#manwendil
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Family of Elros 👑
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I just wanna remind y'all real quick that it is only the post-War of Wrath half elves who got to choose mortality/immortality. The only (known) half elves at this time were Earendil, who became a star and possibly a Maia immediately after, Elwing, who would rather abandon her children to die than die herself, and Elrond and Elros.
There was no precedent for the choice. Of course they didn't have time to think it through and consult one another, Elwing and Earendil were completely separate from their children, who were separate from one another.
This also means that no other Half Elf would get the choice. Dior, Elured, Elurin and the potential children of Haleth and Caranthir (you can't tell me they weren't a thing) all did not choose. The grandchildren of Elros did not choose. No one but those four, and later Arwen, Elladan and Elrohir, Vardamir, Nolimon, Manwendil, Atanalcar and Tindomiel got the choice, and we don't even know if the last five actually did or were simply counted as mortal because of their father.
#Lord of the Rings#Lotr#Half Elves#The Silmarillion#Earendil#Elwing#Elrond#Elrond Peredhel#Elros#Elros Tar Minyatur#Elured#Elurin#Arwen#Arwen Undomiel#Elladan#Elladan and Elrohir#Elrohir#Vardamir#Nolimon#Manwendil#Atanalcar#Tindomiel#Tolkein#Immortality#I've seen so many posts saying otherwise but y'all#Everything is Earendil
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jean jacket vs. vanyarin goatherd, round 5
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imagine: Lindir going to you because he can’t sleep…
(I’m changing Elrond’s family tree just a wee 🤏 bit…)
Lindir lay in bed, staring at the sealing. He’d tried to fall asleep for over two hours now. He just couldn’t sleep. Not after what he had seen earlier. It was something he wished he hadn’t seen. You gently kissing lord Elrond’s son, Elladan, on his cheek. He stood and put a black cloak on over himself and went to your chambers.
You were packing back and forth, speaking to Elladan. “He’s just a friend, I’m not-”
You paused when you heard a knock.
“Y/n? You awake?”
You immediately recognized it as Lindir’s voice. You opened the door. “What is it Mellon?”
He sighed, fidgeting with his cloak. “Can we talk?”
You nodded and let him in as Elladan hid in the closet (no pun intended). “What is it?”
He sighed, gently grabbing your hand. “It’s… complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He sighed and began to talk a mile a minute. “I love you, y/n which I know I shouldn’t say because you and prince Elladan are together but I fell ill never sleep if I didn’t get it off my chest I’m sorry I-I know I shouldn’t have said-”
He quit rambling when you burst into laughter and Elladan ‘fell’ out of the closet, wheezing.
Lindir looked terribly hurt by Elladan’s sudden appearance and your laughter.
“Oh, Lindir, she’s my cousin… once removed on her father’s side…” Elladan said.
Lindir looked at the two of you greatly confused. You chuckled. “King Elros, lord Elrond’s brother, was my grandfather,” you explained. “Manwendil was my father and he married my mother, an elf who chose a mortal life but I-I didn’t want that- a mortal life- and after exploring every corner of middle earth that I could I came here to settle for a while.”
Lindir was a pink mess now and Elladan winked at you and made kissy faces before leaving.
You rolled your eyes before looking at lindir and smiling.. “You’re quite cute when you’re flustered…” you whispered, slowly walking to him.
Lindir backed away and you drew nearer until you had lindir pressed between you and the wall. You intertwined your fingers with his before pinning his hands on ether side of his head. “Well…” you began trying to seem disappointed. “I was hoping you’d be a gentlemen and kiss me…”
He turned even more red and looked away. “I-I…” he met your eyes for a second. “I can do tha-”
You pressed your lips on his. “You take to long…”
His slipped his hands from your grasp and put them on your hips, pulling you even closer which you didn’t know was possible.
You smiled and kissed him repeatedly, pulling off his cloak and unbuttoning his night shirt so you could get to his collarbone, nipping it gently.
How you ended up laying on top of him on the bed you didn’t know but that didn’t matter all you wanted was to continue kissing him, watching as he moaned and arched his back.
