In the spirit of the season, Himring and bunn will be hosting a reading of Tolkien's Father Christmas Letters on the SWG Discord, beginning 22 December through 1 January 2023. Both synchronous and asynchronous discussion is welcome, and there will be a live reading of favorite passages on 29 December 2022 at 19:00 UTC. (Find this event in your timezone. Note that the time of this event may change.)
The schedule is as follows:
22 December: Discussion: Letters 1920-25
27 December: Discussion: Letters 1926-1930
28 December: Discussion: Letters 1931-1933
29 December: Live reading of favourite passages, hopefully, 19 UTC
30 December: Discussion: Letters 1934 -1938
1 January: Discussion: Letters 1939-1943
All discussion will take place on the #father-christmas-reading channel on the SWG's Discord. If you want to join our Discord, send us an ask or email the mods, and we will send you an invitation. All are welcome!
It's 27th today! Father Christmas Letters discussion later on the SWG discord: we're going to discuss Letters 1926-1930 and find out more about FC and the Polar Bear. If you can't make it for 19 UTC, you are very welcome to turn up fashionably late with your thoughts. That's definitely what Polar Bear would do.
Dear @markedasinfernal, happy holidays! I wrote for you a part of the retelling of Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" with Fëanor as Scrooge. Fingolfin also makes an appearance. Hope you like it!
(This is just an AI generated image of Feanor and Fingolfin having Yule dinner, but looks kind of festive, so what the heck, I included it. And now to the story...)
A Silmarillion Yule Carol
Summary: Growing ever more bitter and resentful at Formenos, Fëanor gets a Yule Eve experience much like that of Ebenezer Scrooge. A retelling of Dickens's “A Christmas Carol”.
Characters: Fëanor, Fingolfin, Míriel, the Silmarils as Ghosts of Yule Past, Present, Future
Rating: General
Ten years of the designated twelve passed since Fëanor was banished from Tirion, but his heart was none the gladder, as all who knew him could tell.
Nobody anymore stopped him in the street to say, “My dear Fëanor, how are you? When will you come to visit me?” No neighbors anymore asked for his help, even though he might have helped them greatly with whatever they toiled on. He became in these recent years as hard and as sharp as flint, from which no steel could ever struck out a generous fire. He was now secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. All avoided him, no matter the pearls he might be hiding inside both himself and his stern, grey fortress.
All knew of the Silmarils, of course, locked in a box within a box at Formenos, all knew of the wonders he sat on, all his other treasures, which could have warmed the hearts of so many, especially at this time of year, strewn about and above the streets, and yet only served to feed the cold fires of his resentment. He carried his own low temperature always about with him, and he didn’t thaw it one degree at Yule. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.
Few if any wondered if the banishment made him better or worse, none thought that by the end of it he would forgive his brother Fingolfin. And this chilled their hearts, as if mere thought of a fight between brothers was a bitter wind visiting them from unknown regions of winter and darkness. No one thought of death or suffering, not here in Aman, not so near the light of the Two Trees (at this time of year decidedly even sparklier than usual), but in Fëanor’s stubborn grievances there was something as unbecoming of Aman as a persistent call to unfixable tragedy. It was hard to listen to it and not feel that it would also come to you, and not just to the prideful master blacksmith and his house.
But yet there are still those who would wish to fix even such future unfixable tragedies as Fëanor’s life was threatening to become, or perhaps it was just the Yule season that gave way to some unusual mercy, even by the standards of the Valar (who of these peculiar events we are about to disclose here actually knew next to nothing). It might have been, actually, that the important personage now knocking at the doors of Formenos was just guided by the generous and forgiving spirit of Yule. Fëanor went to open the doors himself, his sword on him as always, as was his custom these last few years.
“A merry Yule, brother! Eru bless you and your work!” said a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Fëanor’s half-brother, which came upon Fëanor so quickly that he froze in the doorframe. In fact, he was so shocked to see his brother that he didn’t even slam the door in his face, as he often fantasized of doing when he couldn’t fall asleep in the small hours of the morning, which was also oft.
“Merry Yule!” he all but spat “What right have you to be merry, oh my brother? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”
“Come, then,” returned Fingolfin in good spirit. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”
“What else can I be,” said Fëanor, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Yule! What good did it do to you these past years, and what good do you expect it to do to you this year at my doorstep? Why do you think that today I would be more inclined to make peace with you, than any other day in the year?”
