Side blog for Tolkien content ⚔️🌳 TERFs, fascists, racists, homophobes, and Minors DNI Safe space for trans and aspec Early 30s queer , They/He Here there be queers
Mirdania Week! This will be cross-posted here soon
Day 2: Silver
@mirdania
Celebrimbor frowned as he entered the forge, eyes that had been hazed with thought sharpening as he was torn from the revered world of ideas where he had abided all morning. He came to a sudden halt, stiffening—the expectation of his surroundings did not match up with their true existence, and though he could not quite pinpoint what exactly was amiss, the mysterious obstruction was as large as a boulder in his path, blocking access to the sapphire-encrusted headpiece he had been turning over in his mind.
A sudden fury seized him—as ferocious and as harsh as the rise of a red sun against a white sky before he remembered the temperance in his heart. Shaking himself, he set forth into the room, taking time to carefully examine every inch of the forge with the same neurotic precision he put towards his craft. He began at the heart of the room, feeling across the hearth's smooth surface to ensure the smith's aides had not left behind a single speck of ash or the barest hint of a water mark after they had wiped it down, then scrutinised the bellows that fed the flames and the large black anvils with a similar process. When he was satisfied they met his standards, he began picking apart his workstation, spreading the tools across a clean canvas he'd placed on the floor to inspect them individually.
Nothing had been taken, or misplaced—his chisels remained sharp, his tongs were freshly polished, his sledges were all in order, organised from smallest to largest, and… oh.
Realisation struck him like a blow. He darted across the room to the adjoining study, eyes passing straight over the scattered concept sketches on his desk as he neared the display cases. Dozens of ornaments lined the glass cabinets, each one worth more than the last—an intricate bronze cuff engraved with a language known only by the wild Avari clans in the east, circlets that draped with chains and beaded droplets of amber and citrine, a ring set with a pearl as large as a dove's egg and carved in the shape of a swan, earrings whose designs were reminiscent of styles from great kingdoms lost to the ages, like the flat discs that had been so popular in Tar-Meneldur's rule, or the criss-crossed necklaces so heavily weighed down by jewels that one felt weary at the mere sight of them… he paid them little mind, for there was something far more precious to him just ahead.
The stand where he had set Fëanor's hammer stood empty.
For a moment, Celebrimbor forgot how to breathe. The black rage that had domineered him mere moments past before paled in comparison to the horror and panic that overwhelmed him now. What manner of person would commit such a treachery? Certainly not any of his Gwaith-í-Mírdain, who he had vetted and were bound by friendship. And what thief would covet such an artefact, bound with dark histories and the looming threat of the accursed oath as it was?
A small scuffling noise brought him back to reality. Thinking another mouse must have slipped in during the night to shelter in the forge's warm cradle, Celebrimbor approached his desk, bending over to look for the poor creature.
Wide, owlish eyes stared back at him. An elfling was huddled there, a girl with a long curtain of molten gold hair hanging loose over a stricken face.
"Why, hello there…" Celebrimbor murmured. "Why do you cower like a frightened doe, child? Come out and let me have a look at you."
She evidently did not want to, but crawled obediently to her feet. She worried her lip between her teeth, body bent at a strange angle as she tried to conceal something under the folds of her skirt.
"You need not be so afraid," he said, though his words were stern. "Curiosity is a not a fault, though there is no virtue in shying away from the consequences of open deception. Show me what you have hidden."
She gave him a guilty look. A flash of silver caught the light as she revealed the stolen hammer, tiny hands cradling it with a care that held less of the wariness the artefact usually inspired and more a quiet reverence he was accustomed to seeing reflected in his eyes alone. "A thief," he said, amused, "but an honest one."
"I only wanted to hold it," the girl said quickly. "I would not have abducted it from its rightful place, my lord, I swear it!"
The sudden fierceness in her voice lifted a veil behind his eyes, dislodging a memory that had faded with the slow passing of time. His mind traversed that forgotten road, taking him to another kingdom, another century, another life. He saw a woman with strong arms and an easy smile, grounded to such an extreme that it seemed every object that passed beneath her sharp eyes was being picked apart with surgical precision, peeling back the layers of their tangible forms to reveal the possibility of beauty at their uttermost centres.
