all my tolkien feels are back

do you ever think about how glorf, ga-RAD-riel and maggie are the only ones in middle-earth (except for various maiar and probably tom bombadil) to have seen the Two Trees?? bc i do

Silmarillion Humor

Probably one of my favorite things about the Silmarillion and the Silmarillion fandom is all of the things that sound like amusing fanon but aren’t. Like Feanor slamming the door in Melkor’s face: I consistently forget that this actually happened, word for word (bonus points for calling him a jail-crow). It’s just so funny, so thoroughly ridiculous, that it feels like it must be an exaggeration. But no. Tolkien wrote that.

A lot of the time, I read posts about the Silmarillion and I’m like… Did that really happen like that? Or is someone just being facetious? And generally, when I look it up, it is in fact canon. (Not always. But often)

I am also regularly reminded of that time in the Aeneid, when Neptune yells at the winds for causing a storm (First of all…?). The Latin text literally has Neptune tell the winds, “go back to your master, tell him he may throw himself about in his own palace,” which is one of the funniest things I’ve read. Throw himself around. My high school Latin class died laughing. Yet epic poetry has a reputation for being extremely boring, and it is the fault of the translators who rendered that sentence as “tell him he may rule over his own palace,” which is a very boring (and inaccurate) way to render that sentence.

And so I feel bad for Vergil and Tolkien, because even though they have fantastically funny lines and scenes, everyone just assumes they’re boring because they’re “old-fashioned” and have dense language. And so no one reads them. Which is very sad indeed.


I’m calling this donezo for now. The grayscale has been done since yesterday, but I feel like if I keep messing with the color, I’ll screw it up beyond repair. I’ll probably go back and fix things as I feel like it (because I’m never satisfied lol). My first time coloring over grayscale, so be kind :)

I kind of headcanon his hair to be bloodstained or dyed…maybe?

“…A hunter was Celegorm, who in Valinor was a friend of Oromë and often followed the Vala’s horn. Celegorm went rather to the house of Oromë, and there he got great knowledge of birds and beasts, and all their tongues he knew.” (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalie)


Okay, so I  know  that 100 isn’t that much compared to some crazy high-number celebrations I’ve been seeing, but for me that feels… HUGE !! I never ever thought that over 100 people would look at my blog and actually want to interact with me, so. I’m kind of amazed, and I want to thank each and every one of you !! Pete shall do their best to organize this and offer everyone some love here !!

Keep reading


A/N: Incoming Thranduil fluff for y’all! I hope you like it!

Fandom: The Hobbit

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

Warnings: none

The sound of breaking glass stopped you dead in your tracks. Your hand froze mid-air, hovering over the necklace that you had intended to touch. Then you turned around, confusion and worry mixing in your stomach, only to see Thranduil standing behind you, a shattered glass of wine at his feet, staring at you with wide eyes. His features were torn between fury and grief, and you knew instantly what you had done wrong. You snatched your hand back and stepped away from the necklace, looking down at the ground.

“Forgive me.” You started. “I did not know…”

“Don’t ever dare to touch it again.”

His voice cut through your apology like a sword through bones. He did not yell, but his calm fury was even worse than any obscenities he could have screamed in your face. You gulped and looked down, tears filling the rim of your eyes. Even though you knew you had done nothing wrong – you had not even touched the necklace! – you felt guilty. And you were angry.

Usually you were pleased with the relationship that had bloomed between you and the King of Mirkwood. He was courteous and noble, treated you with great respect and was the embodiment of a gentleman. But there was always a shadow looming over your relationship: Thranduil’s late wife. It was clear that something tragic had happened to her, and that he was still grieving. And while you acknowledged his pain and suffering, it still hurt that he still felt so strongly for her.

His eyes burned into yours, unforgiving and angry, and you nodded before turning on your heel and fleeing the room. It was not seemely for you to cry, so you wiped your tears away before storming to your chambers. You closed the door behind you and erupted in a fit of sobs.

“Now, now, (y/n), this Is not how I know you.” A calm voice said, and your head snapped up to see Gandalf sitting on a chair next to your bed. “Tell me, how can I help you?”

You quickly calmed yourself, wiping the tears away a second time. Then you shook your head and sat down on the bed, taking your old friends hand in yours.

“Do not worry, old friend.” You feigned a smile. “I do not want to trouble you with my problems. Instead, tell me what I can help you with?”