-.-.-
You woke in Lindir’s arms the blankets still beneath you both. You nuzzled closer nipping at his shoulder since his shirt had slipped off it. He opened his eyes and smiled before pinning you on the bed and getting on top of you. He paused and looked at you, asking for permission to do to you what you’d done to him last night.
You nodded and he unbuttoned the first two battens on your shirt and then he stoped, placing his hand over a scar just below your collarbone. You put your arms around his neck and pulled him to you so your lips met. “Goblins…” you mumbled, referring to the scar. “I’ve got plenty more.”
“Why didn’t you make it vanish like the rest of our kind do?”
You kissed him again. “Because they tell a story…”
He smiled and slid off you so he could be positioned next to you. “You’re beautiful…” he whispered, kissing your cheek.
You smiled and smashed your lips to his, slowly rubbing your tongue over his bottom lip. He opened his mouth and you slipped your tongue in.
-.-.-
Lindir had fixed his shirt and was now brushing your hair so he could braid it for you. You had already put a few simple braids into his hair, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink the whole time.
Lindir set the brush aside and began to braid your hair.
Then there was a voice. “Y/n have you seen…lindir…”
The two of you looked over to see lord Elrond standing in the doorway in shock as lindir held the nearly completed braid in his hands.
“A-are you two…”
You and lindir looked at one another before realizing what you’d just done. Braiding someone’s hair meant you were either family or… “yes we are…” you said, realizing it at the same time lindir did.
Elrond smiled. “Lindir, take the day off, looks like you need it…”
Lindir finished braiding your hair as his face began to redden again. “So I guess we began courting without realizing-”
Your lips cut him off. “Shhh…”
He smiled and pulled your body closer. “I love you…”
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Hold His Own | on ao3.
Elros and his family, for @nolofinweanweek.
Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest.
(All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).
In his old age, Tar-Minyatur looked little older than his grandson's children. Silver was in his hair, and the silver of his eyes a little dulled; but his mind was sharp still, and eager. He walked the quays every day, and bent his back on harvesting seasons.
Only his son's growing weakness kept him from venturing out on the fishing vessels that scoured Ulmo's realm for fat tunas and rich whales - and all his children and their children were raised more on tales of the first eventful seal-hunting expeditions up and down the shores of Númenor than on tales of Beleriand.
Sirion, Doriath, Gondolin and Hithlum - those came later, when they learned their letters and their histories. His brother, in love with lore and the keeping of lore, would argue against it, and no doubt rear his children in the wisdom of Melian's line and the solemnity of eternal memory.
Elros was mortal. He raised his people to love themselves first of all, their cities and language and ways. They sang new songs every season, composed new and useless rhythms with dizzying speed - and the king of Elenna, who had grown among enemies, and made war on Melkor, delighted above all things in this speedy work, the restless pettiness of every day's effort.
The work of one's hands was rarely more beautiful than when it was raised up to protect against wind, hail and spray - than when towers were raised on strong foundations, and around them cities raised on beautiful lines.
He wrote his deeds and thoughts in treatises and decrees, the lore made to be read by lore masters in centuries to come. It was important to keep the past alive, and prepare for the future, study portents and ignore not foresight - Yet not, Elros wrote in the letters he tossed at the waves, Mithlond-bound, at the expense of this year's seaweed nurseries.
Vardamir was hungry enough to learn, and Tindómiel cared mostly for the business of the ships and the studies of the stars - Atanalcar went pearl-diving most of the summer, every summer of his life, and Manwendil liked riding best of all, and was a friend to the sea-birds that brought him small tokens of sea-glass and feathers.
Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest.
(All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).
He soothes them all. Lullabies, half-forgotten and half-improvised, sweet with Menegroth's lilting rhymes; a few tries at the harp, and their little heads rested trustingly on his shoulder, asleep without fear again.
Dreams were only dreams, in the morning. None of them saw bloodshed before their coming of age; none of them would shed blood unjustly, for greed.
Tar-Minyatur knew this, because they were his children. He knew also that their children were like to have children themselves, and for all the friendship of the sea, an island was only so large and plentiful as the number of its people allowed them to be.
