Gorlim the Unhappy (gorlim) wrote in tolkienart,
Gorlim the Unhappy
gorlim
tolkienart

Who is Tolkien's most unappreciated character?

Why, I am, of course!

Er... that is to say... Gorlim is. So here, I give you.... ART!! To my knowledge, these are the only pieces of fan art in existence featuring Gorlim, son of Angrim, called the Unhappy -- except for that one painting by Ted Nasmith which features three figures reputed to be Gorlim, Beren, and Barahir, though there's no way to tell which is which.

Title: N/A
Rating: G
Medium: Oil pastel
Notes: Experimental character studies, pardon the bad photo quality.
Link: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v78/truefeather/Pastels.jpg

Title: Traitor Betrayed
Rating: G
Medium: Pencil
Notes: Gorlim stands before the window of his old house, now long in ruins, his sword drawn as he turns to face the ambush of Sauron's soldiers after glimpsing what he believes to be the face of his beloved wife for the first time since riding to war five long years ago.
Link: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v78/truefeather/Gorlim-1.jpg

Title: Dorthonion Immortal
Rating: G
Medium: Pencil
Notes: Gorlim and Eilinel stand in an embrace, framed by a view of Sauron's armies marching on the Northern slopes of Dorthonion, a Balrog perched over the Mound of the Slain, and to the right, a view of the highlands over Ard Galen, the two views seperated by Gorlim's sword. One can only hope beyond hope that the found each other in the end once more. The poem is "Sonnet" by Hillaire Belloc (words are reproduced below, as they are difficult to read in the picture).
Link: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v78/truefeather/immeasurabledorthonion.jpg

We will not whisper, we have found the place
Of silence and the endless halls of sleep.
Of that which breathes alone throughout the deep
The end and the beginning; and the face
Between the level brows of whose blind eyes
Lie plenary contentment, full surcease
Of violence, and the passionless long peace
Wherein we lose our human lullabies.

Look up and tell the immeasurable height
Between the vault of the world and your dear head;
That's death, my little sister, and the night
Which was our Mother beckons us to bed,
Where large oblivion in her house is laid
For us tired children, now our games are played.
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