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that-angry-noldo · 10 months

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When King Felagund arrives to Doriath, his face is grey with grief.

His figure is thin. Worn. Shuddered by occasional tremors, either from the wind and snow that do not cease, or from many scars his body wears. His rich, golden hair is now bland, thin, cut short and uneven; his face is tired and hollow as he steps, slowly, towards the enterance to the palace of Menegroth.

The guards dare not stop him. He spares them no glance.

Menegroth is quiet. Menegroth is a grave, with king Thingol sitting on his throne, hunched in grief, and queen Melian as cold as a marble statue. King Felagund does not stop once while making his way towards the hall where they grieve.

King Felagund has little sympathy for grieving people left. His own grief ate his heart out and settled in his gut. He makes his way to the throne room. His face gains purpose; he is a dead man dragging himself to his last mission.

There is a crowd behind him when he enters the cave. He stops before the throne. His chest rises and falls slowly, and his eyes burn with fell flame.

Thingol jerks, rises his head. His eyes focus on Felagund. He gasps.

"Finrod," he chokes, and almost rises from his throne.

Felagund does not move. His eyes are fixed on Thingol.

"Tell me, was it worth it?" he finally asks.

His voice is quiet. Dark. Menacing. Thingol wavers, his face changing into a fleeting confusion.

Felagund's hand is under his cloak. He takes it out.

Slowly.

It is clutched in a fist.

The crowd holds its breath. Felagund does not take his eyes off Thingol.

"Tell me," he repeats, louder, and his voice trembles. "Was it worth it?!"

His eyes are stained with tears. He trembles.

He cries.

"When I sent you my messages," he whispers, shaking, the sound echoing from the walls, "tell me: did you ever, in your stubborness, in your pride, in your selfishness - did you ever try to see the voice of reason within them? When you looked at your daughter, tell me: did you ever think of yourself, young and reckless, standing enchanted beneath the trees? When you looked at Beren, tell me: did you not see the hand that guarded you, a soul so worn and scarred and lonely?"

Thingol is shaking. Felagund lifts his head. His face is stained with tears. He rises his voice.

"Tell me!" his words echo from the walls, drum with grief, loss, power. "Tell me! When you named your price, have you ever - ever - regretted it? Have you ever wished to utter words of blessing instead, even if they were stained with sorrow? Have you ever," he screams in earnest now, and his hand trembles as he lifts it high, "looked back and thought the price was too high? Have you ever thought that you failed to pay it?"

Thingol sits pale. The halls shake with Felagund's cries.

"I had to watch them," he sobs, "I had to watch them die in darkness. I had to listen to my friend, the man I swore to protect, the last descendant of a man long gone - I had to listen as he was devoured, I had to trash and cry - and I did not even get a body!" he screams, tears springing from his eyes. "I had to look at your daughter, as she shook and wept, and I could not comfort her, because he was gone! Because he was gone, and she loved him, but he was gone! Tell me, when you dismissed my letters so angrily - tell me, have I not warned you against this exactly?! Your daughter, your Lúthien, your starlight - gone, gone as a withering ash under the touch of wind! In your desire to save her, have you ever thought you were signing her death sentence?! Tell me, Elu Thingol: was the price really worth it?!"

No, Thingol screams, no - but Felagund's hand is shaking, and the light coming from within it is all but blinding, and Finrod yells as he throws the Silmaril on the ground, and the walls shake with his grief.

"Here is thy prize, Elwë Singollo!" he screams, glowing and shaking and terrifying, speaking the tongue Elu long thought forgotten. "Here is thy prize, here is thy reward! Here is Tinúviel, weeping on her knees, for her lover is torn to shreds, his remains breathless in her hands! Here is Beren, young and weary, whose voice knew nothing but tenderness when he talked about his Nightingale! Here are my Faithful, dead for thy foolish whim, torn apart for the greed of a madman who thought himself a God! Here," he trembles, "am I, for I am dead, dead, dead, and dead I should have been, and dead will I become! Here is your prize, Elu Thingol! Die by it!"

And with those words, he flees, nothing but the light of now double-accursed stone remaining.

When someone picks it up and hands it to Thingol, the palace is pierced by a wail of horror and agony. The gem burns the Greycloak's hands.

#finrod #thingol #luthien #beren #silmarillion #silm fic #lay of leithian #2:22 SOMEONE STOP ME #YELLING #SO NORMAL ABOUT THIS

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thelordofgifs · 1 year

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In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #beren #luthien #maedhros #maglor #I think I know what happens next #but not what that leads to #I had to look at a map for this do you know how traumatic that was #anyway turns out bullet point fic is quite fun to write #maedhros and maglor have entered leithian and derailed it #maybe fingon will make an appearance too #who knows I'm tired #what even is this actually #cw blood

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actual-bill-potts · 11 months

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Quellë 2, F.A. 465

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to the Lord of Doriath

To Elu Thingol, Lord of Doriath:

Greetings from the King of Nargothrond! I hope that all remains well in Doriath, and that the recent skirmishes along your eastern border have not claimed many lives.

I write to you now on behalf of one whom I love. His name is Beren, son of that Barahir by whose valor my life was preserved not ten years past, in the Battle of Sudden Flame. I believe you have recently met him, the child of one who was dear to me and is now lost beyond recall.

He came to me recently in some distress. He says that he has given his heart to Lúthien your daughter, and she to him, and that they wish to be wed. He tells me also that you have forbidden it, unless he brings to you a Silmaril in his hand.

Allow me first to apologize for any breach of etiquette or other impoliteness which he may have displayed in your court. Recall that the lives of Men are short, leaving them often without much time to learn the finer points of our traditions; recall also that this Man has been long away from any kingdom, having fought valiantly against our common Enemy. Beren’s heart is good, and his thoughts are all of kindness and compassion; if he has offended you in such a way, it was assuredly unintentional, and I am prepared to take full responsibility.

Second, may I ask: is it true that you have set him this terrible bride-price? I trust Beren’s word implicitly, but he was doubtless in great distress during his initial audience with you, and it is possible he may have misunderstood your meaning. If so, please write to me at once, and I will clear his mind of any doubt.