The gulls brought gifts to him, too. Perhaps they would do so to his descendants, too, five or ten births down the line, if not twenty. Did birds lose the keenness of their memory, as old men did?
The king's windows were always open, to the fresh star-lit light of the evening, when the weather allowed. In his last years, his bones turned into tyrants even on warm nights, but Tar-Minyatur found time to evade his minders, to bring out his bowl of seaweed and dumplings to the parapets of his towers and speak to Gil-Estel all the same.
All the old people of the island did, when they were soon to die. That last bearing of witness, some of the Edain held, was what stars were for, and this one most of all.
They may choose to tear them down in time, and build them anew, wrote Tar-Minyatur, silver-haired and trembling with the cold of an open window, young still in a way his brother would never be again.
He had taken to reading old philosophical texts with his son's grandchildren, now that they were old enough to be interested in these things, to know death and be a little angry at it, and petulant about the old king's way of teasing them. They went off to complain to Vardamir, who explained everything a little better, a little more sensibly.
No one had called him Elros in many years. All the same, the king wrote: Let them be as they would! That will be their choice! But they shall choose, and choose to look onwards, not back into the unalterable past. The best gift I can give them is to give them some stone and soil to stand upon, and the will to go onwards as they would, with the years they have to live.
Tar-Minyatur raised his children to know this. Great and terrible things came of that, and he foresaw many, if not most; but then, one must think of this day's effort most of all. The future would come, as certain as the tides and the summer storms. It was enough to leave behind strong foundations, and something of estel to pass onwards. All wise old men in Elenna knew this, and held it to be true.
#elros#elrond#vardamir#tindomiel#silm fic#nolofinweanweek#nolofinwëans#the fall of numenor#my fics#tolkien fanfiction
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Anyway I love you Beren and Luthien and Daeron I love you Dior and Nimloth and Elured and Elurin I love you Elwing and Earendil I love you Elrond and Elros and Vardamir and Tindomiel and Manwendil and Atanalcar and Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen I love you line of Luthien I love you peredhil and spouses and friends <3
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Elrond and Elros were lovers, and that's the founding of Numenor's royal family.
Elrond brings this up casually with Celebrian a couple years after they marry and is surprised she's so upset. She already knew that he'd had others lovers but promised he wasn't married and he was over all of them, what's the big deal?
Elrond and Elros were everything to each other. They had to be, with their family gone, their captors who raised them gone, their home city sacked, their childhood prison abandoned, the land they grew up in crumbling into the sea. They loved each other in every way, and relied on each other utterly.
But they knew it couldn't last. Elros wanted to venture beyond the very bounds of the world, while Elrond wished to learn everything he could about Arda no matter how many ages it took. Elros chose the fate of Men, and Elrond the fate of Elves, and in a few decades or centuries they would be sundered forever. Indeed they would be parted even sooner, as Elros was now a king of Men, and would leave to the Isle of the Gift to found his kingdom once things were prepared.
Elrond wasn't going to let him go alone though. Sure, Elros would have soldiers and servants and subjects, but no family. (Elrond at least would have cousins, Celebrimbor and Galadriel and Gil-Galad and Celeborn, even if no closer kin.) Elros needed someone who loved him unconditionally, who was devoted to him entirely, who understood the burden of royalty.
Elrond bore their first son. He named the boy Vardamir, as perhaps there were enough El- names in the family for now, but it was still good to honor the stars and their lady.
Elros took the next turn being pregnant, letting Elrond smooth ruffled feathers at Gil-Galad's court. They told no one, of course, who had gotten Elrond with child, as no one would ever understand. But the pregnancy and birth had been hard to disguise, and so too it was strange to all that the babe would be raised by his "uncle". Elrond explained that the child seemed like a Man, and so would have greater joy in a Mannish kingdom, and none but Elros knew enough to contradict him.
Tindomiel had just begun the flower of her maidenhood when Elrond bore the twins' third child. He spun the same tale about a mortal lover who didn't wish to be named, and a certainty that the child was mortal. No one quite knew how Peredhel inherited, including Elrond and Elros, but having a Man as another parent seemed plausible enough. And Elrond's repeated unwed pregnancies were scandalous and unconventional, but naming the boy Manwendil seemed appropriately pious. Elrond told his brother that he had no motherly foresight, only good wishes. But perhaps Manwendil and Vardamir would love each other as well as their namesakes; perhaps Elrond and Elros's love for each other would be reflected in their sons.
