#bór

[dalliansss]

My comics commission from @cochart 🥰🥰🥰

Context: of peace and tits

#silmarillion #maedhros #maglor #finrod #bór #silm #my drabs #silm fanfic #commissioned artwork #finrod felagund #bór the faithful #makalaure #kanafinwe #nelyafinwe #maitimo #findarato #commissions #murder elf #murder bard #golden poster boy

[verecunda]

Is Maedhros/Bór a thing? Because I think it should be a thing.

#The Silmarillion #Maedhros #Bór

[symphonyofsilence]

You know whose story I really want to know? Like...I'd like to read a whole book about?

Bór & his sons. The Easterlings who allied with Morgoth & entered the service of Maedhros & Maglor but changed alliance & stayed faithful & died fighting in the Nirnaeth after they killed the traitors of the house of Ulfang & posthumously gained the title 'the faithful'.

What legends.

They must have known what consequences awaited them if they betrayed Melkor. What bravery.

Why is there no content about them in the fandom? Why are they so underrated?

They're so interesting.

I need to know their full story.

#tolkien #lotr #silmarillion #the silm #jrrt #house of bór #bor the faithful #borlad #borlach #borthand #maedhros #maglor #the Fëanorians #my two cents #the silmarillion #melkor #morgoth #easterlings

[dolnoslaskabiblioteczka]

W wiosenno-letnim numerze kwartalnika Przystanek Dolny Śląsk mamy dla Was ponad 160 stron ciekawych opowieści o Dolnym Śląsku, które możecie przeczytać w domowym zaciszu przy kawie lub lampce wina ściągając plik na komputer albo na komórce w podróży otwierając wersję on-line na Issuu ☕🍷💻📱🚂

📰 Przeczytaj: www.przystanekd.pl 📫 Zaprenumeruj: patronite.pl/przystanekd ❤️ Lubisz nas? Udostępnij znajomym!

🔸 Jak remontować, by nie niszczyć? 🔸 Domy wczasowe FWP w Karkonoszach (cz.3) 🔸 Pisarska Szklarska Poręba 🔸 Zabytkowa ptaszarnia już otwarta 🔸 Świebodzickie spółki zegarowe (cz.7) 🔸 Grób pierwszego cukrownika 🔸 Alpejska wioska na Dolnym Śląsku 🔸 Tajemniczymi duktami Gór Bystrzyckich 🔸 Odwiedzić nieznane, odkryć zapomniane 🔸 Nowy mural na dworcu Nadodrze 🔸 Wiadukty srebrnogórskie 🔸 Wszystkie drogi prowadzą na Sowę oraz 🔸 Dolnośląska Biblioteczka

#przystanekd #dolnośląska biblioteczka #historia #turystyka #krajoznawstwo #transport publiczny #międzygórze #grzędy #wołów #bielawa #srebrna góra #kowary #bystrzyca kłodzka #przesieka #szklarska poręba #góry sowie #zachełmie #czarny bór #sosnówka #góry bystrzyckie #świebodzice #wrocław

[albuum]

1. Маглор над трупами предателей.

Maglor over the corpses of traitors.

“but the sons of Ulfang went over suddenly to Morgoth and drove in upon the rear of the sons of Fëanor, and in the confusion that they wrought they came near to the standard of Maedhros. They reaped not the reward that Morgoth promised them, for Maglor slew Uldor the accursed, the leader in treason, and the sons of Bór slew Ulfast and Ulwarth ere they themselves were slain”. Tolkien "Silmarillion".

“сыновья же Ульфанга, перейдя внезапно на сторону Моргота, напали сзади на сыновей Феанора, и в замешательстве, ими же созданном, пробились они к самому стягу Маэдроса. Но не получили они награды, обещанной Морготом, ибо Маглор убил Ульдора Проклятого, а сыновья Бора убили Ульфаста и Ульварта, прежде чем погибли сами”. Толкиен “Сильмариллион”.

2. Собственно предатели: сыновья Ульфанга. Отдельного поста другим днем они не заслуживают )

- Пойми, они же прокляты. Прокляты богами. А Моргот сам один из богов. Мы послужим богам, если предадим их.

