Tragedy Enjoyers When Their Favourite Characters Are Brutally Killed In A Completely Avoidable Scenario

Westron names that are Anglicized instead of translated 

Bilba - Bilbo 

Bophîn = Boffin

Bunga = Bungo

Tûk = Took

Westron names that are translated instead of Anglicized 

Banazîr/Ban= Samwise/Sam

Galbasi = Gamgee

Hamanullas = Lobelia

Hlothran = Cotton

Kalimac/Kali = Mariadoc/Merry

Labingi = Baggins

Maura = Frodo

Ranugad = Hamfast

Razanur/Razar = Peregrin/Pippin 

Zilbirâpha = Butterburr

A combination of the two

Brandagamba = Brandybuck 

[ID: a digital painting of Finduilas, princess of Nargothrond. She is facing towards the viewer, standing by a floor to ceiling window through which golden light is flowing into the room. Finduilas's head is tilted down and to her left, as she looks away from the window at something below her eye level in the interior of the room. Her left hand rests below her jaw and her right at her waist; her expression is pensive. She is dressed in a floor-length, light yellow dress with light blue embroidery at the neckline, bottom hem, and ends of the short sleeves. The dress is belted about her waist with a thin, tassled ribbon of the same light blue. She also wears a purple shawl draped over her right shoulder and arm, a golden or bronze bracelet on her left wrist, and white gemstone earrings. Her golden hair is pulled back from her face but left loose and curling down past her waist. End ID.]

Finduilas for moynal ⭐

this looks like love

~ This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.

‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely. ~

***

Túrin woke to find himself alone. Beleg’s bed was made up, so were the others'. He got up and washed. He was close enough to Menegroth that there was no real danger if he did not run off alone. He drank sweet water and ate lingonberries and cheese and bread.

Beleg had not woken him early, so he would not study to hunt that day. Beleg had let him rest. Perhaps Beleg had gone to hunt without him. Túrin stepped out onto the small porch of the cabin in his nightshirt.

There Beleg sat, making arrows.

‘You’re awake,’ he said. Túrin nodded. He sat cross legged beside Beleg and stared at the sun. It was midday.

‘I slept a long time.’

‘You were tired.’

Túrin nodded again. He bounced his fingers on the bruises on his knees. He liked how his fingers felt as they bounced off his skin. Beleg did not ask him why he did it or call him strange. Túrin swept his hands up and down, turning his hands in the air, so that his fingers came down first facing his knees and then turned from them, again and again.

‘Do I go back to Menegroth today?’ he asked. He reached for mint leaves from the ground and pressed three into his mouth.

‘No,’ Beleg said. Túrin turned his face up to the sun.

‘When then?’

‘In two days.’

‘And then you will go far afield?’ Túrin said. ‘For all the winter?’ He let his hands fly again, bouncing off his knees. He chewed the mint leaves and swallowed their taste.

‘Not for all the winter, I don’t think,’ Beleg answered. ‘I would miss you.’

Túrin stopped bouncing his hands to pick mint leaves for Beleg. He handed them to him. Beleg took them and nodded his thanks. He ate them and kept making arrows.

‘Do you want to speak of which you dreamt?’ Beleg asked.

‘No,’ Túrin said. He waved his hand, letting it spin at his wrist. ‘I think everyone was dead. I was dead.’

Beleg patted Túrin’s knee gently. Túrin brushed the spot when Beleg had pulled his hair back. He didn’t like the lingering touch that seemed to tingle on his skin, even from those he loved. He tried to do it when Beleg wasn’t looking. He had brushed off his father’s touches and kisses. Sometimes he let his mother’s stay, but it agitated him to have a part of his skin even a little wet or a bit different from the rest. He didn’t know why being touched left an impression of the touch on his skin, but it did. He had asked Beleg if he could feel a touch after it was gone. Beleg had said yes, but he hadn’t been bothered by it.

Túrin looked at the yard. It was green and damp. Mud was spreading though. It must have rained a little when he slept. It was quiet, and it smelt like cold rain. Soon the leaves would change colour.

‘Are we alone?’ Túrin asked.

‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘The others left last night. They are needed farther North.’

‘Where you will go.’

‘Yes, where I will go.’

Túrin shoved his bare feet down onto the ground. It was soft enough that they sunk a bit into it. It was cold. The grass tickled his skin. Túrin stood and took a large step into the yard. His foot sunk down again, the ground giving a bit beneath him. He walked the yard around like that, in long strides, watching his feet leave impressions in the wet earth, feeling the cold of it.

He liked that the grass was green and not brown. He liked that the ground was wet and not frozen. He ran back to the porch and stood on it with his muddy feet.

‘Wash up,’ Beleg said. ‘You can’t go inside like that.’

‘I know.’ Túrin stood on his tiptoes to touch the very top of the porch where the two slanted roofs met each other.

Beleg patted his leg. ‘Wash. Then put some clothes on. Thingol and Melian will not be pleased if I bring you home ill.’

Túrin wrinkled his nose but threw some cold water from the rain barrel onto his feet and wiped them clean with a rag. He went back inside and came out dressed and with shoes on.

‘Don’t you look darling,’ Beleg said. Túrin had put this underneath ‘strange things that Elves say to each other and sometimes to you but that don’t need a response’ so he tramped off without a response to pee.

He came back to Beleg after and stared at his muddy footprints on the porch where he had been sitting. Beleg gave him a pointed look. Túrin wiped them up with the same rag and hung it over the side of the rain barrel to dry. He sat down again and took the knife that Beleg gave him.

This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.

‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely.

‘This looks like love,’ he said, for maybe Beleg knew the answer.

