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#ambarussa would be proud
curufiin · 8 months
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i feel like feanor’s parenting style was ok at first but then steady went downhill with every kid he had then suddenly shot back up to omg great parent with curufin. something like this
maedhros: somewhat stern but this is his first time parenting! wants to teach mae all about the forge and stuff he knows but also mae is a cute little guy so feanor was relatively nice to him. good kid 10/10 :) what a great candidate for crown prince. mommy’s hair color looks so cute on him
maglor: standards have increased maglor is now under scrutination because feanor senses he has gay vibes. absolutely pushes the you’re good at music thing to its limits but he always shows up to maglor’s performances and he’s always very proud. good son. dad is just a little unhinged
celegorm: this is where it all goes downhill celegorm is the ABSOLUTE BANE OF HIS EXISTENCE. WHY IS HE EATING WORMS AND THROWING MUD AT PEOPLE. celegorm wakes up at 5 am every morning and cries because he wants cuddles after maglor told him to be quiet and feanor has not had adequate sleep since he was born but he’ll give him cuddles. also WHY IS HE BLONDE (mommy issues)
caranthir: feanor wishes he knew how to pull out but alas his cum power is just too great. he also tries to force caranthir to do forge things but caranthir does not careranthir and would rather make cool axes. he picks fights with celegorm fucking CONSTANTLY and celegorm PARTICIPATES BECAUSE HE THINKS IT’S A GAME.
curufin: FINALLY SOME GOOD FUCKING FOOD curufin is The star child. he has interest in the forge. he looks like dad. he talks like dad. he is so so cute look at his cute baby face. feanor is constantly spoiling him with affection and mae looks kinda upset by that but he does not care look at baby curvo. look at him. feanor shows him off at every possible moment and brings him everywhere. fuck you fingolfin fuck you finarfin he has, objectively, the best baby in the world. celegorm wants him to be a hunter like him and feanor told him to fuck off
ambarussa: cute boys but daddy was too busy crying that mommy left him so really mae and mags were the ones raising them
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youareunbearable · 2 years
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Thinking about an Age Swap!Grandchildren of Finwe, haven't thought where I would like to go with it but I have a few concepts I'd like you to consider:
Feanor and Nerdanel’s first birth being Ambarussa, twins which exhaust Nerdanel to the point where Feanor is now Freaking Out, but then she gets her Mother Vision and is screaming and crying because all she can see is her youngest twin and Flames. She's so weak for so long after the birth that she hasn't even named her sons yet and everyone is so Worried that this is Miriel all over again
Feanor would be so scared to try again for another child and when they do he puts more of his fear into the creation to help take the burden off his wife that neither are surprised that Curufin ends up looking like a little clone of his father
Big Sister Galadriel, you thought she was Powerful as the cherished baby sister??? Her final and most powerful form is about to be unleashed
Imagine little nerd Curufin and all his Big Jock cousins and older brothers (the hunting trio of Aredhel and Ambarussa, the Jock Argon and the Scary Powerful Galadriel) and Hating it so much like they are all kind to him but if he is told to Go Bond With Your Family Members and is forced to wrestle or go hunting once more hes going to Scream
Ambarussa and Aredhel cheering when Celegorm is born and is also Very Much a hunter too and are so proud when he becomes favoured by their patron Vala
Also, just picture the ramifications when Nolofinwes Heir, the Second In Line to the High Kingship of the Noldor goes MISSING in Eol’s kingdom???? On her way to visit her younger cousins??? Oh Maeglins story would be So Different
Turgon and Finrod being born a little after Celegorm and Turgon being So Jealous over the fact that his older sister "clearly" likes their Feanorian cousin more than him so when Fingon is born he is Such a helicopter smothering Big Brother that Fingon will never question he's loved ever
Instant betrayal when a couple years later Fingon takes one look at their youngest cousin and Falls In Love with tiny baby Maedhros
Maglor singing his little brother lullabies to go to sleep and hes so excited that HE gets to be a big brother that he vows to never leave his side ever. He breaks that vow several times over the course of their lives.
The first is when Maedhros, the youngest of all the Finweans, is taken by Morgoth and tortured and none of them can do anything about it, and their king, Nelyafinwe who had just lost his twin in the ships set on fire by their own father, is too grief-stricken to want to lose more men to retrieve another dead brother.
The second time is when its just them left, just the two youngest of Finwes grandchildren (except for Galadriel but no one has seen or heard from her in centuries) and Maglor looked away for just a second, got lost in the burning of his hand from their stolen Silmaril for just too long and when he came back too it was to his baby brother tilting himself over the edge of a cliff, crying and clutching his own burning Silmaril. Maglor would haunt the shores knowing that he failed his own baby brother time and time again.
I think Caranthir would be the same though. He was a (pleasent) surprise in either timeline for his parents.
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lamemaster · 1 year
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And the Time Stopped (Caranthir x Male Reader)
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An: I wrote this as Caranthir x OC for ao3. I changed OC into the reader for Tumblr. I think it is cute and if you would like to read more of it in Caranthir x male reader format let me know.
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: He exhaled a sigh of relief when the gardens remained quiet as ever. An unnoticed smile crept on the face of the broodiest Feanorian. If anyone were to witness the scene of Morifinwe crouched in a random bush smiling at the ground, they would probably knock on the doors of the nearest healer.
One step and he would lose all the progress. A distant sane part of Carnistir’s mind wondered what the hell was he doing. Telperion’s bloom was halfway through. Sleepy elflings loitering in the streets had been long tucked in their bed by their parents. It was a mellow evening.
Yet, for the fourth son of crown prince Feanor, it was a night of adventure he never remembered asking for. He was hanging from the second highest branch of the tree right next to the window of his room that too without making the wood creak. He was sure that his face was probably flushed red by now. 
Somehow, Carnistir had snuck out without alerting the other 6 menaces that resided in the same house as him. He was particularly proud of escaping from Turco, the famed hunter of Oromë. 
Praying for the last time Carnistir swung his legs and let go of his hands holding the branch. He aimed to land farthest from the wall of his house to avoid alerting anyone of his plan. The Illuvatar listened to his pleas as he landed lightly on his feet closer to the other end of their garden. As soon as his feet touched the ground Carnistir rolled his body towards a bush and waited for any sign of disturbance.
He exhaled a sigh of relief when the gardens remained quiet as ever. An unnoticed smile crept on the face of the broodiest Feanorian. If anyone were to witness the scene of Morifinwe crouched in a random bush smiling at the ground, they would probably knock on the doors of the nearest healer.
His strategy had been way too good for anyone to even suspect him. Unknown to the crouching ellon, his smile turned into a frightening smirk similar to that of a dark lord marveling at their work. Ignorant of his facial expressions Carnistir reminisced about the evening when he started to work on his scheme.
“BAM!” He had slammed the front door of their house. His hair was messed up in a fashion that reassembled a bird’s nesting preference. His face was bright red with evident rage, which unknown to anyone was not really rage but the succession of quick laps he had run in the unfrequented woods. 
“Carn—” Nerdanel, who was in the process of forcing Pityo into his chair to eat, stopped mid-sentence when she saw him. Carnistir felt guilt creep up his gut, but he continued his power walk to his room. This had to be flawless. This would be the building block of ensuring everything ran smoothly for the night. Mentally he apologized to his mother, if it were to be another day, he would’ve helped her with the twins but not today.
As he reached his door, he could hear Ambarussa chattering and Nerdanel shushing them. “No, you cannot go to Moryo today.” The statement was followed by collective whining to which he heard his mother replying in hushed tones.
Not known to many, there was an unchallenged rule in the Feanorian household. It was a rule respected by all the members of the family, even the rowdy Ambarussar had to uphold it, albeit reluctantly. 
In a house full of artisans, it was not uncommon for one-third of the house to have a temper tantrum on a particular day. His father’s frustration with metals, Makalaure’s writer’s block, or his mother’s pilling commissions. It was bound to create tensions. So, the household of Feanor made it a rule to respect an artist’s justifiable irritation and stay out of the person’s way. After several family meetings, it was decided that in case of a rough day the person would be left alone. No one would interrupt the internal war of the fuming member.