He smiled back and patted your hand with his other one, before withdrawing from you.  He stood up and started pacing around the room, explaining himself to you.

“I wanted to ask you for help in a matter that needs your…expertise. I do not know much about the magic of witches, I have to admit, but I think in my newest endeavour I need your help. But now I see, you are troubled already. You do not have to feel obligated to come with me.”

You shook your head and stood up, following his steps.

“I think a break from Mirkwood might be exactly what I need right now, Gandalf. I would be happy to help you, so do not worry: I will come with you as soon as you explain what you need from me.”

“I will explain it on the way. Here, I fear, the walls have ears.”

Your curiosity was wakened with these words and you nodded.

“Then let us leave as soon as possible.”

“I will go and make preparations.”

Gandalf bowed and left the room, leaving you to ponder over the upcoming quest.

A few hours later you were sitting on your bed, shuffling through your spellbook, when Thranduil burst into your room. His cheeks were reddened and his eyes were wide with rage, but despite his fast movement he did not break a sweat. You put your book aside and looked up at him, wondering what you had done this time.

“Why did you not tell me you are going to leave? Why does Gandalf have to bring these tidings to my ears?”

You stood up and smoothened your skirts, before you looked him in the eyes and took his hand.

“It was only decided this afternoon, my love. Please, do not rage. I meant no harm.”

He lowered his gaze to the floor, before nodding and stepping closer to you.

“I forgive you. But tell me honestly…do you go on this mission only to help Gandalf, or do you flee from my past?”

You sighed and shook your head.

“I do not want to hurt you, Thranduil. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love, but… I cannot help but feel jealous. I do not run from you, I run from my own ill feelings. But while I am gone, could you please ask yourself this: Are you willing to start a new life with me? Sometimes it feels as if you are still dwelling in the past, and while you have every right to do so, I do not want to be caught up in the tide of your suffering.”

Thranduil, taken aback, sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, before he lowered his gaze once more. His thumb drew patterns on the back of your hand while you waited patiently for him to answer.

“I did not mean to make you feel that way.” He finally confessed, his voice quiet and soft. “Sometimes grief washes over me and I get carried away by it. But I promise you… I will try to fight it from now on. I love you, (y/n). But while I wish I could say I love you more than anything I ever loved before, that would be a lie. But I can say in all honesty that I love you just as much as her, and the thought of losing you because of my grief is too much to bear. It is not what she would have wanted, and it is certainly not what I want. So…” He trailed off and took a deep breath, before he went on. „I do not need to think about the answer to your question: Yes, I want to start anew with you. The only question that remains now is: Will you forgive me for my rude behaviour?”

With all of your heart you nodded and - in a fit of passion - you threw your arms around him, happy that he had chosen you.

“With pleasure.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lip as he embraced you. You inhaled his scent as you buried your face in his shoulder, unwilling to go now that he had confessed his true feelings for you. But you had promised Gandalf, and you always kept your promises. So you stepped back after too short a time and smiled, kissing his cheek.

“I look forward to my return.”

Enslaved by a King- [Watchful Eyes Edition]- Thranduil Fanfiction

“What sort of barbarians are the Mirkwood elves that we keep prisoners as slaves?”

Legolas is leaning in the doorway with a scowl on his face. Thranduil turns from his maps and arches an eyebrow.

“…That ship has sailed months ago.”

“Then unsail it. Send her back to her people.”

The King of Mirkwood smirks. He straightens himself to meet his son’s accusing gaze. “If you recall, she is to be in my service a year for every gem she has taken from my coffers. That debt has not been paid.”

“So you stoop to the depravity of orcs? Of goblins? What sort of justice involves forcing a prisoner to your bed?”

A pale vein at Thranduil’s temple strains. “I would hardly compare my treatment of her to that of orcs. And neither would I consider my actions forceful. I doubt she has found our arrangement… displeasing.”

“Elves do not take slaves. Elves do not sleep with prisoners.”

“…Elves do not question the decisions and private affairs of their king.”

“Whatever has come over you; it is unwholesome. Unnatural. Your should be thinking of my mother in the Hall of Mandos, not wasting away over a human.”

Thranduil slams his fist against his desk. “Do not speak to me of your mother. You were but a mewling babe who could barely string two words together. What do you know of her.”

“The Silvan Elves still remember as the emerald of Greenwood, the most beautiful and wisest Queen they have known. You had to have loved her, to have brought me to this world. ”

“…Are you finished?”

