#elenwë

[prattling-she-elf]

Can we take a moment to talk about that generation that consisted mainly of the grandchildren of Finwë?

I mean, look at this:

Dead, Good as Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Only Alive Because Her Family Had the Presence of Mind to Stop Her, Dead, Dead, Dead, Survived.

Galadriel really was the only one who survived.

And this hits me hard when I think about it.

Because a writer puts a bit of themselves in every character.

The part of Tolkien that I see the most in Galadriel is the part of him that survived the war.

After all, he was part of the Lost Generation. Two of his closest friends—Robert Gilson and Geoffrey Smith—died in the war. Tolkien and Christopher Wiseman were the only two of their fellowship to survive.

Only Galadriel survived.

That was what the Grandchildren of Finwë were. They were the Lost Generation. An entire generation slaughtered.

The regret, the lamentation, the grief. Galadriel knew it well. She lived it because Tolkien lived it.

And I don't know why, but for some reason, this speaks to me louder than any history book ever has.

#Finwë #Fëanor #Meadhros #Maglor #Celegorm #Caranthir #Curufin #Amrod #Amras #Fingolfin #Fingon #Turgon #Elenwë #Aredhel #Argon #Finrod #Angrod #Aegnor #Galadriel #Tolkien #The Lost Generation #The Silmarillion #Silmarillion #Middle Earth #War of the Wrath #WWI #House of Finwë #House of Fëanor #And there came his cries calling faintly down the dark alleys of the dreary trees #and one there weeping weary on the threshold heard how the hills said 'my home is gone.'

[valinorianyears]

"Laurefindele just took Itarille for a walk my love, I don't think we'll see them for a while."

"Oh if only we knew what to do when no one's around..."

"Turgon likes his women* like his towers.

Tall.

*woman"

Turgon and Elenwe for @nolofinweanweek day 2

#nolofinweanweek2023 #nolofinweanweek #valinorian years #silm art #silmarillion fanart #elenwë #elenwe #Turgon #nolofinweans #silmarillion #silm headcanons #silm #fanart #tall elenwe supremacy

[searchingforserendipity25]

Hold on. Hold on a second.

If Morgoth got enough feelings of prophetic dread from Turgon to know his eventual defeat would come from him, then logically, he'd be just as creeped out by Elenwë. She is Eärendil's foremother, and from her, very directly, the hope of the Children of Eru and all free people will come.

And then she dies on the Ice? Not that suspicious, in those circumstances, but consider: Melkor, in the splendour of Valinor, avoided high-minded Turukáno and his keen-eyed lady, but most of all he did his best to be the hell away from their very adorable and very creepy baby girl, around whom the Music sang with chords of mighty righteousness. The crack that splintered the Ice underneath Elenwë's feet was no accident; she was never supposed to be fast enough to throw Idril away from peril.

#epiphany of the closed eyes while settling in bed opening suddenly sort #morgoth #turgon #elenwë #idril #the silm

[cilil]

Femslash February

⬡ Prompt: Hands for holding & first snow (rare pair bingo) | Aredhel x Elenwë ⬡ Synopsis: Seeing the snow fall, Aredhel thinks of Elenwë. ⬡ Warnings: References to Elenwë's death ⬡ Drabble

Aredhel stood on her balcony, watching the snow fall. It seemed so calm, peaceful and quiet now, so unlike the deadly cold and treacherous paths of the Grinding Ice. 

Her thoughts belonged to Elenwë, and to her alone. If only she could've been there. If only she could've saved her. 

She imagined – and it was almost as if she could see it – Elenwë's hand, cold and trembling, reaching, for Turgon, for Idril, for her... 

Desperate, Aredhel reached out as well, grasping snowflakes and air as the phantom vanished like Elenwë had, taken by the ice, and she was alone again. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

#aredhel #irisse #elenwe #elenwë #aredhel x elenwe #drabble #wlw #femslash #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #femslash february

[a-happy-artist]

#elenwë #elenwe #elenwe fanart #tolkien fanart #fanart #silmarillion fanart #silmarillion #silm art #tolkien #nolofinwëans #nolowinweans #art #turgon's wife #idril's mother

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Thanksgiving

Thank you, anon, for this prompt. I would never have thought of that one myself.

