#tolkien fanfiction art

[alystraea]

Commission for @elamarth-calmagol - Glorfindel and her OC Mallory.

#glorfindel #elamarth-calmagol #tolkien fanfiction art #my art

[leucisticpuffin]

breakdown/mending

“I cannot do this,” says Makalaurë, breaking his own stilted attempt at a formal greeting, and crumples like a cloth doll at my bedside. 

It is the first time he has come alone. He slipped into the tent early this morning, hollow-eyed in the grey light; now he screams into my blankets, and the medicine-bottles tremble upon the low table. 

(Of all my brothers, Makalaurë was ever the quickest to tears. He wept for lost toys and stories, for quarrels between brothers and grievances not his own, for beautiful songs and unexpected gifts – but not like this. Not over me.)

“Káno, Káno,” I say, the nickname strange and rough in my mouth. “Why come here, if the sight of me upsets thee so?” 

It is meant as a joke, but I know at once it is wrong: it is too near the truth. Angamando, I am told, has warped my sense of humour.

 “I am sorry,” Makalaurë sobs, straining for control of his voice. “This is not – I did not come to thee for this–”

His hands twist in the tangle of his hair, pulling at his scalp as he used to when he was very small and upset. “Stop, Káno, you will hurt yourself,” I tell him – but I am too harsh, and he flinches.

I knew how to calm him, once. Remembering is like looking through poorly-made glass, smoke-tainted and full of imperfections; but I know there was once a bright-haired, handsome child who held his little brother tight and stroked his hair while he cried. 

That child, I think, would know what to do. 

Even slow and halting movement jars my shoulder painfully. Still I reach for Makalaurë, thinking to take his hand – but I cannot do it. Touch is hateful to me now, the healers’ ministrations all my fragile skin can bear. A glancing touch, and against my will my hand draws back – my fingers shake, bone-white and too thin – I dare not try again. 

It would not do any good. My scars are the cause of my brother’s distress: he looks at me as if he had cut every mark himself. How, then, could I be a comfort to him?

This is how I know myself changed: Makalaurë weeps before me, and I cannot console him. 

@maedhrosmaglorweek, Day Two: Trust/Distrust

#this one got away from me a bit #maedhrosmaglorweek #maedhros #maglor #post-thangorodrim #silm art #silm fic #silmarillion art #tolkien art #silmarillion fanfiction

[meluiloth]

I saw @lionydoorin’s drawings inspired by Peeta’s sketchbook, and I absolutely loved them, so I decided to do one of my own! I’m actually really happy with how it turned out, and it gave me an excuse to embrace and post my sketches without needing them to be ‘perfect’. Also I do imagine Haymitch’s geese to be Canada geese, because they’re large, loud, and savage. Just like him.

Anyways, I’m done rambling! Please go check out @lionydoorin because their art is so good, and let me know what you think of mine!

Oh, and Merry Christmas to all who celebrate!

#art #my art #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #primrose everdeen #peeta mellark #peeta’s sketchbook #the hunger games fanfiction #not tolkien

[echo-bleu]

Yesterday I posted more Noldor Hair Headcanons (Part 1 | Part 2 | On AO3 and @alqualonde-s wrote in the tags that she'd like some visuals. As it happens, I have very clear mental images of each hairstyle in the fic, so I did some sketches!

(individual sketches under the cut, terrible ID in alt)

Here we have:

a very sad injured Finrod with his mourning braids

Galadriel wearing the crown braids they devised on the Helcaraxë to protect their ears

Maglor and his far-too-complex mourning braids

Lalwen wearing armour and battle braids

Turgon wearing a formal style, black/kinky hair edition.

I didn't have designs yet for Lalwen and Turgon but I'm happy with these!