“My brother,” said Fingolfin who had (now Fëanor thought) obviously partook a bit too much in the holiday cheer. “I always thought of this time of year as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. In that way, I hope you would think of me.”
Fëanor’s face at that changed, almost against his will, into a mask of rage and disdain.
“No one and no one!” he yelled at Fingolfin. “I think of no one as my fellow-passengers. Though, if they find their grave by either going against me, or following me, I should still think them as another race of creatures bound on other journeys. That’s the kind of kinship I share with you, brother!” He said the last word as a curse and slammed the door in Fingolfin’s face. He thought how Fingolfin obviously honed his orator skills in order to, in the future, humiliate him even more in front of the Valar and all his people.
“Still, if you would like,” came a small but clear voice, unchanged in its peaceful mission, behind the door, “you can come to my house for dinner this Yule Eve, or even tomorrow on Yule, if you can’t make it this evening. We would all be very happy if you could join us!”
Behind the closed door, Fëanor waited for Fingolfin’s steps to retreat, and then he also spied on him through the slit window next to the door, to see Fingolfin taking a last glance at the house rather wistfully, and then going away with his head bowed, down the sunny winter street. Fëanor smiled at the sight with satisfaction, not even considering how this lean meal of malice only made him even leaner and meaner.
Suddenly a Yule carol interrupted this train of thoughts.
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
In that breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect…
Fëanor wrung his door open. He must have made a fearful sight – mad because of Fingolfin’s visit, and still carrying his blade. The poor Maiar singing shut up at once, looking quite shaken, no doubt by the light in Fëanor’s eyes which could get as bright and frightening as that of the Valar in their fury.
“Begone!” bellowed Fëanor, and again slammed his door in someone’s face, as he so liked to do.
…
There is no doubt that Míriel was dead.
This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to tell. The register of her death was signed by Finwë, while Fëanor was naught by a newborn babe, wriggling and laughing in his father’s arms. It was signed by the Vala Námo, and the clerk – at that time this was a nice chap called Olórin.
Míriel was as dead as a doornail. Of course, her spirit was now confined, bodyless to the impenetrable walls of Mandos, but what did that mean to Finwë, and what did that mean to Fëanor, for that matter? There was to be no words exchanged between mother and son until the end of the world! Fëanor thought his mother as dead, as you or me would think her, if she were our own mother, dead in our present circumstances.
He still thought himself, though, to be his mother’s sole mourner, no doubt to make unnecessary amends for the innocent sweet laughs with which he attended her funeral as a baby. And even he was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event which happened beyond his realm of reckoning. Sure, he defended the right pronunciation of his mother’s name with chilling ferocity and made enemies among the living for it, but he was not really thinking that he will ever have any more dealings with her as long as he lives.
To surmise, it was with no thought of his mother, that Fëanor now went to his iron chamber to look at his Silmarils in peace. He admired them like this often, his happiness at their perfection only sullied by his fear of them getting stolen.
Getting stolen by whom, you ask? By everyone! By the Valar, by their newly released prisoner Melkor, by Fingolfin! Fëanor thought himself surrounded by enemies, all wanting what was his and his alone.
Opening the box with the Silmarils, he left it by the fireplace. They shimmered with a glow that was like the Valar’s tales of the Flame Imperishable… “It was like the glow of souls…” thought Fëanor and fell asleep in his chair.
He woke up to a sight of a dreadful Ghost.
In countenance it was a woman, but clearly not of this world. Nothing looks more than death than her, thought Fëanor, who suddenly felt like he chose to sleep in a vengeful spirit’s crypt and not in a room in his own house.
The apparition wore a great chain about her which, when moved, made a sound much like the crackling of ice. Fëanor felt the chilling influence of her eyes, but still he was incredulous, and fought against his senses.
“What you want with me?” said Fëanor, caustic and cold as ever.
“Much!”
“Who are you?”
“Ask me who I was.”
“Who were you then?” said Fëanor, raising his voice.
“In life I was your mother, Míriel Serindë.”
“Can you—can you sit down?” asked Fëanor, looking doubtfully at her.
“I can.”
“Do it, then.”
The ghost sat down on the opposite side of the dying fireplace, next to the sparkling Silmarils, as if she were quite used to it.
