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sweetteaanddragons · 5 months

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Happy Thanksgiving! In celebration, have an awkward family dinner scene from my current WIP.

“You know,” Earwen said, taking a careful sip of her wine, “you could petition the Valar.”

This was not a new concept. It had not been tried recently, but Nerdanel still had to pause in her meal for a moment to poke at just why Earwen was presenting it so cautiously.

“On what grounds?” She had certainly tried everything she could think of.

“Precedence, mainly. It is not so different from the case of Finwe and Miriel.”

Arafinwe sat with his fork half frozen between his plate and his mouth. Nerdanel felt half frozen herself, trying to understand. How could the statute of Finwe and Miriel possibly be similar to her own case?

“I know you might not have anyone in mind now,” Earwen continued, “but it might help to already have your right established.”

Her right. Her right to -

To do what everyone had been so insistent she do.

Get up.

Smile.

Move on.

She could get up. She could smile. She could - move.

But to move on? To take someone else in his place?

She was furious with him. Incandescently so. She wanted to claw out those clever, unsatisfied eyes. She wanted to bite out his beautiful, poisonous tongue. She wanted to pour molten rock over him and let it settle around him until he could never move from its confines again.

But to move on? To take someone else?

She imagined someone coming to Feanaro after his vaults had been torn open and telling him it was alright, really, that the Silmarils were gone; look, they had all these pieces of lovely shattered glass, and he was welcome to take his pick between them.

“I could remarry, you mean,” she said, and Feanaro would have known that just because her voice was still, it did not mean she said it calmly. “Have children again, even.”

“If you liked,” Earwen said, though her own voice was careful now.

Nerdanel sipped her wine. “I do not know why you do not take your own advice. You would not even have to appeal to the Valar for it; no one would have the slightest right to object to you and Arafinwe having another child. Then it wouldn’t matter that Aegnor is never going to come out of the Halls.”

Earwen’s face went white.

“Excuse me,” Nerdanel said and left.

. . .

She was already packed by the time Arafinwe came to her room. She had steadied by then, though not calmed.

“She meant well, and I did not,” she conceded without looking up from securing the last of her things. “I won’t trouble you till I’ve thought up a proper apology.”

Everyone remembered that she had fought with Feanaro. No one ever seemed to remember that if it had just been Feanaro raging, it would not have been a fight.

“Please don’t leave,” Arafinwe said wearily, leaning against the door. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”

“It’s what I do,” she said shortly. Hear something horrible. Say something horrible. Leave.

Not come back until it was too late, and he had already sworn that stupid Oath.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. “As your apology to me,” he clarified, “please at least wait until morning.”

She paused.

He looked so very tired.

“Alright,” she conceded. She sank down on top of her bags. “Do you think I should move on?”

It was poking at a bruise for no good reason. Her answer wouldn’t change for him.

But she wanted to know just how long she should take to come up with an apology.

“I have no right to tell you how to handle your personal affairs,” he said, and for a moment, he sounded like her king, gracefully holding himself to the limits of his power.

She scowled at him.

“No right,” he repeated. “And if you want to - to never make another statue of him and run off to join the choir in Alqualonde, I will be the last to tell you otherwise.”

“But?”

“But if you came back and told me you wished to remarry, I think I would offer you the crown of the Noldor not to,” he admitted. “As much as he would laugh to hear one of my mother’s children speak against it. Right now it is only the verdict of the Valar that he may never return, and the Valar have changed their minds before. If we should lock that door forever . . . “

It was probably immaterial anyway. The Valar had needed Miriel’s permission to allow Finwe’s remarriage; Feanaro, surely, would not give it.

Surely. Surely she still meant more to him than that.

She did not wish to bare that corner of her soul tonight, not even to Arafinwe. Instead, she confessed to an easier thing.

“When I was pregnant with the twins,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “it was - difficult. More difficult than any of the other births had been. I had half lost myself by the end.”

“I remember,” he said softly.

That surprised her; she did not remember him from then at all, but she supposed that only supported her point. “I was convinced I was going to die, and I was in no state to think clearly about it. I swore to him over and over that I would come back, that the very moment Namo allowed it I would come back, that he would not need to be patient long.”

Some irrational part of her had been terrified that they would lie to him; that they would say she had refused the call of life while she was desperately pounding on Mandos’s walls.

When she had been saner, she had known the fearful fancies for what they were. But in the midst of them . . .