Unspoken accusations hang heavy in the poisoned air. Legolas turns away, leaving Thranduil alone with his maps.

He stares at them for a long time, then violently shoves them off his desk.

Blood red eyes you’ve painted in the dead of the night, hidden deep in shadow on broken statues, across branches bound with spider web, and under abandoned bridges overtaken by vines. The darkness sees all now, its gaze piercing through the twisted trees and the thick, unyielding haze of the forest.

The rose-petalled bath washed away the grime and lichen stains from your skin. It did nothing to wash the ugly guilt that clung to your soul. You stare at the woman in the mirror wrapped in a damp cream towel, clutching a wooden hairbrush in a shaking hand. You are unsure if you recognize your reflection anymore. You are a shadow of who you were, and you do not know at this rate what you will become.

It was there all along, hidden in plain sight…

You snap your head back, trying to block its voice from your mind. You should never have taken Cumber’s crystal ball, should never have heeded its whispers. But was too late now. The darkness has slipped into your soul and compels you to its will.

“…You should be asleep.”

Thranduil’s voice jerks you from your thoughts, and the darkness settles in the back of your mind. The hairbrush slips from your fingers, and he catches it effortlessly before it clatters to the floor. He is in his evening robe of speckled copper and gold, his hair loose and uncrowned. He turns you back around so you are facing the mirror.

“Allow me.”

He clasps the slope of your shoulder with a firm hand and gently runs the brush through your damp hair. He smells of leather-bound books and ink tinged with the spice of autumn. His touch is soothing. Familiar.

It only makes your guilt that much more unbearable.

You want to cry, want to grab him and shake him out of his obliviousness. You wish so desperately to confess what you have done and warn him of the horrors that await all of Mirkwood. But the darkness grips your tongue and forces your words back down your throat. He watches your expression through the mirror.

“You seem melancholy.”

“…It will pass, my lord.”

A slight crease forms in his brow. “There is a distance between us I cannot close, a darkness in your eyes so strange yet so familiar.”

There is a sharp pang in your chest. You have fallen asleep to the loving brush of his hand against your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breath as you lay spent against his chest. You have felt the beat of his heart echo your own as you mold perfectly in such seamless completion. But the darkness has carved into your soul and hollowed out your heart. The distance is as inevitable as your betrayal. You must not allow him to get any closer, to keep him whole in the end. It is the least you can do.

“…I have displeased you, my lord.”

“I desire your thoughts, not your courtesy.” The crease in his brow deepens. “You and I have shared flesh night after night. Is the intimacy between us no more than carnal?”

You wring your hands. You cannot meet his gaze. “…My lord-”

He releases you. “Enough with the formalities. Is that all I am, your lord, your master? Who would I be if I were to release you from my service?“

You turn away from him. ”…You are king. You will always be king.“

He closes his eyes, as if he has been slapped. "To you,” he says softly. “Who would I be to you?”

The only answer you can afford him is guilty silence. His expression is unreadable, but you can feel the weight of his pain through his unrelenting gaze.

“…I have stood under the downpour of this everlasting life with my arms outstretched, waiting for the heavens to give meaning back to my life. I have lived thousands of lifetimes, wanting. Waiting. Keeping my palms open against the cold sting of the torrent, knowing full well what has been lost can never be reclaimed. Yet for once, the skies parted for me. I have finally found something tangible in my grasp. Do not resent me if I will not let you go.”

He turns to leave.

You know you should let him leave, let him continue to believe that you are only his through tyranny, not because you want to be. But you are bleeding within, and your frazzled emotions threaten to overwhelm you. You catch his arm in your moment of weakness.


You have never called him by his name, not even in your greatest throes of passion. He stops and turns slowly, his eyes soft. You wish he could read the truth in your eyes, feel the ache in your heart. You clasp his hand against your chest.

“Please,” you whisper. “Stay tonight.”

“…I do not have the heart to stay.”

You bite your lip and tighten your grasp. His hand is hot through your damp towel, and you shiver slightly. His eyes are dark, his expression unreadable.

“…Do you yearn for me?”