Vardamir was tall and strong with a full beard when he helped his king and father onto the ship that would take them to Numenor. Normally Elros was a capable sailor, but Vardamir worried for him, already halfway along in his pregnancy. It seemed fitting, for the King to be the first one to give birth in their new homeland, the youngest child of the royal family as the first native of Numenor. Truly, Atanalcar was evidence of the glory of Men.
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do you have any tar-miriel headcanons? [or tindomiel headcanons?]
When Elros tells stories to his children, his sons beg for tales of Fingolfin's glorious charge unto Angband, for Earendil's desperate foray into mist and salvation, for Tuor's raging defence of wife and son atop Gondolin's battlements. His daughter does not contradict them, nor does she fuss to hear it: her eyes glow just as bright as Vardamir, just as fervent.
But when she asks for tales, she asks to hear of Idril's great secret tunnel, hidden even from her beloved father. Of Lalwen's defiance, blazing in the salt-flats of Sirion, of Findis' steadfast piety and of Findis' grandmother, passed long before Elros' foster-father could have ever told him tales, passed long before the first elves ever reached Aman: Intyale the Bright-Speared, who snuck into Morgoth's lair before ever he established himself in Angband, who stole away her sister with nothing but clenched fists and a knife-sharp spear.
Perhaps that should have been Elros' first warning.
...
(The second warning came when she chose a craft, in the fashion of the Noldor.
Vardamir had not chosen a craft--not officially, at least, for all that he barely ever threw off the scholar robes Elros and Eresse had gifted him--but Tindomiel made a song and dance of it, insisted, until Elros gave in out of exasperation.
Tindomiel chose prayer.
A safe choice, people seemed to feel, and relaxed. Grandeur in the name of the Valar? She is following the footsteps of her mother.
But that was not the warning. The warning, Elros did not realize, had been in the song and in the dance and in the blazing soaring masquerade of it all.)
...
Tindomiel is the quiet one of his children: quiet and calm, never quite so fierce as Manwendil or as cheerful as Atanalcar or as quick to speak as Vardamir, for all that she is most similar to him. Both she and Vardamir are reserved, in fact; so much that Elros and Eresse had found themselves struggling with Manwendil’s blazing spirit as a youth, so heavily contrasted against his elder siblings.
...
Three thousand and thirty-two years in the future, a boy finds an embossed book tucked behind the dark shelves of Numenor’s library. He does not spend much time in the library--he finds joy in the open fields of war, feet rooted on the rolling deck of a seafaring boat--but his tutors have impressed upon him the need to understand history for military ventures.
He is fourteen years old. He is a curious fourteen years of age.
The book--long abandoned--opens before him like sunlight. The first sentence alone takes him a week to decipher from the chicken-scratch and the old script, but nobody has ever called him unmotivated.
I am the daughter of kings and gods, he reads. I know my inheritance.
And below it, in the glorious swooping signature of the first and highest princess of Numenor: Tindomiel Anyale Alfirinie.
...
Tindomiel inherits nothing. Vardamir has a kingdom; Manwendil his position in Numenor’s army; Atanalcar his beaches and fertile coastlands from their mother. Tindomiel, alone, has nothing.
(She asks for nothing.)
(She refuses what is given, and takes nothing as well.)
There is no room for land or titles or positions where Tindomiel wishes to go.
...
She spends many decades in the temples. They are beautiful places, made of song and light; and there are dozens of them, made precisely to be a home to those that wish to worship in one manner or another. Tindomiel wanders through them--she spends no more than a month in each.
One week to establish herself. Two weeks to learn their philosophy. One last week to practice that philosophy.
And leave, and repeat.
She takes them all in to herself, swallows the meditation and the approach and the practices. Bares herself, soul and more, before the stinging scouring gazes. Swallows the bitter draughts; swims in the strong incense. Kneels on the cold stone. Sings in the drenching monsoons. Wanders the darkness, accepts the lashes, follows the fasts.
