Din: I Have Reconsidered Your Offer To Train Me To Use The Darksaber.

It's when Elrond shouted profanities in Quenya that Aragorn and the twins knew they were in deep shit.

—The Book of Very Lost Tales, pt. III

Me: why do my intestines hurt?

Me: *remembers that I drank a large milk tea and I'm lactose intolerant*

Me: oh

This time of year is always very nostalgic for me bc I used to be the Token Gentile at an office and every few months there'd be a Jewish holiday and my friend would be like "Hey, I need you to do Gentile things for us" and I'd be like hell yes dude. Gentile Things often meant I'd sign things in exchange for a few dollars on venmo but Pesach was a special time for me because it meant everyone gave me boxes of pasta, cereal, and other baked goods. The first time my friends were like "Hey for reasons we won't bother getting into we're going to give you all of our bread" I was like, it is a powerful responsibility but as an Ally I cannot refuse. Best time of the year, frankly

a librarian’s hoard

[ID: Digital illustration of a red dragon surrounded by their colorful hoard of books. A worn, blue scarf wraps around their neck, and a pair of gold glasses sits on their snout, held in place by a gold chain. The dragon’s lair resembles a huge, airy library with multiple levels of bookcases, tall mountains of books, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealing open sky. Decorative gold chains drape across the space. The dragon smiles as it holds a small book in its mouth, stretching to offer it to a distant human standing atop a book tower. End ID.]

Sauron’s First age elf ratings:

Feanor: husband stealer -5/10

Maedhros: squishy, screams loudly 7/10

Fingon: stole favourite prisoner 2/10

Celegorm/Curufin: commited grave sin of letting Lúthien leave to fuck shit up 0/10

Lúthien: FUCK NO. SCARY AS HELL -1000/10

Thingol: has scary wife 1/10

Finrod: tasty 9/10

Fingolfin: hurt husband -2/10

Turgon: unreasonably paranoid 3/10

Maeglin: whiny 6/10

Gil-Galad : who is he?? 1/10

Galadriel: too close to Melian -1/10

Elrond/Elros: mini Lúthien x2 -20/10

Eärendil: killed favourite dragon -30/10

honestly Anakin and Padmé’s secret marriage has so much comedy potential and TCW did not take advantage of that at all

I’m talking ridiculous sitcom hijinks

Anakin diving out of Padmé’s high rise Coruscanti apartment in his knickers to avoid getting caught

Padmé sneaking into the Temple to hang out with her husband, gets caught by some random Jedi, claims she’s there to meet... uh... Master Yoda??? Gets roped into having tea with him for the next 4 hours

They get sent on some diplomatic mission together... (with Ahsoka maybe?). it all goes tits up as per usual... they *have* to kiss to avoid getting caught. they get super into it. Ahsoka coughs loudly like “the bad guys have been gone for five minutes”

Someone asks Anakin why he’s visiting Padmé’s apartment. he claims he’s there to fix her washing machine. Ends up doing odd jobs for every single resident of 500 Republica to keep his cover

You're laughing. The royal necromancer just lost their job, and you're laughing

Hello! You have just been visited by the Crackship Fairy, as of now you will be given a crackship and you have to do good by them. Your crackship: Voronwë/Maglor

(This is much more of a gen take on their relationship than it is a shippy one, but my headcanon is that Voronwë is aro, so that’s just how it’s gonna be!)

~

It wasn’t often that Maglor came across another elf on these shores. They were rocky, dreary, generally abandoned; he liked to be alone, and this stretch of coastline was good for that. The few weary Secondborn who eked out a living here were suspicious enough to steer clear of him, and in return he did the same for them.

In ages past this land had been the border of Ossiriand, pressed up against the Blue Mountains. The mountains were still there, taller and grander than ever, but the seven rivers were sunk under the sea and the singing Laiquendi had long since fled for greener lands.

Mithlond was not too terribly far from these his favorite haunting grounds, but no matter how genial and polite Círdan was Maglor knew he was not welcome there: the Falathrim had not forgotten the ruin of Sirion. No, this was a place where he could wander alone, his mind free to catch forgotten melodies on the wind and his spirit unbound by any constraints of law or temptations of love.

And yet: here stood a simple dwelling, still clearly Noldorin in make, looking near as old as Maglor felt. He had wandered this beach a hundred times or more, and never before had he run across this little elfhome that appeared to have been here since Beleriand’s death throes had finally ceased and the lands he had bled and fought and suffered for settled under the vast ocean.

Entranced, Maglor approached the house, noting its angular shapes, the Tengwar over the door, shimmering with some faint enchantment. He shivered as his fëa brushed against it: he was not repulsed, per se, and yet he was permitted to pass through the barrier.

“Who goes there?” demanded a voice too soft for its tone.

Maglor turned around, tensing instinctively and letting his hand wrap around the hilt of his dagger. The speaker was an elf, as he had thought, though they conversed in Westron, and though his eyes did not shine with Treelight he had the stature and bearing of one of Maglor’s kin. Still, there was something a little off about him—the shell patterns on his clothing, perhaps, the shimmering blue of his blade, or the curve of his nose, which reminded Maglor strongly of a person he could not quite place. Perhaps he was of the Sindar as well as the Noldor.

“Peace,” he said slowly in Sindarin. “I mean you no harm. I was simply curious of your dwelling. I will leave you to your solitude.”