He already knows the answer. He can see it from the flush on your skin, the way you tremble at his proximity. But this is the only aching truth you dare reveal.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He runs a finger lightly along the edge of the towel, grazing your sensitive flesh. Your breath catches in your throat as it comes undone, crumpling at your feet. Pinpricks skitter across your bare skin. His eyes caress you with the intimacy of one whose fingertips have traversed the curves and hollow of your body, tracing every freckle, every perfect imperfection as he would trace a map of his beloved realm. You feel the heat of his gaze linger where he knows you to be most vulnerable, most anxious for his touch.  

“…If I am to be nothing but master of your desire, then I will have you worship that desire with the very essence of your being.”

He drags a chair from the corner and sets it close in front of the mirror. He motions for you to sit. He stands behind you, his hands resting firmly on the back of the chair. He leans forward, his lips a whisper from your ear.  

“Your are mine and you shall do as I command. You will heed my voice as if it were your own, knead your flesh as if it were my hand. Your desire is at my whim. Do you understand?”

You nod, your throat tight.  

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice is dark velvet dragged across your senses. “I want you to cup your breasts, feel the weight, the soft fullness in your palms. I want you to squeeze them, mold them. Watch the skin flush pink under your grasp… Watch how your rosebuds tighten and blush in anxious anticipation.”

Your breath hitches as you catch your reflection.

“Don’t look away. I want you to see what I see when I look at you. Take those perfect rosebuds between your forefinger and thumb. I want you to pluck them for me, hard enough so you feel them sting. Focus as pain blossoms into pleasure between your fingers, seeping through your body like warm rain on a spring day.”

His eyes are filled with sad yearning as he takes in your expression.

“…Now part your legs. Show yourself to me. Slowly, like petals unfurling to take in the sun. I want to see all of you. Draw your fingers from your breasts, graze them down your belly and rest them lightly against your inner thighs. Let them whisper against your skin as you trail them slowly down to your knees and up the tender flesh back of your legs… Look how you glisten. You’re dripping like honey… You know how much I love the taste of honey.”

You are trembling, every inch of your flesh crying for contact. Yet he stays firmly behind the chair, cool and unmoving like stone. He continues, fully aware of your torment but purposely callous in his inaction.

“…Trace your fingers around the petals of your sex, like you would caress the most delicate of blossoms. Dip your fingertips in the nectar, and brush them along your hidden pearl… Slowly, my dear. Slow, like the sweet drip of amber, the sigh of ancient trees… Keep your legs open. I want to see you at play. Coat a finger, and slip inside. Let your lust pull you deeper into its succulent sweetness, and withdraw slowly, so you feel the very friction you so desire. Allow a second finger to whet your hunger. Feel how you envelop and stretch to accommodate my will. Pull and plunge with my ardor, my demand. Let your other hand flutter slightly over your swollen pearl, like the hover of a honeybee…”

You cry out as heat dances across your body and intense pleasure curls deep within. His fingers dig into the back of the chair.

“…Such beauty in wanton lust,” he breathes. “The slow, all-consuming burn, the desperate need for completion of the flesh. I too have such a need, such strong, insatiable desire. But there is a much greater hunger that begs to be fulfilled. The heart has always sought pleasure first, and that you have denied me, despite our intimacy, despite my efforts. So tell me. What is your master to do?”

“…Please,” You gasp. This is too much. You are guilt swallowed by the inferno of lust, drenched in the acid of misunderstanding. Your emotions eat at the core of you as pleasure roils through through your being like a firestorm. You cannot stop but you cannot continue. He kneels down before you, so that you are eye to eye. He gently touches your cheek.

“I have gone about this all wrong, from the moment my men brought you to me. Tell me that it is not too late to remedy what is between us, that the source of your desire can come from more than just being enslaved by a king. But from me.”

The look in his eyes sends you over the edge. You close your mouth over his as you are wracked with your climax. With a tortured groan, he wraps you in a crushing embrace until you have fully unravelled in his arms. Then your emotions break from their restraint and come gushing forth in heaving sobs.

Amin hiraetha,” he murmurs bitterly, kissing your tears away and smoothing his hand against your hair with aching tenderness. “I know matters of the heart cannot be coerced. You should have let me go tonight.”

You grit your teeth and shake your head violently. The truth can never be spoken, but you are determined to show him the extent of your emotions, whether he comprehends or not. With tears still rolling down your cheeks, you unfasten his robe. He does not try to stop you.

Outside the window, a painted red eye stares unblinking from a vine-covered tree.