Finds what works for her.
And gets to work.
...
There is an old story that Luthien was told by her mother, amid the star-shining eaves of Beleriand-unmarred.
An elf-maid falls in love with her sister’s lover, and wishes to die of the agony: so she reaches with all her fea for what can never be, and in her straining gasping throes she shatters the walls of the world, and is never seen again.
A warrior of the Ainur known for the depth of his loyalty and the swiftness of his blade is forced to choose between saving his oathsworn company or holding to his vows to his lord and god: so he reaches with all his fea to escape what he cannot leave, and in his straining gasping throes he shatters the walls of the world, and is never seen again.
An abandoned child of slaughtered parents wails and wails and wails for comfort that will never come: and so she reaches with all of her fea for warmth that she remembers so well, and in her straining gasping throes she shatters the walls of the world, and is never seen again.
A swooping hand, wrapping around a little girl’s dark (night-dark, nightingale-dark) hair--and Melian’s voice, soothing even in a horror story: This is what happens when the world is too cold and too cruel. The impossible becomes possible, in situations of impossible brutality.
When pushed too hard, little one, people break the world. We can offer them so little after they have surrendered to that fate: we can only remember. And in remembering, we respect them. We cherish them. We honor them, and we name them gods.
...
(Who do the Valar worship?)
...
None of Melian’s stories mention humans. No human has ever broken the walls of the world. No human, none of the thralls of Angband, none of the captives of Sauron, none of the warriors of the War of Wrath--none of them have ever become a god.
But Tindomiel is the daughter of queens and kings: dragonslayers and lightbringers. Her ancestry is as grand as ever her father and brothers. And she has been raised on stories of wolves and dying, desperate defiance and women, forgotten, abandoned, lost.
Idril, who sailed to the west and was never seen again. Finduilas, pinned to a tree, screaming until her lungs would not draw more breath. Her own mother, who sailed west to Numenor with her bare hands. Nimloth, dead with two Feanorians’ blood on her sword and her lance held tight in her hands. Luthien, who danced at the death and won life for herself and her lover. Melian, who held fast before Morgoth himself--who Morgoth dared not challenge upon her own lands. Lalwen, disappeared after the Third Kinslaying. Findis, silent by choice and chance. Indis, quiet and hidden in the cold golden halls of her uncle’s city. Intyale, defiant and triumphant even at the end.
And Elwing, who fell rather than surrender, and flew rather than die.
Elwing. Who was human and Maia and elf. Who loved life so well she won immortality right out of Namo’s stingy fingers.
...
Elwing is her grandmother, and Tindomiel’s dreams are as grand as any king’s.
...
The boy asks what his tutors know of Tar-Minyatur’s eldest daughter, and hears--quiet girl, dutiful child; no children; pious and dedicated; unwedded; wedded to her craft; dead of unknown causes in S.A. 442--and tries to reconcile the description with the brash, prideful woman of the journal.
Then he remembers that Elros Tar-Minyatur died in 442 as well, and a chill goes down his spine.
...
First, she gives up food. Then she gives up water. Then she measures her very air: not too deep, not too much.
A human’s body is not so durable as an elf’s, but it is durable enough for this.
...
Near enough to see, Tindomiel has written, on the last filled page of the journal. Near enough to see, but never touch. Near enough to hope but never reach. Well: I shall reach higher than any of them!
The boy touches the words with the tips of his fingers. Swallows.
There is no more to this story here, but he has--a feeling. A knowledge inside him. A seed, steadily growing into a wide-branched oak. And he is old enough, now, to take the horse and ride to Romenna without anyone’s permission.
At the bay, he wanders the seaside. It has been more than three thousand years. Surely--surely the coast would have--changed--
But then he sees the curve of the beach, shallow and cut of ragged stone, echoing the same sketch that Tindomiel had made in the journal, and excitement flares in his belly. The boy approaches. Strips off his boots and cuffs his trousers, ignores the way the stones cut into his feet and the salt of the sea stings the wounds.