I'm not always consistent with my hairstyle headcanons in my art, but as a bonus, some hairstyles I've drawn before:

Finarfin in semi-formal Tirion style

Maedhros in battle styles here and here

Maglor in a slightly silly Fëanorian style

Finrod in fully formal Tirion style

Finrod in semi formal Tirion (or formal Nargothrond style)

Celebrimbor in a mixed late-Fëanorian and dwarven style

Fingolfin and Fingon in semi-formal Tirion styles (with Anairë in a simpler style)

Celegorm with his hunting braids

Elrond in a late-Fëanorian style

Fingon in two formal Tirion styles (but in trad pencil)

Bonus: "Elwing's hair floats around her as she falls."

#silmarillion #tolkien #silm art #tolkien fanart #noldor #noldor hair headcanons #if i am to braid my mystic crown #echo's drawings #echo's fanfiction #finrod #galadriel #lalwen #maglor #turgon

[forheksed]

#i need a maxi UST fanfiction about them please #depeche mode all night in my headphones while drawing this #boromir #aragorn #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkien art #my art

[essenceofarda]

OF BLESSED THYME & THISTLE | Chapter 1 | Page 3

Masterlist of Pages

Faramir’s cousin, Lothiriel, comes to Minas Tirith to become a companion of his new bride, Eowyn, something that he hopes will ease Eowyn’s rough transition into Gondorian Society. Eowyn, for her part, decides her new companion would in turn make the perfect bride for her brother, Eomer King of Rohan. Matchmaking shenanigans ensue 😏

Page 3! Next page we'll start getting into the introduction of Lothiriel 🤗😁😏

#lotr #lord of the rings #farawyn #faramir #eowyn #eowyn x faramir #faramir x eowyn #eomer x lothiriel #eomer/lothiriel #eomer #lothiriel of dol amroth #tolkien fanart #lotr fanart #my art #fan comics #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr fancomic

[arlenianchronicles]

Years of preparation have finally culminated on this day. Turgon stands in what used to be his room, in the palace of Vinyamar. Early morning sunlight streams through the window and creeps across the far wall.

In the back of his mind, Ulmo calls to him. It is faint, not yet urgent. Turgon has planned his people’s departure and is certain that they shall reach the appointed spot on time. From there, Ulmo shall protect them on their way to Tumladen.

Everything is ready. Yet he hesitates, gazing unseeingly about the room. He sent letters to his father and brother in Mithrim. Admittedly, he did not give them enough time to send him their replies, if they did choose to write back at all. If he were to receive any letters from them now, it would only delay him further from departure. He cannot afford to delay any longer. He must do this.

As much as it pains him to go without proper farewells, it is his duty.

Footsteps reach his ears, furiously hurrying up the stairs beyond his room. There are many voices clamouring, getting louder, pleading, shouting. The door to his room bursts open.

Turgon turns. Standing in the doorway is Fingon. The sight of him is like a dose of ice water, and yet -- Turgon ought to have expected this. Part of him cannot help but feel relieved, glad even, to see his eldest brother one last time before leaving.

Fingon’s face is flushed from the flight up the stairs, perhaps from the entire journey here from Mithrim. At least, that is what Turgon assumes. It could very well be the heat of anger instead.

Standing behind him in the corridor are Turgon’s guards. Turgon waves his hand; it does not tremble, thank the Valar, and the guards retreat, albeit hesitantly. Fingon glances back at them to make sure they have left, then slams the door closed and turns on Turgon.

“So, this was your intention all along?” Fingon says. His voice quivers, though from wrath or from grief, Turgon cannot say. “You left us for Vinyamar. Now you are leaving us again for a city that does not exist!”

Turgon looks away. If he meets Fingon’s glistening eyes, the shield around his heart will break. “Who told you?”

“I questioned the messenger after receiving your letter. He would not tell me where this city is, only that you are departing very soon. I rode here as fast as I could.”

“We are leaving in a couple hours. Our travel must be kept secret; I trust you will not divulge it beyond Father’s confidence --”

“Oh, blast it all, Turgon!” Fingon cries.