[posted 3.2.14]

Fandom finally seems to be settling down a bit, which means I’ve been settling into something of a routine, and even if I’ve been slow to get these up, I’m still reading a good amount of fic and am just entirely happy with it! So many longer fics without being overlong, that know how to pace themselves, so that they just fly right by! My favorite, ahhhhh. Though, I still want all the father & son feelings, give me more, fandom!

Interrupted Journeys 8: Through Shadow and Flame by ellisk, thranduil & legolas & ocs, 63.6k
    As we look back on the journey of our life, certain moments stand out as ones that defined the course of that journey. These are the incidents that defined the lives of Thranduil Oropherion and Legolas Thranduilion throughout the Third and Fourth Ages. Part Eight: Durin’s Bane was, in fact, the bane of many.
Someone Else’s Daughter by starbuck92, thranduil & tauriel & brief others, movie-based, 4.7k
    His fingers ghosted over the dark bruises and livid cuts that were so prominent on her pale, freckled skin, but in her sleep, there was none of the wariness or righteous anger that he had been confronted with more alarming frequency. Instead, she looked very much like the elfling he had found just over six hundred years ago, unguarded and vulnerable with nothing to hide from him. The memories of that day were never far from his mind when Tauriel was in his presence.
In Defense of the Elvenking by Karri, thranduil & legolas & bilbo & others, meta, 2.6k
    A defense of J.R.R. Tolkien’s good King Thranduil of Mirkwood.
Homecoming by Cody Nelson, thranduil & legolas & others, 1.2k
    Thranduil awaits Legolas’s arrival in Valinor from Middle Earth.
The Shieldmaiden, the Archers and the Truth by Jedi Sapphire, eowyn & aragorn & legolas & elladan & elrohir & others & ocs, 4.4k
    In Minas Tirith, shortly after the fall of Sauron, Éowyn has her first encounter with the Elves who will (although none of them knows it yet) become far better friends when they all dwell in Ithilien.
The First Snowfall by Manderly, thranduil & legolas & ocs, 2.5k
    The first snowfall of the Mirkwood winter has always been a special occasion for the small elfling, but this year, things are not the same, nor will they ever be again.
Farewell by jenolas, aragorn & legolas, 1.5k
    As Aragorn’s reign draws to an end, he travels to Ithilien to bid Legolas farewell.
Young Lords I: Pass the Dorwinion + Welcome to Imladris + The Greenwood Experience by Sanaryelle, thranduil & elrond & glorfindel & erestor & others, 28.1k
    What happens when you mix a young Elrond, Thranduil, Glorfindel, Erestor, Galdor, and a bottle of the finest Dorwinion?
The Mistakes We Make by TrappedInWonderland, thranduil & legolas & tauriel, movie-based, 4.8k
    A glimpse into the life, thoughts, and motivations of one Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm.
Starting Anew by DeathBySpoon09, aragorn & legolas & thranduil & tauriel & elladan & elrohir & ocs, movie-based, 36k
    Post Battle of Five Armies, the story of Legolas’s journey north to find the ranger known as ‘Strider’. Essentially how Legolas met Aragorn.

full details + recs inside!

Keep reading

When did Romance become so dominant? Amatonormativity and Fandom

First of all I will preface this with two things: 

1) I am asexual and aromantic and it is AWESOME and if you’re ace or aro or both you are awesome and your feelings are valid.

 2) I love love LOVE fandom and will defend it to the ends of the earth.

HOWEVER. I am here to tell you about a harmful idea called amatonormativity, and explain why it’s important in the context of fandom as well as real life. (thesis statement ftw) 

For those of you who don’t know, amatonormativity is basically the idea that having or desiring a close, exclusive, romantic relationship is the default, normal setting for EVERYONE. It’s problematic because it invalidates a whole slew of people who may not desire such a relationship, including but not limited to aromantic people, celibate people, or single people who are just fine with being single for whatever reason they might have. It can be really hard to explain to people why we might not desire a relationship, because it’s so prevalent all over media to have all the main characters couple up at the end, or use romantic love as a fix-all to a character’s problems, etc.

(more under the cut)

Keep reading

i like the idea of tilda bonding with thranduil whenever he visits bard and since hes got like several hundred years of parenthood to back him up hes pretty tolerable to whatever tilda wants to do with him— if anything maybe he kinda enjoys it cuz tilda is a child and children are so rare among elves cuz why bother having them when youre just gonna live forever??

im tagging this as barduil cuz gdi i want more stepdaddy thranduil in my life ;_; give me all the family feels, pleeeease

also i have double and triple checked and im almost certain that ‘pen-neth’ means 'little one’ in sindarian, but please correct me if im wrong u_u;;

we must not look at goblin men

Written for terrifying tolkien week. I have a fondness for tolkien’s elves mixed with traditional faerie lore, which in itself is pretty spooky. So here’s some creepy fey Thranduil and a very unfortunate Bargeman. No warnings.