To all my friends who celebrate: Happy Thanksgiving. I certainly am very grateful for y'all!

Characters: Fingolfin and a slew of others...(and Finrod)

Words: 1 850

Warnings: resentment, regrets, reproaches, a lukewarm bird, and a lot of love (it's not that serious, don't get mad!)

Fingolfin stared at the ominously glistening carving knife in open dismay.

“You can’t tear the bird apart with your bare hands,” Anairë cautioned under her breath. “Please, do not make a scene about blades. Not today. Not with all of them here.”

He nodded ponderously and turned to the assembly, entirely made up of his blessedly numerous descendants.

“Good evening, I welcome you warmly at this unprecedented feast of profound gratitude for the invaluable blessings we have received. Let's rejoice rather than elegize morosely. Anyway, my name is…”

“Eru bless, he’s forgotten his own name,” Aredhel stage-whispered, which earned her a punitive glare from Turgon and a hard jab in the ribs from Fingon.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fingolfin finished his sentence slowly. “Fingolfin? Golfin?”

He sighed deeply. “Call me whatever you want—some of you I have had the honour of meeting, and others I am looking forward to getting to know.”

“The food is getting cold!” Argon complained—he had died young and had not sired any children, so his stomach’s yearnings were of more importance to him than the painfully awkward introductions at their first annual family reunion.

He was not even sure that one could call this a “reunion” when they had never been gathered in this constellation before.

“I agree,” Aredhel piped up, much to the chagrin of her surly, overly quiet son who just gave her a pleading look. Maeglin suffered still under the repercussions of his betrayal, and he felt supremely uncomfortable, sitting motionlessly at the same table as his uncle and cousin.

“’Rissë,” Anairë intervened sharply. “I, for one, am delighted and grateful to see so many generations congregated here.”

“Turno is the best,” Fingon jeered, but his voice was warm and infused with benevolent humour. “He has single-handedly secured a legacy for our family. You’ve won that one, I think--isn't that another thing to be thankful for?”

“You forget my wife,” Elrond reminded him suavely but fell silent instantly as the memory of his brother and daughter welled up like acid in his weary heart. “She begs you to forgive her absence, but her mother…”

“Is absolutely right to wish for her only daughter to be by her side,” Anairë mediated once more with impeccable grace. “As the mother of a wayward daughter myself, I understand that only too well.” “As far as I can see, I sit here with my son as well. Why don’t you hound Fingon, your golden child, or Argon, your precious baby, about their abject failure to produce valiant heirs to join our merry round of traitors and murderers?”

“’Rissë!” Fingolfin thundered with much less parental indulgence than his wife had shown. “Can we please just share a meal and exchange some pleasant stories? I would very much like to hear about the lives of my descendants.”

“You could have been there,” Fingon muttered, “but you had to go and get yourself killed.”

“Says the one who went to the exact same place to save his ginger menace of a…friend?” Turgon commented dryly.

“He could well have been there; he would not have found you anywhere though, would he?” Fingon shot back, fire flaring in his eyes.

“And that’s why I didn’t want any weapons,” Fingolfin sighed, clutching the carving knife to his chest and casting dark looks at his progeny.

“Children,” Anairë cried. “Children! What shall the young ones think of us if we squabble and argue like fishmongers?”

“I’m used to it,” Elenwë declared calmly.

“So am I,” Idril laughed. “Sorry, I have known my very own father for too long not to be used to his sharp tongue,” she added when the others stared at her in shock.

“Grandfather has ever been kind,” Eärendil—who had been dispensed of his duties for the evening—remarked generously, patting his son’s hand. “Worry not, dear, it’s normal.”

Elrond merely shrugged. “I have spent large parts of my life with Lady Galadriel, Gil-Galad, and Celebrimbor, besides the Dwarves, the Hobbits, the meddling wizards, and the many Men who have come and gone. Thus far, I’ve heard nothing that could even scratch the surface of my equanimity!”