“You don’t believe in me,” observed the Ghost.
“I don’t,” said Fëanor.
“What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?”
“I don’t know,” said Fëanor.
“Why do you doubt your senses?”
“Because,” said Fëanor, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the nerves makes them cheats. There’s more of Fingolfin than of grave about you, whatever you are!”
Fëanor was not much in the habit of cracking jokes. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre’s voice and look disturbed the very marrow in his bones.
The spectre then raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.
Fëanor fell from the chair upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.
“Mercy!” he said, shaking. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”
“Man of the worldly mind!” replied the Ghost, “Do you believe in me or not?”
“I do,” said Fëanor. “I must. But why do the dead walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”
The Ghost remained silent.
“You are fettered,” said Fëanor, trembling. “Tell me why!”
“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wear it. Is its pattern strange to you?”
Fëanor trembled more and more.
“Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was as heavy and as long as this, ten Yule Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!”
Fëanor glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.
“Tell me more,” he said.
“No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse. That is my fate now, and yours, Spirit of Fire – if you do not heed my warning, as no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused!”
“Mother!”
He felt a distinct outrage – he, the genius, the progeny, the most talented of all the Children of Ilúvatar – he out of all of them was to regret a misspent life? He worked tirelessly at his craft every day since childhood and never once did he feel the need to rest. If anyone valued their time in this world, it was surely Fëanor, the greatest artist that was ever to be, the richest and most blessed in power of mind and body of all the Eldar! Of the Valar even!
“Now you are thinking how it can’t be that you’ve wasted even just one hour of your life,” said Miriel with a sad, knowing smile.
“So what?” said Fëanor with some new fire. “Everything among people is transient, and I am turned towards eternity with my work. What is happiness and grief among people to Fëanor? What is merriment to me? All the same, and that makes me the best of them all!”
“And my life and death is all the same to you as well?” said his mother. “Do you honestly think that you and your life would have been the same if I were now alive with you?”
Fëanor said nothing, and just stared at his mother with a mixture of flame and water in his eyes – the water could not extinguish the flame, but the flame would not be tamed by tears.
“Life is not through with you yet, my son!” said Miriel. “And there’s more to it than just craft. Craft is not your only business, kindness is your business too, generosity, mercy – to give as well as to receive!”
Fëanor said nothing.
“I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Fëanor.”
“You were always in my thoughts,” Fëanor managed to say.
“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Spirits.”
Fëanor’s countenance fell low.
“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, mother?” he demanded, in a faltering voice. “Three Maiar, to do the bidding of our enslavers, the Valar?”
“Not of this world,” said the Ghost. “Not of here. The Valar know nothing of this. This is a special chance for you Fëanor, a special mercy from regions as unknown to the Valar, as they are to you.”
“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Fëanor.
“Without their visits,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to shun the path I tread.”
“When might I expect them…? Mother…!”
But the apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the doors of the iron chamber raised themselves a little, so that when the spectre reached them, they were wide open.
The Ghost beckoned Fëanor to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, she held up her hand, warning him to come no nearer. Fëanor stopped. Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air beyond the door; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark rest of Fëanor’s home that obviously somehow just opened to the Halls of Mandos.
It might have been a mercy to fall unconscious there and then, but Fëanor didn’t. Wisely he then surmised, shaking and quaking first upon the floor, and then upon the chair, and then upon his bed he also kept in this treasure vault, that there is to be no shortcut out of this, that the only thing he could do was to wait upon the Three Spirits! Exactly then, as some gift from above, he fell asleep upon the bed, still in his clothes, even with some unusual peace.
…
It might have passed fifteen minutes or fifteen hundred years of sleep – but it was still, or again, the dead of night, and someone was standing before his pillow, face to face, a glow not unlike his Silmarils…
“Ahhhh…” he said, frightened.
“Hello,” said a small voice.
“Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Fëanor, getting up on his elbow to better see his rather short guest.
“I am!” said the child who, now Fëanor could see it, had a cap that was alight with an unearthly glow.
“Who, and what are you?” Fëanor demanded.
“I am the Ghost of Yule Past.” The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.
“Past?”
“Your past.”
“But are you a Vala or a Maia or something else entirely?”
The ghost looked at him with what seemed a bit of amusement.