It wasn’t surprising that Feanor, Curvo, and Carnistir were the leading participants in this exercise, which was the reason that it came to him like second nature. Thus, it was arranged that no one would be troubling him tonight.
Breaking away from his reverie Carnistir dusted his robes. He had made sure to dress in something darker for the night. After contemplating for an hour, he had settled for a dark-brown velvet tunic. He had himself embroidered its seams with gold thread. As a precautionary measure, he patted his braids, making sure nothing had come undone. 
As if remembering on cue he patted his inner pockets. It would be all for nothing if he forgot the book. Much to his relief, he could feel the minute outlines of the book. 
After looking around for a pair of redheads sneaking around for the last time Carnistir huffed and started making his way toward Tirion’s public library. 
As he walked the relatively quiet roads of Tirion, he couldn’t help but notice the slight rustle of leaves as the wind tussled with them. He marveled at the limestone sidewalk that seemed to be painted silver with the light of Telperion. He spotted a few stubborn weeds growing in-between the paved sidewalk.
Carnistir never cared much for the poetic beauty in everything around him. He had left that to Makalaure. He much preferred to wield a needle to weave colorful threads into a scenery. His grandmother’s art had appealed the most to him and his father had been immensely proud. Feanor admired every single one of his creations and would stand looking at them for hours.
However, these days Carnistir found himself humming a familiar jolly tune, Makalaure had almost tripped when he found his younger brother mindlessly humming a love song. Carnistir found joy in helping his mother with twins, easing Maitimo’s duties. On random occasions, he would catch himself admiring the light of trees, and the chirping of the birds, Huan seemed to get extra pets from him. He even found himself laughing at the Ambarussar’s antics.
All this he had woven in a tapestry. It felt as if the world that felt like an annoyance was suddenly livelier. Something had breathed life into everything around him. The realization made the book in his coat feel so much heavier.
He had been frowning at the same fabric for the past hour. The vendor who was earlier glad that the prince had come to his shop was now exasperated. “My lord, my prince…” Carnistir ignored his whining with immaculate talent. 
Had it been a normal piece he would not have cared that much but this was supposed to be a present for his father. His father, who never celebrated his begetting for the longest time. Carnistir knew it was the lingering grief of Miriel’s loss that still saddened his father. 
“I’ll take this one.” Carnistir flinched at the sudden voice right next to him. He had not heard anyone approaching. Even the shopkeeper seemed stunned at the unexpected interruption.
The next moment the shopkeeper recovered and with a brilliant smile turned to the new customer. Carnistir was indignant at the interruption. He had yet to ask if the fabric was dyed with the specific dye he preferred.
Had this stranger made no sense? How could he just look at a piece of fabric from that far away and buy it? One needs to feel the cloth, inspect the dye, and look at the consistency of the threadwork in the least.
This was atrocious. Ready to educate the fool who was still standing quite a distance away Carnistir turned. “Excuse me, but ho—” and the time stopped to exist.
Out of all the children of Feanor, Carnistir was the least impulsive. He had always planned and weighed his options. Yet, one look at you, who he was about to give an earful, he felt the world turn upside down. 
It was one moment that made him swoon, yearn, and forget whatever he had been doing before this. The stranger with hair of Laurelin’s color and eyes of the color of a lake on a bright day looked back at him equally surprised.
Carnistir, the harshest and quickest to anger out of all his brothers, fell in love at first sight. Almost quicker than the red that instantly colored his face.
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sadlybeans · 1 year
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Baby Tyelpe
best babiest boy who i love and adore
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✨Appearance headcanons✨
Always has hair gathered up in some way, habit he got from Curvo
Náro’s preference for no jewellery
Small ears
Third tallest after Nelyo and Ambarussa
Brown skin like Náro, Káno and Curvo
Mother’s honey eyes
✨miscellaneous headcanons✨
Apple of Náro’s eye. Spoiled to death and always by his grandfather’s side.
Always gets away with absolutely everything.
Has never been scolded in his life.
Golden child but it applies to the entire family.
Whenever he makes something he feels proud of he walks up to every single adult and presents it for praise.
Little charming man who gets sweets and treats from every single person he comes across.
Continuously brought to the forges with Náro and Curvo, which makes him unofficial judge to everyone’s work.
If Tyelpe doesn’t approve of something that thing Is Not Good Enough.
Has a cute singing voice but can rarely be convinced to perform.
Always asking Nelyo for rides on his shoulders because he likes to be taller than everyone.
Is very overprotective of Nelyo (will be clarified upon when I eventually post his design), did not like Finno for a long time.
Favourite relative outside immediate family is actually aunt Artanis.
Least favourite is uncle Ñolofinwë.
Of course that’s not Náro’s influence why would you think that.
i think that’s it
oh wait
one last fact that i will not explain tho:
Disturbingly fascinated with fire.
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starlitwinter · 2 years
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Holy Crap
Hello. I'm Sunny. And today I offer you my version of "Modern Girl in Middle Earth". But with what I would have done if I was in Valinor during the Silmarillion. I'm not from an English speaking country so sorry if there are mistakes. Being proud of my language and culture, I will put words in French and references to the French culture. I will give the translations and explanations at the end of the chapter!Little help: italics are for quenya
My updates will be when I've written something so uh... sorry in advance. Have a good read!
(Of course, everything you recognize belongs to our dear Tolkien!)
"Holy crap, why is Manwë in front of me?"
The man, or rather the Vala, stepped back and looked at me warily, surely thinking I was a servant of Satan. I mean, of our dear Melkor. Morgoth. Melkor. Anyway.
"How do you know my name, stranger? What are you?"
Oh fuck. Just why? I should have listened to Paul and learned Quenya. Also, isn't it a rule in fanfics that Y/N has a great integrated translator or is such a fan of Tolkien that they are fluent in Quenya? God-no Eru dammit! Help me with this!
"Answer." "You know what, I don't understand anything you're saying okay. I'm going to tell you about my last day on Earth, even if you don't get it. Well, it all 'started' on a beautiful summer evening."
And here we go for a ride! Start the flashback music!  ~~ " We eat! It's on the table!"
My brother got up from the couch, grabbing my phone before I could react.
"Luke. Give me my phone back." "Boo-hoo, I'm scared." 
He mimed crying before glancing at my screen and letting out an exaggerated sigh.
"ao3 again? And what are you looking for now?" "Fanfiction ducon."
He rolled his eyes.
"I'm not dumb sœurette. About who?" "The twins." "Which ones? Weasley? Skywalker?" "Not the Skywalkers! What do you take me for? That's seriously shady with... you know." "Well, I never know with you... And may I remind you that your name is Leya with a y and not an i? Thanks Maman."
Yes, you heard me right. Or read. My brother, a twin at that, is named Luke. And I'm Leya. Thanks Papa who is more than a Star Wars fan and thought it was funny to convince our mother to name us after the Skywalker twins. But our mother made a mistake when we registered with the Civil Registry. And now we are Luke and Leya Owes.
"Are you done staring into the void? There's no camera and this isn't a 'To All the Boys I've Loved Before' type show."
A sharp and brutal return to reality. Thanks frérot. He waved my phone in front of my eyes and snapped his fingers (with his other hand of course).
"What twins? And then we can go downstairs to eat and avoid Maman's wrath." "Fëanor's twins. Ambarussa. Amrod and Amras. Telufinwë and Pityafinwë." "Ah okay. I see who it is. Here. Take your phone back."
He tossed me my phone while turning to go open the door to our room. I retrieved my phone on the fly (thanks to my reflexes) and followed him to join our parents.
"What took you so long!"
Our mother was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips.
"Sorry Maman, Leya thought she was in a soap opera and was staring at an invisible camera. I tried to get her to react but she wouldn't stop until she finished telling her story.
As I went to sit down, I kicked him in the shin and smiled at our parents.
"Let's eat, I'm starving." "Be careful or you'll sink tonight."
As I kicked him in the shin again and handed my plate to my father to serve me.
"Don't say that Luke, I'm sure your sister is going to do great tonight."
Thanks for the support Papa. 
"But speaking of which, isn't it better that you don't eat before the race, chérie?"
I nodded as I watched my dad put some peas on my plate.