Surprised, he said, "but you are Glóriel's daughter, are you not?"
The girl's face fell, and Celebrimbor winced at his own tactlessness. Glóriel had died in the Great War, leaving her only surviving heir to the custody of her sister, who served as the city's chief artificer. He felt his lordly disapproval slide away like frost in a hearth and knelt to her level. "There are not many who would look kindly upon such a tool."
She huffed. "Well, that is nonsense. My uncle is a baker, and he does not begrudge the oven when he steps away too long and his bread has burned. A tool is just a tool."
"Clever girl," Celebrimbor laughed, though a little startled. She all but preened at the praise.
He surveyed her thoughtfully, then reached over her head to pluck a paper atop the pile on his desk. Her large eyes followed the movement and she shuffled closer at his beckon—it was a series of drafts for the sapphire circlet he had been deliberating over all week, the earliest cut in neat lines that grew more jutted and untidy as his frustration grew. Her finger traced the design. "It is beautiful," she told him, open wonder shining on her face.
"It could be," he allowed. "The dimensions of the stone burdens the proportions, but to thicken the band would give it an unseemly flamboyance."
"You cannot size it down?" she asked.
"Oh, perish the thought!" He nearly choked. This sapphire had been salvaged from the ruins of Nargothrond, brought all the way from Tirion upon Túna by Finrod Felagund through frostbite and misfortune—it shone with the brilliance of the Two Trees! He shook himself, making an effort to soften his tone. "To cut such a stone would… dishonour it."
The girl paused thoughtfully. "May I see it?"
Celebrimbor rose and crossed into the forge, the girl hot on his heels and as persistent as a shadow. He opened a carved wooden box and carefully placed the sapphire into her awaiting hands. He could not discern whether the glow on her face came from the way the gem caught the sunlight or from within herself; her eyes shined with awe.
She passed it back to him and darted again to his desk, seizing a fresh parchment and some charcoal. Celebrimbor returned the sapphire to its proper place and rose slowly. By the time he approached, her sketch had begun to take form, and a rather impressive one at that, especially for an elfling of her age. Neat lines depicted a small-bodied bird with a long, thin beak. He watched as she added wings that tucked into its body and coiled safely around the glittering sapphire set at its breast, then engraved contours across these that he knew represented oxidising—making a relief in the metal so it would appear as a black background engraved with intricate silver designs. These were curved vines, thorned and dotted with tiny blossoms.
"Very good," he said, thoroughly impressed.
She beamed in response. "The eyes could be set with citrine," she said. "Or some other yellow gem, to better represent the bird's natural colouring."
"I doubt there is a single elf living in Eregion who would not recognise the bird for what it is," he chuckled, "but it is a sound idea."
He took the parchment and examined it closely, mind already mapping out the process with no small amount of eagerness, though he knew it would not be just to appropriate the incomparable joys of creation from its true maker. Celebrimbor sized her up with a fondness that dislodged something in his chest. "What is your name, child?"
"Well…" she looked suddenly bashful. "My father named me for the loyalty with which the moon follows the sun, but my aunt has always called me Mirdania."
Well, Celebrimbor thought with a smile. Well.
***
"Have you ever seen orcs in the heat of battle?" Sauron asked. Though knowing it was the benefit of hindsight and loss that bared the truth of him, unburdened and untwisted by his proud ambition, Celebrimbor could not fathom how he had been so blind to to his cold personage—a snake hiding in the grass. "A frenzy comes over them. A bloodlust."
How crazed he must have appeared in his desperation. Which was the heavier blow? The judgement in the eyes of the people he had sworn to protect, or the disbelief that he had been brought so low?
"When Gondolin fell, they say it went on, and on, for weeks." There was neither delight nor malice in Sauron's eyes as he caressed the arrow lodged in Celebrimbor's breast. Only emptiness. "Tell me where you have hidden the rings, and I will end your suffering now."