Turgon falls silent. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, beating like the paws of a rabbit running from wolves. After a moment, Fingon speaks. “How did you find this city?”

“I had it built in secret.”

“Where?”

“I cannot tell you. Unless you wish to join me and remain within its walls forever.”

He hears Fingon take a step into the room. “You have not even told Father. And what of Aredhel? Do you think she will take this lightly?”

“Aredhel knows. She has decided to join me there.”

Fingon sucks in a sharp breath. "So you -- you plan to stay there till the end of Arda, never to see us again? You cannot mean anything else by ‘remaining within its walls forever.’”

“The city’s location allows for it to remain guarded and secret, so long as none give it away,” Turgon explains. “If I am to ensure that there is no opportunity for that, then all who know its location must stay inside the city.” He swallows. “That includes myself. If I were caught by Morgoth outside my city --”

“You do not trust yourself to keep it a secret if you were caught?”

“Is that such a surprise?”

“You are too strong to submit to Morgoth.”

It is Turgon’s turn to be surprised, enough so that he looks at Fingon to find his brother gazing back at him determinedly. Fingon saw him almost fall to pieces after Elenwë was lost. After that, Turgon drew himself so tightly together that his face became as stone, unmoving and unbending. Locked away behind his inner defenses, he kept his anger and grief, doubt and despair. He is to become the king of Gondolin. He cannot afford to fall apart when his people need him most.

But it is still a possibility. As much as he can appear tall and stalwart in the face of Darkness, he is still just himself. He can still be broken into a thousand pieces.

“You do not believe me,” Fingon says, a note of bitterness in his voice. The sunlight catches in his golden ribbons, turning them to molten fire in his dark braids. “But I know it. You would never betray your people, or Father, or myself. You need not stay hidden in your city for all time.”

“What laws I give to my people, I must also follow. It is only just.”

“So I am to never hear from you again?” Fingon demands. “This is to be our final meeting together?”

“I will think of you and Father always.”

“That is not good enough! What if you need my help, but I cannot find your hidden city? What if Morgoth finds out and descends upon you one night, and I am not there to help you and Aredhel, and little Idril?” Tears slip down his cheeks, gleaming like crystal drops in the sun. “Mother is gone. Elenwë is gone. Argon is gone, and now -- now you might as well be! What am I to do about that?” His voice cracks and his breath hitches, chest heaving with sobs not yet released.

Turgon does not have the words. It is for my people’s safety. As a prince, Fingon would understand, but it will do nothing to heal this wound to his heart.

So he reaches out and cradles Fingon’s face, bringing their foreheads together. Fingon grips Turgon’s wrists, and eventually, his breathing steadies.

“I know you feel it is your duty as the eldest,” Turgon murmurs. “But you are no longer responsible for me, Finno. I am a leader of my own people now, and I must do what I feel is best for them. Just as you do for yours.” He gently kisses Fingon’s cheek. “I will be alright on the journey there. I think I can safely assure you of that. Ulmo has promised us his protection.”

Fingon swallows hard. “I -- that is good to know,” he says hoarsely.

“Indeed,” Turgon smiles, but the grief finally cracks through his shield, and his next words are shaky. “So you see, you need not worry too much. Alright?”

Fingon nods, unable to speak. Turgon knows not how it happens, but in the next second they are holding each other close, a final embrace. Fingon has to stand on his toes in order to properly wrap an arm around Turgon’s shoulders; he tugs insistently, so Turgon must bend down a little. Distantly, he remembers that it was slightly more awkward with Argon, but that never stopped Fingon before.

Turgon listens to his brother’s whimpering and weeping, muffled against his shoulder, and hugs him tighter. On the far wall, the sunlight lengthens, and Ulmo’s call grows clearer in the back of his mind. But that time is not yet here. For now, Turgon stands with Fingon, and lets his tears fall into his brother’s hair, unnoticed.