"Luce said I could eat a little beforehand just to. But nothing too big. Besides, it's in four hours..."
My mother nodded to support my words and everyone resumed eating. Three hours later, I was in the 'lodges' near the lake where I was going to do my first night race of the year. Despite the fact that the race was an hour away, I was already dressed in my wetsuit and my hair was already tucked under my swimming cap. The stress was starting to build. Still. Two kilometers in the dark is always extremely long. My coach, Luce, had her hands on my knees to stop them from shaking and was gently answering my questions.
"What if I miss my roll? Or get a false start!" "You keep going. You're fighting for the gold, Leya." "Even with a cramp? Can we really not go test the water? Imagine it's freezing and I'm getting hypothermia!" "That's what your suit is for. And then we are in summer, the water can't be like in winter. And you can't test the water. That's the point of this race, to get into unknown water. Every year, a new lake." "What about the cramp?" "Leya... How many times have you participated?" "Fifth. So yes. I know what to do if you get a cramp. The thing Benoit explains every year. The tab on the side and boom light. Sorry I'm stressed." "I saw that! But Leya. You've already brought us three silver medals and one bronze. That's already great. But this year is the last." "I know. After that I'll be too old. Well, in a manner of speaking. 17 is still young." "Leya. This year you're going for the gold. More than ever okay? Gold." "Yeah. Gold. Got it." "I'll give you your last hour with your family and friends. Then you jump in the water and bring back?" "The gold medal. Thank you, Luce. "Thank you instead."
She winked at me before walking out of the tent and my family and best friend walked in. My brother was the first to break the silence.
"Ready for the gold, Princesse?" "I think so. This year is my year. I can feel it."
Paul, my best friend since kindergarten came over to pat me on the shoulder. 
"You shouldn't have put on your swimming cap right away. You're keeping me from ruffling your hair Tomate."
Tomate is my nickname because when I was little and even now, when I get angry I turn as scarlet as a tomato. And therefore lose all my credibility according to Paul. 
"Let's make a bet Leya."
Him and his bets. How much is he going to talk me into learning Quenya?
"The conditions are? Because if I accept without knowing, I'm pretty sure I'll get screwed."
He looked at me with a fake outraged look before dramatically putting a hand on his chest.
"I am outraged by this attitude, jeune fille. And to answer your question, if you win the gold, I'll stop talking to you about learning Quenya. But if you win something else... You will take quenya lessons with me." "To please you I will accept. But be prepared for me to win!"
Afterwards, the atmosphere was lighter and we talked until Luce arrived.
"It's time."
I stood up and gave a small smile to my family and Paul before leaving the tent. A small breeze caressed my skin and made me shiver. We walked until we reached the edge of the lake, where the race would begin.
"Ready?" "Ready." "You're going to make it kid, and don't forget..." "We're taking the gold home." "That's good."
She left, probably to join the other coaches. Almost all the participants had arrived. Focus. Speed. I am speed. One winner, fourty two losers. I eat losers for breakfeast. Speed.  Faster than fast. Quicker than quick. Wait. Am I doing the beginning of Cars 1?  The first shout of the referee sounds and without having understood what he said, I automatically put on my glasses and get in position to jump. I can do it. The start is launched and I jump to make a great dive. Great start. Ready to feel the water wrap around me and start swimming. But. This is the ground I encounter. Grass. Grass? Bruh. Where's the water? 
"What the hell is this?"
I took off my glasses and my head spun from the bright light my retina perceived. After a few seconds, I could see the beautiful plain that had replaced the lake and the forest.
"Where the fuck am I?"
I stood up before I heard someone speaking to me in an unknown language. 
"Is everything okay?"
I turned around to face a guy. Tall. Handsome. With long white hair. His clothes were strange, but so were mine. Being in a wetsuit in the middle of a plain is suspicious. But what shocked me the most was behind him. Two gigantic trees. And they were shining. One gold, the other silver. Telperion and Silpion. I believe. So that means... the guy. That's Manwë. 
"Holy crap, why is Manwë in front of me?"
And there it is. You know everything.
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livielfinarfiniel · 3 years
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I have this weird headcanon for Elrond and Elros where they would plan their pranks on everyone in the public but in feanorian quenya so their victims would know they're planning something but not what.
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skyeventide · 3 years
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A name
the twins for @feanorianweek and here on AO3
Ambarussa is his brother, the brother who is his mirror image. 
Ambarussa puts his arm around his shoulders and laughs aloud, and Ambarussa rarely finds quips and jests quite that amusing, but he joins in, if nothing else because the sound of his brother’s laughter is bright as bells and bubbling like streams, and contagious. 
Ambarussa, when he is angry, scowls deeply and lifts his chin up, and his nose curls at the sides, the same expression, Ambarussa has noticed, that descends on Tyelkormo’s face; and when he is with his brother, Ambarussa matches that frown with precision. But when he is alone he twists his lips instead and, askance, shoots a quick glare.
« Ambarussa », his brother, who is his mirror image, calls.
And Ambarussa calls back. 
*
Their father has never looked kindly upon that. 
He has ever pressed his mouth in a tight line, a muscle in his jaw jumping, his eyes cutting to the side, away from them, and one who knows their father less would mistake his discomfort for anger. 
« You are Ambarto », their father snaps, an evening when his mood is more frayed.
Their father has a way to demand silence without even hinting that it is what he wants. But Ambarussa, who is his brother, was born with a proud and steady boldness in his spirit and is not at all deterred. « Me? », he asks. 
« No », their father replies, his voice already mellowing. « You are. »
And his beautiful but forge-callused hands touch Ambarussa’s head in a caress. 
He tastes that other name on his tongue, but the sounds roll wrong. 
*
No one else minds, especially not mother.
*
The first time they speak of this, their hair has already begun to change, making them subtly different from one another; they have learnt to hunt with skill, and Ambarussa has taken to the working of copper with his mother and grandfather. They are in the forests, fletching arrows under the golden shadow of chestnut trees.
« I asked mother, one time », Ambarussa admits.
His brother snorts. « I asked father. »
« And what did he say? »
« That even at birth we looked greatly alike but even so we were not the same child, and therefore mother should not have been so bothered if he begged her for two different names. To which I said that he was one to talk, with how he named Curvo. »
Ambarussa chuckles. But then he prods, « And how did he answer? », for certainly his father answered.
« It was different, he said. His name for Curvo was a title, hers for us a prophecy. »
There is something his brother is not saying and it is the first time in his life that Ambarussa’s mind does not mingle seamlessly with his own. Ambarussa thinks nothing of it, or tries to. 
It is only much later that he learns the whole story.
*
Their brothers begin calling them by other names, when their hair has changed entirely, one darker like garnets, one lighter like the copper jewels he has wrought. 
So he is Telvo, and Ambarussa is Pityo. 
Ambarussa enjoys the nickname, but doesn’t use it for his brother -- after all, he often calls his brother only by thoughts, a tug to the spirit as natural as breathing.
*
« What did mother say? »
« That our name was the truth of her heart, and if truly we hated it, we would one day each choose an epessë or be given one by others, and that would be the truth of ours. »
*
It was Umbarto -- that was the other name.
It is Ambarussa who spits it to his face, with the bluntness that is his wont, in the dark hour in which they pack a few light belongings to leave Aman forever. Mother is outside the house, silent and solemn like quiet waters, and Ambarussa has not greeted her.
« That is what she called you. No wonder father wanted it changed. »
Ambarussa spits it to his face when they learn that she had come to ask for her youngest child to be left with her. He has not been a child for many centuries, for countless decades.
« If people in our family », he says under his breath, with a sharp look askance and his lips pursed in a line, « bothered to ask others for their thoughts rather than making them the object of their assumptions and bargains, perhaps one could speak their mind and their wishes with more honesty. »
« The hour in which I see you speak your mind directly, Ambarussa », his twin replies, « I shall throw a party. »
He glares at his brother also, who is his mirror image.
*
He looks at his mother one last time, and it isn’t longing, it isn’t fear, it isn’t a roiling sense of betrayal that this other name was hidden from him, nor nostalgia. None of those, all of them, but then his brother’s thoughts mingle with his as they used to, lending him a jolt of determination. 