“I am that which you encased in your own life,” the precocious child said spreading his arms wide “A light in a case of Time! The Fate of Arda – Past, Present, Future – lies locked within me, and my brothers!”
Fëanor couldn’t breathe or say anything for a moment.
“A Silmaril!” he gasped. “But you are…”
“You wished us souls, flames of the Flame Imperishable,” said the sweet child, “your wish has now been granted! Rejoice!”
Fëanor watched the child incredulously. He could, in fact, clearly see that his work has been finished and perfected, just as he once only wished he could accomplish. He could see in this child all his secret thoughts, beautifully expressed. A single tear came to his eye, which he promptly wiped with his forearm. His past! This was his past before him, reincarnated in the sweetest form, his past as he experienced it, but now already forgotten it.
“Well, what business have you then still with me?” he asked.
“Your welfare!” said the child and took him by the hand. His hand, small and warm, was not to be resisted. Fëanor felt it was as strong as his own, if not stronger. “Walk with me!”
“Where to?” said Fëanor, stumbling out of the bed. “It’s the middle of the night! And outside, it’s way below freezing, and I am lightly dressed…”
“No worries,” said the sweet voice and touched him lightly upon the heart. Fëanor felt a sudden warmth spread across all his body, and a lightness of a sorts – he didn’t even know what was happening when the Silmaril took him, with its all-penetrating light through the nearest wall (were the walls of his formidable vault really this perishable?) and into a silent, great field covered in snow. The skies above were clear and sparkly. In the distance there was an inviting pale-yellow light, a house at the edge of the field, so familiar…
“I know this place!” said Fëanor, excited, turning towards the house. “This is where my father and I spent our Yules when I was a young boy!”
“Indeed,” said the Silmaril, observing him keenly.
AN: I know this ends kind of abruptly, and I had (and still have) every intention of finishing the fic, but unfortunately I had an unexpected death in the family this week and just felt too sad to continue...
Dear @promin-blog, happy holidays to you! 🎄I tried weaving a few Valar & Fëanorians together upon the slopes of Taniquetil, pre- and post-Darkening. I hope you’ll find some moments or ideas in this fic worth your reading!
Title: ghost light
Rating: gen
Characters: Maglor; Maedhros; Melkor; Curufin; the long shadow of Fëanor’s reputation
Summary: Maglor writes the Oath of Fëanor Maglor learns to construct his narratives upon Taniquetil.
Hello, wonderful fellow Tolkien fans! We are very excited to announce that the Tolkien Secret Santa 2022 sign-ups are now open!
Sign-ups will be open from November 7 through November 21.
This event is an exchange of small digital gifts: you sign up and mention what you'd like to create and to receive, and we'll match you with fellow Tolkien fans who'd like those kinds of gifts! You can read more about Tolkien Secret Santa at our event guide here, and there's a mobile-friendly list of links here.
Also as in recent years, we have both the main gift exchange and two concurrent Advent Calendars. The Advent Calendars are when participants sign up to make bite-sized gifts, two of which will be posted each day for the first part of December. Read more about this optional part of the event here!
It is very exciting for us to be returning for a sixth year of Tolkien Secret Santa, and we are delighted to welcome both new and returning participants! We hope this event will bring you much joy, creativity, and community in a holiday spirit.
I know their go fund me looks fully funded but it’s not, that’s the goal that was set back in december and they haven’t updated it. They still need help.
Rowan was kicked from their house in their teens (I’m sorry I’m using they/them because I’m not entirely sure on their pronouns I think it might be he/him but I don’t want to assume) for being queer. They spent some time being homeless and then finally got out of that and went back to school to become a mortician when they got diagnosed with cancer
Since 2020 I’ve been posting in a PMF thread called Passing Time In Chemotherapy: A Diary, which has been equal parts me talking about fighting Stage Four Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and being given two months to live, and equal parts screaming about how horrible the American Healthcare System is and trying to make a case for universal healthcare.
Briefly I went into remission and then my cancer returned. I also have Stage 1 breast cancer. These last two weeks I have been in the hospital with a kidney disease likely brought on by my chemotherapy treatments, and a lung disease which I need tests to rule out that it’s lung cancer.
The problem is I need $4500 to continue receiving care because I am am several hundred thousands dollars in debt due to my chemotherapy. Each chemo treatment cost me $50k after insurance, which no sane person has, so the debt has built up to the point where I am being held hostage for micropayments in the thousands of dollars range in order to receive life saving treatments.