He thought of wide blue eyes looking up at him in the dark, more precious than any star-wrought silver or glittering gem. "It must be nearly noontide," he said. "One used to hear the kingfishers, flying to the river. It is a pity how you have silenced them."
your galadriel feeds me, i would ask for more mommy 🥰 also don't how you feel about him but always have to suggest my boy celebrimbor
HII TY FOR THE REQ ur celebrimbor has been served !!!
i was unsure if u wanted silm-based celebrim or trop celebrim (they are both dear to me) so i decided to go with silm-based since ive never contemplated a design for him before AND im planning to do the galadriel part of ur request soon ! ill def tag you when I post her
Elrond is eleven years old, and that is old enough to know what knives were fashioned to do.
"Elrond is eleven years old, an orphan in a war camp stranded among steel-eyed strangers who don’t even try to lie and promise he can trust them. His mother’s people have claimed this land for his birthright, but he has found it does not apply where the earth is beaten down by hobnailed boots, sabatons and the hooves of restless war-horses until it has become inundated with their long losing war and one with the men who walk it. His father’s people have told him to steer free of blackened steel that shines oil-slick in the sallow sun, but it is everywhere he looks, on the backs of the houndskeepeer’s hands and on the ladies’ maids' necks and reflected in the eyes of the knights even when they’re bathing, and there is nowhere to run from them but the inhospitable wild. At eleven years old, Elrond is too old to be deceived into believing the route they took from Sirion still exists—that Sirion still exists—and not yet old enough to try and defy knowing as his brother would. After all, he is a smart child; smart children choose survival over vague integrity and put off counting the costs till later."
Concept study for Elvish Fashion featuring the Original™ FinBrothers and their Mini Me
Fëanor & Curufin: Splendor. They are wearing Noldor informal daywear inspired by Baroque/Rococo European Aristocracy (17th–18th century), especially the Sun King and the extravagant courts of Versailles. Opulent, luxurious robes with theatrical flair and shimmering footwear. Fëanor is wearing the dramatic gemstones that once belonged to Míriel.
Fingolfin & Turgon: Discipline. They are dressed in Vanyarin court fashion inspired by late Ming Dynasty China (17th century). I tried to portray the restrained elegance of high-ranking Ming officials and princes. Layered hanfu, structured silhouette, and minimal jewelry. Refined nobility rather than ostentatious wealth.
Finarfin & Finrod: Harmony. They are the most timeless here in my opinion. They are wearing Telerin outdoor fashion inspired by Ancient Mediterranean clothing (particularly Minoan and Classical Greece) mixed with Art Nouveau. Lots of drape and movement, sandals (because the Teleri love walking by the sea), gold jewelry, olive greens, laurel-style headpieces, wrapped waists. I tried to go 'less' historical noble and 'more' idealized gods.
Close-ups of my favorite details I'm forcing upon y'all
Hi! Could I request aro, ace, or aroace Nellas for the pride month drawings? Thanks!!
Ooh good one
I had fun with this one she has garden fairy vibes.
I think I have as many pride reqs as I can get done this month, but if I do finish them all I'll open it up again. Thank you to everyone who has sent one!
Hii! how are you? hope everything's fine over there!! thinking about all of your fics cause they randomly came to my mind (as they often do honestly lol), and forgive me if you've already answered this here but i just forgot, but did Mereneth see thranduil's dragon burn scar before they started courting? if no, how deep into their relationship thranduil felt safe enough to drop the charm and show it to her? is there ever a moment when he just lets his face be with the scar visible?
and has legolas seen it before? or is he just aware that his father has a matching scar with ferdan but he only heard of the story but never the actual physical scar?
lots of questions marks here, sorry but it all appeared randomly in my mind lol
Forgive me, I’m going to put these asks together because they’re on the same topic <3
Hellooooooooo!! Omg what a blessing to hear that my writing continues to lurk in somebodys subconscious mind. I honestly have nooooo idea what has or hasn’t been asked or written about at this point tbh but I’m always reay for questions SOOOOOO
No, she did not see his scar before they started courting. She knew it existed because basically everyone in Greenwood knew it existed, as Thranduil got his burns pretty early into Orpher Kingship. News had spread far, wide, and swiftly before Oropher had even gotten him back to Amon Lanc that their new Prince had already almost died to try and protect them.