*
It is told of Ambarussa that, on the shores of Beleriand, he was the only one of his brothers other than Nelyo who could stand straight before their father and hold his gaze with defiance. 
He does not remember that -- he was not there. Though sometimes his brother’s memory fuses with his, when they speak without words, and he too sees it, and sees their father’s inexpressibly luminous eyes shining with the hardness of diamonds.
All he remembers of the long night of Losgar is the smoke he woke up to, the scorching pain as he ran into the flames, the impact with water, the untold torment of his limbs as he was cradled by despairing arms, there on the wet sand of an unfamiliar land.
All their brothers give their names in the new tongue to the grey elves of the north.
Nelfin Maedhros. Cónafin Maglor. Turfin Celegorm. Morfin Caranthir. Curufin Adareg and his young son, Celebrimbor. 
Nibefin Amras. 
His scars circle the back of his left hand, and crawl from under the collar of his clothes to hug his jaw, the burnt skin gleaming silver and uneven. The etchings of his fear and grief, hidden and present, rejected and accusing. 
« Telufin », he says to the elves of the Mithrim lake. 
He breathes in and smiles, a chilling curl to his lips.
« Amrod. »
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arofili · 4 years
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this has been said before, so many times, but the feanorians would fucking LOVE the hobbits who come to valinor. bilbo would be so honored to be among such illustrious figures, especially the ones elrond spoke so fondly of, but like feanor would go wild over him. remember this guy never got to meet men or even dwarves - having a new species to study?? he would endure a thousand pestering questions from bilbo about the finer points of elvish linguistics, enjoy it, even under normal circumstances but ESPECIALLY if it means learning about and documenting hobbit culture. these two scholars would get along SWIMMINGLY. and where’s that post about melkor being basically a sackville-baggins??? bilbo never got over lobelia stealing his spoons and feanor never got over melkor stealing his silmarils, they’d be INSTANT FRIENDS. maedhros and frodo would have SO MUCH to bond over, are you kidding me?? they are literally narrative parallels lmao, what with the ancient wounds, losing a hand or part of one, the connection to falling into fire, cursed magical objects, personally victimized by sauron, etc etc etc... sam would gush over nerdanel’s statues and she would insist on sculpting him and his entire massive family. bold of you to assume that maglor doesn’t ALREADY know all the best hobbit drinking songs, and depending on when he sails he might have news from the shire!! caranthir is notorious for getting along with just about anyone, he would be shy at first but he would be SO interested in like, hobbitish wines and pipe-weed. celegorm would take sam and frodo out on hunting trips and they would feel like young hobbits again, laughing and having fun and romping around like they own the place, and tyelko’s just excited to have new tiny friends!! curufin would insist on building hobbit holes for them, and then he’d make elf-sized ones too, it would be all the rage in valinor. let’s pour one out for ambarussa being unable to wreck havoc with merry and pippin, but like, if there’s anyone who can understand the pain of being separated from someone it’s them, they would totally connect with sam and frodo and bilbo about missing their friends and relatives across the sea. i can’t even START with celebrimbor, are you kidding me, he and frodo are each other’s #1 fans, frodo brought down that asshole annatar, celebrimbor sort of helped make the damn thing frodo had to carry around for so long, AGAIN with the personally victimized by sauron thing,, elrond would be so proud to see his family and his friends getting along,, im crying just thinking about this
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the chain that snaps
Here it is, my Tolkien Secret Santa fic, on both tumblr (under the Keep Reading) and on AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145298) for your perusal. This was great, and I really hope my giftee enjoys it, even though this remains anonymous for now. Many thanks for @officialtolkiensecretsanta​ organizing this, and happy holidays, everyone!
The throne digs into his lower back, but Finrod consoles himself as he has all day- with the knowledge that this is but a formality he must sit through as King, and that on the morrow, he can be off, leaving Artaresto in charge once more. The Dwarrowfolk in Belegost, he thinks- it has been many a year since last he visited, since they named him Felagund and he took the epessë unto himself gladly and delighted in it.
He does not know them well, for all that their realms trade; they are a secretive bunch, but Finrod has treated with them, broken bread, and they have fought with the Noldor. That is enough to forge ties, he thinks. And besides, he longs to see the mountains again, breathe in the crisp air. Nargothrond is beautiful, and it is his in a way that no corner of Aman had been, but the crown is itself a shackle at times.
Ruefully, Finrod thinks that perhaps he is not suited to kingship and its more tedious daily tasks. His thoughts stray for a moment, back to Valinor, where his father is no doubt High King of the Noldor. He may be better suited for it. Certainly, kingship in Aman has less- contention. There is, after all, no Enemy to contend with.
He shifts in his throne again. He suspects his father’s throne is rather more comfortable too, if it sees any use, but movement near the entrance to the hall catches his eye.
“My lord,” says Artaresto, coming into the hall. He sketches out a bow, brief. He is tenser than usual- for all that Finrod tries to get him to relax, he refuses steadfastly- and that draws his attention immediately.
“Nephew,” Finrod greets him, straightening up. The metal of his throne presses uncomfortably against his spine as he does. “I had thought you were out ranging with some of the guard.”
So as to avoid Finrod himself doing so, he does not say, but the fond exasperation is still clear in his voice. Finrod has never been one to deny his emotions.
“I was,” comes the answer. “We encountered two others, journeying to Nargothrond from Himring.”
Not Maedhros or Maglor, Finrod suspects. Not from the look on Artaresto’s face, brows drawn together, lips turned into a frown. Around him, the court stirs in unease. Finrod rises from the throne, and his nephew strides over to stand next to him.
“Come, then, tell me who it is you found wandering the road?” he prompts, voice light to lift the shroud of gloom that is descending upon the room. “Surely not more from Himlad who had thought to shelter there before they grew weary of the chill? There is room plenty in these halls, and perhaps they may even find those who they thought were lost here.”
But Artaresto remains silent, and there is an uncertain look about his face.
“Yes, indeed, more from Himlad, fair cousin,” comes a familiar, lazy drawl from the entrance through the hall. There had been a wave of murmurs across the room earlier, but now the silence is a death knell. “Surely you would not turn us away? You have already taken in many of our people.”
“A gift so freely given would be miserly if rescinded,” says another voice, soft as an echo, but twice as sharp.
No. Not Maedhros, nor Maglor, though he would have welcomed them no matter how grim the former has become, nor how much the latter is prone to dramatics. Nor Ambarussa, always together, fey and laughing though that too has changed. Nor dark Caranthir, who last Finrod had heard from a succinct letter, had also met with those of the Houses of Men.
Instead, Curufin and Celegorm, as they are called now, stand before him. They are much changed, Finrod realizes, with the first flicker of his own unease.
These are his cousins, and he cannot deny them audience.
And yet-
Finrod is wise, he is the Hewer of Caves, he has walked among Men and learned of their ways, more so than any of his kin except perhaps his eldest cousin in chill Himring. He built this realm as a haven for his people, to keep them safe against the ever-growing dark, and he has bled for them.
He knows now with cold certainty that he will bleed for them again. Finrod knows the snake that lurks in the grass, but he is not so cruel as to kill it when it is simply doing what it must to survive.
(But oh, at what cost? No. He need not ask that. Deep in his soul, he already knows, he hears the bells of mourning toll and tastes the must of the grave on his tongue.)
Especially not when it was their swords that protected his lands from Morgoth, before the Bragollach, when their brothers’ swords still do. Especially not when they are still bound by blood, when he remembers Tyelko as a fey youth in Oromë’s train, and Curvo sharp-tongued and fumbling in turns, cheeks flushed a becoming red when Finrod teased him just so. It was not only Carnistir who deserved the epithet, although Curvo was much harder to provoke.
Perhaps he is soft- certainly, Curvo-as-he-was would mock him for it, and no doubt Curufin-as-he-is will have many a thing to say about it. But he has never encountered a single thing he could not form an opinion of, and those, Finrod are well-used to hearing. No, for the love that he once bore them and the love he bears Curvo still (and so, the love that Curvo bears for his brother), he cannot turn them away.