The ellon relaxed, though he did not sheath his sword. “Thank you,” he said in that soft voice. “But you have not answered my question. Who are you?” He glanced to Maglor’s cloak, tattered and torn and yet unmistakably blood-crimson. It was not the same one he had worn when he cast the Silmaril into the sea—that had long since unraveled into nothing but a painful memory—but thought Maglor no longer wore his father’s star openly, he would not abandon his Fëanárion pride, nor could he wash his hands of the blood upon them.

He could give the ellon a false name; he had done so to others in the past. But Maglor was so tired, of hiding, of running, of lying, and he did not have the heart to do so. He adjusted his grip on his dagger, knowing that if this ellon was part Sindar, there was every chance he would be met with long-sleeping anger reawoken.

And yet, still, he spoke his name.

“I am Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion,” he said, “though you may know me better as Maglor the singer; and you may wish my name had never had cause to be uttered here in the east. Certainly I wish that at times.”

“Oh.” For a moment the ellon’s resolve wavered, and then he grimaced, sighing, and sheathed his blade. “Well,” he began, switching to musical Quenya that made Maglor’s heart swell with a fondness long-forgotten, “by all I rights I ought to hate you, Fëanárion, and yet it is not often that I hear my father’s tongue spoken, especially not by a voice so lovely as yours.”

“Who was your father?” Makalaurë asked, dread coiling in his stomach. If this was another long-lost relative—

“Aranwë of Ondolindë,” said the nér, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “I am Voronwë the mariner, once-friend of Tuor Ulmondil and Eärendil Morningstar.”

Voronwë—yes, he had heard that name before. A nér of Gondolin, a mariner, a friend to Eärendil and Tuor...and kinsman to Círdan, if he remembered correctly. Makalaurë shuddered, bowing his head.

“You were at Sirion,” he murmured. It was not a question.

“Not precisely,” Voronwë said. “Elwing, wife of my dear friend’s son, and her children—they were there. But I dwelt alone in a home not unlike this one, some miles away from the city, as I ever have since Tuor and Itarillë departed for the West.”

Makalaurë’s heart skipped a beat. “I—regret what was done,” he began, but Voronwë waved a hand.

“Come in,” he invited, walking past the protective enchantment around the perimeter of his little home and beckoning Makalaurë in. “That was an age long ago, and we have both suffered enough for our choices. I would speak with you, over supper, of those you called your sons—unlike Eärendil, I did not have the pleasure of seeing them grow to adulthood, and I would hear from you what they are like.”

Makalaurë took a deep breath, then nodded. Voronwë’s offer of conversation, of a meal, of companionship was more than he deserved—but he spoke truly, that he was not the same nér who pillaged Sirion and kidnapped little children. And Makalaurë could never turn down an opportunity to sing the praises of his sons, no matter how little right he had to call them that.

So he walked inside, let Voronwë lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and let go of some small portion of his sorrow.

If you allow me to add to your Celebrimbor post... I think something that gets underestimate in just how effective Annatar was as a disguise is the fact that in any other occasion in which we see Sauron being his manipulative lying bastard self, he is up against people who EXPECT him to be just that. Clear example is in Numenor, where he has to start from the position of "dangerous captive enemy". But as Annatar, he starts as a blank slate, only thing going against him is a general mistrust in Demigods Walking Out Of The Woods. So I imagine him just starting by being nice, and observing, and then morphing his all mask in the perfect tool to manipulate Celebrimbor. This isn't a question of being stupid, it's a very experienced manipulator making himself into the perfect disguise (probably even including enough defects not to be TOO perfect). Incidentally, i also headcanon this as the reason why everybody else (Gil-Galad, galadriel...) mistrust him immediately: the disguise is tailor made to bypass all the defences of one specific person, cannot be one size fits all. So, yeah, our Feanorian boy is everything but stupid for not managing to see what is going on, and it's actually impressive he eventually manages to catch up with enough to decide to make the three in secret...

You are totally welcome to add anon!! 

ajfsjfd anon I just love this SO much, I don’t know where to start. Especially the part about Galadriel and Gil-Galad because I think you are so right. Annatar doesn’t need to fool them in the way he has to fool Celebrimbor. They can be suspicious, it won’t ruin his plan. 

And I completely agree. I love that you bring up Númenor because it is an excellent example of Mairon being Mairon since that is who he is supposed to be as you said. 

Anon everything you said here, I agree with so much. Especially the part about Annatar’s beginnings. He has to gain Celebrimbor’s trust so of course he’s going to be tailor-made to be someone who can be friends with Celebrimbor. I also don’t believe there is an exact date for this (please correct me if there is) but I can’t help but wonder if Celebrimbor had recently (recently for an elf) lost Narvi. I see them as being incredibly good friends and I think it would seriously hurt him, leaving him in a state of vulnerability. Annatar fills that void. Not completely, he’s not Narvi, but it’s something that soothes the rough edges and makes him feel less empty inside. 

But yes, Annatar is honestly a tribute to Mairon’s genius. It’s his greatest scheme. However, Celebrimbor, like you said, was still too smart for him in the end. Or smart enough. Either way, Annatar isn’t able to get what he wants and Celebrimbor has one small victory in the end. 

I just love the way you summarize all of this since I think it hits the nail on the head for all of this. Thank you so much for sharing!