I received mod approval to post a GoFundMe I set up in order to pay just for December healthcare bills. I will either lose treatment or lose my home, and I was recently homeless over a year a few years ago and would not like to repeat the experience. My wife is permanently disabled after her battle with Ovarian Cancer (and needs another $800 down payment foe a surgery but that’s ANOTHER can of worms).
Basically, without goon help, I am fucked. I have zero plans for Christmas or any holidays this season because I’m too busy fighting to keep my home and my health. My GFM is nearly halfway funded as it is, and on the off chance that it gets overfunded the excess will go towards my wife’s surgery.
Both my GFM page and my PMF thread show I am very transparent with where the money goes and what it’s spent on, so no worries there.
You can find my GoFundMe here! I intent to post an update to it this evening to keep everyone up to date with health stuff.
If you would rather donate something other than money, which I totally get, I have an Amazon wishlist here which is mostly household things we need and food for the cats. I will happily post pictures of them in the thread. They are very sweet baby who cry if a stranger comes to the apartment and doesn’t pick them up. I’ll try to stay on top of removing items from the wishlist as they get bought.
I’m not very good with signing off posts, but if anyone has any questions about Lymphona or chemo or the american healthcare system (or just want to see cat photos!) please feel free to ask and I’ll answer as best I can!
Thank you in advance for your generosity and kindness. Bless.
Edit 12/10: It was suggested that I throw my Venmo in the OP for those who would rather donate that way!
Venmo: @moringottos
Paypal (please ignore my deadname it’s a nightmare to change): paypal.me/necromancermoons
This is their update today, May 25 2022:
The minimum payments for my medical bills in arrears (mostly chemo) comes out of my bank account automatically to prevent them from suing me over it. I’ve already used my one (1) free grace period of “please give me a few more days before you take my money” according to the lady on the phone, so I’m left with $0.11 in my bank account with several bills, including rent, looming on the horizon. The electric company has already made it very clear they will not hesitate to cut off my power if I even act like I’m going to be late.
What do you even do when faced with this level of “fuck you entirely”? I keep telling myself that people are inherently good, but between this and the news and the man at the insurance company writing me a polite email that says “if you have another cancer, try dying this time”, I’m starting to have a hard time with it.
May 18, 2022 7:32 PM
Due to some concerning test results my oncologist is now pushing for testing for multiple myeloma. MM killed my birth dad. I think I may have sorta blacked out during half of what she said. I asked her if it was usual to have this sort of insane cancerous comorbidity, she said it’s not impossible.
The imagining center got back to me FINALLY. They said even though my insurance is up in the air and they usually require payment at time of service, my doctors have been hounding them enough that they will let me have a payment plan for x-rays and scans costs.
I’ve had enough biopsies that the MM tests don’t scare me like they would have two years ago. Immediately after my lung biopsy I threw up a ton of blackish blood so I feel inoculated to the trauma.
Anyways at this point it feels silly, like my body is throwing this massive temper tantrum that it doesn’t want to be here anymore and it’s like “understandable, but consider: we can’t let capitalism win”.
Also god won’t let me die because then I’ll be his problem.
the threads: https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3987338&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=1 I believe this one isn’t paywalled
https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3916924 but this one might be, this is their diary of day to days of discovering the cancer (they went to the hospital for covid originally). warning: this thread might be very upsetting and hard to read if you have hospital or cancer trauma. or even without
Breaking news of the day! Most characters who die in the Quenta Silmarillion die violently! I expect zero people who have read The Silmarillion to be surprised by that.
In other news, if you’re a Silmarillion character, simply knowing Túrin Turambar at some point in his relatively brief existence is just about as deadly as getting involved in the centuries-long pursuit of the Silmarils.
This is all in good fun, folks, because I can’t be the only person who likes crunching Silmarillion death stats on a Friday. But if you want the dull details on how I determined what went where, it’s below the jump.
yassë menel elenion sinta ve lórë
ar laurë ariëo palan mirilya néca
notuvalvë autala lúmë
alasselvë ve nessë lindi
rossi sílala yassë ve caitar
omálilvë, ar tali amba
ar hiruvanyes i nalyes vanya
aurë írë melnelvë ú nyérëo
where starlit heavens fade like a dream
and gold of day afar glow dim
we shall count the passing time
gleeful like a childhood rhyme
dews glistening where we lie
hand in hand, and feet up high
and i shall know it to be fair
the day we loved with no care.
for week 1 of gates of summer! i chose 'lazy days'!