“He kept promising that I wasn’t going to die, of course.” And he had been right about that, though it was the only one of their arguments that she would concede now. “But when that didn’t settle me, he told me that he believed me, and that if it took me a hundred thousand years to return, he would believe me still and wait.”

She had never doubted that promise. Even when they had burned everything else between them, she had believed that promise. In their worst moments, it had been because she was sure he would never concede any ground whatsoever to Indis’s marriage, but she had still believed it.

She hadn’t returned the promise. She hadn’t thought she would need to.

But now here she was, still standing, and the Valar promising that he would never, ever return.

It was not yet a hundred thousand years.

And when it had been, she would keep his promise in his stead and still wait.

#silmarillion #fic #nerdanel #finarfin #earwen #nerdanel is not perfect #nerdanel is not happy with feanor #but she hasn't given up on him #part of a prequel to Memento Pugna but can stand alone

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annoyinglandmagazine · 8 months

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Anaire: “So how’s life with a baby?”

Nerdanel: “Exhausting. I didn't know that it was possible for someone to cry this much.”

Indis: “Oh, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it soon.”

Nerdanel: “Oh no, no, no, no. The baby’s an angel, he’s no trouble at all.”

Earwen: “...But you just said-?”

Feanor, holding baby Maitimo and crying: “Nerdanel, I love him so much!”

#silmarillion #tolkien #incorrect quotes #Feanor #nerdanel #maedhros #Anaire #indis #earwen

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morgancrystal · 6 months

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Eärwen 11x14 Stonehenge graphite and charcoals

#silmarillion #earwen #the women of the house of finwe here i goooooooo #in no particular order #silmarilion fanart #women of tolkien

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echo-bleu · 7 months

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Day 11: Eärwen of the Teleri, Queen of the Noldor of Aman.

At this point I'm just painting into the evening and popping them here right away, which I never normally do (I wait at least a day to post), so I'm not seeing/correcting small issues. That's the fun of the challenge, though.

This one actually started as Finarfin, but I guess he'll wait another day or ten!

Eärwen wears a lot of pearls and sea motifs, she's a daughter of the sea first, and even though she married into the Noldor, she never adopted their customs. She wears her hair loose and not a single gem.

#earwen #silmarillion #tolkien #echo's drawings #beautiful art #digital art #teleri #noldor #echo's october 2023

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thesummerestsolstice · 1 month

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During the Years of the Trees, the House of Arafinwe has a weekly family breakfast together– Arafinwe bakes pancakes for everyone (with his kids helping of course!) Nolofinwe and his family come to spend time together, Findis and Lalwende show up every week, even if they are a little late, and Finwe and Indis almost always make time for it as well. (And if some of Feanaro's kids show up, Arafinwe always makes a little extra) It started when Findarato was really little, and always begged for pancakes and jam, and has been going for centuries by the time Feanaro gets exiled to Formenos. They put all sorts of toppings out on the table and spend the morning catching up and laughing with each other. Treelight pours in through the windows of the house, and all is right with the world.

And one day, not too long after the Darkening, Arafinwe wakes up, disoriented, and, pretty much on auto-pilot, goes to make pancakes. Look, it takes a lot of batter to make enough pancakes for fifteen people– you have to start that early to get in done in time for a reasonable breakfast. So he makes the pancakes alone, not really thinking about things, probably unconsciously assuming that he's just woken up early and that his kids and wife are still sleeping. He sets the table, because he knows where everyone will sit. He gets everything out, because for all that's happened the pantry is still full.

And then he sees the way the slightly eerie red-tinted lamp light reflects on the silverware. And then he remembers that his children left, and so did his brothers, and sister, and nieces and nephews. He remembers the horrible, half-regretful, half-knowing look he'd seen on Findarato's face before he'd left over the Helcaraxe, the breathless, fruitless argument he'd had with Nolofinwe. He remembers that his wife won't talk to him, and neither will Findis. That his father is dead and that his mother left for Lorien after his death and isn't taking visitors.

And he just sits there, in the big, dark, silent, empty room. And the pancakes get cold and the fruit toppings begin to rot. He leaves– he's not sure when, without the treelight to tell time– and locks the room.