If he understood you aright, I beg you to reconsider. I know it must have been shocking for a mortal to appear in your court, and I can well understand your anger at what you must have seen as great impertinence. But I also know you to be lordly and wise, and if you are quick to anger you are also generous with forgiveness. Please, rescind this decree. Beren’s Oath to you hangs heavy about his shoulders. I would not have him go alone to terrible Thangorodrim. If your answer is no, then let it be no; do not give him false hope.

But finally, my family in blood and law both, I ask this of you: is there aught I can do to change your mind? Beren has neither father nor mother living, but he is my own heart’s-son, and I am willing to stand for him in whatever manner you may require. If it is craft-work that you desire, I will give as a bride-price near anything you ask - indeed, if you wish it, I will give the Nauglamír itself to you, passed on in joy and friendship as it was given to me. I know how dear Lúthien is to your heart, and that you would not make such a decision lightly.

Beren is mortal, and his passing will doubtless bring her great grief, and all his wisdom and the flame of his spirit cannot compare to your bright daughter’s. Yet he is kind and brave, gentle and good - and if Lúthien has given her heart to him in truth, then there is grief awaiting her no matter what path she takes. Please allow her this brief joy, which will yet be bright for all its shortness.

I hope you will forgive my forwardness in writing about a matter which must be tender still, and about a subject so very dear to you; but I hope you will receive this letter in the spirit of friendship and love in which it is intended.

With all goodwill,

Finrod, King of Nargothrond, of the House of Olu

Quellë 2, F.A. 465

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Sister -

This letter will be brief, for I have already slaved away half the night over a letter to our grandfather’s brother, and I have many meetings with counsellors ere I can rest. But my heart is heavy and I am full of foreboding; and even when you are not here I find it a comfort to unburden my mind to you on the page. Most excellent Galadriel!

Young Beren arrived to Nargothrond today - I recall telling you his name, when he was born, but do not know if you have met him. He is the son of Barahir (whose name you certainly recall!) and he is in great distress. It seems that he has fallen in love with Lúthien, and she with him, and Elwë has set a brideprice of a Silmaril. I have written to him, asking him to reconsider his words (which must have been rash - surely he was not serious!).

Ah, another pin has dropped from the clock, and I must away. Time is rushing through my hands. Artanis, there is a shadow on my heart. Celegorm and Curufin will be deeply angered when they hear the news, and already they have more influence among the court than I would like. I hate to think so ill of them (they have been staunch allies for so long - and Celebrimbor is of an age with Finduilas, and makes her smile!), but there is already so much fear in Nargothrond: the Necromancer sent it rushing ahead of him when Tol Sirion fell. I do not wish anyone to think that Doriath is our enemy. We are not beset! We have friends all around. I must keep reminding myself.

Please write soon. News from Doriath would be a comfort!

Ingoldo

Quellë 8, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lord of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond

Finrod:

You ask for what you do not - cannot - understand. My daughter is more dear to me than any necklace, no matter how fine; to offer gems or gold is a grave insult. Even a Silmaril could not outshine her presence.

I was entirely serious in my proclamation to Beren. If my daughter wishes to marry a mortal, he must be great among Men, mighty enough to face Morgoth in the manner of the Queen Melian. I will not allow my daughter to be without protection.

If Beren is not strong enough for this task, let him remain in Nargothrond, an it please you! There you may lavish upon him all the fine works of your hands, if you prefer to waste them on a mortal - but in truth even the thought of him dwelling in the caves of my gift disgusts me. He has cut my daughter to the heart, and she grieves for what she cannot - must not! - have.

Consider the matter closed, and do not test my patience so again. This is a time of deep trial for our family.

Sincerely,

Elu Thingol

Quellë 12, F.A. 467

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Dear Galadriel,

You will doubtless laugh when you read this, but I confess I found myself a little worried when I received a letter from Elwë and no accompanying missive from you. I know you are terribly busy with Melian and her attendants, and that you travel often - doubtless you have not even seen my letter, and are doing unspeakable things with Celeborn somewhere in the wilds of Doriath. (Do NOT tell me about them!)

Well, at least now I have a spare moment to myself, and can sit down to tell you all that has happened. My other letter was quite vague, I know (most unlike me, you will say, I am sure! Where is Ingoldo, who seldom uses one word when ten or twelve would do! There, I have teased myself for you, and now you need not do it), and I shall remedy this fault now.

I assume that you were not in the court of Doriath the day Beren came (I am sure I would have heard from you if you had been!), so I will set down the events as I understand them. Perhaps this will settle my whirling mind. I cannot truly take in what has happened.

Barahir is slain, and his wife Emeldir gone; but his son Beren survived, and after making quite a name for himself as the sole defender of Dorthonion, after a time he made his way to Doriath. He will not tell me how (and to be honest I fear to guess!), but there in the woods he met our cousin, and his heart flew forth to meet hers, and hers to his.

They were happy for awhile; then Thingol discovered them and grew quite angry. He demanded what I mentioned in the last letter (a Silmaril for a brideprice: just in case the missive has been lost!) and cast Beren out of Doriath. Beren, not knowing where else to turn, came to Nargothrond - and I am so glad he did, for my heart bleeds to see a son of the People of Bëor so deeply hurt. He has been alone for so long, he says, and wished for death ere Lúthien came. I wish

I am getting off the track. It gladdens my heart to see Beren unharmed - I cannot tell you how it gladdens me! - but his arrival has brought with it tumult - and I am already stretched in so many directions! Beren is quite determined to assault Thangorodrim - alone, if he must - and I convinced him to wait and allow me to treat with Elwë, but I awake every morning afraid that he has gone in the night.

To tell the truth, if anyone could succeed, it will be Beren Barahir’s son. You have heard of his prowess against Morgoth; all have. And sometimes there is a look on his eyes - such a look! As if the hand of Vairë herself was on his shoulder, and the face of Námo turned away from him! There are fell deeds coming, and I can only hope they will be ours and not our Enemy’s.

But that is not the only trouble. Celegorm and Curufin have heard of Beren’s quest. I know not how, for I have spoken of it only with Beren himself, and that seldom - but nonetheless they know of it. Curufin claims that he was on his way to speak with me when he heard the Silmaril mentioned, and perforce must listen, and decided not to interrupt us. I do not wish to disbelieve him; but Sister, the air in Nargothrond has grown dark. (I wish you were here! You are so steadfast and so practical that the shadows in my mind flee before you. I do not know yet if this shadow is in my mind only.)