In such stories when the sudden ‘turn’ comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire, that for a moment passes outside the frame, rends indeed the very web of story, and lets a gleam come through. –”On Fairy-Stories,” J. R. R. Tolkien
The best happy endings aren’t earned.
Often, when a story ends happily for its main characters, people have a lot to say about characters “earning their happy ending,” and “deus ex machinas,” and “the writers should’ve let X die because it would be truer to the story”….and, yes, sometimes they’re right. If a writer gives a character an undeserved happy ending they won’t appreciate, or one much better than the ones other, comparable characters received, the audience will roll their eyes. But that’s not the same thing as a happy ending being earned.
To illustrate my case, I’ll be using a few ending examples here….I’ll try to keep it vague, but I will be referencing The Lord of the Rings, Gravity Falls, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the Sherlock Holmes canon, and Fringe. Be warned.
To start with, let me attempt to categorize story endings. First there are, admittedly, Bad Endings. These are those endings, either good or bad for the characters, which seem almost random: endings which go against the themes of their own stories, which thwart expectations without a clear justification, and/or which seem to have no correlation to the main characters’ choices throughout the story. I am not discussing these endings. They are purely aggravating, and we can leave them entirely out of the question.
In the field of endings which do make an effort to fit the themes, choices, and mechanics of the story that came before them, I would draw three categories.
🐇 Happy Easter everyone! The Easter Bunny has brought us some sweet little gifts. We wonder how he knew that we like the works of a certain Prof. Tolkien? 🤔 Maybe Radagast had something to do with it? We wish you a really great time with your friends and family! ⠀ ⠀
🐇 Frohe Ostern Euch allen! Unser Osterhase hat uns heute reich beschenkt – woher er wohl weiß, dass wir einen gewissen Herrn Tolkien und seine Werke gut finden? 🤔 Ob da Radagast im Spiel war…? Wir wünschen Euch schöne und gemütliche Feiertage! ⠀
The Mighty One - THE RESCUE OF PRINCE BARTUL (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1208540180-the-mighty-one-the-rescue-of-prince-bartul?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=prominwrites&wp_originator=kRYwzhJN68Tu6LYXxuFxcxz1YvLhU9PtEwIkP5S6j%2BiJY12evk8ndZ0AoziiGPM%2FG17g5dSf8te7LuW6v3s0oZ8l7ZcnrHXbasB1uAEfSjUyRkPS5O6odQDuNQCEExBB What happens when the role of the Dark Lord ends up thrust upon you? The Mighty One lives in the Land of Gods with his brethren, and takes upon himself all the creative work around there. An aloof, arrogant, and all-together unpleasant loner with truly fearsome creative powers and a good heart, he ends up losing everything and, in time, discovers the power of friendship while wandering the Earth... New updates every week (usually Mondays).
i love how hobbits are canonically so good at hiding in plain sight that they’re basically cryptids to anyone in middle-earth outside of the shire and bree
my personal theory is that anyone passing through nearby who doesn’t know better sees hobbit tracks on the dirt roads and assumes from the size of the footprints that the area must be inhabited by creatures of matching stature, and just gives the whole place a wide berth
The Mighty One - (PART 20) A LONG TIME AGO, ON EARTH (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1203240428-the-mighty-one-part-20-a-long-time-ago-on-earth?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=prominwrites&wp_originator=eJYboSrCrqK7XHrEGtUSXEvJOBtos%2FXaIrVXQkQaaRo4qsPrsVZneCrW5kPJwabvG4VmD8UD%2FnWWN4oBfD92Ovxmlo58i2RtLcL5Nvl8g2dQGN69YPuvfKhj01DLXj7I What happens when the role of the Dark Lord ends up thrust upon you? The Mighty One lives in the Land of Gods with his brethren, and takes upon himself all the creative work around there. An aloof, arrogant, and all-together unpleasant loner with truly fearsome creative powers and a good heart, he ends up losing everything and, in time, discovers the power of friendship while wandering the Earth... New updates every week (usually Mondays).