_____

I wasn’t expecting to write an entire one-shot for this; originally, it was just going to be a small snippet of dialogue, but the scene kept playing out in my head and getting longer, so I decided to write the whole thing!

If I were to make this a full-fledged fic, this scene would likely be longer with more exploration of their feelings, but as it is, I think it works well enough for an art post! Plus you get a closeup of Fingon’s anguished face! Man, I just love Fingon+Turgon angst loll

#when will i draw them with happy feels? i dunno loll but hopefully someday XDD #art #my art #tolkien #silmarillion #fanart #elves #eldar #noldor #nolofinweans #fingon #turgon #brothers #family #platonic love #my fanfiction #fanfiction #findekano #turukano

[gloomingstar]

Can you draw Tolkien from hellpark? I really love your art btw.♥

TYSM FOR LIKING MY ART!!❤️❤️ :33

HEREE!!

Tolkien Black from southpark/hellpark ♡ :>

#art #south park #artwork #hellpark #southpark fanart #southpark fandom #hellpark fandom #hellpark fanart #southpark art #sp fanfiction #sp fandom #sp art #sp tolkien #tolkien black #tolkien

[valardynasty]

Lothlorien Royalty

Celeborn, Galadriel and young Celebrian.

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotredit #silmarillion #tolkien #the rings of power #tolkien fanfiction #le seigneur des anneaux #lady of light #lothlorien #celebrian #Celeborn #galadriel #galadriel x celeborn #galadriel x celebrian #celeborn x celebrian #valardynasty #eldar #noldor #ia art

[wylinka]

Sokka finally saw his father and darted for him, running past the fires surrounded by startled men and launching himself at his dad. He smacked into him with a thump and pressed his face into his chest.

Hakoda looked stunned as his arms wrapped around him almost automaticity. “Sokka?” He didn’t seem to have the words and his face was a picture of surprise, relief and confused pain. It made Shen’s heart hurt and swell at the same time. But although the sight was joyous, it was probably going to be more complicated than just a happy reunion. The poor kid had long scars on his back, similar to Zuli. There was no doubt he had been through something awful.

Almost to illustrate that thought, Sokka let out a long, wordless wail, a sound so full of fear, grief and distress it made all the hair on Shen’s arms stand on end. Hakoda, still holding his son tightly, turned his body to shield him from view.

A scene from @lovelyelbowleech’s War Games that i spent way too long thinking about, and then probably too long drawing. The goddamn wail broke my heart and i never recovered. And it’s not like it’s the only scene in the fic that would do that to a person either. GO READ IT, it’s a masterpiece. I can’t promise that you will come back though, and if you do, you will not be the same.

#GOD cant believe ive quoted fckn hobbit #the movie ver ok no mr tolkien slander allowed #GOD IT FEELS LIKE FOREVER SINCE IVE SEEN SOMETHING OTHER THAN THE PROCREATE FILE #last time i was so proud of myself was after i defended my degree i think lmao #war games #all’s fair #lovelyelbowleech #fan art #fanfiction #my work #omg tahts a tag on my blog now crazy stuff #sokka #hakoda #atla #avatar the last airbender #my art

[valinorianyears]

Laurefindele|Glorfindel carrying Itarille|Idril around during their time on the Helcaraxe

(ft. Background Ecthelion being in love, Aredhel&Turgon)

#Glorfindel #Laurefindele #Idril #Itarille #idril celebrindal #silm #silm art #The Silmarillion #Silmarillion fanfiction #Silmarillion Fanart #Silmarillion Art #silmarillion #valinorian years #silm headcanons #tolkien tag #tolkien elves #Illustration

[leucisticpuffin]

coirë | a stirring

“Thou callest this season beautiful,” he said one morning, watching shadows shift through the canvas as an attendant cleared the doorway of snow. “Forgive me, but I cannot see it.” “But thou hast seen it not,” protested Findekáno, setting aside his mortar and pestle. (The skill of preparing medicines he had picked up in the fearful days of the last winter, needing desperately to be useful, and yet unable to look at the wound wrought by his own hand.) “Not everywhere is so grey! Come, Russandol; I shall show thee why we name it so.”