2. - they don't deserve a separate post - The traitors themselves: the sons of Ulfang.

- Understand, they are cursed. Cursed by the gods. And Morgoth is one of the gods. We will serve the gods if we betray them.

#maglor #noldor #feanorians #sons of feanor #tolkien #silmarillion #sons of Ulfang

[thelordofgifs]

sorry I'm so sorry but I'm going insane over Maedhros and Maglor again (—girl who never stopped being insane over Maedhros and Maglor). it's like. Maglor leaves Maedhros to hell because it's the right thing to do and he has to do his duty but then Fingon manages to swoop in (literally) to do what Maglor couldn't and save Maedhros. but Maedhros clearly loves and trusts and relies on Maglor anyway (their realms are very close, Maglor is the only brother he brings to the Mereth Aderthad, they go hunting with Finrod together). and then in the Dagor Bragollach Maglor fails Maedhros again by losing the Gap but he joins his forces with his brother's and they hold Himring together and ally with Bór. and then in the Nirnaeth Maglor saves Maedhros' life at last by killing Uldor before he can reach Maedhros but. you have to wonder. was Maedhros grateful? bc I doubt it. Maglor's redemption came too late because Maglor's redemption always comes too late. and then Maglor follows Maedhros all through their dreadful decline even though he clearly has enough of a conscience still remaining to care for Elrond and Elros; and at the very end he's right and he knows that he's right that they should surrender but he goes after the Silmarils with Maedhros anyway and then. it doesn't matter. because the Silmarils burn them, and Maedhros jumps, and they are separated after everything, and for all time.

#silmarillion #meta #my meta #maedhros #maglor #I am. fine about this

[sharoo]

Still not over the fact Mae Borowski, protag of Night in the Woods, and her surname literally being "of the woods".

Borowski is derived from bór, a Polish word for a coniferous forest. She is one with the woods and it only took me like 6 years to notice this translation fact.

#nitw #night in the woods #mae nitw #translation #polish

[swanmaids]

“Shepherds’ delight,” Maedhros remarked, watching the Sun set over the plains from Himring’s ramparts. 

Finally alone with Fingon, Maedhros had been mostly quiet after spending all day speaking with various allies – debating, strategizing, reassuring. This was the first thing he’d said for several minutes, talking over the pleasant quiet of the birdsong above them and the sentries below, and Fingon could not make sense of it. 

“Hmm?” 

“‘Red sky at night; shepherds' delight.’ It is a saying - one that Bór claims originates with his folk; many of them raise sheep. When the sky glows red at dusk, the following day will be fair.” 

“I see. So you’re longing for a shepherd’s life? I must say it’s a bit late in the day to be considering such a drastic change in fortunes, but I do concede that sheep are probably easier to wrangle than some of our relatives.” 

Maedhros elbowed him in the ribs. “And Maglor says I’m too literal,” he laughed. “But Fingon, don’t you see it? It seems to me that just as when the first Sun rose to greet your father’s coming into Middle Earth, this is another sign. We will have our victory – and our vengeance too.”

Fingon swallowed. His lover had never been one to put great stock in portents; and he thought it more likely that Maedhros was convinced in the success of his venture not because of the colour of the sky the night the Union had finalised their battle plans, but because he needed to be. The idea that they might fail was too terrible to be borne. 

But he was not unmoved by Maedhros’ speech – quite the opposite. Fingon burned too for vengeance against their shared enemy. If victory required putting faith in meteorological phenomena that he understood nothing of, then he would do it. 

“I think you are right, beloved – when the day comes, we will win it. I will return west swiftly, and make my people ready until then.” Then he smiled. “And once we have won, you can trade your sword for a shepherd’s crook. You can tend to all the sheep you want –”

Laughing, Maedhros shut him up with a kiss.

#my post #my fic #february ficlet challenge #russingon

[aotearoa20]

The Union of Maedhros after a late meeting

Bór: The stars are beautiful tonight

Azaghâl: They sure are

Fingon: You know what else is beautiful?

