#“all his love he gave to his son feanaro”

[soothingmoonlight]

@dreamingthroughthenoise

Finwe and little Finwion

"All his love he gave now to his son; for Feanor in childhood was like his mother in voice and countenance, and Finwe was to him both father and mother and there was a double bond of love upon them"

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

untitled galadriel game

"Alas," Artanis sighed, "that you had not looked upon the Trees -- that their light is not in your eyes."

"You mean to say that I have not looked upon the divine?" 

Celeborn said it so mildly that he might as well have drawn his sword. Galadriel studied Celeborn hastily -- ah, there the trap. "Looked upon, and heard her song. Even so..." Even Melian is a maidservant to the Valar, who spoke with us face to face beneath the Trees. "Even so, one may mourn the light."

Celeborn nodded thoughtfully. "You would know better than I would. In all Arda none are more familiar with light than the House of Finwe."

That one Artanis understood at once, and bristled. To compare her to Feanaro Curufinwe -- that arrogant, vain, idiot -- Feanaro whose craft had only ever been trouble, from his Silmarils to his sons -- Celeborn was watching her, without a glimmer of awe or fear in his eyes.

When had she become accustomed to awe? To fear?

He had not said it to wound her. He had said it because he had known she would consider, as she was considering now. Even now, Celeborn considered her consideration. Artanis was accustomed to deep exchanges of meaning with her brother, only a word or two spoken aloud, reading all their subterranean thoughts off each other's hearts. Artanis had not dreamed that she would never have such conversations with anyone else.

A little ripple of interest ran down her spine. She smiled. "You are unkind to me."

"Oh?" Now she had his attention.

"To speak of light, in the house of Elwe Singollo? Nerwen Arafinwion could have seen gold for miles in Valinor -- but here, I must make do with silver." For she had been tall among her brothers, yes, but Elu Thingol was grown in stature by the grace of his Maia -- she would have to stand tiptoe to see over the heads of Elwe's house. Even Celeborn himself stood half an inch above her, and the braids of his silver hair gave him another half inch. Artanis regarded that hair with some interest. Ingoldo was in love with his own hair, but she found herself rather liking Celeborn's more.

And so she was startled by Celeborn's stifled snort. The first ungenteel thing she had heard from him -- the first to suggest he was not a princely statue, but an actual living thing. Artanis dropped her eyes to meet Celeborn's, now dancing with laughter. 

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not mean it unkindly." And forgive his indiscretion, he meant, but Artanis thought she might hold onto it.

"No?"

"Not at all. Only that the legends are true."

This one she could not decipher. Celeborn drew closer. "Finrod told me -- forgive him as well, but he is enamored of you and prone to gossip." True. "And, I fear, unkindly disposed towards his uncle." Deserved.  "He said that Feanor was inspired to his love of light in the first place by the sight of your golden hair, which caught the light of the Trees and shone the brighter for it."

Artanis found this completely impenetrable. She could not catch hint of his true meaning. But he could not possibly mean what he was saying.

"So we return to your initial mistake. I see the light of the Trees after all," Celeborn said. He tilted his head to one side, and the gleam of the light through the window fell on his face from Artanis' own hair.

"You torture the metaphor," Artanis said, though she was loath to say it too loudly. Something in Celeborn's face, something uncharacteristically unguarded. Artanis was under no illusion that she was not beautiful; but Celeborn's normally-sharp gaze was hazed over, dreamlike. "The light of the Trees illumined, pierced all illusions."

"It is so," Celeborn breathed. 

"They gilded and breathed beauty where they shone. Nothing has ever been itself, save that the light of the Trees once showed us what it could be."

"It is so."

"There is one more difference." The repartee alit on her mind, like a bird, before the consequences. She considered, briefly. Consequences, but not unwelcome. "You have done the poets of the Sindar proud; you have fed and stoked my ego, and I will be insufferable for days. But one thing remains, and in your overlooking it you prove that there is much yet that the Sindar have yet to learn from the Noldor. For none of my house could ever have left it out."

This speech had drawn Celeborn's gaze back down to Artanis' own; he studied first her left eye, then her right. Whatever he saw there did not satisfy. "That is?"

"But I overreach myself," Artanis said, enjoying herself a little too much now. She drew half a step closer to Celeborn. He nearly took an unconscious step back, for she had employed not the gracious gait of the Noldor nobles but the lean, predatory movements they had learned on the Helcaraxe. But Celeborn did not, in the end, draw back. Artanis' prey had often been paralyzed under her gaze. "If my countenance -- my hair -- if, as you say, it contains all the light of the Trees, then you would have tried to take it by now."

Celeborn fled. 

The room was silent. Even fleeing, Celeborn stepped lightly. Artanis had been right; he had enjoyed himself too deeply, gotten lost in it, had not thought through to the next step of the game.

She sighed. Melian was going to laugh at her about this.

[dalliansss]

Arafinwë 🐅🦄?