“Cousins,” Finrod greets them, warm. It is a sharp contrast to Artaresto’s coolness, the cutting edge of his formality. He stands, and tries not to seem too visibly relieved by it.
“Your necklace is the work of the Khazad, in the mountains,” Curufin says, in lieu of any true greeting. His eyes gleam the way they once did in fair Aman, a smith’s gaze, assessing quality and artistry, rather than being lent to cunning and cutting. It is good to see him look this way once more, rather than hollow and lit with the terrible flame of the Oath. His resemblance to his father has only increased, but he is much wearier than Fëanáro ever was.
Finrod does not get to answer before his nephew speaks.
“Kneel,” Artaresto says softly, from next to him. “Before the King of Nargothrond.” Never has Finrod heard his nephew so speak, iron-willed and vicious. But the fall of Minas Tirith to Sauron has changed him, made him more suspicious, and Finrod cannot yet blame him for this. But he still mislikes it. Those are not the marks of kingship. Nor, he thinks, is it the best way of dealing with his cousins. Fëanor’s get are proud and flighty, Tyelko and Curvo more so than most- the former laconic and dangerous, ever the skilled hunter, and the latter has more than earned his father-name. It still aches to think of, at times; Curvo’s admiration of him had been endearing when they were younger, but after the Oath, Finrod had not known whether to shake him or curse him for folly. But his cousins have not been gifted with foresight; that belongs to his father’s line alone.
Still. They kneel, and Finrod inhales sharply, subtly. He had not expected this. The first to do so is little Tyelperinquar, though he is little no longer. He does not look unhappy about it. The second is Tyelkormo, sinking gracefully to a single knee. It is a shockingly traditional Noldorin bow; Finrod wonders at its insolence now. And Curufinwe, second of his name, is third to do so, but his head does not incline more than the barest degree, and there is that fell flame in his eyes once more as his gaze bores into them.
(Once, he knew well the intensity of being at the center of Curvo’s attention, and he had revelled in it. It was like the heat of the flames he used in the forge, white hot. Finrod had watched him there once, in those years of light, when they were young and not yet grown out of their fathers’ shadows. He had seen Fëanor’s favored son handle molten metal with his bare hands as his father did, and shape it to his will. The red-white glow had clung to sweat-slick skin, his hair tied back in working braids not quite suited to a Prince of the Noldor. Finrod had been surprised to find beauty in that intensity, in the cousin who had seen them as naught but foes, even then.)
(Curvo had warmed to him. It had taken a lot of work. The memory glows in his chest, even now. Smiles, coaxed out carefully; touches, when they could be spared; more besides as the  thrum of the connection between them deepened, little by little. Finrod did not so much fall, in those days, as he had sauntered vaguely downwards, until he was in the middle of it yet had not even noticed, until they were closer than any other pair, Curvo’s walls slowly lowering around him and Finrod himself growing more than fond of his most prickly cousin.)
(And then.)
(Well.)
(His uncle had quite the temper, and he and Curvo had ever followed in their father’s footsteps.)
(Or, Curvo had. Finrod knows not what his own father must have thought, to see his children refuse to turn back, lured across the ice by the promise of lands of their own. Ambition, he thinks wryly, has always been a Fëanorian trait, not one. But forgiveness, but love over all, even wisdom? That, he thinks, he has learned from his father, though Arafinwë had not embodied it when last they had stood together.)
And how it must cost them, his proud cousins, to kneel before him now.
He wonders if he ought to feel powerful. He doesn’t. He feels uncomfortable, magnified by the fact that none of them (Tyelperinquar excepted) seem to be attempting to mask their displeasure at being made to kneel. Fëanorian pride indeed, he thinks, with a hint of the fondness that lay slumbering inside him in the long years they have not seen each other.
“They did make my necklace,” he answers, belatedly, as a peace offering. “It is called the Nauglamir, one of the finest gifts I have received.” And this is not a statement to offend; anyone who looks upon it would be able to tell the truth.
Perhaps he should have predicted that Curufin would take it personally.
Finrod does not wear the jewellery Curvo had gifted him, all those years ago. He has but a lone ring and two beads for his hair, both of which he had worn across the Ice. The other gifts by his cousin’s hand lie across the sea. He had not thought of it, until now- but there is no doubt that Curufin has noticed what he is and is not adorned with.
But there is no answer, to his words. An offer made and rejected. His nephew bristles at his side, and Finrod lifts a hand to silence him before he can speak.
“I see you’ve taught your kin to heel,” Curufin says, amused and wicked-soft. “Perhaps Tyelko ought to take lessons from you when it comes to that beast of his.”
“Father-,” Tyelpe starts, only to be cut off by his uncle. The tempering influence is clear. Celegorm and Curufin have always been together, antagonists and allies to each other in turn.
“No need for jealousy, brother dear; none other than I could be Huan’s favorite,” comes the retort.
Yet something feels forced about their banter.
“He is welcome to the kennels, if you like,” Finrod breaks in, with smile that is only slightly forced. “For as long as you are here- though you have yet to say your purpose in this visit, and my dear nephew would be greatly soothed to hear it.”
Curufin’s eyes flick to Orodreth, then away. Assessed and dismissed, and his nephew takes it as a slight.
“Yes,” he says. “I am sure he would. Well, O King, it simple. We have come to reunite with those of our folk who came here after the Bragollach; we had thought most would be in Himring with Maedhros, but instead they fled here.”
“And we cannot blame them, for it is grim in those mountains,” Celegorm adds. “Your realm, we hear, has a much warmer welcome.”
Ah.
Finrod feels as if there is an arrow in the distance, notched and waiting, pointing at him. Aimed, ready to be fired.
He cannot deny them, when he has not denied their folk. It is too obvious a slight. And truth be told, he has missed them, he has missed his cousins.
He has missed Curvo.
And there would be two others to assist his nephew, when he is gone on his trips, both of them experienced leaders in their own right.
Yet.
He hesitates. He knows that Curufin sees him hesitate, hears it in the sharp inhale, sees it in the way his nostrils flare.
These are not the cousins he loved. They are leaders, yes, but they are ruthless; they had to be, to hold their lands for so long. Grim Maedhros was made so by his time as a captive, but it had shaped his brothers, too. And there is a hollowness to their fëa, too, something that gnaws and bites. Claws in the dark, hidden, fangs under soft lips.
But have they not always been so?
He finds it difficult to convince himself of it this time.
But they need an answer, he cannot deliberate, and- well. Perhaps there was only ever one answer. He knows what Artaresto would say, yet the decision is his to make, and his alone.
The mistake, is his to make.
A breath, the arrow flies.
Finrod stands before his throne, arms outstretched.
“For the love which I bore you in Aman, for our shared blood-,” and oh, Finrod does not miss the way Tyelkormo must rest a hand on his brother’s arm, nor the way Curufinwe ducks his head in a long-familiar motion, so that the fall of his dark hair hides his expression, -“you may stay.”
“Thank you.” Tyelpe is again the first to speak, and he does his father no favors in this. He looks like his father, yes, but there is much of his mother in him too, and Finrod’s heart twists in his chest. Ah, how they had grown apart. He had not thought that Curvo would have a son, he had not found out until the child was presented for its naming ceremony. Curufinwë Tyelperinquar, third of his father-name, third of dark hair and silver eyes, though his did not burn as his grandfather’s, nor cut like his father’s. Finrod finds himself staring even now, thinking that despite the harshness of Beleriand, he still has a softness to him that Curvo had not in Valinor.
They rise smoothly, Celegorm first, then him, then Curufin.
Steel-silver eyes, bright and hollow as an imploding star, bore into his own.
“Yes. Thank you, O King, for your hospitality.” Curufin’s lips shape the words, tone just shy of disrespect.
You will be the one kneeling tonight, cousin, his expression says.
“I could not deny my cousins,” Finrod demurs instead. “Come, now. I shall show you where most of your people currently dwell- and cousin, if you wish to join me in a hunt tomorrow, there shall be a feast?”
Celegorm’s eyes flicker. “It would be my pleasure, cousin.”
Curufin matches him, stride for stride, as they leave the court, and the hairs at the back of Finrod’s neck rise as Celegorm prowls behind him. Tyelpe is a brush of familiarity behind his uncle, but not one that serves to comfort him.