Because of how well known the exsistancne of the scars were, he showed her surprsingly quickly. Probably within the first year or less. Since she would have undoubtably heard doznes of conflicintg storys about how gruesome they were, he wanted her to be able to judge its severity for herself. That and Mereneth not seeing the scar felt like he was lying or missleading her in some way. These fresher scars seemed less personal to share somewhow.
Thranduil rarely, if ever, lets the scar manifest physically. It’s not necessarily painful persay… but it’s extremely sensitive to every minor distrubance to it. Every breeze and change in tempreture or even his hair brushing against is impossible to ignore and borderline overwhelming, depending how long it lasts. Kind of like when you sit weird and put your leg to sleep and then try to walk on it when it had pins and needles, and its not painful but BOY HOWDY IS IT FEELING SOMEHING ALOT. yaknow?
There are very very very very few things (if any) that Thranduil has purposefully and permamnintly kept from Legolas. The burn scar included. So while Legolas always knew that ‘something’ happened that gave his Ada and his ‘Uncle’ Ferdan injurys badly enough that their eyes never healed, he did not find out that it was Dragon Fire until he was close to or just past his majoarity. He did not see Thranduil’s manifested scars until a few hundred years after learning the real story.
Seeing his fathers scars mostly just makes Legolas sad. Sad to think about the pain Thranduil would have expecined for so long. Sad that the wounds never fully healed. Sad that he was just trying to protect his new people. Sad to think about how Oropher must have reacted to finding Thranduil half charcoled and still smoldering in the grass. Sad to see his father look half-dead while still being alive. Its just .... sad.
So yes. Legoals has seen the burn scars a handful of times. Its just a rare occurrence with large spans of time between each one because its not really comfortalbe or enjoyable for either of them.
Tolkien Horror Week is back for another year of celebrating all the terrifying and unsettling bits of Tolkien's work! The event will run from October 25–31 and accepts all types of fanworks. There is an AO3 collection for the event here.
Below are some suggested prompts for each day of the week. They are not mandatory; feel free to combine them or disregard them entirely.
Day 1: Angband, Utumno, and Tol-in-Gaurhoth | older and fouler things | made and unmade
Day 2: Angmar, Minas Morgul, and Númenor | like shades of night | devoted and damned
Day 3: Mordor and the Dead Marshes | a dark cloud of fear | dead and undead
Day 4: The Barrow-downs and the Old Forest | out of the mist | awake and asleep
Day 5: Mirkwood, Nan Elmoth, and Taur-nu-Fuin | the depths of the wood | hunter and hunted
Day 6: Nan Dungortheb, Ered Gorgoroth, and the Girdle of Melian | weaving webs of shadow | light and unlight
Day 7: Isengard, Moria, and the Paths of the Dead | the deep places of the world | sworn and forsaken
Please mention @tolkienhorrorweek in the body of your post and tag #tolkienhorrorweek and #tolkienhorrorweek2026 in the first 10 tags. You may also submit a post. Please tag any content warnings/gore and place any NSFW content beneath a read more/link to AO3.
For more information, see the FAQ. If you have any questions, drop them in the ask box.
can I just say i love the way you draw your transfem characters as not magically passing. i feel like theres so little pretransition tfem rep out there…. auuughhh
I just think trans people can look however they want!! i.e. when I draw transfem kíli, her little scruff is a wonderful thing and there is no need to remove it... her elf girlfriend also loves it. there is no need for magically passing!
Not a scammer.
Not an ex.
Not some random person who mistyped a digit.
But someone who knows what you found.
You haven’t told anyone yet. You don’t even fully understand what’s lying in your pocket. Just an old thing. Just a ring. Cold metal that, for some reason, grows warm whenever you try to throw it away.
At first, you think it’s a joke. Then you think someone is watching you. Then you notice the room really has grown colder. That the sky outside is darker than it should be. That your hand keeps reaching for your pocket on its own, as if checking: is it still there?
And then a new message arrives.
Unknown Number.
Online.
He is not in a hurry. He does not threaten. He does not shout. He does not need to.
He simply knows.
Where you are.
What you are holding.
And why you still cannot unclench your fingers.
Swipe through the chat to the end…
Where your will ends, his voice begins.
