to the voices of the sea

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this here be my blog — you can call me Bat (or Moss) I use she/her pronouns !!

I do many a thing, but I mostly reblog art on here and yap about random things pertaining to lord of the rings/the silmarillion (and occasionally other fandoms). I also post updates for my fics, blurbs, and snippets as I write!

my main ao3 is here and my side ao3 is here (for…smut mostly, but also so i can write for different fandoms)

side account for random things @birdmade

He was reborn screaming.  

The agony was burning, I imagine. His skin aflame in the new dawn of life. He could pin down the sensation’s origin only that it was everywhere and in everything. His voice grew hoarse until I put my hand over his mouth and he was left silent, silent in this aching oblivion, eyes glued shut like a newborn calf, mouth open in a silent wail, waiting for the executioner to realize their mistake. 

This did not come, he was soon to realize. My tender hand raked down the sides of his face, his skin wet with sweat and the substance of remaking. The scars I had created caught on my palm. His eyes could not unglue themselves to peer into my face, his recreator, his master–he who had put back together the hungry soul of Nelyafinwë; and watched as the eldest Son of Fëanor pulled himself from the stone work and flopped unceremoniously onto the gravel. Wailing like an infant. 

I was disgusted, at first. Violence churned in my gut, and I felt, horrifically and powerfully, the consequences of my wrongdoings. But, in time he quieted and his teeth nipped at his lips until blood, crimson, flowed strong as a river. He opened his eyes to the darkness of this world, with only the forge’s flame to wet his vision; and the fleeting wildness, the cowardly actions, passed from him as he took me in. 

Long had I envisioned what I would say, but in the end I only took his cold hand in mine. “You were dearly missed, Nelyafinwë.” 

Strangely Constructed Souls — continue reading on AO3

wc: ~14k / maedhros/sauron & sauron/morgoth | mature

Sauron reconstructs Maedhros after going too far in his tortures–the creature he crafts is a terrible beauty, much to his liking. Told in a series of journal entries by Sauron’s hand.

written for @silmarillionepistolary day 3: journals <3

They say nothing, but the question hangs in the air. Éowyn answers it. “It is not the same in Rohan–divinity is a quiet thing. Prayers are not spoken so much as thought of. Our temples are dark, hidden, smelling of fire-wrought stone and amber. Not like here, where worship is freeing.” 

“It is different in the world of Men,” Arwen reaches out, wraps her palm around Éowyn’s wrist. She feels the blood pump there, as Éowyn feels the cool pad of her thumb. “Please,” Arwen says, something in there pleading. “Do not feel so ashamed here. Do not be quiet.” 

The breath leaves her then, and Éowyn turns to find Arwen already facing her. Her eyes flicker around Éowyn’s face, making sense of it in the dark. She looks at her as if she is the most precious thing in the temple, worthy of all prayer. They are close enough for their breath to mingle, for Arwen to see the sun freckles splattered across Éowyn’s cheek, for Éowyn to see the intensity in her eyes. 

Éowyn does not recognize her own leaning, until her forehead touches Arwen’s, and there she closes her eyes and sighs. Do not be quiet. Arwen had said. Not a command, and though touching on a plea, Éowyn had believed it to be more of a want, a desire, a prayer. 

Do not be quiet. 

Éowyn opens her mouth–

—

such breathless eyes — read on ao3 wc: 18k