His chest aches, and he feels blood iron-bitter and foul flood his mouth, and Finrod thinks, ah. There it is.
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thatfeanorian · 3 years
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For the meme: Maedhros for the "trouble" section?
11. Which sibling is most likely to show up drunk in the middle of the night begging to crash on this character’s couch?
Maglor. Just Maglor. Maglor is the kind of brother who absolutely has a place to stay but will go out of his way to wake Maedhros up in the middle of the night and just climb into Maedhros’s bed without a word and sprawl out like a cat leaving Maedhros with no room and a headache. He wouldn’t even bother with the couch he’d just take the bed without asking. 
12. Which sibling is most likely to go to jail? For what?
I mean... all of them? Look at those numerous war crimes. Still, Caranthir is the most likely to start a public brawl and get arrested for such a thing, but I think most likely to go to jail for a real crime (and not just beating up a political opponent in the street) Is Curufin. He’s got just the right amount of cunning and idiocy to pull off some ridiculous stunt and then get caught (read: nargothrond) and he would absolutely be the “Disney villain” stereotype giving out nice long speeches about his crimes and how great he is, leading the “hero” right to him to be caught. 
13. What is the worst scrape the character has had to pull a sibling out of?
Okay, this one I’m sticking to Valinor level scrapes because if we get into Beleriand that’s just a whole different set of issues and I could go on for ages, but if we just look at Valinor there was one situation where Celegorm got the Ambarussa stuck up a tree with a wild boar attempting to knock the tree over and gore them to death. All three escaped with minimal injuries but if Maedhros hadn’t covered for the three of them while Celegorm attempted to bandage up the worst of the cuts, he most likely would have been smashed to a pulp with Nerdanel’s hammer for hurting her smallest babies. 
14. Which sibling is the most jealous of this character?
Surprisingly, Maglor. It might seem like Maglor is the more successful of the two due to his music, but in reality, he spends most of his young adult years deadly jealous of Maedhros because his older brother seems to have everything. Maedhros is handsome and well-liked and their parents approve of how he chooses to spend his time, meanwhile Maglor is scorned as a musician because this does not yield a physical result. He is told that he must have gained some Vanya blood from somewhere to be so attracted to “soft” arts and although Nerdanel and Fëanor don’t openly discourage him from continuing with his music, it is clear that they would have preferred if he had found a different passion more similar to his brothers’. As a result, Maglor actually is very self-conscious and it takes a lot of encouragement from Maedhros and the rest of the world before he is really proud of his music and thinks of it as anything more than a trivial pastime. 
15. Which sibling’s house does everyone go to when Things Go Wrong?
Oooh, this is a hard one because it’s different for each of them. When things go wrong for Maedhros he really likes going to Caranthir to just talk things out because Caranthir will monotone come up with solutions to each of his problems and often Caranthir is the best listener out of all of the brothers when Maglor sometimes tends to tear up when other people are upset. 
Maglor goes to Maedhros because Maedhros is really his rock. He’s relied on Maedhros his whole life and he isn’t about to stop now, not when Maedhros gives amazing hugs and is always a good shoulder to lean on. Maedhros just knows whether he needs to cry and bundle up in a pile of blankets or be distracted by a good board game or a meal and is happy to oblige. 
Celegorm goes to Curufin and vice versa because they have a very co-dependent relationship and each has such different problems that it is often easy for the other to come up with a solution. 
Caranthir actually goes to Nerdanel instead of any of his brothers and often helps her with her carvings or sits quietly and embroiders while she works. He prefers to think things out and get through hard times by himself rather than relying on anyone else and just to have a quiet space to think is more than enough for him.
The Ambarussa go to Caranthir or Maedhros because Caranthir is such a good person to just rant to and allows them to get angry and sad and upset without judgment or trying to fix their problems for them. When they go to Maedhros it is usually more of a hands-on experience where he actively tries to comfort them, which is sometimes what they need but other times it is not so it depends on the situation for who each goes to. 
if you liked these and want to ask me about my opinions/headcanons here’s the link to the ask meme or just pop in and ask your own questions free of limits!
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saelwen · 4 years
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Bonded
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Alpha!Ambarussa x Omega!reader
Last Chapter
Summary: You were a very wild omega. Always running in nature without a care of the world but what will happen to you when one of your runs you saw two lovely Alphas strolling in the forest? (Sorry I’m bad at summaries)
Masterlist
Warnings: Fluff!!!!
Words: 900
Some Years Later...
A small smile forms on your lips as you hear the joyful giggles coming from outside of the house. You fold a soft blanket and put it on the heavy chair beside the fireplace. Walking towards the front door, you open it and your smile becomes bigger as you see your beloved alphas chasing your two beautiful daughters. Eletha and Thalia, two beautiful twins.
It's been long since you three have arrived at Halleth's tribe. She welcomed you and your alphas with open arms, saying that a raven had come from west with the news that two alphas and an omega seek a home in her tribe. Amrod and Amras realized that Maglor had sent the raven, just in case if anything went wrong.
Halleth gave you three a wooden cabin at the end of the village, at the entrance of the woods. It was small but you knew that it's perfect for you and your beloved alphas.
Not long enough, you receive the news from the village doctor that you were pregnant. Amrod and Amras were so happy, they didn't even care who was the father. Saying that both of them will love the baby like nothing else in the world.
During the pregnancy, Amrod and Amras were almost impossible. Always hovering over you like a shadow, just to make sure you were alright and nothing would hurt. If some villagers would come to visit you, they would both growl to them which made you hit them on the head one time.
As your belly grew, they overprotective would as well. Not wanting you to leave the house or do some tasks in the house. They both knew that you weren't made of paper but they couldn't help the fear of something happen to you overpowered them since you were only a mere mortal.
When the birth day comes, they were a mess. Yelling at each other and panicking. They were like this until Halleth came and throw them out of the house, saying that they need to men up if they wanted to be with you during the birth which they did.
"Don't worry, My lords. Y/n is stronger than you think. She will pop that child in a minute!" she said while giving them a soft smile.
As you gave the last push, you hear a small baby cry fill the room. The midwife cleaned your child and wrapped in a soft cloth, put in your arms.
"Congratulations, my Lady! It's a healthy girl," she said.
Tears fell from your eyes as you look down to your beautiful baby girl, seeing the thin red hairs coming out of her soft baby hair. Her ears were pointy and her features were almost cat-like. She looked completely like an elf except for her nose and eyes which were like yours.
And then, a surprising gasp fell from your lips as you felt another cramp spread through your body. The midwife and the nurses come running back and gasp also in surprise.
"My Lady! You need to push!" She said while grabbing another blanket.
"What's happening!?" You asked as you push, screaming in pain.
And again for the second time, you hear another small cry. The midwife cleaned the baby and put it on your other arm, smiling softly to you.
"Another healthy girl, My Lady."
Tears were running down like a waterfall from your eyes, seeing you beautiful baby girls in your arms. Like her older sister, she had red hair and pointy ears.
The door opens and your alphas enter the room. Their sharp eyes fixed on your daughters. Amrod sat on the bed on your left while Amras sat on your right.
"Of course it would be twins,"Amras whisper in awe, stroking gently your daughter's cheek.
Amrod tilted your face up with his fingers and kisses you passionately, pouring all his love and happiness into the kiss. "I love you so much, my omega... You made us the luckiest alpha in all middle earth," he whispers as he rests his forehead against yours.
"What should we name them?" Amras asked, still with his eyes fixed on his daughters.
You look down at your daughters and smile gently. "I don't know why but I always like the names Eletha and Thalia."
Amrod and Amras look to each other and then to their daughters. "Eletha and Thalia... Two beautiful names for two beautiful girls."Amras said with a proud smile.
"I agreed,"Amrod said while poking Eletha soft cheek.
You smile and rest back into the soft bed, letting your alphas cuddle your beautiful daughters.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the voice of your daughter, Thalia, calling for you.
"Nana!!! Come play with us!" She squealed as Amrod pick her up and throw her into the air, making her a giggling mess. You notice that she had almost the same joyful personality as Amras, always happy, and ready for adventure. While her sister, Eletha is the complete opposite. She has Amrod's calm personality, preferring to read and have long walks in the woods.
