scolding of course, but it was enough to get him to cave in and let you drag him out of his halls.

So there you were, now standing in the middle of your beloved forest grove, the grassy and mossy ground covered with snowdrops and lilies, rose bushes with the most beautiful pink roses decorating them, the leaves that held them vibrant green, some viridian hued, that matched his eyes perfectly. "Sit." You insisted, urging him down to join you on the mossy forest ground, by tugging at the long black sleeve of his robe. The sound of a thud against soft moss echoes throughout the grove for a moment, as Námo allows his tired legs to cave in, not because you told him to do so, of course... Well, maybe because of you too, just a little bit.

"Would you like me to braid your hair?" Your gentle voice sends tingles down his spine, the smallest tint of pink dusting his pale cheeks as you tug gently at one of his black tresses. "I... Alright, fine, why not." He inhales and exhales deeply, taking in the fresh air of the shaded forest grove, whilst watching the life around it. Perhaps, this wasn't that bad, perhaps, all he really did need was to get out for a little while.

A/N: I need this man to sit down, drink some really good tea and eat some good sweets and let people take care of him. He needs a break.

Taglist: @edensrose

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Likes & reblogs are very appreciated <3

[thelordofgifs]

Tagged by @starsuncounted to list the first line of my last 10 posted fics and see if there’s a pattern! Thank you for the tag 💕

It had taken some time for the very slightest of sensations to stop feeling like an assault upon Maedhros’ new-formed body. (the cleaving)

“You will jingle as you walk,” says Maedhros, “they will hear you coming for miles.” (crowns and other trinkets)

Maedhril always paid great attention to her dress. (handmaiden)

Maglor did not often write ahead. (to be so bound)

As tensions in Tirion had worsened, Finwë the King took to throwing yet more extravagant garden-parties, as though hoping that if only the drinks flowed freely enough and the minstrels played sweetly enough that all would be well again, and his eldest sons would smile and be civil, and his family would be whole once more. (Belonging)

The message is brief and to the point: Your presence is required in Himring, unsigned. (hold his own)

There had been too much bustle and clamour in those last few days for them to have had much time to meet, even had they wanted to. (pity for your hurts)

They had not known quite where to begin. (the salt of the sea)

“There was an Elf,” said Finwë, “of great beauty and cleverness; but he had no wife.” (Ilimbë)

The Doomsman of the Valar struck unpredictably. (Inflection)

Interesting! I open with a characterisation detail more often than I thought I did. I love a dialogue opener, too, although only two fics out of the ten here start with dialogue.

Tagging @welcomingdisaster, @that-angry-noldo, @sallysavestheday, @grey-gazania and anyone else who thinks this sounds fun!