The water rocks his boat, as if hands from beneath the rippling current are tugging it down. The water is dark, unknowable. It isn’t the water that worries him. Bard’s eyes turn to the forest, branch and root and shrub spilling over the banks, reaching, always reaching.

Sometimes he passes a gap in the trees, a sliver of darkness among all the green. There’s something about its size and shape, as if, if he were to walk that path, the gap would be the exact size of his body. I could moor the boat to that tree and clamber up the bank, he thinks. I could slip between those trees and run down the path, run to— He isn’t sure where these thoughts come from, or where they lead. He shakes them off, fingers grasping at something beneath the collar of his shirt, and steers far away from the banks when those gaps in the trees appear.

His grandmother told him stories of this place: you must walk backwards into the forest if you ever wish to find your way out again. Never stray near the forest’s edge without a piece of cold iron about you. Carry salt, or certain herbs, and never speak your name aloud. The river, with its running water, would protect you. They cannot cross it.

She was always evasive when Bard would press the issue. Who are ‘they’, Gran? he would tease, only playing at wanting to know.

But she would take his needling seriously, pulling him close by his thin shoulders and staring into his eyes with the look of a hungry hawk. You best hope you never find out, boy.

Keep reading

Can we discuss Elrond, please?

And I don’t mean like when everyone says something that and then just lists all the tragedies in his life like AND THEN HIS DAD BECAME A STAR OMG MY FEELS POOR ELROND. Not what I’m talking about. Can we actually discuss Elrond?

Tolkien wrote a lot of amazing characters. There are a lot of good characters, a lot of evil characters, and a lot of characters in the middle. But if you really sit back and think about Elrond, he really is just the epitome of good.

There are many characters in Tolkien’s writing that are good and valiant and make these huge dramatic sacrifices and stuff like Fingolfin or even Aragorn. There are a lot of stereotypical (but no less awesome) portrayals of “the epic hero.” Then there are the purposefully ordinary heroes like Frodo and Sam who were written as a kind of foil to that idea of a hero- that small people, ordinary people can still push aside fear and make a difference.

You have characters like Galadriel, who is powerful and good and wise, but who also willful and eager to rule.

There are characters like Gandalf, who is wise and powerful and good, but who also doesn’t really know what he’s doing a lot of the time.

There are characters like Boromir, who is good, but whose heart was corrupted despite good intentions because of desperation.

Then there is Elrond. Elrond is good. Elrond is powerful. Elrond is kind and wise and noble. But the thing that really sets Elrond apart is that he is compassionate, and constant, and benevolent, and humble. Elrond has seen it all. Kinslayings. War. Death and pain and loss. Perhaps with the exception of a certain Man whose life is literally cursed, Elrond knows more pain than any other character. He loses almost all of his loved ones through his life, but despite that suffering and the evil he has been exposed to, he does not become bitter. His heart is not hard. He is not corrupted.

He is also arguably one of the most power figures in Middle Earth, in physical strength, lineage (Maia blood), and of course he is the wielder of Vilya, which is the most powerful of the three Elven rings. Despite this however, he does not seek power. He actively chooses to be a lord as opposed to a king, and he does not try to impose his will on others. He offers advice and counsel. His home is a place of refuge for all races. He is not prejudiced. More than any other lord of elves, he is active. He does not isolate himself or Rivendell from the world as Gondolin and Lorien and Doriath and the Woodland Realm were isolated.

Elrond is loving and giving. He takes Aragorn into his home and loves him as he loved his own sons; he allows Aragorn to marry his only daughter for the sake of both their happinesses even though it meant that Elrond would lose her forever. Elrond is literally everything. He is a formidable warrior. He is incredibly wise. A master of lore. The greatest healer in Middle Earth. Lord of Imladris. Herald of Gil-Galad. Bearer of Vilya. A brother. A father. A husband. And he never wavers in any of it. All the way until the end, Elrond is there. Whatever your problem, you could take it to Elrond. Elrond always knows what to do. Elrond is always willing to help.