"Yes, Nana! Help me pick me flowers."Eletha said as she and Amras picked some flowers from the garden.
You sigh happily and smile, walking towards your beloved family. Never in your dreams, you thought that one day you would have two strong loving alphas to protect you and two beautiful daughters.
"I'm coming!"
Hey Guys!! Here's the final chapter of Bonded! I hope you like it and feel free to comment and tell me what you think!
Go follow my new page - @always-be-lilith-never-eve​
XOXO
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huans · 4 years
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i feel like curufin’s elder siblings would be like ‘oh my. this is our Baby Nephew!! and someone wants to MARRY him?? but he is baby!!’ and ambarussa would just be like ‘cool can we play pranks at the wedding?’ bonus if celebrimbor is there and he’s like ‘WHY ARE YOU ALL SO QUIET SOMEONE SAY SOMETHING’. also if fëanor’s like ‘woe is me! if only i had a silmaril so i could give it to enerdhil and see if he was truly pure of heart!’
mhm yeah, tbh i think caranthir would react the least? not because he doesn't like enerdhil but more like what am i supposed to do?? and GOD i feel like maedhros would be kinda proud that tyelpe has someone that loves him.
while i do think fëanor doesn't want to be near the silmaril anymore after he learned what tf happened to his sons because of them etc. he would want to test him.
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ambarto · 4 years
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Headcanons for Maglor’s and Curufinwe’s wives
Don’t you guys just love how so many of “canon” female characters in the Silm end up being basically your own OCs? Anyways, pretty much what it says on the tin, my Feanorian wives OCs. A little bit of these headcanons are in my fic Much, more, less, nothing already, but I’m gonna expand on pretty much whatever my thoughts are. Very long post under the cut (and I sure hope the cut is working because if it isn’t this is gonna be long to scroll through).
Maglor’s wife - Vílerë
- The name for this girl is my own probably kinda sloppy work. I found in some Quenya dictionaries the word “vílë” which means “gentle breeze”, and it fit perfectly within my vision of her. The ending -rë is feminine and can denote an agental meaning, making the name mean “[girl] who makes a gentle breeze”, or something along those lines. I want to point out I have never studied Quenya at all and so this goes off entirely on various dictionaries I’ve been through.
- Vílerë is the girl’s mother-name, and it refers to two things. The first, is that she was born with very weak vocal chords, meaning her voice always sounds barely louder than a whisper. The second, is that she is also a very skilled flute player.
- Her parents are Noldor, but her grandmother is Teleri. Vílerë’s eyes are dark brown, which comes from her Teleri grandmother. Her hair is black, and she wears it long and plainly braided. Her skin is a light brown color. She’s not considered exceptionally beautiful, but not ugly, either. By Noldor standards, she’s cute, but in a little plain way, and a little on the shorter side.
- She’s a quiet girl, she doesn’t speak much. Partially it’s because of her voice, but it’s mostly just her personality. She doesn’t like drawing attention to herself, and she prefers being alone or with a few good friends rather than in the middle of a crowd. Because of this, she also doesn’t play her flute a lot in public, although she is known for being one of the best players and her music is loved by anyone who hears it. With those who know her, she’s kind and sweet, full of smiles and with a sharp wit you would not guess at first.
- While quiet and introverted, she’s got a strong will, and she will let people clearly if there is something that displeases her. She picks her words carefully, and if angry she’s good at getting her point across in the most cutting ways.
- She and Maglor met through music, and spent a great deal of time playing and composing together. She understood his more introspective moments better than most others, and she was drawn to his more caring side. She was good at getting him out of any bad mood and at humoring him when he got involved in some kind of musical competition with others; and he in turn helped her get out of her shell a little, but never tried to force her to come out on the spotlights with him. She took a liking to him from the start, although she sometimes rolled her eyes when his Feanorian pride showed through a bit too much.
- While still deeply in love, she did not follow him in exile. She did not agree with the Kinslaying, especially being part Teleri herself, and thought that it was absurd to do all of this just because of some rocks, no matter how beautiful they were. She didn’t want to leave her husband, and was also quite curious to see what was on the other side of the sea, but in the end she stayed in Valinor with her family.
- Other than music, she also enjoyed poetry and theatre. She had an appreciation for painting, but she never really learnt how to do it, and was more content with just looking at art rather than creating it. She also knew a bit about woodworking, because it was her parents’ profession, but she never really liked it. She enjoyed traveling too, and seeing new landscapes, and after marrying Maglor took her around to see all the cool places he had been to with his father and brothers.
- Some people had to say about her and Maglor marrying, because Vílerë lived in a village outside of Tirion and her family was one of the common folk. Some particularly vicious ones also complained that she didn’t look beautiful enough, but they had all learnt very well to not badmouth the beauty of the wife of someone of Feanor’s line. She was honestly more annoyed by receiving all that attention than by the negative comments in themselves, because she hated the positive attention too.
- She has one younger sister, who married before her and had two children. Vílerë herself married late in life compared to the average, although she was still a couple centuries younger than her husband. Out of her in-laws, the people she got along with better were Maedhros and Nerdanel, and she also was on friendly terms with Fingon and Finrod. While she did not have any quarrels with Feanor or with Maglor’s more outgoing brothers, she did find them exhausting in the long run, and better dealt with in small doses.
- While she grew to resent the Valar, although not as strongly as her husband’s family, when she was younger she liked to spend time in Lorien, and the quiet presence of Irmo and Este.
Curufin’s wife - Vanien
- Her name I took from RealElvish.net because I got lazy, although for some reason it’s not listed there anymore? For some reason? The closest it lists are Vanie and Vaniel, idk why they got rid of the specific one I used. Just my luck. Anyways, Vanien comes from “vane”, which means “fair or beautiful”.
- Her name says all about how she looks. She is the picture of Noldor standards of beauty. She has black hair and strikingly blue eyes, her skin is pale, and her facial features look like they could be put on a statue. She’s the kind of woman who could compete in Tirion Next Top Model, if they had it.
- Her family is entirely Noldor, going back all the way to Cuivienen, and fairly respected. They’re not nobles, but her parents are very good healers, which in Valinor mostly meant they were spectacular surgeons who could fix any idiot who had gotten attacked by a wild boar or something of the sorts. She was herself a healer, and very skilled.
- She and Curufin met though work as well. She had been developing a theory that perhaps one could enchant jewelry to give it properties that would make healing and recovery faster, and she had decided to go look for a good smith who could help her with it. It turned out making that kind of magical jewelry was extremely difficult, but she did get a husband out of the deal.
- She’s a city girl and at ease in the middle of the hustle of Tirion. She’s got a charming smile and she’s an excellent conversationalist. She’s a good girl, but she’s also got a rather competitive and petty streak, and if someone pisses her off she will get herself a nice revenge. Nothing truly bad, of course, but she’s not above turning her husband’s hair green if he acts too annoying. She’s more mischievous than harmful, however.
- Her main flaw is probably that she is a bit vain. She’s very aware of her beauty, and will do her best to flaunt it. She has excellent taste in fashion and hairstyles, and a husband who can craft her some of the most amazing jewelry one could think of. If she goes to a party, one can bet she’ll make sure to be the most breath stoppingly beautiful person in the room.
- She’s more outgoing than her husband, but she doesn’t mind that he sometimes ends up working on a project for days on end, although it does annoy her, as a wife and a healer, how he sometimes ends up forgetting to eat and rest. He often looks for her input when coming up with a design for something. Bitching about people who annoyed them is a bonding activity for them, but of course not their only topic of conversation. They like to go out on rides together, either along or with Curufin’s family. They are both ridiculously proud spouses, Vanien is extremely proud of her handsome, clever, and talented husband, and Curufin is extremely proud of his beautiful, smart, and talented wife. They’re also a good match when it comes to being stubborn.
- Celebrimbor is the only son they had, because Vanien struggled to get pregnant and carry the child to term. Sadly ironical, for a healer, and she was very protective of her son once he was born. She was a caring mother, and the kind who likes to cheer her brooding son by tickling him until he’s out of whatever tantrum he was throwing.