It has occurred to me - though reluctantly - that the Eldar who serve Curufin and Celegorm could overset Nargothrond quite easily. The greater part of our force is gone. We lost so many to the Sudden Flame I should not have sought our brothers so rashly, perhaps and more to Tol Sirion (now Tol-in-Gaurhoth! A terrible name!). Gladly I welcomed our cousins when they came with many in their vanguard; but they stand so often apart now, and more and more of my people come to me with complaints. The Fëanorian soldiers are rude, I am told; they often fail to show up for their assigned rotations; they mock us for taking shelter so far south (this last, I find a little ironic, at least).

But each time, I tell them I will speak to the Fëanorian lords, and each time I do, and Celegorm sighs and shakes his head and Curufin looks angry and tells me he will do his best, and I cannot fault them for it. It is hard to lead, particularly in such times. The fates of Maglor and Caranthir are not yet known, and little Celebrimbor was badly injured in the flight from Himlad and has only just recovered. No wonder they are short-tempered. Perhaps I am too unkind. (Doubtless you would tell me I am too kind, and ought to have thrown them out to land where they may; but you did not see them when they arrived!)

And there, I have lost the thread again. But I am too tired to cross much out and start over, so you will simply have to read an overabundance of words (and there, you do not need to mock me, I have done it twice already for you! Truly it is like having you here).

I was telling you that our cousins know of Beren’s quest. Curufin came to speak to me the other night. He was quite angry. He asked when I planned to tell him news that was of such import to his family; I replied that I was aware of how grievous the insult was, but that Thingol was greatly wroth, and that I am even now asking him to retract his words. Curufin merely snorted at that and walked away. (He has quite an inelegant snort for such a shapely nose, have you noticed? Of course you have.)

Well - that is all the news. Please write soon, and tell me all the news from Doriath! I hope you are well.

All my love,

Ingoldo

Quellë 12, F.A. 467

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to the Lord of Doriath

To Elu Thingol, Lord of Doriath:

Greetings! I hope you will forgive the shakiness of my hand; many matters have required my attention the past days. I hope you will also, as you have done many times before, forgive my presumption in writing back.

I wish to apologize for any insult taken when I offered a brideprice on Beren’s behalf. As you know, I love Lúthien well, and have known her for many years: please believe me when I say that her friendship and happiness is worth far more to me, as well, than any gem could ever be. I merely meant to advocate for a very dear friend.

Ever you have been lordly and gracious in your dealings with Men: with the people of Bëor, with the House of Hador, most of all to the Haladin. I ask you to be so once again. Please, if only for the sake of solidarity against our common Enemy, retract the demand you have made of Beren. Invoking a Silmaril will only enrage allies that we - that I - cannot afford to lose, whatever your opinion of them otherwise.

I know that you want your daughter to be well-protected. Could Beren not come to dwell in Doriath? Or, if you wish it, both could come to dwell here in Nargothrond until Beren’s brief span of life is finished. They would dwell in peace and happiness, and I would protect your daughter with my life.

Yours ever in friendship,

Finrod, King of Nargothrond, of the House of Olu

Quellë 20, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lord of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond

Finrod:

My daughter weeps now in her great house in a tree, where her love for a mortal has forced her to reside. She seeks always to escape this safe haven and chase after your Beren. She seeks to follow him into the arms of Death!

I cannot allow it. I have loved my daughter for longer than you have been alive. You know Lúthien’s bright spirit; until now I had not doubted your love for your cousin! Now I wonder that your loyalty towards those who murdered your mother’s kin looms larger in your mind than thoughts of my only daughter.

I say this with no little regret: I will not open any further missives from you until the mortal who has so grieved my daughter is gone from the world. Letters to your sister, of course, will be delivered. I will not deprive you of your kin as you seek to deprive me of mine.

Sincerely,

Elu Thingol

Quellë 24, F.A. 465

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Dear Galadriel,

I am afraid.

There, I have said it! And you may (I hope!) laugh at me later for it. Since I last wrote, Curufin no longer smiles at me at all, and Celegorm often brushes by me without a word. They can see the hand of the Weaver upon Beren, and in return I can see their Oath coiling about them. And my own Oath drives me, and not my word of honor only, but the love I bear for Beren, and all his forefathers! You know of whom I speak.

Artanis, little sister, I write this in haste, for I will soon go before my people and ask their aid in assaulting Angband itself. If I do not, Beren will go on his own; I could not keep from him Thingol’s refusal and since then he has been afire to be gone. If you were here perhaps I could find Despite the multitude of names I have been given, I find I have very little wisdom at need. I know it is unwise, and foolish, and that I am almost certainly leaving you, my dearest little sister (I can practically hear you telling me, “I am your only sister!” so let me assure you that you are dearest as well as only - and little) with another loss, and if you never forgive me it will be quite merited. But I cannot let him go alone. I cannot. Please understand

I did try (for I know you will ask). I tried to tell him that he should give her up, learn to live without her. But I saw in his eyes the same look I once saw in Aikanáro’s, of bright fervent hope, and I could not bear to see it turn to despair. Already we will lose Aikanáro to the Halls. Beren will not have even that peace in the end.

Sister, you know already, I can see your mind churning. Yes, Curufin and Celegorm will not allow this to stand, they outnumber us by far, yes, I know, even if I keep my life I will lose my kingdom

No, I cannot pretend. You know what I saw, long ago, here in the place I love. I will not be returning. I hope it does not hurt too much

Galadriel - Artanis - Nerwen - little sister, I love you. Think not of me with bitterness.

I must go. I love you.

Ingoldo

Quellë 26, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lady Galadriel of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond (unopened by him)

Ingoldo,

I am sorry I have not written in so long. Doubtless when I arrive home tomorrow there will be quite the stack of letters awaiting my attention! Celeborn and I have been traveling away from Menegroth, visiting the Hills of the Birds. We chanced upon a messenger just now and so I am seizing the chance to write a quick note to you, that you may not worry - for I am sure it will take me some time to respond to the many long missives you see fit to send to me in lieu of visiting.

