e geil mi dhúath thiliol

1. Melkor is this super selfish tyrant king who'll never allow anyone else claim to be a king or ruler of any sort without being given Melkor's expressed permission, at the very very least amongst his own subjects. And-

2. People depict first age Mairon in a crown anyway.

I think we can conclude from those two things that Melkor is completely aware of why Mairon wears a crown, has no objections or complaints as to his reasoning or his choice to display it, is not threatened by it, does not see this as attempted usurpation and takes no actions to prevent Mairon from doing so.

Your honour, I would like to suggest that they are married, that Mairon's crown signifies his status as Melkor's spouse, and thus Mairon in a crown of any sort is pro Angbang propaganda.

Elwing, age 13 and rebellious, spent the subsequent summer constructing very secret, increasingly elaborate fantasies about how she would mend all the hurts of the Eldar by marrying the last, un-Marred scion of her family’s sworn enemies, and then naturally together they would lead all the people of Beleriand in a great war upon the Enemy, whom she would in the end cast down herself like if Lúthien had been armed with a Silmaril from the start…

She doesn’t really mean to share the story; what she means is, I could consider forgiveness—I did once before, and He’s not a real Fëanorian anyway, not a Fëanorian Fëanorian [this is true in the most notable ways but false in every other way, but Elwing doesn’t know that], and I would at least be willing to attend extended family events when he’s there. I would like to speak with him, even, which is a grace it took her a long time to afford the wives of Maedhros, Caranthir, and Curufin.

Eärendil squawks much like one of her birds, “You what?!”, and immediately commences prodding the full story out of her and teasing her mercilessly about it, as childhood friends and old married couples are wont to do. He laughs so hard that he nearly disrupts the newly hung linens more than the seagulls are trying to do.

It was the night before the wedding of Moriwen and Maeglin, which meant somewhere, the happy couple was marrying under the stars; and here at Moriwen's parents' house, Satarissë Finrodiel had arrived by midnight ferry, taken one look at Idril's furrowed brow, and declared an emergency Golden Horde Wine Retreat, effective immediately. The definition of Finrod & Amarië's Golden Horde always being flexible, and in this case including anyone awake, not busy cooking, and ready to lend a sympathetic and/or distracting ear, Elwing soon found herself seated in a loose circle on the sand of a starlit cove with Eärendil, Eärendil's parents (Tuor had insisted on coming, but was now asleep on Idril's lap), Celebrimbor and his wife, Huan (asleep with his great shaggy head on Tuor's midriff), and four daughters of Finrod.

Elwing had briefly considered begging to be declared essential in the kitchen. But she was here to support Eärendil, who was doing his utmost to support both his parents and his little sister, which was difficult at the simplest of weddings. Truly, Idril, Tuor, Maeglin, and Moriwen (and Eärendil and Turugon and Aredhel and...) had all sorted themselves out well in advance. But that didn't mean that now at the last minute, Idril wasn't sometimes visibly biting her tongue on a burst-out, "But are you sure?", which of course was driving Moriwen to distraction, which meant...

Which meant Elwing was now on this beach, three (five?) glasses of wine in, squeezing her eyes shut to catch her laughing breath for a moment, as the bottle she’d just spun landed on Celebrimbor Curufinion. Still chortling from the shrieking sisterly debate of Nolorwë, Veryawendë, and Satarissë as to which of them exactly had stolen a lover from which of the other (Manatar loudly stayed out of it; insisting she’d already been married at the time), Elwing said, “The worst thing I ever did to you was elaborately dream of marrying you, the summer I was 13!”

Celebrimbor looked utterly bewildered. Beside him, Yantalmandë his wife clutched his arm and cried, “I told you! I am always telling you, you are en-smittening!” Beside Elwing, Eärendil just bent over with the force of his laughter.

“You can’t stop there!” cried Veryawendë. She gave Celebrimbor a cousinly ribbing, that is, an elbow to the ribs, and leaned across the circle to pass Elwing the open wine bottle. “How elaborate were the fantasies? What featured?”

Elwing blushed furiously, and so, at least, did Celebrimbor.

“Arms,” she said evasively, earning a triumphant “Ha!” from Yantalmandë, and more laughter from both their spouses. “Defeating Morgoth. The usual, you know!”

To be honest, the unceasing tumult is wearing Elwing thin, she who is happiest spending days alone in her tower with only birds for company. But Elrond is here at last, and she is determined to be Present and Caring Mother, after so long absent. Especially as Eärendil is still obliged to spend most nights aloft (how terrible it would seem to the people of Middle Earth, if Gil-Estel disappeared from the sky as soon as the last of their “High Elves” sailed away!).

And Elrond enjoyed parties, or at least, was tolerantly amused by the number of them thrown in his honor. So here was Elwing, a plate of canapés in hand and only reassuring herself a little that she could be out the nearest window and winging away any time she chose. Chatting with her son and his (apparently) second-favorite cousin about the best bird droppings for fertilizer. Celebrimbor was holding his own surprisingly well, for how little he gardened.