- Officially, it’s said Curufin’s wife stayed in Valinor, but I like to think that she came to Beleriand with him and Celebrimbor. She was a headstrong woman, who had her husband’s resentment towards the Valar and almost enough pride to match him. She did not directly participate in the Kinslaying, but cured the Noldor who had been wounded in it, and got on the ships with her family. Unfortunately, she ended up being killed in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, and because of her rebellion she was held in Mandos until after the end of the First Age.
- She gets along well with most of Curufin’s family, especially Celegorm and the Ambarussa, and bonded with Feanor by answering all his questions about the body as well as she could. She became good friends with Aredhel, too.
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They look 10x better as thumbnails. Part of the problem is I’m drawing on very bumpy painting paper, the other part is that I am not an artist, I’m a cut-rate costumer at best.
Disclaimers on historical accuracy: This is a shameless blend of 17th and 19th century Polish noble (szlachta) costume. Some artistic liberties have been taken. Most of these fabrics should be brocade, but I’m not about to draw that by hand. The sashes (pas kontuszowy) should also be much more heavily embroidered. I haven’t seen any paintings of wolf skins worn in the manner Curufin is wearing his, but heavy furs were very common. Cheetah and tiger skins are depicted in several contemporary paintings, but usually not with the heads. Many modern reproductions of szlachta armor include them draped in this way. Usually, the hat is worn by the person, not the cheetah.
I have decided not to style the hair in a historically accurate manner just to save us all the pain. I’ve kept the long elven hair for all our sanity.
The szlachta costume consisted of the żupan, kontusz or delia, hat, szabla, pas kontuszowy and, optionally, a cloak/mantle/animal skin.
The żupan was the button-up shirt of the ensemble. It showed a bit at the chest and sometimes the sleeve. It often had buttons. It could also be worn alone, if you were poor. Here, Maedhros, Maglor and Curufin are wearing żupans. Maglor’s has fancy puffed sleeves.
The kontusz (no one here is wearing a delia) was an overcoat with often oversized slashed sleeves, called false sleeves. They could also be sleeveless. Here, Maedhros, Caranthir and Celegorm wear the sleeved variant. Mags is wearing the sleeveless variant.
The hat had to be worn by all polite gentlemen, which is why Celegorm isn’t wearing one. They generally had one or two feathers in them. I can’t find the name for them. Konfederatka springs to mind but I’m not sure that’s the actual name.
The szabla is the most important part of the ensemble. The middle ground between fancy dueling rapier and crusader sword, the szabla is most effective on and off horse and can be wielded as honorably or dishonorably as one likes. Truly the most versatile weapon to grace Middle-Earth, save perhaps the rolling pin.
Cloaks were worn for warmth (gee, thanks, whoda thunk) and were often made in part of a thick, warm hide, wool, and sometimes finer materials like something that looks like immensely heavy velvet were wasted on them.
Speaking of fabric, the rich man’s żupan was commonly made of silk brocade. The kontusz was also silk, generally lined in part with fur for winter, or with a complementary lining that was shown by the false sleeves, standing collar, or a particularly vindictive swish. Here, the characters are wearing mostly russet, brown, gold and black. Very festive of them, as it’s just coming up on fall!
Now on to character notes!
Maedhros is dressed the most historically accurate by a slim margin. He turned out quite a bit lighter here than I anticipated, for whatever reason.
Maglor is holding a suka (I know), an instrument sort of like a lap violin, evidently. Those puffy sleeves were a real thing. They just *screamed* Mags. Those aren’t even a particularly egregious example, if you can believe it.
Celegorm’s armor is actually not that far from an actual hussar, minus the wings and gold trim. Instead of a cross, I’ve included the Fëanorion star. In this universe, his cheetah drape has been affectionately named ‘Curvo’ and wears a hat that his namesake wore as a child. Tyelko’s shitty diadem is a quirk of his character and not something that was ever worn. (Fun meme: Celegorm invents the diadem by accident because he can’t get his tooth necklace over his big fuck-off hair).
That all-black outfit Caranthir is wearing is present in two paintings I can think of, and several photographs. Why doesn’t he win most accurate? That’s a mail shirt peeking out of his collar.
Curufin is wearing a wolfskin named Tyelko and branded on the paws with his insignia and his father’s. That hat is a bit more Russian than Polish, but eh, whatevs. This whole post is a middle finger to anyone who cares about Polish costume at this point anyway, everything’s all over the place and not the least accurate. Pengolodh would have my head.
The Ambarussa are tragically absent. They were both burnt at Losgar in this universe (actually I just ran out of space on the page).
Anyway, I’m feeling entirely too proud of what I’ve done here, so let’s say I stop the self aggrandizement now and let you notice the two or three fun details that remain (assuming fuckin anybody sees this post, lol). How about some other Finwions when I get around to this again? Could be Tuesday, could be November, we’ll just have to see.
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amethysttribble · 5 years
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Pale-Glitter
Feanorian Week, entry one! I chose ‘Beauty’ for Maedhros.
Well-made. Copper-top.
Those were the names he had once identified with. 
‘Nelyafinwë’ was a title the same way as ‘prince’ ; it was a declaration, a sign of pride, belonging, ownership. He had been proud to carry that title, but he was the third Finwë; Third-Finwë was not him. Instead, he had loved the names from his mother best.
And they had made him vain.
That he could admit, though it was more bitter to acknowledge the fault in his character now. Once, he would chuckle, careful to run his fingers through his hair as he said, “I might spend longer in front of the mirror each morning that my brothers would like!” The sycophants and the friends would laugh, and their eyes would follow the movement of his hand, tracing his fingers as they moved through his thick and soft hair. It was just a subtle reminder- a move he didn’t even make consciously- that he had reason to be vain. One of many reasons; one of the million small examples he made of himself.
Findekano would call him vain too, and so would Macalaurë. Their complaints were exasperated, and they caught onto his games and how he would show off on occasion. But it was teasing. They mocked and scolded him the same way he whined at Tyelkormo for carrying his hunting knives everywhere- including the bath- or snorted at the gestures Carnistir made at people’s backs. Those small bad habits and little sins were part of what made them their own people. One didn’t have to approve to be endeared to it.
He was vain. But his family was also vain for him. Mother would claim that, “I never thought I would find someone I enjoyed sculpting more than your father, but you are the perfect subject, baby.” Father was very good at many things, and bragging was one of them. Even when stunning Artanis grew well, Father would not let go of his assertion that the eldest was the most beautiful of Finwë’s grandchildren. Fair Tyelkormo would falsely complain that no girl would look his way if he stood next to his brother, and Curufin would bully him into posing for sketches. Ambarussa were almost absurdly proud to have the same hair as their brother.
Not Mother. Their brother.
It was no wonder he was rather vain, and that was something the many who loved him could forgive. He was well-made. His hair was like copper, a mineral more precious than gold or silver in Elven coloring. He was very beautiful.
But after Thanogorodrim, he did not feel beautiful at all.
Looking into the scraps of broken mirror in their war camp, he saw a face that was gaunt and splotched. He had bumps where the oils had clustered, and his nose was too prominent from healing wrongly after a break. His hair had all been shaved off, as it had been so diseased and damaged from years of exposure it was better to just start over. What was growing back was a darker, duller color, and stringy. Then there were the scars.
‘Scar’ was a word he had not known a few weeks ago. He hadn’t even known there was such a concept for his people to name. Every time he had been cut before, his skin healed back perfectly; the same shade, the same height, the same texture. There had never been any of these impurities on his knees or hands or arms before.
Until they went across the sea, there were none on his face.
It was one of the old amongst their people who explained the affliction to him. Scars were marks of destruction left on them by dark harm. Morgul weapons and evil magics did this. Scars… were proof that an elf had been marred.
He certainly felt marred, both outside and within.
No, he was not well-made, or a copper-top anymore. He could never wear those names without looking like a farce, just like he couldn’t be the third Finwë when the first and second were dead. He was something else entirely now, something marred and ugly. Like a gemstone that had been misused and neglected and thrown away, until what little shine remained was paled in comparison to what it once was.
Maedhros wasn’t sure he cared anymore though.
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