Read the whole story on AO3

#i finished it!! #really hope i used the archaic language correctly i've never done that before #coirë #maedhros #fingon #silmarillion fanfiction #silmfic #silmarillion fic #tolkien fanfiction #tolkien fic #tolkien fanart #silm art #silmarillion fanart #oneshot #fanfiction illustration

[searchingforserendipity25]

Thy Own Being Only| by searchingforserendipity.

Art: For All Seasons | by the brilliant @caiti-creative-corner.

for: TRSB23 @tolkienrsb.

Rating: General. 15,715 words.

Characters & Main Relationships: Aulë/Yavanna Kementári. Ulmo, Manwë, Melkor, Nienna.

Warnings: Grief.

Over the aeons, Aulë crafts many beautiful things with and for and because of Yavanna. Most of them are very vast and complex - great Lamps, deep valleys, the occasional continent. Some of them, however, the Lady of the Gifts carries with herself always.

#yavanna #yavanna kementari #silmarillion #aule #yavanna/aulë #nienna #tolkien fanfiction #tolkien fanart #tolkien #trsb23 #trsb2023 #tolkien art #silmarillion art

[fantasies-fairytales-n-fics]

For @redeemer46 and her Traversing Tolkien Tales

Thranduil, Legolas and Haldir

#fantasy fanfic #fantasy art #ai art #traversing tolkien tales #ai thranduil #ai haldir #ai legolas #king thranduil #the elvenking #haldir #haldir of lorien #legolas greenleaf #lee pace #craig parker #orlando bloom #thranduil fanfiction #legolas fanfiction #haldir fanfiction #fantasies #fairytales #thranduil

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Snow Day

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to @maglor-my-beloved for having submitted that beautiful drawing (please share it!!!) for me to get out of my writer's block.

It's my joy and honour to share the result of my toiling with you! <3

Characters: Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel

Words: 1550

Warnings: It's pretty cold, there's a sword, a bit of sadness, use of the M-slur for Melkor 😂

“Morgoth be cursed,” Erestor muttered, looking out of the window with boundless annoyance that made his face look drawn and pale. “It’s snowing.”

“It’s actually not,” Glorfindel contradicted, strolling into the study with a sunny grin. “It has just stopped. We could steal a few shields and slide down a hillside? Make the best out of it?”

At that uncautious suggestion, no matter how enthusiastically it was presented, Elrond lifted his head sharply from the letter he’d been perusing, hitherto having desperately tried to shut out the ongoing discussion between his friends.

He now realised that this had been a grievous mistake!

Neither one took well to being cooped up inside—the reasons for their mounting cabin fever might have been opposed, but the nerve-wracking effect of their continuous arguing was unfortunately much the same.

“I have too much work as it is,” Elrond finally interrupted the ensuing squabbling patiently. “I’d much rather you don’t add to it by wilfully engaging in dangerously reckless behaviour.”

Erestor nodded smugly, but his eyes returned to the icy desert outside longingly again and again as if he was earnestly considering Glorfindel’s proposal.

Shrugging, Glorfindel meanwhile leaned against the wall, crossing his long legs and smirking deviously at the much put-upon Lord of Imladris. “If you’re so opposed to a bit of innocent fun,” he drawled seductively, “I guess you’ll have to set aside your boring paperwork and come with us. Just to make sure that we won’t do anything you deem too foolhardy.”

“Can’t you just build snowpeople?” Elrond asked tersely, exasperation colouring his fatigue-laden voice. “That should keep you out of trouble.”

As he returned his attention to his correspondence, he missed the exchange of meaningful glances between the other two who’d instantly recognised the minute crack in Elrond’s usually so impervious mask of calm efficiency.

"Glorfindel is right," Erestor declared slowly.