Stands there, balanced, on two flat stones. Then he lifts his hands to the sun, and folds the sole of his foot against the inside of his thigh: trusting in the sea to support him.
Tindomiel had studied for centuries to find what worked for her. He does not have those same centuries, but he is not trying to break the walls of the world: he is only trying to see into the past. And for that, all he needs is--
“Anyale Alfirinie,” he calls out, into the spiraling light of earliest morning.
Tindomiel, named for the morning star, called forth on the eastern beach of Numenor, with the epesse of her choosing.
The dawnlight spills around him like liquid gold.
And with the light comes Tindomiel.
...
“Tindomiel!” bellows a voice.
Startled, she jerks out of her reverie. Even that is smooth at this point: there is little energy left in her limbs for such petty things as surprise or shock. When Tindomiel looks over her shoulder, her father stands on the beach, and beside him is Vardamir.
“Father,” she says. Her voice rings of bells and samite: lent some eldritch strength from her prayer. “Why are you here?”
“To stop you from killing yourself,” he snarls, and steps into the water.
“You cannot stop me,” says Tindomiel. “Would you stop Vardamir from ruling? Atanalcar from governing? It runs in their blood as sure as the sun rises in the glorious east.”
“You mean to--”
“Yes.”
“It is not worth it,” he whispers. “Immortality is not yours to reach for.”
“It was yours,” says Tindomiel levelly. “But you chose otherwise.”
“And you hate me for it?”
“I have no room in me for hate,” she tells him. “Only the knowledge that I would have taken another path in your shoes. But I have only ever had one path, is that not true?”
“How can you say that?” he asks, wretched.
“Because I was not given anything but your blood,” Tindomiel says pityingly. “The only inheritance I have ever had was your blood. Elwing’s blood, and Luthien’s, and Intyale’s. And so with blood as my inheritance was my path written before me: to do the impossible, and to do it well.”
“You could have done anything,” says Vardamir. “But you chose to do this.”
“To be remembered,” she replies, “I would do much.”
“You will not be remembered for this,” says Vardamir. “Not ever. Do you understand? You will be erased. Everything that you have done--everything that you have achieved--it will be gone. This is too dangerous to keep alive. Even if you do this, Tinde--”
“--if you erase this,” she says, “you go against the oldest teachings of the Valar.”
“And if you continue this, you break Eru’s laws!”
“I have gone too far to choose otherwise,” says Tindomiel, and her eyes are glowing from the light of the dawn, gold and golder, and her hands rise, sweeping upwards like the blades of a knife slicing through the skin of the world, and the world splits apart with an indescribable noise. “Choose,” she says, and her voice is a glory of music now, so loud that Vardamir hunches over and Elros, sways, paling. “Your sister, your daughter--or your kingdom.”
The gold brightens until it blinds, and when it fades, there is nothing left: not Tindomiel, not Vardamir, not Elros. Just a boy, staring, starry-eyed, and silent.
...
Choose, Tindomiel had said, because she has laid out the contradictions of the Valar, because she has dedicated her life to this: for now her father must choose between following the Valar’s teachings to honor the daughter who has broken the walls of the world, and ignoring the Valar’s teachings to erase his daughter’s accomplishments and hide the dangerous implications of her accomplishments.
For Numenor is built on the knowledge that the Second-born cannot gain immortality. They can come close. They can come within sight of it.
But they cannot ever touch.
And now--
And now--
...
The boy steps out of the water, feet bleeding, and returns home. He imagines it. Tar-Minyatur, incapable of making that terrible choice, choosing death instead; Vardamir, making the choice but surrendering the scepter immediately after making it. Vardamir, who must have spent the rest of his life steadily expunging his sister from history.
Numenor is built on foundations of rot and ruin, he thinks, bitter as gall, stinging as salt on stone-slashed skin. Numenor is built on grief. And the desire to keep the kingdom alive even unto death.
His father replaces his tutors in a few weeks, so that his only son does not have to suffer from the delusions of elf-friends, and the boy is well-prepared for their rants against Tar-Minyatur, though his dislike is somewhat more... personal.
...
Forever after, there is something of golden sunlight upon him--wrapping his shoulders, chasing his footsteps. They all call him appropriately named, and he does not contradict them.