Fingolfin rubbed a weary hand over his eyes—when Anairë had announced, an unimaginably long time ago, that she was carrying Fingon, he could never have imagined what profound joy and heartbreaking misery was to follow.

Looking over now at the beautiful, sensible creature he had desperately loved and despicably deserted, he felt his throat tighten with overwhelming emotion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Anairë laughed. “I can safely claim that this wilful, wicked streak is entirely passed down from your side.”

“Mother has disavowed us, and there is no food,” Argon exclaimed dramatically.

“How do you know?” Maeglin asked in a cautious tone; he was ever eager to see others shift blame because it made him feel less wretched about his own shortcomings.

“I’ve spent a long time in close conference with both Nerdanel and Eärwen,” Anairë explained as she plucked the lethal knife from her husband’s hand and started cutting the festive offering of meat and fruit into thick slices. “We have come to the conclusion that the alarmingly wild and reckless streak in all of our beloved children must surely come from the same source.”

“Again, my mother-in-law and wife are nothing if not measured and wise in their words, actions, and decisions,” Elrond opined calmly.

“So you say,” Aredhel mocked. “I could tell you stories about your cherished mother-in-law that would make your blood curdle.”

“Ha!” Fingolfin cried. “Surely, ‘Rissë’s savagery cannot be laid at my poor father’s feet!” He sought his wife’s sparkling gaze once more.

With a chortle, Anairë strode over and pressed a tender kiss onto his high, chiselled cheek. “They are very much yours,” she hummed. “Taking off in a huff on a petulant, vexed whim, riding into lethal danger with a song and a prayer and doing exactly what they were told not to do seem to be constants in your family. Did not two of three of your father’s sons die in ludicrously brazen and irrational feats of unparalleled heroism?”

Fingolfin grimaced. Anairë, smiling still, meanwhile made the platters of steaming food go around the table—much to the delight of Argon and Aredhel—so their spell-bound guests could at least feast while witnessing the epic showdown between long-estranged spouses.

“Resentful words from you, wife,” Fingolfin muttered dejectedly.

“Oh, but love,” Anairë chuckled soothingly. “They are also faithful, hopeful, and laughably stubborn thanks to your blood. I shall grant you this: I have doubted your sanity but never your love. So, I always knew that this alone would be enough to make sure that you’d be returned to me in time. Nothing can detain your line where it no longer wants to abide, and nobody will ever be able to keep you from pursuing what you earnestly desire.”

“They have your patience,” Fingolfin replied, mollified and touched by her understated confession of enduring love and imperishable admiration. “No doubt, the ability to remain—hidden and watchful—despite their yearnings and duties comes from you. Though I am less rash than my half-brother, I admit that I have never managed to emulate your graceful talent of lying in wait, ready to pounce at the first good opportunity.”

As one, they turned back to gaze lovingly upon the faces of those who had sprung from the source of their long-forgotten, innocent hopefulness.

Discreet munching was halted as the heavy, noble regard of their patriarch fell upon each one, and more than one positively squirmed under the benevolent scrutiny of one so old and allegedly wise.

“I’ve died too early,” Argon then said flippantly. “Maybe Turno wants to tell us about his hidden city?”

“I do not,” Turgon barked around a scalding hot potato—a staple in every household since the arrival of the Hobbits—and glared at his youngest brother. “I built a city, people came, people left, people died. Then Gondolin and my humble self fell. Let’s skip that part.”

Catching Aredhel’s grateful look, he nodded imperceptibly and even tried to smile at Maeglin; what was meant as a gesture of goodwill and forgiveness was marred by the potato grotesquely distending his cheek still, though, and—as was his wont—Turgon simply shrugged it off.

“How about you, my darling?” Elenwë said, addressing Idril. “How have you fared?”

With a small sigh of fatigue—for she had told the story many times before—Idril launched into a tastefully abbreviated recounting of her life after the fall of Gondolin.

When her narration came to an end, Eärendil, eager to speak to others again, took the tale up where his mother had left off.