Amarië stepped in, wineglass in hand. “I’ve always favored sparrows for my poppies!” she said cheerfully. “Sorry to interrupt. Celebrimbor, if I can steal you for a moment, we need you to be non-threateningly Fëanorian at someone. Walk with me?”

Celebrimbor shot a look of exaggerated alarm at Elrond, colored with I told you so—reference to some Second Age Lindon event, no doubt. Elrond snorted.

Then Celebrimbor apologized to his conversation partners, and offered Amarië his arm. “At your will, my lady,”—the only sensible response to the House of Finrod with an Agenda, really, unless one had a Silmaril to claim as higher responsibility.

Elwing’s gaze drifted to the window again. It had a sea-view and dawn was nearing; she might see Eärendil coming in…

She realized that Elrond had gone quiet beside her as well, with a rabbit-tension which she’d noticed before. Elwing didn’t think it was because of her, or, not entirely. Her son had spent two Ages in Middle Earth balancing ancient and newly developing feuds, and now he was attending party after party of a thousand new ones, or old ones brought back to life with the injection of new blood. (Really, he had brought Maglor Fëanorian West himself.) He was like a soldier who hasn’t realized there was no longer danger of orcs attacking in the night.

…But just in case it was because of Elwing specifically, because she wasn’t doing this Caring and Present Mother thing right, she said nothing. She shoved an entire shrimp canapé in her mouth, a move she would’ve scolded one of her gulls for. She stood next to her son as they both idly watched Amarië lead Celebrimbor on some sort of calculated meander through the jewel-lit ballroom.

“Your mom wanted to marry him when we were teenagers, you know,” an extremely familiar voice jolted Elwing from behind.

She choked on her shrimp. She prioritized driving her elbow sharply into her beloved husband’s ribs, rewarded with a heavy Oof, over mastering her own breath.

She cast a frantic glance around for overhearers as she whirled to face Eärendil. “Don’t— Shut up!” she hissed. “Shut up! I was barely thirteen! You mooned over Uindiel for three years!”

She unrepentantly shoved her husband aside—for he was surely unrepentant, unable to catch his breath back from her jab because he was also laughing—and begged Elrond directly. “Ignore him. He speaks nonsense. He often does. You will remember soon enough.”

Then she bit her tongue, because that was perhaps not the thing to say when you were trying not to dwell on the thousands of years you had left your son, or been left by your parents, on the other side of the Sundering Sea, with only rare, seabird-borne letters and the Light of a Star to bridge the void.

@ainurweek Day Four: Arien

Big fan of photos where the sun is framed in between a set of horns or antlers. I also wanted to do a bit of a play of a balrog since Arien is explicitly one of the few fire spirits not corrupted into a balrog by Melkor. A proto balrog? What they were before? What they should be?

like mother, like daughter | TRSB 2025 collaboration with @lendmyboyfriendahand!

A Very Short Introduction

This is not an overview of all Tolkien stage adaptations. It's meant to give you an idea of what's out there.

Check out my tag #tsa performance calendar for upcoming performances.

Updated as of 26 August 2025. Please find stage adaptations of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion under the cut.

Hey Hop. It's been almost three years since I first posted this, and lots of adaptations have come and gone. Throughout the years, I've been updating info & links, adding new adaptations, and reformatting this post continuously.

Despite contributions elsewhere, this is what I consider my magnum opus - even though it does not include all stage adaptations I'm aware of. Once upon a time, I wanted to make a comprehensive post, but I've given up on the idea because there are other, less narrowly focused directories that will eventually (hopefully) include everything - there's a limit to what a Tumblr post is capable of.

I'd very much like this post to keep circulating. Knowledge of stage adaptations of Tolkien's works is still not very widespread, and resources are extremely limited and hard to find - you have to do some proper digging. By adding a cut, I'm hoping to avoid this post losing relevance as it's being reblogged, not reflecting the updates I make to it.

Fingon, the instant he turns away:

Fingon, the instant he turns away:

Wait, there's more!

Maglor, signs his new Sindarin name:

Fingon, the instant he turns away:

First is Tengwar (called the Feanorian alphabet, but everyone used it), second one is Cirth (Daeron's Runes, but yes, used most famously by the Dwarves)

Also, poor Maglor cannot escape. Even in Rumil's sarati, Fingon can mess with him:

i'm looking over the tolkien character masterlist we made years ago and...we were so right besties @arofili @fingons-rad-harp @jaz-the-bard @stormxpadme

whoever wrote "extremely extenuating circumstances such as sentient swords and purses"..... this is a completely serious line but it's striking me right in the funny bone. be so for real right now mr tolkien, in which species category would you prefer we put William the troll's unnamed talking purse?

"chris tolkien's editorial assumptions count as Unknown" correct

[canonicity rankings as exemplified by a single character] and it's gil-galad and his horde of fathers. absolutely lmfao. based

anyway! if anyone is unfamiliar with this resource, it's a gem! you can sort by race/species, time, etc and all the tolkien gateway links are also available.