Elrond’s head snapped up again in wordless shock—clearly, the bad weather had driven them stark raving mad if Erestor had taken to agreeing with Glorfindel.

“You should rest a little. Why don’t you come with us? Not everyone has had the chance of being parented by a hundred different people,” Erestor continued with that corrupting mix of petulant aggression and wide-eyed vulnerability that made him so wickedly convincing. “You could show us how it’s done.”

Before Glorfindel could snigger that there was but little mystery to the matter, Erestor had firmly kicked him in the shin to keep him from destroying their joint efforts by innocent bluster and ill-advised encouragement.

“There were hardly a hundred,” Elrond muttered, his resolve and interest in the dry reports about taxes and weather changes already waning inexorably. “And I would think that the two of you can figure it out on your own.”

Two mouths, pouty and rosy, opened to protest, and he lifted his hands to placate the storm of remonstrances and well-meant sermons before it could arise.

“As you wish. Please make sure that you’re wearing appropriate apparel—the wind can be quite chilling—and meet me by the Eastern gate. I’ve got to drop these off and retrieve my winter cloak and mittens before I even think of venturing outside.”

Watching them scamper away hastily before he could change his mind, Elrond wrenched his thoughts away from the duties he’d have to postpone until his return and, with an indulgent shake of his head, swiftly made his way to his own chambers.

When he finally arrived at the appointed meeting point, swaddled in several layers of insulating fabric, Glorfindel and Erestor were already waiting for him—they were also already viciously fighting about something the late-comer could not yet discern.

Elrond sighed and joined the fray fearlessly.

“I can’t believe you’d double-cross me like that!” Glorfindel muttered, visibly vexed, while eyeing the short sword in the other’s hand. “When I propose we take a detour to the armoury, I am an imprudent fool, but when you simply sneak in and out, you’re a genius!”

“Your words, not mine,” Erestor laughed and danced away when his colleague lunged forward to pluck the weapon from his grasp in a petulant attempt at checking the other’s glaring aura of petty triumph.

“Let’s go!” Elrond, growing uncomfortably hot as he helplessly watched them chase one another through the deserted hallway, exclaimed.

He sincerely hoped that the bracing cold and the creative endeavour would distract them sufficiently from their spat so their little outing would not end in the kind of grievous injury he had so adamantly wanted to prevent from the beginning.

In sullen, determined silence, they trudged up the snow-packed path leading away from the sheltered, cloistered paradise of Imladris until they reached a small hill, covered in fluffy, white powder and cruelly exposed to the presently dormant violence of the weather.

“So,” Elrond said quietly. “As Erestor has previously remarked upon so brazenly, this snowstorm might well be one of Morgoth’s curses which linger still within the darkness plaguing our world. When I was…young, we’d craft effigies to dismay and mock him so we’d be less afraid...”

Struck by the incandescent intensity of his friends’ regard, he fell silent for a moment, kneading the strap of his bag nervously for fear of having already said too much.

“I like this,” Glorfindel finally cheered after having given the idea some thought. “Let’s create cool guardians for Imladris. How about that?”

Thus, it was decided. Snow was progressively heaped, rolled, and pressed into the approximate shape of three lumpy Elven bodies under much grunting and giggling until they were satisfied with the raw building blocks they had assembled.

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair!” Glorfindel thundered as he watched Elrond reach into his trusty satchel and extricate a handful of sturdy chiselling tools from an old leather cover. “Erestor! Come look at that—our Lord Elrond, who claims to be blessedly free of the curse of ambition, has dragged scalpels and tiny hammers along.”

“Didn’t expect anything less,” Erestor mumbled, entirely enthralled by his own project—he envisioned a fierce warrior, armed and armoured, who’d stand stolidly atop the knoll and keep a cold, watchful eye on the landscape,  ever-vigilant to the enemy’s scouts growing bolder and roaming closer to Imladris with every passing day.