Beleg studied him. Beleg’s face was ancient but barely lined. It was his eyes that made it ancient. They were like the night sky and all the stars in it – maybe just as old, or maybe younger, but not enough that it would it matter to Túrin when he thought of the ages of the world.

‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘Care is love.’

Túrin said no more.

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

I did a thing during quarantine!!!

(Ok, I did a lot of things, but this one was helpful and I’m proud of it so I’m sharing!)

I made a list of foods!

Did I base it on suggestions for parents of picky eaters? Yes. Am I a little salty about how everything that helps is designed for toddlers? Yes. Salty enough that I won’t use it? No.

But let me explain.

My Gentleman Caller has been staying with me during quarantine and he really likes cooking. I don’t. So he does the cooking and I do the dishes, because fairness. Problem is I’m finicky about foods and he’s trying to find stuff that is 1) healthy 2) tasty and 3) that I’ll eat! (He is a lovely and majestic man and I’m so grateful for him omg!)

But what this means is that he kept asking me about a whole bunch of recipes in cookbooks and magazines and internet and was getting frustrated by my continual responses of “eh? I think so? Maybe?”

I would go on to explain any hesitation I had about stuff and how I have a hard time seeing a list of ingredients and knowing what they would taste like together. And how I was basically just glancing at the ingredient list for any NO foods.

Then we realized a list would be helpful for him! (Because we are both apparently stupid sometimes it took us a few conversations to get there!)

So I looked up lists of foods and picky eating and found this!

It is for parents of toddlers and small children, but it had a good idea! I liked the Always/Sometimes/Never divisions, but it wasn’t quite right. So I fired up the Excel and started my own list!

I decided my list worked best in 5 categories: Always, Often, Caution, Never, and Unknown. Always is rather self explanatory. Often is my shorthand for I’ll likely eat it unless I’m just not feeling it that day, but it’s probably fine and go ahead and plan on yes.

Caution is for when I only like things on certain foods or prepared in certain ways. On my spreadsheet, for example, one got olives in this category. I only like them on pizza. Also bananas. I only like bananas in banana shape. Not in smoothie form. So if it’s got one of these, basically just check with me first or prepare for substitutions.

Never is for, well, never. I will not eat that. Sometimes it’s a taste, sometimes a texture, sometimes I just plain don’t like it! Point is, not gonna eat it. Ever.

There are a few things in this category I listed in bold (not on the screen caps) because I have an actual horrendous involuntary reaction to them! (It’s stuff like applesauce, grits, oatmeal, etc. anything that can be classified as “gruel” triggers my gag reflex and I end up nearly vomiting with tears and snot running down my face. It’s ugly. Double hard no!)

Then there’s the Unknown category. I joke that I’ve got the flavor palette of a 5 year old, but really there’s just a lot of stuff I haven’t tried. Or haven’t tried often enough to come to a conclusion about them yet. Hence, unknown! I put this in to explain the thought of he can try this stuff, but I literally have no idea what my reaction to it will be. I could love it, could hate it, could love it in one thing but hate it in another! I don’t know yet!

I also in the second screenshot separated them into categories for ease of finding and shopping. Makes it easier for people who aren’t me to find what they’re looking for.

But the interesting thing for me is that I made the list first and separated into categories later. So I found out things about myself I didn’t know! Like, I just don’t seem to like any fruits and berries consistently! None whatsoever! Never knew that! Also makes sense why I’m not keen on pie!

But I’m very proud of my list and my self-reflections and wanted to share! Hopefully it helps others who are particular about their food to explain their preferences to others!

Celebrimbor: So here are my designs for the gates.

Narvi: Darling, I asked for a riddle, not a dumb pun; you can’t put the password directly on the doors, that’s not safe!

Much later

Gandalf: *Spends hours trying to find the password to the Gates of Moria*

Celebrimbor: *Watching from the Halls of Mandos* VINDICATION!!!

look: our neanderthal ancestors took care of the sick and disabled so if ur post-apocalyptic scenario is an excuse for eugenics, u are a bad person and literally have less compassion than a caveman

people are cowards about fantasy settings and not including some things in em. I get the aversion to not wanting too modern of tech, however dwarves would invent and fucking love metal folding chairs

Why did Galadriel make her star glass?

Did she have a vision of it’s future need?

Or is it like how those who have faced starvation compulsively hoard food?

“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.” Says someone who lived through the darkening of Valinor, when light far stronger than the sun and moon went out, and took all the safety and sanity with it.

Three ages of the world later she is moved to capture the echo of the Silmaril that sails the void in a glass vial. Despite all the horror that her family capturing light in artifacts has historically caused.

Just in case.

And then faced with the days growing darker, she faces the same choice her uncle did with his creations: hold on to paranoia, and keep it close. Or give it away, that it might go where it can do the most good.

And she chooses to let it go.

OR

Exile to middle earth wasn’t a problem, until her daughter needed to go to Valinor to heal. Now, she needs a way to get to Valinor when the Valar have not forgiven her.

Because she WILL see her daughter again.

She only knows of one thing that has gotten a ship to Valinor when it was fenced from the Noldor- A Silmaril, carried by Earendil. And so she sets about capturing the light of Earendil, that one day she might trade it for entrance and keep her pride.

But, turns out, the Valar sent a different test.

Nerdanel: What are these?!

Fëanor: Dwarf costumes.

Nerdanel: Why? Have you lost your mind?!

Fëanor: How many dwarves in Snow-White?

Nerdanel: Seven.

Fëanor: How many sons do we have?

Nerdanel: ...seven.

Fëanor: Et voilà.