All three in unison: Lord Maedhros

#cue Maglor sighing dramatically in the background #incorrect silmarillion quotes #maedhros #fingon #bor the faithful #azaghal #silmarillion #tolkien #lord pretty ginger at it again

[pearlescentpearl]

Guuuuuuuys I think I figured out what happened to the Faithful Easterlings post-Nirnaeth! I mean, we do all wonder what happened to them after the fifth battle, right? ‘Cause Bór and his sons may be dead, but that doesn’t mean his entire House died there, nor that they didn’t still have women, children, elderly, and non-combatants back at Himring.

So! There’s this little bit in the Grey Annals, section 174, where’s it says, quote; “Of them [the people of Bór], it is said, came the most ancient of the Men that dwelt in the north of Eriador in the Second Age and [? read in] after-days.” End quote. 

Now, the most ancient Men in the north of Eriador in the Third Age are the Lossoth who live by the icy Bay of Forochel. They descend from the Forodwaith (People of the North), of whom not much is known save that they’ve been there since the Elder Days. The definition of Elder Days here meaning since before the end of the First Age.

Friends, if you but consult the maps, you will see it is damn near a straight line from Himring, through the pass of Rerir, to the Bay of Forochel.

I am connecting dots here.

#silmarillion #having a fun tolkien lore deep dive day #I love thinking about the Easterlings #why is there so little lore on the Faithful

[theoppositeofprofound]

Assigning First Age humans favorite foods for reasons

Bëor/Balan: Holds a traveller’s fondness and fear towards the humble mushroom; he counts himself lucky that Nargothrond is so vigorous in fungiculture.

Haleth: Though she’s eaten orc (before the elves got all hysterical about it) she doesn’t like it. As an older woman she gets a taste for dried hawthorn and very piquant rowan wine.

Marach: Grains are a new indulgence, he was never much of a farmer while on the march. In Estolad he finds a love of barley cakes.

Adanel: Raises ducks for gizzards

Imlach: Turnips in mountain goat butter. Like elves, he’s not “lactose tolerant” but cold climate girls make do.

Andreth: Innovated heavily in the field of Jellies, combining old advice from her teachers and elf lore to finalize the perfect crabapple jam.

Bregor: Lake trout with bitter orange.

Beril: Trained truffle hounds and valued her prizes highly.

Emeldir: Roast pig, fattened and butchered in autumn. As the main coordinator, she takes pride in the finished product and lets herself have a bit of crackling when it’s done.

Barahir: Is impressively lactose tolerant and enjoys an early, soft cheese, baked till its gooey.

Beren: In the dark woods, birds without a brood that year would spit crop milk into his mouth. It isn’t the taste he misses but the sense someone was one his side. Also hot drinks—after years being hunted it’s nice to have the security to build a fire.

Húrin: Lamb with a a certain blend of spices, the recipe reportedly over the mountains by his ancestors. No one uses cumin like Hador’s people.

Huor: The elves of Gondolin kept snail—he’s never been able to recapture the crisp, woody taste of their eggs.

Morwen: Dove, roasted, maybe a little more raw than is advisable but she trusts her butchery.

Rian: Nectar from the woodbine that blooms late in spring

Ulfang: Fresh wild-strawberries; his sons would bring him handfuls of them when they were small.

Bór: He likes a fermented milk, somewhere between kumis and filmjölk, but he’ll also drink milk raw just to flex on Maedhros’ kin.

Aerin: Even before she was tasked with feeding great numbers in the shadow of famine, she had a fondness for the humble onion.

Tuor: Bumblebee honey, dug out of the ground right at the coming of winter, when the bees are dying and don’t need it anymore.

Túrin: A pine nut/bear fat/mandrake pemmican Beleg taught him. None of his friends handle the alkaloid content as well as he does. He likes raw potatoes too.

Nienor: Used to catch the snakes that came to prey on her mother’s birds and make them into soup. As Níniel she eats crabapples before they can be jellied.

Dior: Little minnows found in the cold streams of Doriath and around the island of his birth. Also, eel.