Soon, all eyes turned on Elrond who had lived a long time and had been a key player in a conflict all of them had missed on account of being detained in Mandos or mending in the gardens of Lórien at that time.

“Well…” Elrond mumbled, unsure where to start and how to explain the circumstances of his youth without reopening old wounds and reawakening grievances and family feuds. “After—”

He fell silent. His father sat right beside him, and he did not seek to make him or his mother feel strange or guilty about the unfortunate incident with the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion.

Was it even recommendable to bring up the unfortunate stone? How about the ring of Sauron? Did they call him Sauron, or would they know him under another of his many aliases?

He groaned quietly.

“Káno and Russo took you, yes?” Fingon said encouragingly, his eyes feverishly bright, and his lips pale with tension as if he was forcefully holding back a flood of questions.

Elrond exhaled audibly and steepled his fingers against his chin in a bid for more time to find an appropriate answer that would not kick off another slew of recriminations and fighting words.

“AH! We have arrived just in time to listen to our dear cousins being disparaged!” A bright, chiming voice resounded from the doorway, and Finrod strolled in, accompanied by his sister and his niece. “I have taken the liberty of escorting darling Artanis,” he explained.

“You’ve come for the gossip,” Turgon commented dryly, but his eyes lit up at the sight of his old, much-beloved friend. “Have a seat; you are indeed right, and we are about to hear about the parental talents of our Fëanorian kin.”

“Does that make me the worst of all?” Elrond asked dolefully. “Am I the compounded result of all the noxious strains of which Lady Anairë has just spoken?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Galadriel declared decisively. “Whatever good was in any of us, I am certain that you young ones must have harnessed it.”

Her warm, proud gaze shifted to her daughter who merely rolled her eyes at her and went to kiss her husband tenderly.

“Go ahead,” she whispered under her breath. “Tell them about the many people you’ve known and loved. Who knows? You might plant the seeds of forgiveness and renewal on this very night.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Fingolfin #Anairë #Fingon #Turgon #Aredhel #Elenwë #Idril #Maeglin #Eärendil #Elrond #Celebrían #Galadriel #Finrod #Argon #Thanksgiving #Happy Thanksgiving #Gen!fic #family dynamics

[kitcat22]

One headcanon of mine is that Elenwe is a daughter of Ingwe and was named after Elwe.

Ingwe names her this partially out of love for his friend but also in a moment of foresight that, at the time, he could not decipher.

In the end Elenwe, just like her namesake, is lost on the journey.

#silmarillion #the silm #silm headcanons #elenwë #ingwe #elwe #elu thingol

[noldor-in-space]

A collection of quick drawings for mermay

#mermay #my art #caranthir #fingon #annatar #luthien #fingolfin #finrod #elenwë #amairë #fanart #tolkien #the silmarillion #digital art #fingolfin is still young and living in Tirion

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

“They dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe. There Elenwë the wife of Turgon was lost, and many others perished also; and it was with a lessened host that Fingolfin set foot at last upon the Outer Lands.”

-JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Of the Flight of the Noldor”

[ID: An edit consisting of four posters in shades of amber with white accents.

1: A close-up of Havana Rose Liu, a Chinese-American model with wavy dark blond hair and tan skin. She is facing the viewer and has her hands tangled in her hair, which falls over her shoulders. She is wearing a loose white and orange shirt and stands against an off-white background. Large cursive text above her head reads “elenwë,” repeated on top in a thin white font with large spaces between the letters / 2: Golden clouds at sunset. Text reads “of the vanyar” in the same thin white text, with the first two words on top and “vanyar” on the bottom with larger spacing / 3: Large chunks of raw amber stone. Same text and format as Image 2 / 4: Havana Rose Liu in the same outfit, this time leaning on one arm and looking pensively to the left with her head tilted. Same text and format as Image 1 /End ID]

#edits with the wild hunt #brought to you by me #elenwë #the professor’s world #the silmarillion #elves elves elves #described #posters #tolkienedit #silmedit #mepoc #oneringnet #tolkiensource #fandomaesnet #was all set to post a different version of this and then was like 0_0 and remade the whole thing. so have elenwë: upgraded

[elficially-done-with-life]

If a character is not included it is possible that I included him or her in one of the first two parts of this

#tolkien poll #polls #tolkien polls #silm #silmarillion polls #nellas #beleg #luthien #finduilas #elros #egalmoth #rog #eärendil #ecthelion #celebrían #elenwë

[valinorianyears]

Dnd lore for the VY-Dnd module

Her highness the crown princess Elenwë of the Vanyar, second child of former high king Ingwë and Ilwen, wife of Turukano, the son of Nolofinwë and Anairë.