I hope all is well in Nargothrond, and that our wretched cousins are not causing you any trouble, and that you have not worn out too many pens admonishing me to write back more quickly. This trip has been delightful in every respect (don’t make that face, brother) and has made me think perhaps we ought to chance a trip to your kingdom soon. The roads, I hear, are much better than they were now that things have settled a bit. And in truth I am restless, and I miss you.

There, now you cannot say I never show affection.

All my love,

Galadriel

#silm fic #epistolary #my writing #finrod #galadriel #beren #thingol #luthien #leithian #leithian brainrot strikes again

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velvet4510 · 1 month

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I just realized that since nobody slipped past the Girdle of Melian without her knowing, she had to be aware of Beren’s arrival. And she must’ve put two and two together upon noticing her daughter coming back from long “walks in the woods” every night, skipping and singing with a joy she’d never expressed before. So while Lúthien’s dad was outraged when he found out she’d been sneaking off with a Man for months, her mom not only knew the whole time, but was fine with it.

#melian #doriath #beren erchamion #luthien tinuviel #elu thingol #beren and luthien #beren x luthien #the silmarillion #first age #tolkien legendarium #lotr #jrr tolkien #lotr books #maiar #beren #luthien

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glorfindel-of-imladris · 10 days

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The Case of Erestor Half-elven

It’s been a hot minute since my last fandom meta, but this one I accidentally stumbled upon gathering notes for—would you believe it—a Glorfindel meta I intended to write. Man, I’m not even going to question the process, so let’s just get right on to it!

I like to joke around that there are only six instances when Erestor was mentioned in the entire legendarium, and by this I mean in The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and The Silmarillion (in which he does not even appear in the latter two).

But let’s talk about the early draft of him that is often referenced in fandom. If one extends the search, in The Return of Shadow, which details the writing process of what ultimately would be The Fellowship of the Ring, Erestor does get a mention, and is described as follows:

“There were three counsellors of Elrond’s own household: Erestor his kinsman (a man of the same half-elvish folk known as the children of Lúthien), and beside him two elflords of Rivendell.” -- In the House of Elrond, The Return of Shadow

By the final version of The Lord of the Rings, however, there is no more reference to Erestor as Half-elven. The final published version goes:

"Beside Glorfindel there were several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom Erestor was the chief..." -- The Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

By this final version of the story, the Half-elven trait no longer made sense for Erestor, and was replaced instead by him being Elrond's chief counsellor.

The nature of Half-elves

Tolkien acknowledges three unions of Elves and Men:

“There were three unions of the Eldar and the Edain: Lúthien and Beren; Idril and Tuor; Arwen and Aragorn. By the last the long-sundered branches of the Half-elven were reunited and their line was restored.” –Appendix A, Return of the King

One of the later themes Tolkien came up with surrounding the Half-elven line (which likely did not yet exist at the early stages of the story when he was first forming the fellowship) was how they united and reunited all the houses of the Eldar and the Edain. Beren was a descendant of the three houses of the Edain—the Houses of Bëor, Haleth, and Hador—while Lúthien was the daughter of a Sinda (Teleri) and a Maia. Idril was the daughter of a Ñoldo and a Vanya. Lúthien and Beren had Dior, who then had a daughter, Elwing, who wed Eärendil, the son of Idril and Tuor. Elwing and Eärendil then had Elros and Elrond, and the line was separated for many generations when Elros chose to be counted among Men, and Elrond among Elves. The two lines were reunited with the marriage of Aragorn and Arwen.

One important detail here is that before the “Choice of the Half-elves” that was later gifted to Eärendil, Elwing, and their children, the children born out of an Elf-Man union led lives akin to Men. Dior was able to rule Doriath at age 33, and Eärendil and Elwing married at 22. These, as we know, would have been too young for Elves, given:

“Children of Men might reach their full height while Eldar of the same age were still in the body like to mortals of no more than seven years. Not until their fiftieth year did the Eldar attain the stature and shape in which their lives would afterwards endure, and for some a hundred years would pass before they were full-grown.” -- Laws and Customs of the Eldar, Morgoth’s Ring

and

“The Eldar wedded for the most part in their youth and soon after their fiftieth year […] Those who would afterwards become wedded might choose one another early in youth, even as children (and indeed this happened often in days of peace); but unless they desired soon to be married and were of fitting age, the betrothal awaited the judgment of the parents of either party.” -- Laws and Customs of the Eldar, Morgoth’s Ring

After the events of the War of the Wrath, Eärendil, Elwing, and their sons Elrond and Elros, for their deeds in the war, were gifted with the choice to be counted either among the Eldar or the Edain. Eärendil, Elwing, and Elrond chose to be counted among Elves, and the choice continued on to Elrond’s children: Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir. Elros chose to be counted among Men, but in his case, the choice no longer extended to his descendants; every descendant of Elros was mortal.

The only thing I can conclude for why Elros’ line did not get to choose is because the Gift of Ilúvatar—that is, a death that transcends the world of Arda—trumps all other gifts. It is a blessing that followed the line of Elros—never mind that the latter Númenóreans did not all agree that this was a blessing at all.

A similar sentiment can be found in earlier versions of the Quenta Silmarillion, where Manwë said to Eärendil:

"Now all those who have the blood of mortal Men, in whatever part, great or small, are mortal, unless other doom be granted to them; but in this matter the power of doom is given to me." -- Quenta Silmarillion, The Lost Road and Other Writings

Although this was no longer included in the published Silmarillion, Christopher Tolkien still considered this in judging that Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien, would have been mortal, regardless of whether Lúthien was Elf or mortal when she begetted him.

