“Thus spake Mandos in prophecy, when the Gods sat in judgement in Valinor, and the rumour of his words was whispered among all the Elves of the West. When the world is old and the Powers grow weary, then Morgoth, seeing that the guard sleepeth, shall come back through the Door of Night out of the Timeless Void; and he shall destroy the Sun and Moon. But Eärendel shall descend upon him as a white and searing flame and drive him from the airs. Then shall the Last Battle be gathered on the fields of Valinor. In that day Tulkas shall strive with Morgoth, and on his right hand shall be Fionwë, and on his left Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, coming from the halls of Mandos; and the black sword of Túrin shall deal unto Morgoth his death and final end; and so shall the children of Húrin and all Men be avenged.
Thereafter shall Earth be broken and re-made, and the Silmarils shall be recovered out of Air and Earth and Sea; for Eärendel shall descend and surrender that flame which he hath had in keeping. Then Fëanor shall take the Three Jewels and bear them to Yavanna Palúrien; and she will break them and with their fire rekindle the Two Trees, and a great light shall come forth. And the Mountains of Valinor shall be levelled, so that the Light shall go out over all the world. In that light the Gods will grow young again, and the Elves awake and all their dead arise, and the purpose of Ilúvatar be fulfilled concerning them. But of Men in that day the prophecy of Mandos doth not speak, and no Man it names, save Túrin only, and to him a place is given among the sons of the Valar.”
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The History of Middle-earth V: The Lost Road and Other Writings, “Quenta Silmarillion”
“The appearance of Túrin at the end remains profoundly mysterious…. it is said that Túrin is named among ‘the sons of the Gods’ rather than among the Gods, and also that he comes ‘from the halls of Mandos’ to the final battle; about which I can say no more than that Túrin Turambar, though a mortal Man, did not go, as do the race of Men, to a fate beyond the world.”
—Christopher Tolkien, The History of Middle-earth IV: The Shaping of Middle-earth, “The Quenta”
“I like to call the Fëanturi, the blind gods. Not because they cannot see but they are bound by principles. Bound by what has been (death), what could be (dreams), and what is being done (grief).”-Ardie
Námo the elder dwells in Mandos, which is westward in Valinor. He is the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, and the summoner of the spirits of the slain. He forgets nothing; and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar. HeistheDoomsmanoftheValar; but he pronounces his dooms and his Judgements only at the bidding of Manwë.
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Of the Valar”
[ID: A 3x3 moodboard for Namo Mandos. Here’s what the images (which are mainly in orange and black) show:
Someone wearing a robe made from light fabric with a geometrical pattern walking, the fabric fluttering about their legs
White text reading “lethal justice” on black background
A veiled woman with a halo-like circle behind her head and an eye motif on her forehead
A snapping thread
A black man wearing a stylized black crown, a black net veil and a leather coat. There’s text on this image reading “Namo Mandos”
A person cloaked in black holing the chin of another person, from whose face a swirl of dust is rising in the direction of the black-dressed person.
A mosaic ceiling
Skulls
A black woman styled as Justitia, holding a scale with her eyes tied
I wrote a short thing about an elf’s experience with death, so here you go.
—–
He flees the ruins of his body, and darkness encompasses him. It tears at him, pulling him this way and that, as though tumbled beneath the waves of a great dark sea.
At first it is all he can do to be himself, unchoosing, to find some stillness in the tumult.
Slowly though, slowly, he begins to sense patterns in the chaos, senses attuning themselves to the world as it is without the body to translate it. The darkness is not all one thing, the currents that toss him about created by the backwash of some titanic struggle. Some are currents of warmth, seeming to lift him to an unseen surface, others bitterly cold and dragging him down into ever more lightless depths. When the next current of warmth finds him he leans into it, follows it, seeking for something to cling to.
Icy draughts steal him away from the warmth, but now he struggles, reaching out, finding the warmth again and grasping at it. Cold still drags at him but cannot surround him, the chill slowly slipping away as warmth embraces him, lifting him up, and at last he sees light again. He floats now on the surface of the great sea, the stars above him and warmth cradling him, waves calming into gentle swells. The darkness around him is soft, more like feathers than water, sheltering and comforting as they glide West beneath the moonless sky.
The stars pass overhead, and perhaps time passes as well. There are arms now, reaching down to him, lifting him up as a father cradles his child, tucking him like a hatchling beneath a great dark wing. He knows safety now, certainty. He sleeps.
‘Gorgumoth I am called, the hound of Mandos.’ He says as he sits back on his legs, wrapping his skinny tail around his front paws.
'Are these the Halls of Mandos?’
'This is nepantla, the in-between, neither here nor there.’
Celegorm falls at Doriath by Dior’s hand, but the journey does not end there.
A little something to celebrate Day of the Dead, inspired by a small discussion with @houndsofvalinor-art and their beautiful art response of Námo Mandos and his hound Gorgumoth.
This is fantastic and I’m so, so thankful for it! Your writing is gorgeous, and the imagery is beautifully dreamlike and haunting. I love the blend of Aztec mythology- thank you again for sharing in the notes. All of the characters are wonderfully-written, and I especially love the dogs. Thank you again for writing this!
“I like to call the Fëanturi, the blind gods. Not because they cannot see but they are bound by principles. Bound by what has been (death), what could be (dreams), and what is being done (grief).”-Ardie
Námo:For the five thousandth time, no, he’s not ready and he wouldn’t be happy if he did. I bet you were the kind of child who took your mother’s cakes out of the oven half-cooked because you were impatient. Anarië has the patience of a saint.
Celebrimbor: Can my boyfriend come back?
Námo:
No.
Beleg: Can my boyfriend come back?
Námo:Your boyfriend won’t effing leave, which is supposed to be metaphysically impossible.
Legolas:Can my boyfriend come here?
Námo:Mr. Greenleaf, I believe that is what we call a fait accompli…but Aulë is extremely enthusiastic, Yavanna is backing him up, and most of the others are favourable, so that’s a yes.
Sam:Can my boyfriend come back?
Námo:I’m afraid that’s not possible, Master Gamgee, but he’s been asking about you as well, so here’s a compromise: when you’re ready, you can come here.
My second artwork for @joyfullynervouscreator and I’s TRSB fic collab! If you want context you’re gonna have to go read the fic when it’s posted. I promise it’s good.
My second TRSB art. I’m a massive Dark Souls fan, so selfishly I wanted to create some kind of prompt with that dark and twisted feel. I’d be happy if anyone enjoys this dark AU art <3 I wanted it to be a bit abstract, so the viewer could create their own story with the small details.
(But if you want to read an actual story!) My lovely partner @secretlythranduil has written an amazing fic for this piece. It’s not as dark as the art may seem, so give it a peep!!
I’ve been really busy lately and haven’t had a lot of time for larger personal projects, so I’ve been playing around with some potential sticker designs in my free time.