...
Decades and decades later, he boards Alcarondas and sits upon his throne, facing east: he looks towards the dark sky of the dawn, and he tells Tindomiel: I will touch what was untouchable, and though it could be his imagination, he swears a breeze flares over his skin like a warm touch.
This will be death, his generals all whisper, amongst themselves if they are too cowardly to tell him to his face. This will mean death!
“The Valar themselves shall worship us,” replies Ar-Pharazon, and bares his teeth, and resists the urge to touch his still-scarred feet. “Whether we are victorious or not, we shall achieve the impossible upon this journey!”
#silmarillion#tindomiel#ar pharazon#numenor#my writing#lmao okay so like. my anti-valar agenda continues.
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I'd love to hear about Elros and Elrond Timeswap and Old Fires Burn Out! — @emyn-arnens
[from this WIP ask game!]
Thank you for the ask @emyn-arnens , the one for Old Fires Burn out I already answered here!
Elrond and Elros Timeswap my beloved aka the fic where I give Elrond a bit of an existential crisis and let Elros have some quality family time with his sister-in-law, nephews and niece.
The basic idea of this fic actually came to me because I was one evening very sad about the fact that Elros never got to meet Elrond’s kids and Elrond’s kids never got to meet their uncle and I wanted to fix that.
Elros is from late-ish into his reign, I imagine he already has some visible signs of aging like some gray hair he is very conscious about; while Elrond is from around the time where Arwen is still in the elvish equivalent of pre-teenagehood and a bit of a menace to deal with. Though he’s definitely from before Celebrian gets captured! And yeah for some unknown reason the two of them swap places for a bit.
Elrond’s existential crisis comes from the fact that a) he, for some reason, is now in the past, b) his brother is fucking missing, c) his dead nephews, niece and sister-in-law are alive again(!) and d) he isn't so sure how he’ll deal with the younger version of himself who is scheduled to arrive in like three days… and also e) Manwendil had the brilliant idea that Elrond should be playing Elros’s part as king for the foreseeable future because someone has to and it's definitely not going to be Vardamir.
Elros meanwhile falls from a tree during his daily midday nap in the gardens and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a valley that he doesn’t know and starts wandering around looking for people. He runs into his old friend Gildor, who looks at him like he’s a ghost, meets Glorfindel (isn’t he supposed to be dead??) and finally learns that his brother apparently built an elvish city and got married(!) without telling him about it. It takes him a moment to figure out he might not actually be in time anymore, because everyone else is a little bit too preoccupied with the fact that their lord's dead twin brother just showed up (while their lord is missing!!) and isn’t telling him anything. Nobody expects Elros to play Elrond’s part because all of Rivendell already knows what happens and so he’s free to spend time with Celebrian and the kiddos. Though there is this meeting with the White Council coming up… maybe the Wizards will know what to do? (Spoiler: Saruman and Gandalf know nothin’)
I actually have one chapter and a half already written! Maybe there will be more maybe I'll continue spinning this around in my brain like a döner kebab for eternity.
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Me, reading the Silm with my Vanyar obsession glasses: Hmm, Elros took the name Tar-Minyatur and named two of his sons Vardamir and Manwendil. How interesting.
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Gallery in numenor
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tom bombadil is weird but who exactly are the men of dale?
i mean, all we know about them is that they:
were one of the main forces of resistance during the War of the Ring, about equal to the Iron Hills dwarves
can talk to specifically pheasants (??)
have some claim to Smaug's hoard
seem to think their bloodline is important, based on Bard from Lake-town
but i'm pretty sure they aren't mentioned to be one of the important Edainic lines, so are they like descendants of a rogue Beorian? Are they Manwendil's descendants? who are these people??
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Hope comes with the dawn
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/21OwieH
by liliemaegden
Endings are overrated - what about beginnings?
Middle-Earth has grown old. The time of men is over, and the land is empty, except for the few who have been left behind, including an almost-goddess who was second on Arda and is tired of the endless bleakness that it has transformed into. The Valar have not been active, so she takes things into her own hands.