Bonus extra: The fourth case of Elf-Man union

Despite the excerpt from Appendix A, there is another case of Elf-Man union that we know: Mithrellas and Imrazôr. This was alluded to in Return of the King when describing Prince Imrahil:

“...and with him went the Prince of Dol Amroth in his shining mail. For he and his knights still held themselves like lords in whom the race of Númenor ran true. Men that saw them whispered saying: ‘Belike the old tales speak well; there is Elvish blood in the veins of that folk, for the people of Nimrodel dwelt in that land once long ago.’” The Siege of Gondor, Return of the King

Although it seems as though this was only a rumor among Men, in the wider History of Middle-earth, Mithrellas is indeed mentioned to have been the spouse of Imrazôr who bore him children, of whom Galador was the ancestor of the princes of Dol Amroth. Of their line, it was said:

“But though Mithrellas was of the lesser silvan race (and not of the High Elves or the Grey) it was ever held that the house and kin of the Lords of Dol Amroth were noble by blood, as they were fair of face and mind.” The Heirs of Elendil, The Peoples of Middle-earth

The princes of Dol Amroth, of course, are mortal, and this does not contradict anything that has already been established. It is easy to imagine how, in a world where Elves and Men co-exist, there could be many other undocumented cases throughout the years. But what we do know is that no other Half-elf outside of Eärendil’s line would have led a long life by choosing the path of Elves. Therefore, if there were any other Half-elves in the Council of Elrond, aside from Elrond himself, they would have been not much older than Aragorn or Boromir.

Erestor’s age and role in Rivendell

We now return to Erestor. One of the clearest things in “The Council of Elrond” is the Elves’ reluctance to take the One Ring. Erestor is one of the most vocal about this, and this is one of my favorite themes to explore about his character in the Third Age.

Thematically, Erestor represents the fading of the Elves. He is most known for his quick suggestion to give the Ring to Tom Bombadil. This tells us:

The Elves do not want anything to do with the Ring anymore, a sentiment that would be especially potent for one who was there during the Last Alliance, in the Second Age when Sauron was at the peak of his power; and

The time of the Elves is ending, and there is little more they can give to Middle-earth.

Granted, Legolas remained a member of the Fellowship and thus represented the Elves, but by Elven standards, Legolas was young, and did not have the weariness that someone older would have. Erestor reads to me as someone older, even older in spirit in comparison to Glorfindel.

‘We know not for certain,’ answered Elrond sadly. ‘Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would then become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things will fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.’ ‘Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance,’ said Glorfindel, ‘if by it the power of Sauron may be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.’ ‘Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring,’ said Erestor, ‘and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the fire in which it was made? That is the path of despair. Of folly, I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.’ -- The Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

Erestor has a weariness to him that is even notable especially beside Glorfindel's vitality, whom we know was reborn in Aman as though young again, with "the primitive innocence and grace of the Eldar" (Peoples of Middle-earth). Glorfindel, however, is a special case even among all Elves in the Third Age, while Erestor arguably would have been more representative of them, at least of the ones that remained in Middle-earth.

Another case to be made about Erestor being one of the oldest in Rivendell is by virtue of his status as chief among Elrond’s counsellors. Considering the population of Elves in Rivendell, this is no small feat. As Gandalf told Frodo:

‘Here in Rivendell there live still some of [Sauron’s] chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power. [...] Indeed there is power in Rivendell to withstand the might of Mordor, for a while: and elsewhere other powers still dwell.’ -- Many Meetings, The Fellowship of the Ring

So what is he?

The last quote about the Elf-lords of Rivendell is one of the main reasons why I say Erestor is likely of the Ñoldorin Calaquendi. This makes the most sense given his position in Elrond’s household and given the sorts of Elves that dwell there. Fortunately, this still gives us many options: he could be an Elf from Gondolin, from Nargothrond, even among one of the many houses of the Fëanoryn.

Could he have been any other kind of Elf? Sure! I even particularly have a soft spot for Erestor being Sindarin, but again, given his position, I would guess one of the older lines. Doriath, in particular, would make sense. Given how Elves seem to be “ranked” by wisdom defined by their exposure to the Valar and the rest of the Ainur, Doriath, with Melian’s influence, would have been a special kind of place.

Could Erestor still be Half-elven? My easiest answer would be that it’s unlikely. But! Do not despair! With fiction, really anything is possible. Erestor could be an exceptional Half-elf and that is why he is chief counsellor. He could still be a kindred of Elrond’s by some obscure line, such as an unrecorded child in the line of Beren and Lúthien, or as a popular fanon, either Eluréd or Elurín survived. Or he could just be the son of some other Elf and Man. But whatever version it is, Erestor Half-elven would not have had the choice of the Half-elves, and so likely would not have been alive beyond the lifetime of a Númenórean.

#erestor #meta #the way i accidentally churn out meta sometimes is just #i don't know #wow this took up a sunday #but!#i'm glad to have been able to lay down my notes for it #i do love erestor a lot #and i love the challenge that comes with piecing together canon for all fandom character studies #erestor's obscurity and the challenge he gives me is probably why i like this guy a lot #that and because #he stood beside glorfindel at a wedding #LMAO #let's not pretend it started as anything more than that #90's things #tolkien #the lord of the rings #the silmarillion and other histories

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the-classy-villainess · 1 year

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Deceiver

Dark!Halbrand (Sauron) x Elf!reader

Summary: The daughter of Gil-galad is seduced.

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: Dub-con/coercion + non-con. Toxic relationship. Possessiveness. Allusions to abduction. Mind & dream manipulation/control. Smut – unprotected p in v. Loss of virginity for both parties (trying to stay true to elf!reader, so sex = marriage). Minors DNI! 18+

Requested by Anon: “reader is the daughter of Gil Galad and Sauron seduces her with his beautiful words, but then Galadriel discovers Halbrand’s true identity and he becomes all dark, claiming reader and taking her with him to Mordor. Smut.”

I feel like I need to stress this because I’ve never posted smut before (especially for such a dark character). Please mind the warnings. If any of the things listed trigger you, don’t read any further. Halbrand is manipulative in this fic, to the point where the ‘reader’ cannot wholly differentiate their own thoughts from his. The sex is not consensual.

When he’d come to your chambers that afternoon you’d felt something had changed. There was a strange urgency in him, an urgency that saw him mutter only a quick greeting before his lips were on yours.

You welcomed his kisses, melted into them even, but his hands had never wandered so freely, and you couldn’t help but wonder just what had gotten into him when his fingers slowly rucked up your skirts and stroked the bare skin of your thigh.

“Halbrand? We can’t,” you gasped between kisses. “Not without my father’s blessing.”

He groaned into your mouth and clutched you that much tighter.

Even if you weren’t the High King’s only heir, it was unlikely that your father would bless the union of a man and elleth; not when such a union would bring only death and despair. Halbrand knew this as well as you did – it had frustrated him like nothing else.

“I care little for his blessing,” he panted, drawing away at long last to press his forehead against yours. “Ours is a fate that cannot be denied by any man, elf, or dwarf. Why else would we have been brought together if not for the work of some higher power – if not for the will of Ilúvatar himself?”

It was a lovely notion, a romantic one, that you had been brought together for a purpose – some greater fate like Beren and Lúthien or Idril and Tuor. You doubted either of you would have so great a part to play in the history of Middle Earth as they had, but your love could be just as special, just as boundless, if you allowed it to be.

“Let me have you,” he continued. “All of you, and no one will ever be able to refute our love – not even your father.”

“You do not know what you are asking of me,” you insisted, drawing back to meet his eye. “There are traditions – the feast, the rings, the blessings…”

“All of which can be forgone—”

“Only in times of war.”

He took your hands into his own and gazed at you imploringly. “Do you love me?”

You sighed. It was a question he asked more frequently now, as if he didn’t truly believe it when you told him as much, and it made your heart ache to think he doubted your devotion. You would do anything to prove it to him.

“I do. Of course I do. How could I not?”

He smiled, trailing his knuckles gently down your cheek.

“Then you know as well as I do, that you will never love another. Nor will I, for that matter.”

You will never love another. Only him. This crafty mortal man who had swept into Eregion with naught but the bloodied rags on his back and a charming smile on his face. He’d looked more a vagrant than a King the first time you’d seen him, but his quick tongue and quicker mind hinted at a greater knowledge gathered through life and lore, and you’d been helpless to resist him.

His arms had been safe, his lips had been soft, and his words had given you hope, the likes of which you hadn’t felt for centuries.

Those very same arms encircled your waist and drew you back into his embrace. Your head lolled forward onto his shoulder, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple.

“I would give you the world if you asked it of me. I’d gather you the greatest of armies, build you the tallest of towers. I’d fashion you the finest of rings, one fit for a Queen…” he trailed off softly, teasingly, and it brought a small smile to your face. “If only you would have me.”

You looked up into his eyes and splayed your hands over his chest, desperate to feel the steady thump of the heart beneath. One day it would beat no more, and neither would your own, for you would not remain in Middle Earth without him. You didn’t want towers, or armies, or rings. You wanted him, for however long you could have him, be it days or decades. He was right.

I will never love another, you agreed. What did old traditions matter?

“All right.”

He exhaled a slow, shaky breath that you felt reverberate in your palms, and his eyes, those lovely, mischievous eyes sparkled beneath his raised brow.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” you laughed.

The word had barely left you lips before he caught you in a kiss, fiery and consuming and desperate in a way his kisses had never before been. You’d always known him to be strong, but his hold on you – the arm wound around your waist and the palm cupping the back of your neck – felt unbreakable in that moment. As if he’d never let you go.

“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he murmured against your lips. “What this will mean for us – together, you and I, King and Queen, we will rule Lindon and the Southlands. We will unite all of Middle Earth under one banner.”

Your brow furrowed at his words, at how out of place they sounded, as if they were part of another conversation altogether. Something is wrong, you thought.

Tell him you love him, more than anything.

“I love you, Halbrand. More than anything.”

He shot you a slow smile, and his hold on you tightened. “I know you do, dove. I know you do.”

----------

No, you thought dazedly, it had not happened that way.

You loved him, you wanted him; you still do, you always will, a voice whispered back. There was something alluring in that voice, something persuasive, that made you think that perhaps it was right.

Then your surroundings shifted; day faded to night, and your back pressed firmly into the mattress of your old bed as he hovered over you, bare from the waist up.

His lips were on your neck, his hand buried inside your underthings – buried inside you. A sudden pleasure flooded your mind, an unnatural desire that barely felt like your own. You begged him to touch you, remember? You begged. You trembled with each pump of his fingers until your back arched, your walls fluttered, and you fell apart in his hold.

He withdrew wordlessly, and through the haze of pleasure you heard the rattle of his belt buckle and the rustle of fabric. Would you accept this man into your body? He seemed to think so, but you couldn’t remember for the life of you how this played out, not when such heavy desire clouded your mind.

“Halbrand…” Wait, you wanted to tell him, but your lips were strangely unresponsive.

And then he was on you again; peeling your ruined underclothes down your legs. His hands, warm and gentle, rubbed soothing circles into your knees, and you held your breath as he pried them apart and settled on the mattress between them. Your thighs twitched, as if you’d wanted to close them – had I? – but he held them firmly, with only a quick squeeze of warning to dissuade you.

His thumbs caught the hem of your shift and dragged it up past your hips. He stared at your bared flesh with a look that promised ruin, a look that made you feel young and naïve for the first time in centuries. Heat rushed to your cheeks as he met your gaze and pressed a gentle kiss to your folds. Then his hands drifted higher, gliding along your waist and rucking your shift up beneath your breasts.

“Exquisite,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses along your navel, over your ribs, between your breasts.

He settled atop you, his length, hot and hard and leaking, bobbed against your navel as he hiked your thigh over his hip. It was the blunt press of him against your folds that cleared the haze from your mind, and uncertainty bloomed full force in its stead. Calm yourself. You want this. You’ve always wanted this.

Yes, you thought. All your life you’d waited for one to call your own. That you had gone so long without finding your match had raised concerns – often such things were a bad omen for one’s future prospects. And here you were, body bare and open to a man you father hadn’t even met yet.

You want this.

I want this.

You love him.

I love him, you agreed.

He caught your lips in an all-consuming kiss, a distracting kiss, and swiped his length along your folds, once, twice, before finally easing it inside you. Your body was tense, walls tight against his intrusion, and you whimpered into his mouth, palms pressing against his abdomen instinctively. The illusion of calm shattered.

“Shhh…” he soothed, prying your hands away and interlacing your fingers. “I have you.”

For reasons you couldn’t explain, his words didn’t bring the comfort they usually would, and you felt a tear spill over your cheek as he pinned your hands above your head and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“And now I’ll always have you,” he panted, breath hot and moist on your skin, as he worked you open with slow thrusts. The initial sting quickly faded and, as if sensing this, his thrusts grew faster, harder, hungrier.

You didn’t know how long you’d lain there, eyes screwed shut, as he sucked bruises into your skin and ravaged your insides, but you felt a strange sense of relief when at last he shuddered and collapsed against you.

The ache between your legs made your stomach churn. If it were the will of Ilúvatar then why did it feel so wrong?

----------

You woke with a start. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the candlelight, and when they did, dread pooled in your stomach. It had been difficult to count the days – here in this sunless land, where the air smelled of ash and sounds were limited to those of labour and the snarling, spitting language uttered by those creatures.

You’d only seen the beasts once before, when he’d draped you in black and paraded you through camp with an arm curled possessively around your waist – a silent warning. The rest of your time had been spent inside the large grey tent that was erected in the middle of camp while works continued on a more permanent lodging…something tall and black that loomed in the distance.

How long had he kept you here? How long had you endured these invasive attacks on your mind? How long until you could no longer tell fact from falsehood while he moulded your memories into something more palatable?

“Pleasant dreams?”

Halbrand lay in bed beside you, his lean body as bare as your own, and you hated that you still thought him beautiful. The thin sheen of sweat on his skin glistened in the candlelight, a sign of his exertion, and a reminder that even in sleep you would not be free of him.

Not Halbrand, you told yourself, but a different beast altogether.

He turned onto his side, head propped on his palm – suffocatingly close – and planted a soft kiss on your lips. His free hand traced lazy circles into the skin of your navel, the gold of his wedding band glittering mockingly as you felt the first stirrings of desire. Your modesty had been long forgotten in this place; all that remained was shame.

“You are not wrong for finding pleasure in this,” he murmured, as if knowing the direction your thoughts had taken. “How could you not, when we fit so perfectly together?”

“Why?” you rasped, throat tight, and eyes glassy. “Why do you still do this?”

His jaw twitched almost imperceptibly. You asked him this every time, and every time he rebuffed you. Not this time it seemed.

“Long have I walked these shores and never have I seen so fair a sight as your body laid bare before me.” He gave your hip an appreciative squeeze. “I wanted you in ways I’d wanted no other; I still do, I always will,” he added as an afterthought, and it echoed in your ears.

You loved him, you wanted him; you still do, you always will. Another falsehood, then.

“You blame yourself – don’t,” he urged with a consoling kiss to your temple. “You can kick and claw and scream yourself hoarse, and I will continue to have you. Such is the strength of my will...such is my right as your husband.”

He took a strange kind of pleasure in reminding you of his place in your life – reminding you that you would never be free of him. He would never let you go.

“Why me?”

He grasped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned your head to face him. His eyes, the very same you’d lost yourself in countless times, were fervid and near unrecognisable as he gazed down at you.

“Because I am shadow,” he whispered. “And you are light, and when I’m inside you I feel a power unlike any other.”

“Oh, come now, none of that,” he chided lightly, swiping your tears away with his thumb. “Doesn’t it please you to know I’d never known such rapture before you? It would’ve been easy enough – those mortal whores throw themselves at anything with enough coin,” he scoffed.

“But you, an elleth…a beloved Firstborn, daughter of Gil-galad, Princess of the Noldor,” he rattled off with satisfaction and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Your kind have only ever scorned me, hunted me. I knew you’d do the same if you ever glimpsed my true visage.”

“So I thought to come to you as Annatar. A form befitting your beauty and station,” he huffed a breathy laugh. “But you surprised me. You were so eager for this mortal man, you let him leave his marks on your skin, his seed in your womb.” You shuddered as he pressed a hand to your abdomen. He trailed his palm lower and dipped his fingers between your folds, admiring the mess he’d left there.

“And you’d let me do it all over again, wouldn’t you?” he mused, eyes darkening.

“No…” you gasped, squirming as he slipped a finger inside you.

“You would, wouldn’t you? Because you know as well as I do that despite it all, you will always love me. You will always love your husband – say it.”

It was a confronting thought, a painful thought, that in the eyes of the Eldar you were wed to this beast, bound to him for eternity. Your souls were one. Worse still was that he wasn’t entirely wrong. You wanted to hate him, wished it with your whole being, but you didn’t know how to.

“Halbrand, please!”

“Say it,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, with just enough sway to bend your will – to tear the words from you whether you wished it or not.

“I–I will always love you.”

To your relief, he withdrew, but your relief was short-lived. His lips curled smugly as he crawled over your body and nudged your thighs apart.

“I’m half tempted to discard this form, just to see if you’d love my others as freely as you love little Halbrand. But I think,” he hiked your thighs over his hips. “He’s not quite done breaking you in yet. Let’s try again, shall we?”

And once more, he dug his fingers into your body and his claws into your mind.

----------

AN: my main account wasn’t letting me post, so I posted this request here instead. The rest (which are much more tame and, in a way, more in character) will be posted on my main when I figure out what’s going on! :)

#sauron x reader #halbrand x reader #dark!halbrand x reader #rings of power fanfiction #rings of power fic

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anghraine · 4 months

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I'm not sure what brought it to mind, but while I was going to sleep, I ended up thinking blearily about how canon Aragorn/Arwen doesn't quite work for me. It's not a NOTP, and there are aspects that are interesting enough, but it feels tacked-on to me even by Tolkien standards of romance, and I don't really buy the Beren and Lúthien parallels or the explanations of why it's actually super important and thematically integrated into the text.

Part of the difficulty for me is that Aragorn is so glorified through so much of LOTR as written—Númenóreans in general, but the heirs of Isildur most of all, and Aragorn is presented as the greatest of them all and is also highly Elvish in upbringing and perspective. Narratively, Aragorn/Arwen feels less to me like a desperate love across kindreds and more like the only really suitable match for him, imposed by authorial fiat.

I feel like the bittersweet aspect to Arwen is kind of attributed to her being Elrond's daughter and tightly connected to the Elves, yet her brothers and father are much more distinctly peredhil where she's sort of locked into this Elf-bride role. She's most interesting to me when this is personal—Arwen not as Lúthien lite, not as the Elf princess figure in a star-crossed match, not as Aragorn's reward and the only woman good enough for the great king of the reunited Númenóreans, but as a very specific person in a specific situation. When we see her as an individual, it's interesting (I think it's really intriguing that she's a reverse Eärendil!), but we see so little outside of the roles she keeps getting slotted into that it's frustrating.

I think this is part of the reason that the one scenario where Aragorn/Arwen does seriously appeal to me is one in which Aragorn doesn't become king of Gondor but the forces of good still win, and his next task is rebuilding Arnor. He'd get aid from Gondor for sure, but that's a far cry from ruling Gondor as an absolute monarch. Aragorn would still be super special and Elvish, but that's a much scrappier situation for him in which he could legitimately feel like he doesn't have that much to offer Arwen in a concrete sense, even with Sauron gone. And Arwen giving up everything to join him and be part of the restoration (Elrond or no Elrond) would have a lot of weight.

It's not that I think LOTR would be better this way per se (Aragorn/Arwen is a very, very small part of LOTR, after all), but I, personally, would like Aragorn/Arwen specifically a lot more against the background of working to restore and rebuild Arnor together.

#it's tolkien hot takes week i guess!#anghraine babbles #long post #legendarium blogging #aragorn x arwen critical #legendarium fanwank #fic talk: arnor restoration au

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elvain · 5 days

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Mutual In Divine Love

For as long as Arwen could remember, they had likened her to Lúthien.

Raven locks, they murmured, so like the ones with which the daughter of Melian had woven a shroud of enchantment upon her guards. Clear skin, they whispered, so like that which had once been touched by the mortal Beren as he searched for the daughter of Thingol in the woods. Bright eyes, they sang, so like the ones that had pierced the darkness of Angband and met the gaze of its Dark Lord.

All they saw when they looked upon Arwen Undómiel was Lúthien Tinúviel. So it had been for thousands of years.

read the rest on AO3. Arwen/Éowyn one-shot written for my dear friends Mae and Lily. reblogs encouraged and appreciated!

taglist below. +/- as desired

@lordoftherazzles @gondolindon @hobbitwrangler @glamdolf @greerbaiting @mirkwood

#fotfics #writermk #arwen undomiel #arwen x eowyn

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ceescedasticity · 2 months

Note

Highly specific scenario question for the Teleri royals that I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, because I’ll need it for a fic when I finally get to writing it: What would happen if Finrod actually DID bring the swanships back circa 450 FA, and reported that Fëanor and Fingolfin are getting along in Beleriand and the Noldor have Angband besieged, at a stalemate—at least, that’s how it was when Finrod left; apparently he and all his small navy have been enchanted-asleep for several hundred years, and based on many people’s faint senses of exiled loved ones, there was just a massive battle where many died.

How would assorted Olwëans react? How would they react when Finrod inevitably promptly said, “oh god, I have to go back and help fight; who’s with me?”?

Details that may matter:

It’s as near to ALL the Swanships as can be remotely expected—there was attrition of storms, incompetent sailors, 1 or 2 Falthrim fell in love with specific ships and the ships were content to stay with them; but basically all came home, sailed by a combination of the guiltiest, most homesick, and most competent sailors

Finrod reports that Fëanor is officially High King of the Noldor in exile, but functionally Maedhros is High King of the Noldor and Fingolfin and Finrod (now Angrod) are more or less doing as they please as Kings of East and West respectively. Also, Elwë’s forest kingdom is flourishing with his Maia wife and daughter (he thinks the Noldor are collectively assholes), and Nowë and a bunch of people are doing great on the shore, and there’s etc. Laegrim, and dwarves… [Finrod did sail before Men showed up.]

Finrod & co sailed over 300 years ago, and this delay is very directly due to the Valar not letting them in, even though their goal is basically just to apologize and set things right. (If that eases the Doom and/or gets them more allies, well, it’s not the primary goal.)

Ambarussa also came with the world’s most non-apology apology message for Nerdanel from Fëanor, and a smidge of a hint of offer of alliance to the Valar (ie, the instructions for making silima, which he’d previously kept jealously secret). This won’t affect any initial reactions in Alqualondë because the twins sneak ashore separately to deliver it, but the gist of the messages become publicly known.

Of close relatives, Curufin died in that initial terrible battle; more importantly, Aegnor dies within a year afterward. Not long after Aegnor’s death, the Valar assure everyone—and cross-sea death awarenesses confirm—that the conflict has abated again, though it remains more ongoingly active than it has been for several centuries.

It’s narratively convenient for me that no backup reach Beleriand for another 20 years, though you don’t need to hold to that—I can futz with the timeline. What happens in 20 years is, in short order, Fëanor blows up Thangorodrim and active war resumes, and Lúthien comes to Mandos to plead for Beren.

Hmmm…

The ships not getting destroyed is going to make a significant difference in the mood in Alqualondë — for example, Volue will have spent 400-some years pining and fretting rather than seething, and while he's an extreme case he's not alone.

Not pictured: Luinél spending 300 years getting more and more sure the ships are reachable if people will just let her try and quite possibly trying to take Swan-salt out to the Enchanted Isles to look and getting shooed back to Alqualondë by Ainur. —Possibly more than once. —Probably accompanied by Duimiwen, Duinipen, Nettë, Telperin, and in fact Volue on one or more occasion. —Obviously Olwë disapproves of these unauthorized excursions! but he never put Swan-salt under guard, either.

There is still a lot of anger, and still some people who have decided to make hating Noldor their entire personality, but the ships being intact means there's less, and the ships being returned has a lot of meaning.

—I think the end result is going to be some people are still being assholes, but it isn't hard for Olwë to bring the Lindar around to the idea of "the swan-ships aren't leaving our sight [or the harbor, until they get too restless], BUT we will help you build and sail new ships to return to Beleriand".

(When Olwë says that, he adds 'Valar permitting' on the end. Not everyone else does. The ships really being just out of reach for 300 years for Mysterious Valar Reasons hasn't impressed anyone.)

Olwë would rather the Lindar not start volunteering to go to Middle-earth as more than a taxi service, but suspects it's going to be unavoidable.

The Exiles directly involved in the Kinslaying should still expect to be banned from Alqualondë and Lindarin ships until they have made satisfactory apologies.

And like I said there are still angry people — but the predominant mood is more focused on the ships than the Noldor.

#a tolkien tag #reckless application of spackle

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