He moves out of his house the next day, and into the palace in Tirion, which, to be honest, feels just as haunted. He stops baking. Being high king of the Noldor in Valinor doesn't leave him with a lot of spare time for his craft. Or his grief. And as long as he keeps it locked away in a house he never goes to, he can almost live with that.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #finarfin #house of finarfin #fingolfin #finwe #indis #earwen #findis #lalwen #finrod #but like #all of these people are here as absences #I have many thoughts about Finarfin #most of them are really sad

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polutrope · 3 months

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Arafinwëan caffeine habits

Finarfin: Makes a large glass pot of jasmine pearl tea every morning and sips it while going through the morning’s work from a handmade cup Indis gave him. Will drink coffee socially but doesn’t particularly like it. Orders whatever everyone else is having.

Eärwen: Strong black tea with honey in the mornings, iced in summer. Enjoys a matcha latté now and then, unsweetened, but only if she’s confident the café prepares it properly.

Finrod: Doesn’t really need caffeine but loves the Expérience of the café. Scans the menu for something he’s never tried and enthusiastically asks the barista what it is and whether they like it, and what’s their favourite drink? And what about their favourite pastry? He’ll have one of those please, and another half-dozen to-go (for friends/family/colleagues, of course). Likes to have his order to stay when there’s time and if it's busy will happily take the excuse to ask someone sitting alone if he can join them.

Orodreth: Makes his own coffee in a percolator, for some reason. If found ordering it, he speedruns a full emotional arc in the four seconds it takes to approach the counter then hastily orders a drip coffee. Becomes nervous when asked what roast, size, and whether he needs room, even though he always gets medium roast medium size and always takes cream. Never says anything if the barista gets his order wrong.

Angrod: Americano, black. Latté with coconut or equally unusual flavouring if he’s feeling interesting. Will tell the barista if they get his order wrong. Nicely -- if a little intensely.

Aegnor: Enables Fingon’s cola habit because he, too, has one. Or had. He immediately gave it up when Andreth looked askance at the three 2L bottles in his refrigerator. Now limits to two cups of drip coffee in the morning. Sometimes three. Okay maybe four, on really long days. Lactose intolerant but can't stand black coffee or alternative milks, and will use regular milk and suffer if lactose-free isn't available.

Galadriel: Triple-shot espresso with a teaspoon of sugar every morning. When not in need of a good hit of caffeine, she enjoys a chai latté but, like her mother, only if the café knows how to make a good one. None of that chai concentrate crap.

Nolofinwëans | Fëanorians

#arafinweans #finarfin #earwen #finrod #angrod #aegnor #orodreth #galadriel #silm caffeine habits

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actual-bill-potts · 9 months

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(Continued from this post)

After breakfast, Earwen cleared the plates away. Finrod had attacked his food like one who was starving - and Finarfin supposed he had been, long ago and far away, when he had fallen in the dark - and had seemed a little in shock afterwards. Perhaps it was the absence of the desperation he had felt in his last weeks - Finarfin shuddered again at the borrowed memory - or the ease with which what he wanted could be obtained. Or perhaps he was merely still unused to eating, after so many years without a body. Finarfin had heard that it could be so.

Still, his son leapt to his feet and offered to help. “Please,” he said, “I have done nothing to help you, all yesterday and today.”

Earwen shook her head and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “You have been back for so little time that I keep stumbling over the sight of you. I insist you let yourself rest, and do nothing for at least one six-day.”

When Finrod still looked doubtful, she had looked over at Finarfin and laughed. “Besides, your father would never speak to me again if I assigned you such a menial duty, when he is looking at you like you hung the Valacirca and set Tilion’s course yourself.”

Finrod met Finarfin’s gaze, startled, and Finarfin blinked back. He realized belatedly that he had indeed been staring at Finrod for far too long. It was just that he was so familiar! So familiar, and so dear! How - how - how had he gone an Age without seeing his children? He did not know. The grief for his other dear ones warred in his heart with the rising crest of joy that would not be denied: his eldest was home! Home, and safe, and himself. It was nearly unbelievable.

Finrod looked as if he were about to say something; but after a moment he dropped his gaze. His eyes so often fell away from Finarfin’s face, as if afraid of a blow, or a rejection. As if there could be one, as if Finarfin would be capable - !

He wanted to explain, to take Finrod by the shoulders and tell him of all the messages he had choked down within himself for years uncounted: for him, for all their children. In the early days he had wandered about the rooms of their old family home like one whose fëa had departed, thinking, my children, my children, I am sorry if I ever said you were too loud; come back, for this house sounds like my father who is dead.