This story is very canon-deviant and I am fully aware of that- I just wanted to know what Arda would look like, reborn.
Oh, and there might be an Arwen/OFC ship in there too because this fandom has no F/F ships.
Words: 400, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: F/F, F/M
Characters: Original Female Character(s), Middle Earth Ensemble, Tom Bombadil, Eru Ilúvatar, Yavanna (Tolkein), Aulë | Mahal, Vána (Tolkien), Manwendil (Tolkien), Námo | Mandos, Arwen Undómiel, Elrond Peredhel, Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo, Goldberry (Tolkien)
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Original Female Character(s), Tom Bombadil/Goldberry
Additional Tags: I could not name all the characters, Because I am referencing tons, but anyway, Post-Lord of the Rings, Singing, Mixed-Up Middle Earth Geography, Alternate Middle Earth History, Fix-It, i guess, I honestly don't know what tags to put, No Lesbians Die, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Arwen is pretty, Star-crossed, Sad with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/21OwieH
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Hope comes with the dawn
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/VMcp6Ud
by liliemaegden
Endings are overrated - what about beginnings?
Middle-Earth has grown old. The time of men is over, and the land is empty, except for the few who have been left behind, including an almost-goddess who was second on Arda and is tired of the endless bleakness that it has transformed into. The Valar have not been active, so she takes things into her own hands.
This story is very canon-deviant and I am fully aware of that- I just wanted to know what Arda would look like, reborn.
Oh, and there might be an Arwen/OFC ship in there too because this fandom has no F/F ships.
Words: 400, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: F/F, F/M
Characters: Original Female Character(s), Middle Earth Ensemble, Tom Bombadil, Eru Ilúvatar, Yavanna (Tolkein), Aulë | Mahal, Vána (Tolkien), Manwendil (Tolkien), Námo | Mandos, Arwen Undómiel, Elrond Peredhel, Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo, Goldberry (Tolkien)
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Original Female Character(s), Tom Bombadil/Goldberry
Additional Tags: I could not name all the characters, Because I am referencing tons, but anyway, Post-Lord of the Rings, Singing, Mixed-Up Middle Earth Geography, Alternate Middle Earth History, Fix-It, i guess, I honestly don't know what tags to put, No Lesbians Die, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Arwen is pretty, Star-crossed, Sad with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/VMcp6Ud
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Day 1- Elros and his family
I know it’s last minute but I just found out about @numenorweek!
#I posted two versions of this cause I didn’t know what colors I liked more .-.#I’m such a fake fan lol#I have neglected numenor#I just saw that this week is numenor week so I thought I’d participate to the best of my ability!#sorry I’m late with this one#it’s Elros and his family enjoying a night under the stars#timdomiel stays awake all night to spend time with her grandpa#:)#elros tar minyatur#Elros wife#poor thing has no name#vardamir nolimon#tindomiel#manwendil#atanalcar#I headcannon Elros’ youngest sons are twins#just feels right#my artwork#my art#silmart#second age#numenor week#numenorweek2020#it’s still technically Monday where I am so I’m good
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Alrighty! Here’s the second part of the elf/human families! The ‘softer’ canon this time, where it’s not explicit in the actual books
First off is Elros and his (unfortunately unnamed) wife! (I’ve been calling her Emeldir) I know he’s technically mortal by the time he gets married but he was born an elf so I’m counting it.
Their kids are Vardamir, Tindomiel, Manwendil and Atanalcar!
Next up is the Numenorean Imrazor, founder of Dol Amroth (and ancestor of Boromir and Faramir on their mother’s side), and his elven wife Mithrellas, and their two children Galador and Gimlith
And of course finally we have Aegnor and Andreth , and I know they don’t have kids in the canon, but everyone else in this project, so i decided to add my fanon secret daughter of theirs, Hamanare (so they can have a little happiness together at least)
#tolkien#lotr#silmarillion#elros tar minyatur#elros#elros' wife#vardamir#tindomiel#manwendil#atanalcar#numenor#dol amroth#imrazor#mithrellas#galador#gimlith#aegnor#andreth#aegnor x andreth#my OCs#hamanare#Tolkien OCs#my art
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