Do you need medical aid? Crucial advice? A safe haven? A listening ear? A shoulder to cry on? A soldier? You can count on Elrond. You can always count on Elrond. Elrond is the constant presence of goodness and dependability and security and compassion. And yet with all of those admirable qualities, Elrond never feels false. He never feels overdone. He has seen pain and heartache. He knows longing and loss and feeling. His resounding goodness is not without a sense of humanity. He is not distant. He is not overly perfect. You can still relate to Elrond.

I don’t know. There’s just this feeling, at least to me, that as long as there is Elrond, not all hope is lost. And yet Elrond is such an under-appreciated character. I saw a post the other day referring to Elrond as “boring and flat.” That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever read. Elrond is probably the deepest, most multi-dimensional character that Tolkien gave us. There is tragedy in Elrond. There is torment and angst. There is conflict. There is fear. There is strength and courage and STRIVING to keep light in a dark world.

In all honesty, if you were to tell me that you didn’t like Elrond, I would assume that you were either absolutely insane, largely ignorant of Tolkien’s works, or against such concepts as goodness and steadfast kindness as a whole. In any case, I pity you.

On The Hobbit, and endings

It’s taken me over a week to collect my thoughts on The Battle of the Five Armies. I guess my thoughts on the film are easy on a superficial level – awesome effects that still managed to surprise me, characters I found so much more nuanced and endearing than before, some very smart use of verbatim from Tolkien, and the cheesy moments didn’t ruin anything. I loved it. It wasn’t the best film I’ve seen this year, but it was my favourite.

What I’m finding incredibly difficult (to say the least –‘sore’ is perhaps a more apt description) is the fact that this was the last film we’ll see in this series. It’s the last Middle-earth film made by Peter and his team, and I’m a huge mess.

These films have been my comfort. They’ve been constant. The Battle of the Five Armies came out on the day that I graduated from high school. I’m not too superstitious and I’m not sure where I stand in regards to fate, but that means a little bit of something to me. To be at the end is to be uncertain. I guess in the back of my mind I knew how numb and lost I’d feel when both of these things ended, but experiencing the cutting of the cord in real time is a profound shock.

It’s just a film, yeah. But these films have sort of been the coathanger on which my life has hung. Of course I’d have been fine without them. I might have been a better person, more well-rounded, less willing to ‘waste’ 24 hours marathoning films when I could be bettering the world. But ever since sitting down to watch The Fellowship of the Ring at the age of seven, under my geeky and lovely and late father’s jurisdiction, my world changed. I loved these characters, their world, their words.

This introduction to Tolkien through Jackson’s films brought poetry into my life. I have a feeling I wouldn’t be the writer I am, or even a writer at all, without the experience of Middle-earth. The films have been magic to me. And whenever I watch them now, they bring back my dad in little pieces. I’ve shared them with my closest friends, their soundtracks have gotten me through the most frustrating algebra ever encountered by a Year 12 student, and the stories within them give me so much strength. I’m sure anyone who loves a book or film this much knows what I mean.

I laugh at myself frequently for how important this world is to me, but that’s no antidote. I feel blessed to have had these films in my life. I suppose a week of numbness has evolved into sweeping gratitude. I’m excited to have mega-marathons of these films with my closest, geekiest friends. I’m excited to share these stories with others. And mostly, I’m so thankful to have been given the gift of these stories, because they have given me courage, and hope, and the inspiration to tell stories of my own.

But I’m still devastated that the telling of those stories, in that certain form, is now only in past tense.

Since my blog turns five years old on March 27th, I decided to celebrate by doing a Tumblr Awards and a Blog of the Month for the month of April! Basically, there will be several categories anyone who enters can win, and the “overall best blog” will also become my April botm! 


  • mbf kili’s runestone
  • reblog this post until March 27th
  • likes do not count as entries!
  • winners and runner-ups announced for each category on March 28th


  • a follow back from me (if I’m not already following)
  • three promos throughout the month of April 
  • a place on the “winners’ page” which will be linked to my blog
  • a place in my network if desired
  • my love and appreciation forever

 the overall/botm winner gets all of the above plus a special place in my updates tab for the entire month of April and a request of a url graphic, a set of icons, etc of their choice.


  • best tolkien blog
  • best other fandom blog
  • best theme
  • best original content
  • best overall

Anyone can enter, and feel free to send any questions my way (: