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the-elusive-soleil · 4 months

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State of the Union: Maglor

I did one of these for Curufin a while back, and I haven't really been subtle about who I think Caranthir's married to, so it's clearly high time I complete the trio of Women Who Married Into This Family For Some Reason.

The more I think about it, the more strongly I feel like the Fëanorian wives should be...a little not normal. A little nuts, even. There are plenty of takes where they are the Nice Ones who stayed behind in Aman to provide guilt trips, but I want to see ones who didn't. Ones who came along, who were part of the war - who maybe even were part of the kinslayings if they lived long enough.

And I've mostly seen Maglor's Wives who are Teleri or Noldorin, so on a whim, the one in my head has become Vanyarin.

Her name is Ainalámë (one of her parents must've thought very highly of her), and she grows up not unlike those overachieving piano kids for whom imperfection is Not An Option.

She's very very gifted musically, specifically with voice and zither, and because she's Vanyarin, this means that from about adolescence onward, her life centers around playing music for the Valar on Taniquetil.

Her technical perfection is second to none, but there's always room for improvement, so periodically she'll go elsewhere to study with this or that music master.

Which is how she runs into Makalaurë Fëanárion. Who has spent pretty much his whole life being the greatest musician around, but is open to some friendly competitiveness when Ainalámë shows up.

She is not impressed with this Noldo prince and his virtuosity. Almost at once, it becomes her mission in life to take him down a peg.

Well, fine, if she's going to be like that about it. He'll show her. Her and her boring perfectionism and total inability to improvise and her pretentious name and snooty attitude and no he doesn't fancy her Nelyo, shut up.

What ends up happening is that the ensuing fervent one-upmanship actually makes both of them improve in ways they didn't know were possible. They've both spent ages with everyone around them telling them they were already the best, but now they're having to prove it, work for it.

Makalaurë's technique gets honed razor-sharp. Ainalámë practices until her fingers bleed and it's still not enough, and in desperation she resorts to adding flourishes to match his.

She calls him out on every mistake. He starts calling her Sinyacarë, new-maker, as a dig at her reluctance to deviate from written music.

And, well, she doesn't want to improvise. Improvising means that there's room for error. You can't have error when you're performing for the King and Queen of Arda.

But he's making her eat her words about his precision, so she has to make him eat his about her creativity.

And she does. Once she finally lets go, it's even surprisingly fun. She...doesn't quite remember the last time music was just fun.

Slowly, she and Makalaurë reach a kind of accord. They keep pushing each other, but they collaborate sometimes now, too. He still calls her Sinyacarë, but it's affectionate now.

At some point, she realizes that she doesn't want to head back to Taniquetil. She wants to stay in Tirion and keep on experimenting and trying new things (and seeing Makalaurë - which, when did that become something she wanted?), wants to keep writing music that's about things other than birds and stars and the mighty wisdom of the Valar.

(Not that those are bad things. But they've been her subject matter for decades; she's ready for a change.)

She falls in love with the creative freedom and the lack of pressure before she falls in love with Makalaurë, but that eventually comes along, too.

He's been in love with her since the first time she really, truly lost her cool during a song duel with him and let out a string of wildfire arpeggios that almost got away from her; he knew he was a goner then.

Their courtship is slow, to give her parents time to come around to the idea of her lifestyle changes and to give Fëanáro time to come around to the idea of a Vanyarin daughter-in-law. Insofar as there's any kind of timeline for this, I think they'd start courting not long before Curufin and Kestë meet, but would get married sometime after Curufin does.

Fëanáro's issues with the Vanyar aside, Sinyacarë actually finds she likes Makalaurë's family quite a lot. They're very chaotic, but that means that no one will really notice if she messes something up while she's still finding her feet. And there's music in their chaos; she writes a nocturne that's Ambarussa trying to sneak in late after a hunt, or a fugue that's everyone talking over each other at dinner.

She and Makalaurë mean to have kids. They talk about it. But there's always something going on, always other music to work on, and after all, they have forever.

Until, of course, the Trees go out, and they don't.

Sinyacarë joins in the host going over the Sea without a second thought. What exactly she'll do in Middle-earth, she isn't sure, since she's average at best with a sword, but her husband and his family are going, so she's going too.

The Oath...bothers her a little. There's something about the way it warps the song of the world, and it sounds disturbingly like a twisted version of a marriage vow, and she doesn't like what she can feel it doing to Makalaurë's soul. But it's not like there's anything they can do now.

Alqualondë is a mess. Everything happens very fast, and before Sinyacarë can quite decide what to do, there's a Teler coming at her husband and Moryo from behind with a fishing spear. And then there's not, and she's standing over a body.

Well. No turning back now.

She kills three people that day. She doesn't know their names, but she can never forget the number.

Fëanáro promised freedom when they came to Middle-earth. Fëanáro dies not very long after they arrive. And then Nelyo is gone and Makalaurë is left as a frayed, guilt-wrecked regent.

Sinyacarë might have married a prince, but she never thought that would matter, politically. But she picked up a few things in passing on Taniquetil, and Makalaurë picked up a few things in Tirion, and his (remaining) brothers pitch in and help, and everyone holds things together until Findekáno brings Nelyo back.

When the language shift kicks in, she Sindarizes her name to Saintân. She goes with Maglor to the Gap, and in some ways it's as ideal as Beleriand can get. The pressure of the regency is gone, their family is safe, and they roam free and hold back the darkness with song. Saintân becomes better, much better, with a sword because that's what's needed, and above all else she has always striven for excellence in anything she is called upon to do.

It's not perfect. Nothing in Beleriand is perfect. Morgoth's presence, his dominion, twists the song of it, and while the Sindar and Avari who were connected to the land before Morgoth's return do somewhat better, the Noldor get just a little more twisted in themselves over time. It's worse for those who are Oathbound.

The constant war and threat of destruction don't help either.

Saintân came to Beleriand for her husband and for freedom - the two have always been intertwined, to her - but it's becoming rapidly clear that there's no freedom for the Feanorians without the Silmarils. The gems themselves, she could take or leave, but she wants her family free of the Oath, to be happy again.

So she fights in the Nirnaeth, to try and get the Silmarils back from Morgoth.

When that doesn't work out and they turn to Doriath, she insists on going with them then, too. Maglor tries to talk her out of it, but time has only increased her stubbornness, and she insists that she's going to be at his side just as she was at Alqualonde.

Maglor can never quite forgive himself for capitulating, when she falls in battle with the Doriathrim.

He's incapacitated from the broken marriage bond and can't help Maedhros search for the missing twins, and perhaps it's partially that that leads him to take in another pair of twins a couple of decades later.

Saintân watches the tapestries and adores the peredhil and prays that Maglor will find a way out. She weeps when he ends up alone and burned. Despite her best efforts (she's no Luthien, but she's very good at coming up with irritating songs to sing at Namo), she does not manage to get reembodied anytime soon to go and get him.

But she does make it out of the Halls in time to meet Maglor when he sails with Elrond, and also to meet the son Maglor adopted in her absence.

#silmarillion #maglor #maglor's wife #oc of sorts #loooong headcanons #i need to write something with her and keste showing up on haleth's doorstep for a sisters-in-law chat

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lamemaster · 4 months

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Songs of Heart- Fall

Pairing: Turgon x Reader x Fingon (hehe)

Genre: Dramamamama and Angsssst

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Had you known better, you would have never looked his way. You would have shielded your eyes from his. Yet, despite the lament, you are certain that you would have done it. You would have betrayed yourself even with the foreknowledge of your destruction.

Fall | Winter | Spring | Summer | Epilogue

AN: Literally no one asked for this but I want to write a forbidden cliche fic. I want to write messed up yearning miserable meow meows. This one is to make Turukano the main character.

In the passing ages of the world, there is little that remains unchanging. Mountains that once stood unflinching have crumbled to dust, lands have drifted in the sea to form masses different from your times, trees have ceased to speak as they once did. Yet, in all this, your heart remains unchanging. It has, like an unrelenting rock, embedded itself into your soul. Anchoring you to the past that never intends to return.

Long ago, when the world was young and so were you, you fell in love. A stupid stubborn love that latched itself to you for eternity. Your love for Turukano.

Had you known better, you would have never looked his way. You would have shielded your eyes from his. Yet, despite the lament, you are certain that you would have done it. You would have betrayed yourself even with the foreknowledge of your destruction.

You have always known Turukano. He was glued to your cousin, Findarato, from birth. It hadn’t been hard to form a friendship in the early days of your existence. Even your younger brother Ecthellion had grown fond of the little prince, who always insisted on being the king in all your house games.

You have loved him from the earliest memories of your existence. It was inevitable to not love someone who seemed to possess the softest heart yet, very few words. A being who felt like the comfiest haven in the entire world surrounding you.

Your days that had started with a Turukano that barely reached your and Findarato’s shoulders ended with him towering over almost every elf in Valinor. Much to your annoyance your younger brother, Ecthellion followed the suit.

It was a pleasant sunny morning when you were dazedly sprawled in your aunt Earwen’s beloved garden, next to a Findarato who was lost in the act of whistling with little sparrows. Your eyes were almost glazed over with the sluggish warmth that carried the scent of citrus flowers that bloomed on trees your aunt had once made you and your cousin plant.

Your father had followed his elder sister Earwen's suit and wed a Noldo. A noblewoman of stature befitting of a prince. So it wasn't a surprise that you and Findarato were two peas in a pod. Accompanied by Turukano, who expanded the pod to three peas, followed by Ecthellion who followed your trio in every way possible.

“Do you think the sparrows came with this tongue or our people made it for them?” Findarato asked flipping to his side facing you from where he lay. “If they did, why could they not have taught trees the same tongue? Would be easier if everyone could communicate I am tired of translating this tree’s grudge against spikey nests." He sighed with a burden he himself had sought in the first place.

Blinking away the sleep in your eyes you tried to think about it. “Could have been someone like your uncle Curufinwe, who wanted to torment everyone with a thousand different dialects,” you yawned stretching your body into the cool grass, almost scaring away the butterfly that rested on your shoulder.

Findarato grumbled about your lacking sense of humor and returned to mitigate the argument between the tree and the sparrow.

You remember the exact moment when you turned your head to look in the direction that the vibration of his steps rang under the Earth that your head rested on. You raised your head to rest on your arms as you saw him rush in.

But the lazy smile that had etched itself on your face froze at the look in his eyes. How did you know? Turukano’s eyes held a horrified expression, his serene poised face was crumpled by a frown, however, what gave away were his eyes. Full of unshed tears and desperation you did not understand.

It would take you years to realize what that expression was. It was grief. Mourning as if someone had died. You did not possess that knowledge during your days of peace.

Perhaps someone did. Perhaps a dream had.

That peaceful afternoon turned out to be the first doom laid on your life.

Turukano’s marriage to Elenwe had been a diplomatic whirlwind. A process you were quite familiar with. Your own parents had been a part of you. Your mother a Noldorian courtier and your father, Olwe’s youngest son.

A move on the part of an accommodating but cunning Nolofinwe, to lure his father from the hills of Formenos back to Tirion. It didn't hurt to strengthen the ties with Vanya for the second in line for the throne.

But for you, it was a sentence worse than a lifetime in the Void. You never had a chance to confess. Never heard anything from him. The only thing you possessed was the fleeting look in his eyes as he slid the ring of betrothal onto Elenwe’s finger.

You couldn’t attend the wedding that seemed to have brought the high king back to Tirion. The entire Valinor seemed to have celebrated the union that reassembled the match of Finwe and Indis. Instead, you spent the rest of the year hiding the illness that plagued your body. A slow rot from your lungs to the rest of you.

So it came as a surprise when you returned home from a year at Lorein to the sight of Princess Anaire in your home. With a simple letter in her hands, she smiled at you as she continued her excited chatter with your parents.

A letter that contained the proposal that brought hopeful smiles to your parent’s faces.

Etched in flawless handwriting was the proposal of your wedding to the firstborn of Prince Nolofinwe, Prince Findekano, who had returned from his century-long apprenticeship with the Maiar of Yavanna.

A proposal that would have been sent to Elenwe of Valmar, had it come a year early.

But you too were a match worthy to Anaire’s son, just not the one you had loved. Your father has been overjoyed. Most Teleri were. For their princess to marry the firstborn of Nolofinwe, was a fate similar to the one that your aunt Earwen had borne decades ago. Hers had been of her choosing.

Your first meeting with Findekano was arranged a day before your betrothal to him. A fever dream that is a blur of past recollections, distant conversations from childhood and Turukano.

Every mention of his name seared your heart with marks that dug into the existing scars of the past. Like a Knave you yearned for him, even then.

Your courting with Findekano barely lasted half a year before you were both rushed into a marriage that aimed to retry repairing the ties, Turukano and Elenwe’s union had failed to repair. To appease the infamous Feanaro out of his exile in Formenos.

Invitations were sent to all and everyone. Especially, to Nelyafinwe, who Findekano claimed to be his dearest cousin. You visited the deary walls of Formenos with Fingon to meet the cousin who practically raised him. To urge the elf to attend a wedding you did not expect yourself to make it to.

The world revolved around the preparations for your wedding. Yet, your heart was stuck mourning a loss from the past. As if his name was written all over it repeatedly.

The smile on your face felt bitter. But it seems to work for all around you.

Even Findekano, who serenaded you hanging from your balcony in the hours of Silver, seemed to believe the brittle laughter that fell effortlessly from your lips. And mistook the pained wetness of your eyes with tears of mirth.

But you felt your fea unraveling. Under your father’s gaze, Anaire and Nolofinwe’s feasts, Findekano’s jests.

And perhaps they all had known the mess you were behind your act. Turukano knew.

You saw the trepidation in his eyes when Elenwe excitedly whispered the news of her child to you. You had smiled brightly as you always did. You hugged her and wished upon her the blessing of Varda.

You responded to Findekano’s subsequent jest with a well-versed roll of eyes and blushing smile but your heart barely held itself together. Ignoring the caving walls you smiled and laughed in the role that you were given. The world seemed to be drunk off your misery.

And your smile did not falter when you congratulated Turukano as a friend should have. As a dear childhood friend. Your facade was immaculate to your belief. You have learned it well over the past year.

That night, the illness returned, only this time it managed to etch itself into your fea. A creeping realization of your fall. Self-loathing filled your every pore. You were envious of a child. You wanted one. You wanted him and his child. Your wretched self wanted everything that Turukano was.

The elf you grew up playing house with. He was your prince. He had woven the tale of your play so well that you in your foolishness had believed it to be true. Were you too broken to give up on a silly dream he had moved on from?

Back then no drought, no salve, no chant helped the rot that climbed into the crevices of your fea.

The next day you married Findekano on the shores of Alqualonde with a blinding smile. Covered the rot of your fea with a wedding bond.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #noldor elves #angst #fingon x reader #turgon x reader #Turgon #Fingon #Shot goes down #unfulfilled love #love triangle #please spare my drama-driven heart ✌️

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runawaymun · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday!

I was tagged last wednesday by @that-angry-noldo to share a snippet of what I am working on :D I LOVE this game yay!!

Here is a snippet from Beneath a Boundless Sky:

Still, even though Thalionel preferred Arwen’s company, he had to admit the mornings when Lord Elrond took him out for a ride were the best, because often they went out onto the hiking trails around the city, and there was always something interesting to look at, or to ask about, or to find. That was how he had discovered this chunk of rock. He hadn’t known what it was at first. He’d just caught the glint of the sun on its glossy surface. There was an entire trail of it down the side of the mountain. He had hopped down from Trastadweg and gone to look at it more closely, and that was when Lord Elrond had warned him to be careful, because obsidian, as he had called it, was sharp. “The mountain made it,” Lord Elrond had said as he slipped off of his own horse to join him at the flow. “Just like it makes the hot pools.” Thalionel had only vaguely listened as he’d explained something about melted rock and rapid temperature changes. Mostly, he’d stayed focused on the chunk of rock he’d picked up from the pile. It was as big as his fist. Rough on one side, and glassy on the other where the rock had broken in one, clean cut. It had been a trick to get it into his pocket without Lord Elrond noticing. Thalionel wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded. He just hoped that Lord Elrond didn’t suspect what he meant to do with it.

To be honest though upon editing it's likely this will change slightly!! I am thinking about writing it out into a full present scene, rather than keeping it as a past-tense memory. I think it will suit it better and we need more Elrond and Thal time anyway!

And here is a snippet from To Partake (it was hard to pick something for this actually because so much of this chapter feels a little spoilery to share, but I do like the writing in this section a lot):

Elrond writes Erestor another note to let him know where he has gone, and when he estimates he will return, slips it under his door, and then starts down the winding staircase of the tower. His footsteps echo in the cool silence of the early morning. As he passes people, each gives him a wide berth, avoiding his gaze as if to ward off any possibility of interaction. It’s nothing particularly new, but it is a little different than the stares he’d gotten upon his arrival. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he wonders if word about his summons to Gil-Galad’s solar —and Gil-Galad’s black mood— had traveled around the court. It had probably been the fault of the guards. Heniriel is not a gossip, or else she would not hold such a high position. He keeps his head low as he heads out beneath the stars to the far end of the citadel. The closer he gets to the kitchens, the more the air begins to smell like fresh bread. It makes his stomach rumble. The kitchens are a set of buildings attached to the northern side of the castle, close to the king’s quarters, the banquet hall, and the ambassadorial suites. Elrond elects to pass through a courtyard full of babbling fountains, since it looks empty enough. He follows the cobblestone footpath to a tall rock wall with a door in it which opens out onto the kitchen gardens, where carefully tended beds of herbs and vegetables lay slumbering beneath the starlight. Beyond are the King’s orchards. Elrond loves to spend time there. He will have to find a moment soon to slip away and say hello to his favorite apple tree. For now, he takes the path as it curves to the left, heading toward the kitchen proper, and more importantly: the bakery, where the citadel’s baker is likely to be starting on the day’s bread.

no pressure tags for: @the-commonplace-book @creativity-of-death @raointean @valasania-the-pale @niennawept @jaz-the-bard & anyone else who wants to play!!! I want to read what you're working on :D

#beneath a boundless sky #to partake #if there are typos in these then on my head so be it #i did not read this back before copy-pasting and it IS the rough draft for both #thank you for the tag!!!

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thelordofgifs · 9 months

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I’m joining the fandom official through TFS and loving it! Do you have recommended blogs?

Welcome to the fandom, anon!! And WHAT a compliment I am blushing so so much ty ❤️ I’m relatively new to the fandom myself, but here is a very non-exhaustive list of some of my incredibly cool and talented mutuals:

@actual-bill-potts is an incredibly talented writer and so clever and funny and kind, has the best takes on everything and is somehow making me care about Orodreth which I didn’t think was possible?? Also if you enjoyed tfs you are Legally Obligated to read her fic and all his towers cast down, which is THE best Leithian AU around (featuring a Finrod who gets to survive and deal with his trauma, which is not necessarily a good thing for him, and Maglor and Lúthien teaming up to be the ultimate cool singing duo).

@that-angry-noldo is your person for all things Finarfin, has never had an incorrect take on her life and is so so funny and talented and lovely.

@eilinelsghost is SUCH an amazing writer and so so so knowledgeable about HoME it makes me insane, and also she can do ART which?? how?? can one person?? be this talented???

@outofangband is THE Morwen person, writes such amazing meta and fic, has the most incredible detailed worldbuilding about literally anything you can think of, and is so wonderfully kind and dedicated to boosting other people on the fandom which is so so lovely.

@searchingforserendipity25 is one of my treasured m&m mutuals, an INCREDIBLY talented writer whose prose all reads like literal poetry (which she ALSO writes!!) and is so so funny and kind and wonderful.

@welcomingdisaster is SUCH a talented writer who keeps me absolutely fed with both m&m and russingon content, has the most thought-provoking takes and the funniest polls and such such gorgeous art which I am in absolute awe of.

@polutrope is SO knowledgeable about canon and writes the most incredible meta and analysis as well as absolutely wonderful fics which I adore so so much and is so cool and friendly!

@tanoraqui is a fantastic writer and also has the best and most interesting takes and SO many cool AUs: at the moment I’m particularly invested in In Heart, which you should definitely read immediately if you like tfs, but they’re all so so good aaahh.

@warrioreowynofrohan is such a kind and welcoming presence in the fandom and writes absolutely amazing meta and fics, I can spend hours and hours scrolling her blog because it’s all so interesting and so GOOD.

@pearlescentpearl has The Best Maedhros Takes and writes SUCH wonderful fics – the Rebirthed Maedhros AU and Political Pawn AU are both bullet point fics that have Rewired Me and are such big influences on tfs, you should check them out posthaste.

And many, many more!! This is genuinely one of the most talented fandoms in existence – you have SUCH a feast ahead of you, anon!

#asks #anon #I missed a LOT of people off this but I love and appreciate you all

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searchingforserendipity25 · 5 months

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eönwë/finarfin and 34 or finarfin/eärwen and 37, if you're willing :3

Thanks so much @that-angry-noldo! It was hard to choose which option to go for, but have a long-in-the-works Finarfin and Eärwen post-War of Wrath, with the prompt - kiss as a suggestion <3

To Dance & Be Merry. AO3.

Finarfin had never enjoyed Tirion's balls.

Dancing, of course - all of Indis' children were excellent dancers, graceful and expressive, technically disciplined. But balls had only ever been occasions of state to him, his first battlefields. Comfortable and cloying, full of familiar faces. In the Noontide, they had been so full of a forceful delight that left not the means to grasp at the uneasy tensions underneath.

He could not remember a time when the great celebrations of Tirion had not been a mire of undercurrents between his elder brothers and their factions, a time before he had been mediator and meddler, alternating between one side and the other, inventing middle grounds on crumbling sand.

Only when he first lived in Alqualondë did he know the joys and wave-hushed delights of the revels in the sea pools and deep caves, that he realized it was possible to feast and be glad with no high-strung edge of the merriment. Or, rather - when the sea spirits came to join the dancers, it was an awed terror and joy that lifted voices and limbs. Not anger, badly stifled; not grief.

Long had it been since there was such joy by the sea, even in Aman.

Fëanáro and Nolofinwë no longer held court on opposite sides of the vast marbled ballroom; their friends and supporters were grown into warriors all, from Miriel's old sister-weavers to Lalwendë's erstwhile band of suitors and spies. Warriors, dead in the ruins of Beleriand or returned to Tol Eressëa or Lorien's care. Few of the Exiles had made the journey back to Tirion, and of those that came most found it to bitter a return to linger long in the white city of the Noldor.

Arafinwë held court instead, over what remained of his father's realm. There were not enough dancers, now, for the largest of the circle dances - gaps between couples, where once the crush of perfumed satins and silks, brocade and velvet and bare arms smelling of rosewater and violets had been dizzying.

And yet. And yet! There was joy, too, if not an easy one

“Strive to look more engrossed in charming your queen. A king ought to enjoy victory.”

Finarfin ought not to have startled so. His instincts were still painfully alive to every little alarm. He acted by habit, old habit - he set his chin, took Eärwen's proferred hand, and let her sweep him off his feet.

There was such a fine, glinting edge to her words. Finarfin noted it, felt the sting like a thin blade between the ribs. He felt a dozen such wounds every day; it seemed to him extraordinary, at times, that he had not bled out entirely.

He could not die. Nor lay down his burdens and lay down on Lorien's glens, though his bones were as lead, his hands wracked with shivers; not close himself in his quarters and pray for long years, as his sister Findis did, and his mother in Valimar, who had not come down from her place of repose even for the celebrations of victory. He could not die, though so often all he saw were the battlefields, and the wreckage afterwards - though so many had gone, well-armed and blessed, and so few remained of the Host of the Valar.

The dancers embraced, around them, spun each other around, sang gladly in homecoming. Eärwen's hand pressed cool and firm around his. Finarfin was not so strong at heart that he did not find it a comfort, though her eyes were cold and her heart veiled from him as they had been before he had gone to make war on the Enemy.

He had dreamed of her looking at him just so, and even mud-stained and chilled and wracked with fever in the burned fields of Beleriand he had not been such a fool to think it could ever be otherwise. But he had wanted, hoped - something simple, a moment's respite only.

His head pulsed painfully. One too many blows in the War - one too many helmets taken off and offered to the wounded, on those last forward charges to give the rearguard time to retreat with stretchers and the medics gathering the wounded on their sledges. He only wanted to lie die, truly - somewhere dark and cold, away from the crowds, the joyful singing, Earwën's clever, too-sharp attention.

Nor had Earwën's welcome been very warm, when the returning host made their way up mountains from the shore. But this one challenge he could not pretend to ignore.

It was an old game from before. They had honed the rules and strategies during childish plays and dances during solemn visits, learned to weave intent and desire into it during their courting ploys on the shores of the sea. It had been the promise of their early marriage, so full of laughter and cheerful conspiracies.

Pay attention to me, and try your luck, but I shall not laugh, Eärwen would decree; and then of course Finarfin had to do his best to achieve that impossible feat. So too he was swept out of his own spells of melancholy.

Before, there had been no victory or vindication taken out of each other. If they stole a smile, it was only ever given back as a gift. If a moment’s weakness was glimpsed, it was well-kept as a secret - hidden from sight with a sweeping gesture, a distraction. They had been such dear friends, such foolish, deliberate lovers.

Now, Eärwen was not so kind. Subtly, for a moment in between dances - the line of her nose tender against the curve of his jaw, her mouth ghosting the edge of his embroidered collar. A kiss, amidst the crush; a glancing touch, a laughing trick of tripping footwork.

“My lady,” Finarfin said, flushing slightly. His temples ached; his mind, bruised at the edges and weary of the confusion around them, struggled to guard itself, to close any impression of feeling or discomfort. “It has been long since I have known such revelry, and my feet are not steady. Have a little mercy.”

“My lord, I would; but I do not care to,” Earwën said, in perfectly natural tones, feet perfectly steady as she guided them through the next moves, and Finarfin nearly gave the game away by smiling.

He had not thought it possible to smile. The flutists were making their way through a somewhat overwrought passage; that, combined with the silver bells and the drums and the gong, had Finarfin's jaw tight for hours already.

“Am I not charming my queen? Forgive me my negligence; I thought I was to be merely to be an opponent against a cunning sabotage.”

Earwën lifted her arm; Finarfin slid, stepped, turned where she lead, as if they were children again, dancing in the sand - King Olwe's tall and stately girl-child, to whom the spirits of the sea whispered secrets from the mouths of sea shells, and King Finwe's youngest, slight and smiling Ingoldo, had a talent for hiding away and going unseen when he wished it, and often wished it, but never when she was near.

He snuck a swift, nipping kiss to the line of her throat, half-hidden by her veil. This time, Eärwen's laugh came from lower in her throat, a sweet, secret sound. Finarfin's skin grew heated at the sound of it. This, too, had been familiar to him, once.

Finarfin's ears ached with the strength of his flush; but he, too, had drunk generously of the sweet honey passed around all evening.

The music had been joyful and pleasing, once; Finarfin could not quite tell when it had gone from high to a growing torment, but the king could hardly leave a wedding without offending. Least of all when he had fought with both of the newly-wedded - when he had watched them tend to each other's wound, and call each other back from despair, all the way to Angband and back.

His gladness for their joy was true, as true as any joy he could harness in himself. But now the rituals were finished, and the wedded were gone to their own private rejoicing; and if in theory he was left to lead the rest of the feasting, the truth was the party had long outgrown his authority. There was a great fervour in the air, laughter and weeping - many other couples, he had noted, had gone from the dancing to find some respite in the cool shadows of the gardens; others still remained sitting and speaking with the kin they had been long parted from, or stood in dear silence.

They had not danced together since first the music started. Among the Noldor, only wedded couples danced together during wedding celebrations - but the wedding had been celebrated between a warrior of the Vanyar and one of Finarfin's own guard, and in the way of the Vanyar, the rules were not so stern. Finarfin had danced with both grooms, and with others among his companions; and then the circle dances had started, and the standard-dances, with pennants raised high and lines going under and around strung ribbons in many bright colours.

After so long amidst the black mists and fell fires of falling Beleriand, Finarfin's eyes stung to behold all this brightness. And brightest of all was the queen of the Noldor, as she presided over the evening. Radiant in wide sea-silk trousers, chains of abalone and mother-of-pearl and malachite strung on her neck, Eärwen walked the length of the patios and the gardens, and the crowd moved around her with a whispering of satin and samite, caught in the tide-swell of her presence.

She was an excellent ruler, Eärwen, better than Miriel or Indis, and the Noldor loved her well. She made them ashamed, and made them brave. She made Finarfin brave, if not quite brave enough to meet her sharp-seeing eyes directly as they spun.

He had always wanted her to look at him with her cool mariner's eyes, her way of looking at hearts as if guessing at the storms that might overcome them, and be pleased. Ingoldo had wanted to make her laugh. He had looked at her, older and taller than him, and known in his heart that he would spend the long stretch of his existence on Arda trying to make Eärwen happy.

He had failed at it, of course. But it did not follow that he was free to cease attempting it. Finarfin did know his duty, and he was grateful to be bound to it as sternly as Earwën did. It would not do to lose sight of his surroundings, or himself, on a celebration or a battlefield.

They were midway through a circle dance when Earwën first nuzzled his loosening braid. Only for a moment, in the wild twirl of a two-stepping embrace - but Finarfin’s steps nearly faltered all the same.

Then she drew back, her composure unchanged. Only the glint of her eyes gave away her mirth. If Finarfin had been younger and less kingly, he might have given into the luxury of nearly tripping once more without looking away, merely to feel his wife’s strong arms about him.

He nearly tripped regardless, which was rather less forgivable in a king than it had been on a sweet-cheeked princeling. The violins rose, screeching a high chord; and Finarfin flinched, ears swirling back, mind flaring in distress. He could not quite stifle it - not when, for an instant, the sound of voices raised in merriment and stamping feet was so like an ambush, the orc-horns calling, the shrill laughter -

Eärwen's grip on his hand tightened.

"You are in pain, my lord," said Eärwen, sweeping him smoothly back into the throng when he faltered with the new song's slowing tempo, and made to step back from his circle. "Be certain to follow my steps. Ere Tilion dips, we shall go walk. The night grows old, and you have not seen the rose gardens since your arrival. We have planted many new species, as Este advised: their perfume has a talent for easing dreams.”

As hints were, it was not subtle.

“I am terrible company tonight, I am afraid,” he excused. His head pounded, pounded; but he could not leave. He did not think it likely he should sleep soon - he had not slept well since returning to Amanyar.

Eärwen's fingers, tangled about the ends of his ribbons, tugged his scalp sharply. Finarfin could not but shiver, caught in her arms and under her eyes, so subtly none could guess at the strength of it.

His mouth quirked. He did enjoy whatever she would give, even the torment, the sharp edge that caught on their games of teasing.

The night grows long, and there is no need for a king, Eärwen said, voice cool, eyes gleaming with their own fierce fire. So very present, powerful enough that when she spoke to his mind alone, all the world grew dim and quiet, muffled and diminished in comparison. And I have a wish to have him for myself. Ought we not enjoy my victory, Ingoldo, if there is any to be found?

Finarfin bent his head obligingly. Earwën's kiss touched his temple, this time. Like a benediction, like an enchantment, it eased the ache behind his eyes.

The best treasure of the Noldor, all her own. Earwën had ever had her own idea of what counted as a victory.

A long campaign against Morgoth, and longer years of training with spear and sword before, and still Eärwen unlatched the graceful intent from his movements as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Finarfin had not thought it could be easy again.

The music was too loud, truly; even as it dipped, sweetened to a last bold drum-roll. Finarfin suspected Eärwen could hear the galloping of his heart underneath the lyres and cymbals, all the same.

Not yet, Finarfin thought, with an urgency he could not articulate aloud. A moment - not yet.

The drums went still, and of course their sound was nothing at all like a battle call, in truth. Finarfin remained among the dancers long enough to hear their echoes fade. He could not go - not though all the blood in him called for sword, shield, spear, alarm and aimless fury. If he failed in this now, he might as well consign himself to a closed room, leave the kingdom to his wife and her ladies, retire to the secluded places in the mountains as his mother had, and his sister.

It was not true, nor a just test - but he felt it. He set his chin. It was only music - and Eärwen was here, unyielding. Her palm was stalwart against his back, keeping him upright.

Until there was a quiet moment between songs. Finarfin stepped back, mind and body. The world around them and beyond their hidden speech was bright, gleaming - voices, an harp being tuned. Less voices than there had been, before people started to disband, and none raised in alarm. He looked at them, his people after war, and in many faces he saw the same wariness; and in others only delight, distraction.

He breathed out. Eärwen tilted her head, studying him, with her deep considering judgement. Pay attention to me, do not look away. The old game. Finarfin had dreamed of Earwën looking at him just so, her eyes so bright. Beautiful as the night, and terrible enough to make a king brave with shame.

“Come walk the gardens with me, husband,” the queen commanded, the third time and last time, not an offer nor an entreaty; and the hint of steel in her grip was enough for Finarfin to know himself at peace, and yield.

#finarfin #earwen #finarfin x earwen #silm fic #my fics #tolkien fanfiction #thank you for the ask!

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melestasflight · 6 months

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for the prompts (pick whichever, the prompts sound really cool and i couldn't decide on one!): feanor & miriel + 'some fair dream' or elrond & elros + 'met never again until many ages were past'?

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @sesamenom. Let's start with Fëanor & Míriel. 😍

some fair dream

When the stone bursts into greenness beneath the light of the early Mingling, Fëanáro finally lets the song die down in a slow decrescendo between his lips. His voice is hoarse from singing. All through the silver hours, he has been holding steady the notes of flowing water and supple green leaves, imbuing their freshness into the dense core of the polished jade.

Now, as Fëanáro turns the stone between his fingers, its light spills from his hands and bathes the walls of the workshop in brilliant hues of green dancing like shadows beneath the canopy of a tall tree in the breeze.

In moments such as these, his heart almost stops beating in anticipation. To know if he has succeeded in his purpose, to taste, at last, the fruit of his long labor. He waits patiently for the stone to open and reveal the life that it now carries. The images form themselves slowly, emerging as small seeds and then growing to unfurl their stalks before his eyes.

He sees things long withered and broken renewed again – a statue of Nerdanel’s that fell and shattered across the floor when their boys were little now standing whole again, a patch of flowers in Findis’ gardens that did not take to the soil bursting in color as they were meant to be, a smile upon Finwë’s face that has not been seen in many long years.

Fëanáro looks in awe as these images unfold before him, each one clearer and more palpable than the last, and then he can no longer hold back. He searches deeper into the green stone, pouring into it all the desire of his heart. ‘Let me see her, just once.’

The jewel obeys its creator and summons Míriel’s image at last. Fëanáro has no memories of his mother in life but he knows it is her. Hers are the fingers that swiftly move between threads finer and more delicate than anything the hands of any Noldo have created. Hers the silver tresses that shine as Telperion’s leaves in its zenith. Míriel hums as she labors, wholly absorbed, her voice laving against Fëanáro as rippling water.

‘Mother,’ Fëanáro whispers, letting his voice travel along the current.

Míriel looks away from her needle and meets Fëanáro’s gaze. ‘My little spirit of fire,’ his mother responds as her lips stretch into a smile.

For a long moment, mother and son look upon each other as in some fair dream, content to do no more but know that they are simply there, together.

As Telperion gives way to Laurelin, the light filtering through the windows of the workshop slowly shifts, slipping away from Fëanáro’s hands. Míriel’s image in the stone disintegrates and the dream fades. He is left alone with the stone, its green now subdued and muted as the lichens trailing along the tree trunks in the north.

Fëanáro slides a glance across the shelves on the wall where many of the jewels he has created over the years stand as brilliant as Varda’s stars in the sky. They are beautiful, praised across Aman for the skill of their creation and the fineness of their form. But they all lack something. They are all dead.

Suddenly, Fëanáro feels the many hours of labor weighing on him. Looking upon his reflection in the windows, his own gaze appears dimmed by the lack of tree light in his workshop. That same light he has spent so long attempting to preserve into an imperishable form. And he has failed, yet again; the green stone he created is lifeless in the absence of light. But he cannot find it in himself to regret its making. The jewel is still warm in his palm and Fëanáro believes he can still hear Míriel’s humming radiating from its polished surface.

Outside, Laurelin’s blooms open joyfully, bathing the gardens around the workshop in soft gold. I shall try again, Fëanáro thinks to himself as he opens the door and steps into the tree light.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#feanor #miriel #miriel serinde #elessar #prompt fills #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #ficlets #silmarillion #tolkien

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silmforrookies · 1 year

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Chapter II. Valaquenta, or Wow, That's a Lot of Names

Alright, so where were we - ah yes, Eru showed the Ainur the vision of the World (Arda), and a lot of them decided Arda is cool so they came down and started shaping the world. Sounds about right.

Now, what exactly is Valaquenta? Basically, it's a chapter where Tolkien introduces us to the divine beings, not in "general", like in the last chapter, but more personally - we learn their names, what they are like, what are their domains, and that Melkor is a b-(CENSORED). Though we already knew that last bit.

Valaquenta can be divided into three sections:

Fanboying Over Valar

Fanboying Over Maiar

Melkor Is A Bastard And We Should Not Forget That

"Noldo", you might ask, "with all my due respect, who the hell are Valar and Maiar?"

Valar and Maiar are two kinds of Ainur - an Ainu is a Vala or a Maia depending on their power; Valar are the rulers, and Maiar are the servants. There are seven Vala-Lords and seven Valië-Queens; so fourteen if put them together and fifteen if you add Melkor - but Melkor is an idiot so he doesn't count. Their names are: Manwë, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Namo (Mandos), Irmo (Lórien), and Tulkas; and Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, and Nessa.

Well. Onto the main course! (if you've just heard someone sobbing in despair, yeah, that was me, sorry.) LETS LEARN ABOUT THE VALAR, KIDS! LETS RAISE OUR PRAYERS TO OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR MANWË SÚLIMO-

Manwë, also known as Manwë Súlimo, is the creator of skies and air and all that inhabits it. He's Eru's favourite. Eru's perfect son. Eru's golden child. He understands Eru like no one else does and often has private chats with him. When they only descended into Arda, he was second in might to Melkor, but, since Melkor is an idiot, he's deemed the strongest of the Valar. Manwë is married, and his wife's name is Varda.

Varda is elven favourite. Her surname is Elbereth, or Elentári, depending on which political party you will choose later in the years. She is Lady of Stars, and her domain is light. She and Manwë dwell together on the highest peak of Taniquetil (local holy mountain), and when they sit beside each other on their thrones, Varda hears all what's happening in Arda, and Manwë sees further than anyone else.

Oh, by the way! Melkor wanted to date Varda but she rejected him, because - you guessed it! - he is an idiot. So Melkor is scared shitless of her, as he should be.

Ulmo is the Vala of water, and he is positively Done. Manwë? Done. Melkor? Done. Eruhini? Do- oh wait, he loves those, actually.

Ulmo doesn't give a shit unless the world is literally falling apart. He doesn't wear "normal" bodies like the other Valar and appears in a form of giant warrior (borderline giant wave) which scares the Children of Ilùvatar which, in turn, makes Ulmo sad - because he loves them.

Ulmo reigns over all waters and often travels to Middle-Earth. Elves believe his voice and words can be heard in rivers and streams. He was best friends with Manwë, but we don't know much about the current state of affairs - only that Ulmo rarely visits land or other Valar.

Aulë is a craftsman. He is second in might to Ulmo, and created a lot in tandem with him and Manwë. He made metals and minerals, and he delights in all handiworks - from little trinkets to majestic buildings. He and Melkor are ✨narrative parralels✨. Both of them are driven by the will to create something new and original - but, while Melkor wastes his power on envy and hatred, Aulë doesn't think himself greater than the others, is quick to help and to be helped. Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He's been destroying Aulë's creations since the dawn of time. Aulë first have been repairing them, but then grew weary, tired of Melkor's temper tantrums.

Aulë is married to Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits, also called Kementári, Queen of Earth. She claims author rights to the animals and plants and is as powerful as Varda.

Next up are Feantúri-brothers, Námo Mandos and Irmo Lórien, named so for the places of their dwellings - and then, their respective spouses.

Námo, the Lord of Doom, knows time, or, as Galadriel said, "things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be". He suffers from a disease known as "I TOLD YOU SO! I TOLD YOU SO, BUT NOOOO, WHY WOULD WE LISTEN TO NÁMO, AKA THE DOOMSMAN, AKA THE ONE WHO KNOWS LITERALLY ALL THE SPOILERS?!" His name is Námo, but he is often called Mandos because his home is called Mandos, House of the Dead. He summons all the dead souls and makes sure they heal accordingly. He's married to Vairë the Weaver, who weaves the history of Arda into her tapestries.

Irmo Lórien is a Vala of dreams and rest. His respectable place of dwelling is Lórien - the fairest of places in Arda. He lives with his wife Estë, Valie of healing, who sleeps by day and walks by night. Lórien is a place where many find peace and refreshment - not just Elves, but Ainur too.

Similar to Estë, but more powerful than her, is Nienna. To shorten the story:

Nienna is Sadness and Grief, and she mourns every wound Melkor does to Arda. In fact, she started mourning long before the Arda even existed, in her Song. She spends a lot of time in Halls of Mandos, helping dead souls and mourning with them.

Then comes Tulkas the Valiant. Tulkas is. Well.

(live footage of tulkas viping the floor with melkor, years of the lamps, silmarillion)

He's super strong and is absolutely unhinged. Dude knows no fear. He has only one mission: to beat up Melkor. Yes, you guessed it, Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He is married to Nessa, Valie of... dancing? beauty? Nessa is a sister of Oromë - Vala of Hunting. Oromë loves forests and loves Middle-Earth; he would often visit it, and he would often beat Melkor's ass, too. Orome has a sister, Vaná, Valië of Youth.

So, there are fourteen Valar - but if you thought we're done, ohoho! you're in for a wild ride, my friend, for the Valar are divided into Aratar (kings and queens) and non-Aratar (everybody else). There are eight Aratar: Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, Aulë, Nàmo, Nienna and Oromë. Melkor could've been up there, but he's an idiot, so. Yeah.

Yeah.

(cries in dozen more of the Maiar)

Alright, kids. Buckle up, since the Maiar are beating up my ass and I have no patience left!

Ilmarë and Eönwë - chiefs of the Maiar in Valinor. Ilmarë is a handmaid of Varda and Eönwë is a Herald of Manwë.

Uinen and Ossë - Maiar of Ulmo. Ossë loves coasts and islands and delights in storms. Uinen is his wife, and she loves the deep waters. Ossë, chaotic bastard as he was, once almost joined Melkor and went unhinged, but, fortunately, Uinen brought him back to the light side with the ✨power of love✨. Ossë is still a tiny little bit unhinged and sometimes loves drowning ships for funsies, that's why sailors pray to Uinen to calm him down. Relationship goals, amirite.

Melian was a Maia who spent most of her life in Middle-Earth, married a major elven hottie, borned a daughter who was even a bigger hottie, and suffered from a disease known as "for god's sake please someone listen to a literal angel advising you", but we know nothing about that yet.

Ólorin, aka Gandalf, aka Mithrandir, aka The Guy You Definitely Know About!

AND NOW, FINALLY, LETS TALK ABOUT OUR LOCAL DEMONS! I'VE GOT FITEEN MINUTES UNTIL 15 H, CAN YOU TELL I'M SANE

Alright - so, of course, we've got our local Satan, Melkor, aka Morgoth, aka Bauglir, aka The Guy Who is Still A Bastard. He didn't have a particular domain - but he had part in powers of all the Ainur, and it was intended for him to help other Ainur excell even more at their crafts. Unfortunately, he spent all of his might to hate and envy, until he could do nothing else but imitate the creations of other Ainur. Still, there were many who followed him; most terrifying of them were Valaraukar, aka Balrogs - spirits of fire, demons of terror.

And of course, Sauron. What to say about Sauron?... Well, he's a bastard who looks up to Melkor. Mini-Boss. Mini-Morgoth. He does have cool fire-cat-werewolf aesthetic, though. If Melkor is chaos, Sauron is Order. If Melkor is brute force, Sauron is swift strategy. Sauron, though he's a Maia, is as terrifying as his Master, and it's better not to cross him.

Well, that was it! I've got two more minutes left until 15h - you'll get me next time, procrastination >:)

taglist: @none-ofthisnonsense (ask to be added!)

#silmarillion #tolkien #melkor #valar #silmforrookies #silm fic #14:59 FOLKS #valaquenta

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outofangband · 1 year

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Would you tell more about "Such cruel devices and similar", please?

from the wip ask game, my list of wips

Such cruel devices is my general Maedhros in Angband verse of which I always have more to share of!

@that-angry-noldo also asked about Set in Slow Torment which I thought I'd answer here because it's related! That is my Húrin in Angband verses!

Both titles are from lines in their books,

"Fingon wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth" and "Therefore Morgoth had him chained and set in slow torment". I'm still asking what 'set in slow torment' means. It's one of top three most ominous lines to me that I don't fully understand (the others are the extremely ominous lines about Morwen in the Lays and of course...that thing about Tulkas and Melkor in BoLT)

You can read them in my tag "in the iron hell"! I have a Maedhros in Angband piece coming up in a day or so!

I really like Angband world building and I really like writing horror so. As always feel free to ask about this stuff or send prompts :)

small snippets of each

cw: general Angband creepiness, water as control/dehydration, some unreality because I get carried away with shadows of Angband

Set in slow torment

"You know what I speak of, Thalion," the Vala whispered, tracing a long, sharp finger down the bruised face of the man hanging before him.

"I do," the voice was hoarse, blood had sprouted at his lips where they cracked.

"Forget for the moment the promises of land, of rule," the Vala suggested, almost gently, "Tell me you will speak and I will have you given water." That finger tilts up the man's chin, staring into eyes tinted from jaundice, "Surely you wish for water."

He has dreamed of water. Of the cooling streams of Nen Lalaith, of cupping its water in his hands and bringing water to his mouth, of the clear springs beyond his house, of the water that ran through the stone troughs built by his own grandfather.

He dreams of his family drowning.

"No." He thinks to save his breath, his voice, forming words forms yet more blood where dryness has flayed his lips and mouth. But he has no need to save them. His words are not for the Enemy today.

Such Cruel Devices

The bindings were undone and Maitimo crumpled to the floor. An almost soothingly cold metal pressed up against the burning skin of his chest; the tip of the boot of the creature stood above him. He could feel pressure being applied but there was no part of him alert or lucid enough to register pain.

"Stand, King of the Noldor," the ringing, clear mockery reverberates through the high chambers, piercing his mind. He gasps, spits blood upon the floor at the shadow of his Enemy. He cannot look up at the Moringotto. It is not that he is afraid, though he would be a fool not to be. But the very form of the being does not allow for his gaze to hold. It shifts, ripples, undulates between robe and shadow and mottled flesh. The blood seems to vanish when it touches the dark outline. Maitimo's hair falls over his face as he glares.

One of the guards steps forwards to strike at him again but the shadow shifts again and the guard goes still. Maitimo can feel the gaze of the Dark Lord upon him, watching as his body flailed in its attempt to right itself. He collapses back to the ground, unable to support himself on a broken arm and mutilated leg.

"Stand, Nelyafinwë." The order is softer now, almost lazy. The being does not move as the shadows fall over him, weaving through his torn skin, invading, consuming.

(I feel like my Angband writing hasn’t been as good lately which makes me sad because I both like writing it and I love being known for having awful ideas…as always I welcome feedback and constructive criticism!)

#maedhros #the silmarillion #musing and meta #Húrin #the children of húrin #short writings #in the iron hell

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victorie552 · 5 months

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Ok, I checked with the Book, and Silmarillion clearly states that Finarfin ruled over Noldor who stayed in Aman, and that these Noldor went to Middle Earth with Vanyar during War of Wrath. So this is absolutely an AU but imagine:

Vanyar took over Noldor lands, assimilating the leftover Noldor into their numbers.

It wouldn't even be that much of a stretch. Silm said that only every 1 in 10 elves stayed in Tirion and I doubt numbers got that much bigger when Finarfin and his people came back. Tirion definitely became a ghost town after The Flight. They had to rearrange everything! And there was a lot of grief among the Noldor: over Finwe, over family members who decided to go to ME, over the Trees (still no Sun and Moon), over the happy times that are over.

Who would want to be a ruler in this situation? Not Finarfin, that's for sure. But he's Finwe's son, so he has the bloodline. He has a bloodline, so he has a duty, and if he has a duty, there's nothing to be done. He's stuck with the job.

Then Indis/Ingwion/Ingwe himself offer to come to Tirion and help him with his kingly duties. Finarfin feels grateful, feels guilty over what Noldor did at Alqualonde (coming from a guy who Actually did nothing wrong), his wife left (him?) his side to go help her father and her people, his children Definitely left him. He accepts the help.

And Vanyar are helping! With administration and practical concerns, like where everyone should live now when a single Noldo living in their old house can have 3 streets to themselves each. But more importantly, they are messengers between Noldor and Teleri, who Finarfin Has to make amends to even if he doesn't know how. Teleri don't want to see any Noldo in their lands, so Vanyar messengers it is (Valar are unresponsive, thinking up the Sun and Moon).

Finarfin is doing a good job, but depending on what is practically another country to solve your problems is always tricky, and he isn't ambitious. Noldor are NOT doing well and are grateful for help, even if Before it would have hurt their collective pride (but then again, pride in what? Inventing murder? The morals are low). Ingwe is suggesting a deeper collaboration between their people and an general overlook over Noldor.

Why not? Finarfin is of Finwe's line, but he's also of Ingwe's. And wasn't Ingwe always the High King of all the elves in Aman? And he's feeding them cause his brothers' forces took most of their provisions and it's still dark and it will take a while before they relearn how to harvest under the stars. So while Noldor figure that out, why not give over some administrative power to Vanyar? Noldor judgement is probably still clouded by Morgoth's lies.

Things of course change when The Sun and Moon finally happen but the change happens, again, in Vanyar favour - they trusted the Valar who salvaged and restored The Light! They get things Right! Noldor want to get things Right too! (Vanyar clothing and customs become fashion with the same intensity as when Indis wed Finwe. Noldor are ashamed of themselves still. Teleri fashion is really not an option).

So by the time War of Wrath happens, Finarfin is not a High King, but a vassal to High King. And everyone is really cool with that.

Noldor of Middle Earth find that insane in a polite, half condensending and half betrayed way (like they can talk). Then Finarfin is the brother who, you know, actually DEFEATS Morgoth, so everyone has to reconsider their opinions on the matter.

Noldor who come back to Aman, by sailing or by reembodiment, experience a bigger culture shock than expected. Because even in the Blessed Realm, things change.

#silm #silmarillion #Finarfin #AU #I think all children of Finwe are very dutiful and That's what gets them insane #Feanor: marries below his station but invents things like tengwar and lamps to improve Noldor technology #Fingolfin marries a Correct Noldor lady and helps with actual ruling Lalwen can help with the court #Findis resides in Valmar so she has Vanyar scoop maybe even the Valar scoop #and Finarfin deals with Teleri #he married a Teleri princess! the best of matches!#truly sounds like a perfect configuration and a well-oiled political machine #Sons of Feanor had to get it from somewhere #but as with SoF when one part malfunctions it all goes to hell #but seriously we always show Aman more or less unchanging for simplicity's sake #and also cause that's not what silm is about it's about the Crazy Elves not the Sane Ones #but holy sh*t the political climate has the potential to be as insane as it got in ME #congratulations now Elves have to deal with History

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that-angry-noldo · 1 year

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ok so @thelordofgifs wanted to hear my thoughts on finarfin and findis and i am sorry for incoherency of this post because it's 23h (00:37 when i'm posting) where i am and someone should probably confiscate my phone BUT ANYWAYS yes them

(please note that we have like one line about findis so most of it are my headcanons)

this turned into a mini fic halfway through so i'm sorry

probably the thing about them is that finarfin and findis are very similar. both of them run from their home as soon as they can - findis to valimar, and finarfin to alqualondë. both avoid conflicts and remove themselves from family drama. both are seen as the wise, cool-headed ones. However, they are also on the opposite sides of the scale - Findis is the eldest (ignoring Feanor) and Finarfin the yongest. Finarfin marries and has children, while Findis remains single and devotes herself to Valar (Varda in particular). Finarfin is in Alqualondë, and Findis is in Valimar. Finarfin loves his father, and Findis - her mother.

When the Unrest breaks, Findis does not follow, and she can't believe so much of the Noldor are going forward. She didn't place high hopes on her family, but all of the Noldor can't be that reckless.

But they are.

She is left alone, in the dark and cold world, with no one but her grieving mother by her side. (Indis didn't take Finwe's death and the Flight of the Noldor well at all. For a long time she was but a thin ghost of herself, and Findis was left to deal with that.) Truly, great is the fall of Finwë, she thought to herself then; those were her darkest hours, and sometimes she's still not sure they're over.

And, the thing about Arafinwë is - he returns. Like a bastard he is. He returns with bowed head, and Findis remembers suddenly that he left too, that he was ready to go, that he abandoned her - no, not her - their mother, he abandoned their mother also: and Indis calls for him so often in her sleep! Ingo! Ingo! How many times did Findis have to say that no, he is not returning - please, mother, wouldn't you eat just a bit?

But there he is, returning from the Valar, with brand new crown upon his brow. Findis shuts her windows when the silent procession inevitably reaches their street. Her mother can't even stand up from her bed; she doesn't even know her youngest son is now crowned king in place of his father and brothers.

Ingoldo, she thinks bitterly. The Noldo.

His name becomes bitter on her lips.

Time passes. Darkness ends, and there are Sun and Moon in the sky now. Ingoldo tries writing to her. She didn't write the answer the first time. The second, she sent the messanger away. Ingoldo didn't try again.

Her mother doesn't need to know, she thinks. Indis is weak, and Findis should arrange her journey to Lorien, but-

Finwë was doomed; Finwë had doomed everyone around him; his first wife lies dead under the silver willows, and what if-

She can take care of Indis herself, she decides. And taking care of Indis includes... not talking about them. Any of them. Indis' favourite Nolo or her precious Lalwen or her brilliant Ingoldo.

Indis loves her daughter, and hates to see her angry or upset - so she doesn't.

Ingoldo, meanwhile, is the King - while his sister and mother live in a random street in Valimar, in Findis' simple apartment, he has the whole palace of Tirion - all to himself. He is slowly going mad.

We do not have enough harvest. Findis turned away from you as you were passing. Not enough working hands - we have to mobilize everything we can. Will she answer the letter? Please, please answer the letter. The lamps. We need more lamps. The streets are dark. I hope they're cared for. I hope Ingwe allowed them to dwell with him.

The crown on his head weighs more than it should've, and his marriage bond is... all but burnt to ash, and Findis doesn't want to hear from him. He decides he deserves that, just as he deserved everything else that happened.

But,

but.

He has nightmares. Of his mother, laying prone; her face pale and fair; her feautures peaceful under the shade of silver trees. It is not his most violent nightmare by far, but he wakes up screaming every time, his face red with tears. (He can't lose her too. She can't leave too. She can't die because of him too.)

And. He gives in. His hands shake. Findis told him not to write; told not to ever contact them. So he writes to Ingwe instead, and that's a headache - he scribbles and rewrites whole night long, until his letter is perfectly composed, without smallest flaw, all to ask - how is my sister? how is my mother?

We don't know, the answer comes. They refused to come under King Ingwe's care.

Finarfin grips at his hair and laughs hysterically, high and swaying. He hates his family, he remembers it now. He wants to grip Findis by her shoulders and shake, shake, shake her violently - your main source of income were your paintings, and you couldn't have possibly be making enough in past years to support yourself and Mother, why would you do this to yourself, why would you do this to her - and he suddenly remembers just how cold her apartments always felt, how small they were, and his mother hated small spaces, hated cold, hated-

He cries. Then, he stops.

He's a King. He has to get himself together. (He's Ingo. He has to understand.)

He rides to Valimar, alone, and arrives in the night. Findis opens the door.

She doesn't let him in. She doesn't let him talk in anything but a hushed whisper - Indis is sleeping upstairs.

"I came to see her," Ingo begs. "Please, only for a moment."

Findis looks at him. His face is pale, curls golden; hair soft, and eyes anxious. This is the man who left you, her brain supplies; the man who left your mother. She feels cold rage building up in her heart.

"Why," she says, "are you only coming now? Did you have enough of your kingly games?"

He's taken aback by her question. He wavers, then regains himself; Findis can nothing but scoff at his "please".

"She doesn't want to see you," she lies, just because she can. (Because Ingoldo doesn't deserve her mother, and her mother doesn't deserve the pain.) "And neither do I."

He startles; Findis feels grim satisfaction. "You don't get to sit on both stools, Arafinwë. You can't be both a King, and a Son. Or a brother, though I hardly consider you such."

He only stares, and Findis waits. She closed the door - the night is chilly, and she doesn't want her mother to be cold.

Ingo blinks, shakes his head. "I do not ask for forgiveness, or for acceptance, but- Findis, Ingwe offered-"

"I know what we need way better than you," she says cooly. "And the last thing Mother needs is a loud palace, or some kingly presence."

His face burns - finally. "This crown wasn't my choice, you know."

"Then drop it. Drop it, and I will think of letting you anywhere near our mother."

Ingoldo never does.

(They never quite get over it. Findis never quite forgives him, and Finarfin never forgets the hurt he felt that night - or the day, years and years later, when his mother embraced him and he understood, looking over her shoulder in his sister's eyes, that none of it was true.

They never told Indis. That was something they agreed upon.)

#the darkening and multiple ways it fcked people over <3 #probably my most controversial relationship #i Love them but also they're so unhealthy. worth noting that these are like. headcanons. and headcanons change with time #hell headcanons change fic to fic #finarfin #findis #silmarillion #silm meta #kinda?#anyways uh. not sure about this one. again it's rambly and differs from my usual headcanons #araposting

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eilinelsghost · 9 months

Text

some number of sentences, at least on a sunday this time!

Thanks to @welcomingdisaster for the tag! I couldn't figure out why Balan kept flirting so much in this scene until I realized he was a bit tipsy and then it all made sense. So please enjoy a snippet of Balan having had a bit too much Elvish wine to cope with some bad news:

His eyes were distant as he sat, still half-lingering within the earlier conversation. “He told me one foot yearns to stay, while the other is bound already to this home beyond hope they have raised amid the flax fields and barley. We have never been a settled people, Nóm. Never have we dwelt where each root and tree was known, where the earth too was friend and companion. Yet such have we found in the land of thy leading, and for Belen it is treasure beyond words. He has ever loved each village and camp, and would befriend the grasses and flowers, the copses and streams, then mourn come Spring at each departure. He is his mother’s child in many ways, and in this most of all. His is a heart of staying. And Estolad has won his love. He misses it already, I deem, short though his absence has been.” “And thou?” A quick flash of smile as Balan’s brow furrowed in question. “Thine heart too was not made to wander.” “Was it not?” The wry grin was genuine at last and the firelight glinted across Balan's eye. “Nay, I confess it, I too miss the golden fields and the riverside. But if I returned thither, I should miss the cool stone and the lamplight more; thy voice too, and the taste of thy wine.” Finrod laughed at this last and glanced toward the table with its empty decanters. “Hadst thy fill?” “Mm.” Balan drew his hands roughly down his face again and grimaced. “And more. I should have ended with Bel, but I’ve come back here and finished the lot.” “Ai…” Finrod chuckled as he glanced over Balan in quick evaluation. “And still upright!” “Still slouched and sulking,” he corrected and wrapped the blanket closer about his shoulders, “and in no state to entertain a king. Go on, Nóm, there’s no need for thee to pander to my foul mood. Thine own rest awaits and I’m a poor bondsman to keep thee from it.” “And a poor lord I to desert thee in melancholy. Thou keepst me from naught—nay, leave off, you mad creature!” His hand shot out and intercepted the chalice Balan had raised once more to his lips, and the king drew it back into his own grasp. “Here, I’ll spare thee from thyself,” he added with a laugh and downed the remaining wine before Balan could protest. Then he reached out to draw the other in against his side. “Now come here. Thou art chilled through—chide me not, I can see thy shivering."