Brandir: Roast chestnuts—he uses his cane to crack them open to the delight of children.

Eärendil: Enjoys shark as a child, before Morgoth’s seeping rot builds up dangerously in local bioaccumulators. Likes fennel in Sirion and the sea buckthorn that grows near his lady’s tower across the waves.

Elros: Seafood is a steady source of protein for an establishing society. Once they have the stores to use their sheep for meat as well as wool though? He’s your king for mutton in almond milk.

#since my second age post has been going around #the silmarillion #edain

[dalliansss]

Bór grins so widely that his cheeks hurt. He is seated upon the customary seat reserved to a rider of annabon, and his great creature, the matriarch of her herd, follows each instinctive call he makes, each subtle tug on her reins, the ropes of which are made with the tough rope only Easterlings know how to craft. Behind him, also seated upon about four layers of carpet, are three elven-lords, two of them well on their way to being drunk (horrendously so), yet again. 

But Bór’s benefactor, the Lord of Himring, Maedhros, is currently shaking his head. His brother, Maglor, snatches the bottle of miruilin from Finrod Felagund’s fingers, and takes a big mouthful of the sour milk-wine, wincing as he he hands back the bottle to his golden blond cousin.

And then they resume singing.

It is a ditty, Bór understands, those raucous songs about lewd things. He speaks no Taliska, but his Lord Maedhros does, and Lord Maedhros explained that the ditty was about an adaneth’s tits that were famed for being so big and squishy they can drown both an adan or an elda lover. Bór understood tits very well -- why, two of his own four wives had very generous tits.

Maglor and Finrod were trying to outsing each other. Finrod had a lute and strums the lively tune, and Maglor’s incomparable voice sings the words, and then Finrod sings too and their voices meld and Bór’s grin stretches.

Beneath them all, his annabon raises her trunk, fumbling about for peanuts.

Lord Maedhros, who has taken custody of the peanut bag, grabs a handful of almonds and walnuts, and lets the probing trunk sniff them out and find them. Bór’s annabon, whose name in the Easterling tongue translates to Madam Peanut, eagerly vacuums all the nuts in Maedhros’s gold-and-mithril hand. 

The Lothlann tundra spreads before them in the short-lived but very vibrant colors of summer. Bór tugs on the ropes of Peanut’s reins, and she follows his cue and gently veers to the right -- they are aiming for a lake, very nice for baths at this time of the year. 

Maglor and Finrod are still singing about great squishy tits. Lord Maedhros shakes his head anew. Bór finally gives up grinning and laughs at the song.

And then someone yells. Bór turns -- Maglor has finally lost his balance and toppled off Peanut’s back. But she is swift, and she catches him with her trunk, and Maglor, piss-drunk, waves his arms as he is lifted high in the air.

“WEEEE!” The former Lord of the Gap yells. “Look, I’m flying! I’m flying!” “AI!!!!” Finrod, King of Nargothrond exclaims. “I want to fly too! Tis unfair! I want to fly too!”

And he makes to jump, but Lord Maedhros catches him by the scruff, yanking him back onto the safety of the carpets on Madam Peanut’s back. “You are not flying anywhere you great drunken idiot, you will stay right here. Terrible business, you two-- it is like I am babysitting you all over again! Ilúvatar in Eä!”

Bór laughs again. The lake will come into view soon, and he makes several calls toward Madam Peanut, and she deposits Lord Maglor safely back onto her back, beside his brother and cousin. Finrod scrambles and pins him down by laying over him.

“There!” The King of Nargothrond drunkenly declares. “Maglor’s not going anywhere again!” “Terrible,” Lord Maedhros says once more. “Terrible -- tomorrow let’s see you two handle that hangover. Eru! Such pests!”

Summers in Lothlann are beautiful, Bór thinks. The world is in full color, and he has silly elven lords on the annabon with him, and Madam Peanut delights in the company. A perfect day.