Miffed by the others’ clear attempt at cheating, Glorfindel rushed down the hill and into a nearby grove of tall trees to countervail his evident disadvantage by gathering supplies and aids that were readily available by nature’s grace.

As he emerged once more and clawed his way back to his snowy canvas, though, both Elrond and Erestor had nearly finished their snow elves.

Uttering a snorting noise of dismay, Glorfindel stuck the two perfectly beautiful branches he’d found into the slender, shapely body of his creation and took a step back to let his appreciative gaze drink in the unexpected success of his opus.

Indeed, he was inordinately pleased with the ferocious, aggressive look of his crookedly grinning gelid sentinel, and so he beamed with pride as he turned back to his friends.

Of course, Elrond’s snow statue had expertly chiselled features and wore a thick, blue scarf that blew like a banner of a House long-fallen in the icy wind, and Erestor’s piece was bestowed with a sharp blade, glittering in the sallow sun, but it simply wasn’t in Glorfindel’s nature to become truly enraged with envy.

“Foresight, caution, and good health shall keep Imladris safe,” Elrond said ponderously, patting the sharp, high cheek of his snow sage, who was unnecessarily well-dressed to withstand the freezing temperatures. He truly had been made in the image of his creator, one had to admit, as Elrond now cleaned his thick gloves of the last remnants of sticky, melting snow before dutifully preparing and packing his tools.

Diligent to a fault, he certainly yearned to return to his study and letters before the weather could turn on them and make them regret ever having considered so foolish a plan as to leave the safety of Imladris in these meteorological conditions.

Scoffing, Erestor nodded at his own fearsome, sword-wielding oeuvre with grim satisfaction. “Sharp blades and unwavering vigilance shall serve us better, methinks,” he hummed gently as he further imbued it with stern tenacity.

Both turned to Glorfindel who grinned sheepishly. “I’m with Erestor on this,” he admitted. “Thus, I…made him. Erestor will keep us safe.”

For a seemingly endless moment, Elrond—who’d undeniably gone somewhat overboard in the execution of his planned distraction—merely blinked as the wind was picking up again and now buffeted them with glacial needles.

“I can agree with that,” he finally said, mellowing. “Let’s leave our brave companions to guard the Realm—each in their own way and as best they see fit—and return to our lit fireplaces and comfortable chairs.”

It looked as if the other two would demur, so he quickly swore that there would be no more work of any kind upon their return.

“Let’s merely sit together, have a cup of warm tea, and talk about our childhood traditions as if they were not lost forevermore yet!”

With a last solemn, laughably superstitious salute to the resplendent results of carefree fun and amicable competition, they threw themselves against the near-solid wall of snow-laden squalls and fought their way back to Imladris.

There are no Masterlists nor tags this time.

It's just a random art/fic exchange as we're gearing up for TRSB!

Lots of love!

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #Snow day #Art not yet posted #Elrond #Erestor #Glorfindel #Snow elves #blades #sadness #traditions #maglor-my-beloved

[conversacomsmaug]

Oi pessoal, aqui estou. Começou minhas férias e apesar das faculs, eu prometi atualizar e aqui estou. Eu estou passando ainda uma fase ruim e um pouco com medo de ter alguns gatilhos na minha própria história, mas eu vou superar isso. E escrever é uma das coisas que me ajuda, Thrandiel atualmente é uma dessas coisas q me ajuda a voltar aos eixos. Só não tava pronta para escrever sobre alguém se apaixonando ou superando certas coisas ... Mas, aqui estou. E vou ajudar a Tauriel e ela vai me ajudar. E Thranduil do nosso lado. É isso aí. Estou viajando com meus tios para a serra do ES, aqui está sendo inspirador. Obrigada por quem me acompanha, vocês são D+.

#fanfic #hobbit #thranduil #fanfiction #tauriel #tolkien #lotr #wattpad #ao3 #the elvenking #elves #eldar #Thrandiel #ai art #ai #Tauriel/Thranduil