I'm sure everyone has had a turn at this point, but since this seems to have morphed into a game of tag more or less, I'll say "you're it!" to @actual-bill-potts, @searchingforserendipity25, @that-angry-noldo, and @outofangband. With zero pressure to keep up the chase.

#tumblr games #WIPs #finrod #bëor #my fic #atandil

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niennawept · 1 month

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MAEGLIN AND AREDHEL IN DORIATH PLEASE

Okay - this one is a little wild so forgive me. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it, lest I snap and start writing it. [Not Written Yet Fics]

So this came to me when I was thinking about how Eol is a kinsman of Thingol and how Thingol does seem to have a soft spot for children in need.

I will warn you before going on that this does feature more nuanced headcanons about Eol than are widely popular in the fandom. If you would rather not read that - I don't blame you. My reading is based on the idea that the Silm narrative was written by Pengolodh and he's ... not unbiased given the Fall of Gondolin.

The only abuse here is restricting people's freedom to leave Nan Elmoth. Aredhel and Eol married each other without any form of coercion on his part (but they are in a freaky magic forest that likes to play matchmaker). It was way too hasty - they had a kid to try to save the marriage and we all know that doesn't end well. It was just a bad match. They wanted different things out of life and over time, Eol subtly got worse and worse about his terror of the outside world. His insistence that they do not leave because it is not safe. People are out to get them et cetera.

I feel like that needed saying before I go on - or the rest might not make sense.

So Aredhel and Maeglin go to Doriath because at some point in their marriage Aredhel told Eol enough about Gondolin that he figured out its location.

She worries that if they fled that way, he'd find them and bring them back.

Maeglin is still not fully grown. He doesn't have great fondness for sunlight either.

He's a little scrawny and pale and he's never played with other children - but after a rocky patch, he does find a niche with the rest of the Doriathrim.

He is a bit disappointed that he doesn't get to see the famed city of Gondolin (or at least, as famous as it is in his little mind) and "Uncle" Thingol does not seem as cool as the Uncle Turgon he was promised, but he does dote on the boy.

He still makes friends with the dwarves. His father taught him to respect them and although he doesn't completely understand everything his father did - that doesn't seem like a bad thing

Aredhel has a more difficult adjustment. She's a Noldo and she's on thin ice for her family's role in the kinslaying. It's fair to say she's tolerated rather than embraced.

Kinship rites among the Sindar dictate that she be treated like the King's "niece" - but it's very strained.

Meanwhile in Gondolin, Eol is captured trying to enter the valley and put to stern questioning. When they learn of the way he kept Aredhel from leaving, he's thrown into a prison cell.

(he receives a court order for mandatory counseling, since he doesn't seem to get what he did wrong)

A short while later, Galadriel returns and her presence eases some of that tension. Her close relationship with Melian sheds some light on the whole Nan Elmoth situation.

Aredhel learns of the ancient magic there that draws people together - often in ways that even Melian does not understand.

Maeglin grows up. Aredhel dons hunting leathers for the first time in many years and walks in the forest with Beleg and Mablung and Nellas. For a time, they are all content

Then disaster child Turin turns up and Maeglin feels a strange kind of kinship with the boy. He aids him how he can, even giving him a weapon he forged. (when has that ever gone wrong?)

Maeglin gets a front row seat to a "there but for the grace of the Valar go I" situation when everything with Turin goes south.

We check in on Eol - he's ... better. Taking him out of Nan Elmoth seems to have cleared his mind a bit. He still doesn't like the Noldor, doubly so since they're holding him in Gondolin, but he's earned his way out of prison. (He's still closely watched - out on parole)

Then the -uh-Nauglamír situation happens and Maeglin leaves without fighting anyone - dwarf or elf. That won't right the situation with the Silmaril and it won't bring Thingol back.

Aredhel is loathe to leave the marchwardens to deal with this - but Maeglin is still her kid, so she chooses to go with him - but it's a difficult decision.

That's about as far as I've gotten. I do think there's some kind of reunion (Maeglin and Aredhel with Eol) but I don't see them being a big happy family so much as people who have ties to each other and who are trying to sort through what went wrong years ago.

I think it ends on a hopeful note. Not everything is forgiven. Nothing is forgotten, but maybe they can coexist.

Like I said, it's messy (partially because it's a little autobiographical in places, there's a reason I feel so badly for Maeglin) - but I think about it from time to time.

#niennaanswers #runawaymun #extremely elaborate things I daydream about sometimes

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sallysavestheday · 1 year

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Here to distract you! Tell us about Glorfindel's family.

Thanks, @polutrope!

Lots of interest in Glorfindel today, which makes me happy because I love him. I have actually written multiple versions of him, so let's tease out the variations.

In The Flower and the Fountain, he is half-Vanyarin. His mother is a relative of Ingwë, to account for canon references to him being from "a house of princes," and she currently plays the classic Tolkien role of Unnamed Woman From and About Whom We Hear Very Little (but I am working on that in a WIP, honestly! Stay tuned!). They're close. She is pious and it's through her that he acquires his religiosity and his fondness for sacred dance (see: Come Round Right). It's a loving and supportive household and he grows up happy if somewhat isolated from the rest of the world of Aman. That Glorfindel is an only child, not related directly to any of the other primary figures of Silm fanon or canon.

In that 'verse, his father is a Noldo of status, who chose, when he wed, to move to Valimar rather than bring his wife to Tirion. He is not a fan of Feanor, nor particularly of Fingolfin or Arafinwe, although his Vanyarin connection gives him some sympathy for Indis and her children. Of the three, he's most willing to suffer Arafinwe, who seems to have his head on relatively straight and, like Glorfindel's father himself, beat it out of Tirion at the first possible opportunity on the arm of a beloved one. So when Glorfindel becomes friends with Angrod and Aegnor in his youth he doesn't really resist. It's good politics, etc., etc. When Glorfindel enters Aegnor's service he's a bit cautious; he doesn't see the arming of the Noldor as a good thing. And he's definitely part of the tithe of the Noldor that doesn't follow anyone into Exile. Nope, that's dumb. Sit down, sons of Finwe, and cool your jets, before you get any more people killed, etc., etc. He and Glorfindel don't fight about the latter's choosing to go, but it is a source of grief for both of them and they miss each other fiercely.

That version of his father is central to What Carries You, within that series. Young Glorfindel is quite sensitive to the Powers and very pious, and struggles with being overwhelmed by the aura of the Ainur growing up in Valimar. His father does Good Dad Things (read the fic, for elaboration ;)) to help him manage himself, which he carries forward into his life in Middle-earth. He's a loving father, helpful, remembered warmly. Even after Glorfindel returns, Glorfindel the Hero is not his father's favorite iteration: he loves his dancing, plant-growing, embroidering son the very best. Which is a good thing, all round.

In Follow the Light Unflinchingly, on the other hand, Glorfindel is entirely Vanyarin, and does not have a good relationship with his father (or, by implication, his mother). Elenwe draws him out, in that fic, into his adult self and into confidence and joy. She is his cousin and his best friend, and he follows her to Tirion when she marries Turgon (and then over the Ice). He takes Idril under his wing when Elenwe dies, and is absolutely devoted to her for the rest of his life, both for herself and in memory of Elenwe.

Obviously I headcanon him as married to Ecthelion. In The Flower and the Fountain, their shared dual heritage (Ecthelion has a Noldorin father and a Telerin mother) is one of the things that binds them together. But Glorfindel's longing for a child of his own is a point of tension (Ecthelion is a huge fan of Earendil and an honorary uncle, but that's enough for him, thankyouverymuch). I solved that problem in The Stars Remain the Same with the assistance of @idrilsscribe, who let me borrow her headcanon that Glorfindel was asked by Elrond to take on a quasi-parental role for Elrohir, to assist in the raising of the twins. Child acquired, family complete...and Ecthelion finally gets on the bus, at that point, so they end up happy.

Thanks again for the ask! This kept me happily busy for a long time in a very fraught waiting room this afternoon. :)

#asks and answers #my fic #fic recs #glorfindel #tolkien fanfiction

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