#drabs #silmarillion #maedhros #maglor #finrod #bór #bor the faithful #finrod felagund #nelyafinwe #makalaure #findarato #my writing #my fanfic

[wintereira]

Przygotowania do studniówki Mi idą pełną parą, komitet studniówkowy (including moi) robi bokami, a rodzice niezrzeszeni mają wszystko w dupie jak zawsze.

Jedna z mamusiek, Pani Artystka, miesiąc temu zaproponowała, że skoro ona się zna i umie, to zrobi ogromny napis STUDNIÓWKA 2024 i będzie ładnie, tudzież bezkosztowo, co nas niezmiernie ucieszyło, gdyż budżet na studniówkę z gumy nie jest, a kolejne wydatki jawią nam się niczym zgony Seana Beana w kolejnych produkcjach- niby spodziewane, ale nadal przerażające.

Noale.

Pani Artystce przypomniało się wczoraj, że ojeju, ojeju, zostało półtora tygodnia i może ona by ten napis zrobiła. I ona, rozumiecie, pyta nas, co to w ogóle ma być za napis.

Pan Bór jeden wie ile mnie kosztowało, żeby nie odpowiedzieć, że no kurwa OPOLE 1978.

[welcomingdisaster]

roots curled and rotten || 4.5k || genderswap, AU, angst || t || @maedhrosmaglorweek

Maglor sits unnaturally straight in the saddle, her posture ill-matching the skill she usually displays on horseback. Even at twenty paces Maedhril can tell apart the different colors staining her skin and her clothes. Orc blood, thick and so dark there is barely red left in it; brain matter, sludge soft as wet paper, dried unevenly onto her chainmail, a pinkish grey; dull Mannish hair caught between the plates of her armor, Mannish blood brown on her leather gloves; elf-blood, bright crimson and watery as ink, splattered over her face.

Maedhril runs down the steps of their hastily-repurposed fortress, moving with such urgency her feet barely brush the cracked stone. She draws short by her sister’s dapple gray stallion, reaching up for her. “Mirë,” she cries, “Mirë, Mirë.”

Maglor looks down at her. Unnatural spots of red dance on her pale cheeks, and her voice is a wisp of a thing, breaths rasping between words as though she cannot catch enough air for them.

“I killed him,” she says, “I killed him for you, Maitë.”

“Come down,” Maedhril says, “come down, song-bird, are you hurt?”

Maglor does not seem to hear her question. “Bór is dead,” she continues; there is a rehearsed air to her rasp, like she had thought of the words the whole ride, “and his sons also. But I killed him for you, Maitë. I took up my golden-sword and I cleaved off his head.”

“Mirë,” Maedhril begs, “Mirë, come down.” She reaches out and sets her hand very lightly on Maglor’s hip, tugging her towards herself, off her horse. Maglor heeds her, and falls awkwardly into her arms, stiff and wooden as a toy soldier.

Maedhril carries her inside, barely breathing. Forgets the sick bays and lays her out on her own bed.

Pale and still, her eyes shut and her dark hair haloed around her head, her sister looks like one of their mother’s sculptures. The open gashes on her cheeks and her hands, covered with sticky dust, gain some quality of chipped marble, though traces of dragon-breath on her cheeks and the dirt clinging to her eyelashes give her a musty, half-finished look. Broken. Fallen. Half formed. 

Maedhril cannot help but feel Nerdanel’s touch on her now; cannot help but feel their mother’s judgement.

What have you done, their mother asks, with a prize you had so dearly fought for?

She has no answers.

read more on ao3

#my fic #maedhros #maglor

[meadowlarkx]

Maemag and 19 for the kiss prompts!

19. ...for luck

The cavalry of the Union of Maedhros was a haphazard affair, to Maglor's eye. Cold steep Himring had few mounts, and the other riders had been cobbled together from the few remnants of the Gap's forces, alongside Caranthir's Elves and Bór's horsemen. Maglor had poured the past years into Maedhros' Union, and he had accomplished much. He had sung his most stirring songs and spoken his sweetest speeches to win his brother Bór's men as allies. He had coaxed his few friends that escaped burning in the Bragollach into facing the Enemy's fires again boldly and bravely. He had trained Elves and men and horses, month after month after month. He looked out upon them now, from the entrance to the command tent, and still found them wanting. Truth be told, Maglor was nervous, though he did not show it on his face. The pride he felt beholding the bristling array of banners and riders was dampened by the knowledge, too-intimate, of fracture lines in the ranks and the taste of choking ash.