After her brother suffered from an injury in his childhood that damaged his vocal chords, limiting his ability to speak and thus every bit of might that he inherited, his younger sister, Elenwë, was crownes crown princess on Kôr, long before the eldar built Tirion.

#silmarillion #valinorian years #silm art #silm headcanons #silm #silmarillion fanart #fanart #elenwe #elenwë #dnd module #vanyar #silmarillion headcanon

[sempermoi]

Women of the House of Finwë - Part 2 WIP

Ok, this is half of the back row. I realised I’d forgotten about Elenwë, Idril and Elwing in my previous post ^^’

I have to do this in 2 parts because Procreate has a layer limit so I can only render so much in one file ^^

#art #artists on tumblr #drawing #sketch #digital art #my art #illustration #tolkien #tolkien art #the silmarillion #procreate #wip #fanart #silmarillion #Aredhel #anairë #Elenwë #Elwing #Idril

[between-thepages]

Year of the Archer

Pairing: Aredhel/Elenwë

Rating: E

Tags: Pining, Getting Together, First Kiss, Body Worship, Oral Sex

Summary:

The year Elenwë goes from silently pining over Írissë to being her girlfriend. Complete with the opportunity to wake up together and use the time responsibly.

I wrote this one for Screw Yule and then promptly forgot to share it here as well

#my silm fanfiction #aredhel/elenwe #aredhel #elenwë #silmarillion #fanfic

[avenger-313]

@nolofinweanweek (I am late for the last day of Nolofinwëan week. I faced some issues which prevented me from posting regularly, but I'll contribute this final work anyway!) Day 7

Find a Path out of the Dark

There was a bitter taste to it when you were right about something that you hated.

The only remaining child of Fingolfin pondered this again as he sat outside the balcony of his rooms in his city.

Turukáno had (in the secret depths of his mind that nobody could reach) always known that he would survive longer than his siblings. He had even jested about it once in front of them all when he’d been in the mood to, that their unbelievable tendency to do foolish and reckless things was going to leave him an only child one day.

They had all laughed as they nodded, guessing the manner of their death and throwing in ideas for Turukáno to do once that happened. Anairë, their sweet mother, had heard the conversation and chastised them for speaking of such things. 

They had been in the bliss of Valinor, then.

#Day 7 #nolofinweanweek2023 #nolofinweanweek #the silmarillion #turgon #fingon #aredhel #argon #idril #fingolfin #caranthir #maedhros #elenwë #tolkien #fanfiction #I am late #but I'll post this last one anyway

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Aurora Borealis

Prompt: Aurora Borealis

Characters: Turgon x Elenwë for @elentarial

Warnings: /

At their feet lay endless death—their every step upon the cold bone dust crunched threateningly, and their eyes never dried, half-frozen tears of grief spilling forth relentlessly.

Nevertheless, Turgon held Elenwë in his strong arms and bid her look up.

Above their heads, ribbons of luminous colour swirled across the ever-dark sky, conjuring up memories of Alqualondë’s unsullied shores and the flowering pastures of their families’ estates they had deserted so suddenly.

“It’s all still there,” he whispered encouragingly. “Beyond the white, there is colour. After the darkness, there shall be light. We must keep going!”

Elenwë nodded bravely.

So, that kicks off another month of me being annoying!

Lots of love!

-> Masterlist(by @cilil)

#og post #December Drabbles #Fluff #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Turgon #Elenwë #Aurora Borealis #Skirting the limits of fluff