He had sat upon Ingoldo’s bed and thought, my eldest, my son, what will I do without your laugh; had wandered in upon a half-finished painting of Artaresto’s and felt all the colors run together in his mind; tripped blindly over Angaráto’s hunting bow and Aikanáro’s bangle of necklaces, tangled together in the hallway; come upon a little mirror that Artanis had crafted at but twenty years of age and stared into it for an afternoon as if her face would suddenly swim into being, laughing: see, Atar, I have hidden from you again! You are not very good at finding me.

And then the many years after, holding messages for his children that would never - as he thought - be delivered. For Findaráto, it had most often been stories of the court: little exasperations, or funny moments that he thought his eldest would like. For so long, he had turned automatically to Findaráto with little observations or the beginnings of ideas, for his son had a gift for spinning out his tangled thoughts into a beautiful weft and then handing it back to him all shimmering. It had taken him so long, nearly a hundred years into his long exile - for it was an exile, sealed away from his family as much as they were trapped away from him - to break himself of the habit.

But now Finrod was here.

Finarfin shook himself; mustered all the gentleness that was left inside him after forty years of war; smoothed away the lingering frustration and grief that Finrod could not trust him; and said, “Shall we find you a comb?”

Finrod laughed suddenly, and Finarfin nearly jumped. That sound - he had not heard it in so long! The clearness of it!

Finrod laughed again, and said, “I suppose my hair must be a sight. Yes, let us - and help would be most welcome, if you are still willing.”

“Of course,” said Finarfin, and led Finrod up the stairs. He made his way to the chambers he shared with Eärwen and rummaged about for a little before finding what he sought. Then he bustled out again, meeting Finrod, who again was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Let us go to your room,” said Finarfin, brandishing his prize. “There is a new style of brush which is all the fashion in Tirion now. Rather than being sung or carved into shape from wood, it is made of goats’ hair. One rubs a little oil into the bristles before brushing. I have found that it does wonders for how my hair lays, and it makes the braiding much less painful later.”

Finrod’s eyes lit up. “I have seen this before!” he exclaimed. “Well - not this exact comb - but the Dwarves used a very similar implement to care for their beards. I believe it was made of boar-bristles. I wonder that we never thought to use it on our own hair!” His smile turned wistful. “But then, perhaps it is not so surprising. Relations could be - difficult, and there was much else to think about.”

Finarfin thought of the Great War, ended not four hundred years past. He remembered how the dirt and the blood and the filth had worked their way into every crevice he possessed, caking his hair and face - how he had wanted to cut it short, and only kept it long thanks to the advice of his Sindar advisors. He remembered the tiring dull periods between battles, and how there were always warring factions to be kept in check, commanders to be pacified, supply lines to organize, little squabbles to calm, and of course his appearance desired everywhere, for all wanted to know that the king was there, and that he had heard their grievances, and was confident the war was not going ill…

“Not surprising at all,” he agreed at last, softly. “War is - terrible, and tedious, and all-consuming. And you were fighting for a very long time.”

The smile dropped from Finrod’s face. “How easy it is to forget,” he murmured, “that you too went to battle. My gentle father! I am sorry. All our effort, all that pain, and in the end it was - useless.” He looked up at Finarfin, eyes pleading. “I really believed it, you know,” he said. “I believed it, when we set out on the road. That we stood a chance. That we could defeat the Moringotto, or at least hold him back from our home. That I could build a safe place for our people. Yet all was in vain, and you were wiser than I.”

Finarfin stood in the hallway, brush in hand, and felt the words strike to the heart of him. How he had longed to hear that, from anyone! For years uncounted as he had labored alone to build anew the trust between Noldor and Teleri, as Eärwen had looked coldly at him and then turned her face away, as his father was silent in Mandos and his mother retreated from him in grief. He had longed, in anger and then in despair, for someone - anyone - to come back, and say, You were right. I was wrong. I am sorry.

But now it rang hollow. Finarfin did not want that. Not if it came from his son, standing before him tired and in disarray. Not if it was paired with yet all was in vain. Not if it came at the price of Finrod’s tired eyes and hollow cheeks.

And besides -

Finarfin brushed past I am sorry with barely a thought, and said, “You shall not stand before me and name your efforts useless.”

This was another thing he had wanted to say to Finrod, and there was nothing now preventing him.

“Do you know,” he said, “have you thought - how terrible was the onslaught of the Valar in Beleriand! How bright the armor of the Maiar, how shining the eyes of my mother’s people! Círdan trusted us, for Ulmo’s sake; but even Gil-Galad was wary. How much more so the Noldor who were Doomed, the Sindar who refused the call West - to say nothing of Dwarves and Men! We very nearly found ourselves arrayed against an alliance of mortals and Avari before we could strike a single blow against Morgoth. And I do not blame them! How could they trust us, who were so tall and so strange, and came dressed for war?”

He paused to breathe, chest tight. Finrod was staring at him transfixed.

“And then,” Finarfin continued. “They saw me. Or rather - they saw you. They saw you in my face. And at once they laid down their arms.”

He stopped again. The moment was graven in fire on his heart: stepping out bareheaded and pleading in front of a crowd of shaking and dirty Beleriandrim, hoping they would just listen. The utter silence that had fallen. The clatter of falling weapons his son’s epitaph.

“Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers. Felagund. Atandil, Edennil, Friend-of-Men. Angolodh. You came before me and smoothed the way, as a father should do for his son - not a son for his father! There was not a place I could go where I was not gathered close to the hearts of the people. From everyone, I heard of you; by everyone, I was asked about you. Do you know - did you know - how you were loved?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. His breathing was ragged, and grief had settled upon his shoulders like the heavy mantle of his House: proudly worn yet wearying. “Yes. It was the greatest gift I have ever been given.”

“Then - then do not say useless!” said Finarfin. “For it was not. You were not forgotten. The Dwarves of Nogrod allied with us for love of Felagund; the Men of Brethil, for love of Nóm; the Sindar for Finrod the Beloved. I was - I am - so proud. My son! My son, who has surpassed his father!”

Finrod was looking at him with wet eyes. He did not move.

“I did not expect this!” he said at last. “I expected - I do not know. Fury, perhaps. We parted in such anger; and if, as you say, our efforts were not vain, they yet led to pain and death.” His eyes were distant. “My little brothers! Yet you are kind.”

Finarfin, still clutching the comb, crossed the distance between them and gathered the other in his arms. Finrod’s chest rose and fell against his own; his golden head was laid upon Finarfin’s shoulder.

“If you think,” Finarfin said, “that I could ever love you any less, or welcome you with any feeling other than joy, then I think that you have not been paying attention.”

Finrod was still; and after a moment Finarfin stroked his son’s bright head, and said gently, “Come, hinya - let me at least take care of your hair.”

#finrod #finarfin #once again just detailing every fucking minute of finrods return cuz i have incurable brainworms #silm fic #my writing #earwen

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debbiedart · 1 year

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House of Finarfin ~

Finarfin - Eärwen

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

• // PRINTS!

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sallysavestheday · 3 months

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could i maybe ask for finrod spending some time with his parents after his return?

Thank you for the prompt! Here's a double drabble of parental comfort for our favorite anguished Arafinwean.

Flung back into the world still raw around the edges, Finrod struggles with touch. All the old civilities wear him down. The handclasps and kisses and fond embraces of all who would welcome him are bruising. Duty’s tactility drains him – all the expected contact wears on skin yet tender, sparks an ache in his still-renewing bones. He smiles his golden smile and bears it, as the King’s heir must, but the weight of pretended joy is almost too much. It is only in his parents’ company that he can abandon himself to sensation. Finarfin cradles Finrod’s head in his own lap, draws a comb slowly through his son’s bright hair. Eärwen clasps Finrod’s ankle in her cool hand and sings, the wash of the waves in her voice a reassurance of the long, repeating arc that every soul follows, of forgiveness, of the harmony between saltwater and tears. Finrod drifts. He sinks into the soft tug on his hair, the gentle anchor of his mother’s hand, the creche of his father’s thighs. Where grief still grips him, it is soothed by their spare and tender touches. Finrod sets down new roots. He lifts his face to the light again, sighing.

#finrod #finarfin #earwen #asks and answers #my fics

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gwaedhannen · 3 months

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first sentence: "Upon his return from the War, Eärwen found Finarfin changed."

That should not have surprised her, the War was—well, she’d seen enough of it herself. But if he was changed more like the Lindar who could no longer bear torches or crowds, or the once-chained who crowded under Lorien’s trees hoping to relearn peace, or her far-niece soaring the salt breeze more often than she walked the land (birds cry only to clean their eyes, Elwing once confided), or their Returned eldest son only half at home in his skin; that she could understand.

Instead his smiles were too wide, his bows too deep, his dancing too flawless, his lovemaking too empassioned, his speeches too cunning; if he spoke of the War at all it was if it were already a distant history. Who was this bright King who threw himself into the politics and lawmaking that he once threw himself at the seaside and herself to avoid? Just what exactly had returned from the pits of Angband, wearing her husband’s flesh?

#silmarillion #tolkien #silm fic #earwen #finarfin #ask game #that-angry-noldo #stormwritten #is Finarfin dealing with his trauma in an odd way or has he been replaced by a changeling? vote now on your phones!#now in my search history: “do birds cry?”

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symphonyofsilence · 1 year

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House of Finarfin edition: part 4/4

(Part 1) - (part 2) - (part 3)

Credits: Celebrian by Sempermoi, Earwen by Yidanyuan, all the others by Dakkun39

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englishlotusflower · 1 year

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Who Looks Like Who(for Plot and also Angst purposes in some cases, but mostly based off vibes)

Fëanor has Míriel's expressions, her short slight frame, and her elegant nimble hands, but his colouring, his charisma, everything else comes from Finwë

Maedhros looks like Nerdanel, but with a bit of Finwë in him. You can tell from a glance that he's Nerdanel's son, equally so that he's Finwë's grandson. It's much hard to tell that he's Fëanor's son (unless he's in a temper). He has Nerdanel's level head and pragmatism combined with the Finwëan charisma, intensity and general OP-ness, all of which he inherited in spades. It's very dangerous - to others.

Maglor has Nerdanel's nose and eyes, and her vibes of quiet serenity until the breaking point and then quiet pointed fury, but also he looks like Fëanor otherwise. Especially wrt his charisma.

Celegorm looks like Míriel. He has Nerdanel's more solid frame, but otherwise could pass for Míriel's twin. Everyone who knew Míriel is always commenting on how he has her hair, her eyes, her rebelliousness, her restlesness, her temper etc. Part of the reason he spends so much time in the woods is because no one there compares him to a woman who died before he was born.

Caranthir looks like Nerdanel with dark hair, and he has her pragmatism. He does have his father's temper, but he also has A Lot of Indis' mannerisms that he has no idea where they came from Atar. (Indis is a genius with maths, economics, trade - Caranthir learnt everything from her. She isn't proud of much that anyone does in Beleriand, but she is very proud of Caranthir's trade empire.)

Curufin looks exactly like Fëanor, except when he's deep in Crafting Mode - then he looks weirdly like Nerdanel. He has Nerdanel's clear head and her insight, and Fëanor's short temper. He's cruel when he's angry, unlike his dad who rampages indiscriminately, but very much like his mum who always knows how to make it hurt.

Ambarussa are identical, with Nerdanel's colouring and frame, but Fëanor's face. Lightly toasted (or crispy or whatever) has more Fëanor vibes and raw has more Nerdanel vibes. Can't explain it, its just Like That. And also the vibes of Fëanor accidentally toasting the twin more like himself. Delicious

Findis has her mother's golden hair, her father's eyes, and an uncanny likeness to Míriel in her mannerisms that can only come from copying Fëanor. (Does this piss Fëanor off? Absolutely. Will she ever stop? Absolutely not.)

Fingolfin has his mother's eyes and her height, but just like Fëanor his colouring, his charisma, everything comes from Finwë.

Fingon did not inherit his father's height and he will never not be sore about it. He looks more like Anairë than anyone else, but his eyes are indubitably Fingolfin's. His habit of braiding ribbons in his hair comes from Findis - she tends to use bright colours but he prefers only gold.

Turgon DID inherit Fingolfin's height, and just like Fingolfin he will never let his elder brother forget it. HE looks a lot like Indis, if she had Noldorin colouring, and everyone says his more...settled temperament comes from her. It doesn't - Indis is calm and controlled, Turgon has his mother's resting bitch face and icy temper. Everyone just thinks he doesn't because his temper is quiet rather than explosive.

Aredhel also inherited Fingolfin's height. She looks like Anairë if Anairë had the Finwëan dramatic tendencies and charisma. Her idols are Cousin Celegorm and Aunt Lalwen (in that order) and it shows.

Argon is taller than Aredhel. By like...a hair. When he discovers that, it becomes his entire personality for a good week. He is the only one who looks mostly like Fingolfin, but he has Anairë's quiet, deadly iciness rather than the Finwëan over the topness.

Finarfin has his mother's colouring and her calm facade, but in all else he is Finwë writ blond. He also hides a temper under the calm facade, but because he controls it better everyone assumes his dad's temper passed him by.

Finrod has the Telerin chill/friendly factor mixed with the Noldorin dramatic intensity, which leaves him aggressively and pointedly friendly. He looks like his mum if Eärwen were blonde and constantly wore as much jewellery as Fëanor made in a particularly inspired month.

Orodreth got Indis' calm facade, and the Finwëan drama gene skipped him for which he is eternally thankful. He has Eärwen's colouring, and Finwë's bone structure, but everything is softer with Orodreth. He's just very shy and quiet and adorable.

Angrod looks very much like his dad, if his dad had blue eyes. He also got Indis' calm facade, but the difference between him and Orodreth is that for Angrod it is just a facade. He's got stubborness in spades from Finwë, and a backbone of mithril from his mum. She also gave him a healthy dose of common sense. Oh and he got a bunch of mannerisms off Findis that really annoy his uncle Fëanor.

Aegnor...well. People make jokes that he's Fëanor but blond. He's got the charisma, the intensity, the impulsiveness, the propensity for bad life choices, the list goes on. Thankfully, he also has Angrod to keep him from anything too awful.

Galadriel has Indis' height, her strength, her colouring and beauty, and a temper that wouldn't look out of place on Fëanor himself. She also has her mother's competency (which comes from the same place as Lúthien's ability to take down the two biggest bads without breaking a sweat). It's a rather dangerous combination.

Lalwen is...herself. She's got her mother's height, her father's charisma and his colouring, but mostly she's just Lalwen. Bold and laughing and utterly done with her family's drama.

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raven-dame · 11 months

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Nerdanel the Wise, Anairë Wife of Fingolfin and Eäwen Swan-Maiden of Aqualondë

These ladies deserve so much more appreciation and recognition ♡♡♡ and all the other silm ladies too

#silm art #silmarillion #nerdanel #anaire #earwen #i love them #i wish there was more info on them #especially about anaire #silm ladies #deserved better #tolkien

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thelordofgifs · 7 months

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a tiny little ficlet for @eilinelsghost! thank you for being such a wonderful friend <3

The first bright rays of Laurelin were brushing Eärwen’s cheek. She sighed, luxuriating in their gentle warmth and in the blissful silence – just a little longer, please—

There was an eager tapping at the door. “Ammë! Ammë, wake up!”

Eärwen and Finarfin had both agreed, when their son had been yet a babe-in-arms, that they would never lock their bedroom doors at night, never imply to Finrod in either word or deed that he was not first in their hearts. It was a policy that had many benefits: for who could possibly deny the tender pleasure that sparked in your heart the first time your baby stood quietly over your bed in the middle of the night and then confessed, grave and a little tearful, that he had had a nightmare, or else crawled warm and sleepy between the covers in the drowsy mornings, listening with his head on your breast to the song of the seashore outside?

Eärwen would not forego that for anything. All the same, she thought she could possibly do without this sort of morning.

It seemed to her that Finrod was bouncing on her bed before the door had even swung fully open. “Wake up, Ammë! It’s cleaning-time!”

“Ingoldo, my elen-lingwincë,” said Eärwen. She reached out to ruffle his silky golden curls. “Yesterday we scrubbed Haru’s ballroom-floor. The day before that we spent hours cleaning sand off the paths around the rock-pools. What else could there possibly be left to clean?”

Finarfin, still mostly asleep beside her, huffed a small laugh. “Open-ended question. A beginner’s mistake.” For it was true, Eärwen saw, that Finrod’s grey eyes were bright with thought, and he was giving her question serious consideration.

“The beach,” he decided at last. “There are lots of gems on the beach, Ammë, and they’re all crusted over with sand and dirt and things! We should polish them.”

“Ingoldo, darling,” Eärwen protested. “There are hundreds and thousands of jewels on the beach.”

Finrod nodded earnestly. “And millions and billions!” he declared. Finwë his grandfather had been teaching him his numbers lately, Eärwen recalled.

“You had best make a start, then,” murmured Finarfin, the traitor.

“Perhaps Atya should help you clean today,” Eärwen suggested.

Finrod thought about this for a moment. “No, Atya needs to rest,” he said. “But you can help, Ammë! Come on!” He tugged insistently at her arm.

Eärwen stifled a sigh. It was going to be a very long day.

#silmarillion #my fic #finrod #earwen #finarfin

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