He would hold fast on the morrow. He had vowed in his heart that he always would, for Maedhros.

Turning inwards, he let the tent's flap close behind him as it slipped from his shoulder. Maedhros stood at the hastily-erected table, beside the pallet they would share that night. The summer sun carried rich color down through the tent's cloth and arrayed it upon his hair and skin.

For the first time since the fateful moment he rode out to meet Morgoth's embassy, Maedhros had taken to wearing his thick red braid twined intricately in many strands, and today he had set into it a glimmer of silver wire that set off the vermillion. He bore himself proudly and seemed even taller for it. He had begun to speak in private moments of what they would do afterwards—when the Enemy was gone. 

Even in stillness, looking over the maps laid out on the table, he was a blaze of energy: a taut harpstring or a bolt of lightning. Maglor's spirit was stirred, as ever, seeing him. It sought him out—his answering spirit.

Maedhros raised his glance from the parchment and found Maglor’s. He should have looked worn: a scar stood out near one eye, and in the past few months he had all but ceased sleeping. Instead, lit by hope, he was more beautiful than Maglor had ever known him.

No song or tale of heroism encompassed his brother's courage. Maedhros had not wished Maglor to try his hand at crafting one himself. The protagonists of Tirion's theater had been cut out of paper, but Maedhros had remade himself from deepest darkness, from the tangled skein of the world, and created this strategist, this soldier. Despite his forebodings, Maglor felt a rush of confidence. They would win the day tomorrow.

"Káno, come here." Maedhros gestured with the stump of his right wrist. Maglor flew to him like a falcon to a falconer's glove.

"The cavalry are ready; Bór's men have been—"

He was cut off: Maedhros wound his gauntleted left hand into his hair and kissed the breath from him. Maglor made a needy sound as the metal tugged at his curls and could not help it. Heat flooded his body despite the exhaustion of the march and scouts and surveys. He felt the seam of his trousers chafe the place between his legs and wished Maedhros would touch him there. Belatedly his own arms wound about strong shoulders, petting and holding. But by then Maedhros soon released him. Maglor stood stunned and dizzied. Maedhros grinned at him.

"For luck," he said.

Maglor laughed and barely recognized the sound, so light it was, like his old laugh. Maedhros had not drawn him near in weeks, and in the years before that, rarely with such open passion.

I am your luck, then? 

There was an irony in the sentiment, but for once, Maglor was content to leave that stone unturned. 

"To the day that dawns, glorious!" he said smiling, as though Maedhros had raised a glass in a toast instead of kissing him senseless. With the way Maedhros was looking at him, he hoped he would be tempted into more of the same.

"To us," Maedhros answered, lowly, as though he had not meant Maglor to hear.

#hello hello... #maedhros #maglor #maemags #maemag #maedhros x maglor #etc. #silmarillion fic #silmarillion #my fic #kiss meme #jouissants #messy but i hope you like this!!!!! #i thought of doing something fluffier but once the thought of nirnaeth wormed into my brain there was no escaping #i think maglor is often a bit deemphasized or shunted aside in my mental narrative of maedhros' mindset leading up to the nirnaeth etc #and i wanted to take a stab at writing him in because... we know he was living rent free in maedhros brain and vice versa ulmo told us

[grey-gazania-fic]

The sons of Bór were Borlad, Borlach, and Borthand; and they followed Maedhros and Maglor, and cheated the hope of Morgoth, and were faithful.

Featuring Antonio Te Maioha as Bor, Benjamin Mitchell as Borlad, Julian Arahanga as Borlach, and James Rolleston as Borthand.

A belated Day 1 fill (family) for @tolkiengenweek

#tolkiengenweek #the silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien edit #silmarillion edit #silm edit #bor #borlad #borlach #borthand #first age easterlings #house of bor