Unusual Headcanons Ask Game!

🐅 - Characterization: character habits, personality, etc.

At the foremost, Arafinwe IS everything the history books tell him to be: noble and generous. He loves his peace, and did prefer to avoid the terrible conflict between Feanaro and Nolofinwe. However, he and Lalwende got along exceedingly well with Feanaro, and it is said that Arafinwe is Feanaro's most beloved sibling, if not his favorite out of all of his half-family. He and Feanaro bonded exceedingly well over chess and their love of languages. Arafinwe's secret at winning Feanaro's affection is that he always cheerfully ignored Feanaro's attempts at hostility, so much so that Feanaro simply gave up being nasty to him. He is the only half-brother who can crash unannounced at Feanaro's house.

Arafinwe's kindness, while genuine, is calculated. He is generous and kind by default to the common rabble of elves, and his kindness gets more calculated as he deals with aristocrats and people who can further his cause. He is after all born and raised a prince. He taught this calculating kindness to all of his children, but Finrod and Galadriel in particular took these lessons to heart.

Arafinwe is the kind of elf who knew painfully that his house had prestige only by blood. Deeds of greatness and valor can not be had in Aman, but his children he pushed in fields they can excel in: academics, athletics, politics. This is a deeper reason why he preferred to observe his brother's conflicts: ever was he waiting for a chance to turn his house's fortunes around.

As a father, he was warm and affectionate. He bestowed affection freely, and raised his children being easy and comfortable receiving hugs, kisses, being told I Love You at least ten times a day. But like everybody, he was not a perfect parent. When Angrod was born, he and Earwen wanted very much a daughter, and when Aegnor was born, both were disappointed. This was why Galadriel had such a close age to Aegnor. And when Galadriel was born, he and Earwen turned all their attentions to her, neglecting their other infant son, and prompting Finrod to separate Aegnor from the family at Alqualonde and raise him by himself in Tirion.

Arafinwe is very good in managing and growing wealth, a crucial skill he taught Finrod. If his family can't be the chief ruling line, then at least through careful trade alliances and political connections, he can at least ensure that they will be among the wealthiest in Valinor.

His ego and pride were beyond the roof when Manwe pronounced greatness for Finrod during his First Begetting Day. Ever since he has not ceased to push Finrod to always aim for greatness.

He is decidedly an opportunist. While it is true Arafinwe turned back from the Exile of the Noldor because for fear of the Vala Mandos' pronouncement of the Doom, he saw his chance to finally be King of the Noldor and seized it.

Arafinwe's hobby is trimming topiaries, examining little species of animals and preserving them, concocting poisons and antidotes. He has an endless fascination with snakes.

🦄 - Characters’ physical appearance.

He is the second shortest of his brothers. He is fair, golden-haired and blue-eyed, of lithe build. He is an excellent swordsman, but rather stupid with archery. Arafinwe likes to clothe himself in greens and golds, sometimes in pinks and reds if he's feeling very festive. He is also fond of wearing pearls in his hair, something absorbed from Earwen and Telerin culture. He has a love of jewelry and shiny things and is often wearing many earrings and rings and bracelets. He always has an easy and warm smile, though those smiles rarely reach his eyes.

[elenagr]

(Fanfic) After the threat

@tolkienfamilyweek The news spread quickly throughout Tirion. Anaire already had a rough idea of what happened in the palace of King Finwe. She was working in the garden with her youngest son when Findekano and Turukano arrived. Findekano was having a difficult conversation with his older cousin. Turukano gave details of the aborted Council, adding that Nolofinwe went to his younger brother.

“Almost killed”… It sounded wild in peaceful Aman. It’s like something from the old days, when the Quendi lived in distant Endor. Anaire could not find a place for herself.

The hour of the Mixing of Light had passed when she finally heard the creak of the gate. Nolofinwe has arrived. He was calm, as if nothing had happened, and smiled…

- Darling! - she literally hung on him, not wanting to let go. It didn't escape her gaze that his tunic was slit in the heart area.

“It’s okay, melda, don’t worry,” he took his wife in his arms. So they stood, enveloped in the soft silver light of Telperion. Blue flowers looked at them with their kind eyes.

Anaire felt that someone’s overly fiery, unkind gaze was watching them from behind the fence. The glance flashed and disappeared. Did her imagine it or not? It doesn't matter now. The only important thing is that she and her husband are together; this state is akin to flying. All fears disappeared for a while. She always felt this, being in the power of the strong hands of her husband.

Then she excitedly kissed the cut on his chest. At his younger brother’s house they had already smeared him with some medicine. The elf felt bitterness on her lips, not yet knowing that this was the taste of future changes.

“It’s okay,” Nolofinwe said, “I will do everything I can to protect you, the children, our people.”

This is where he let it slip. “I’ll do my best,” it turns out, even he is not completely confident. Only from such small details, random slips, did she guess the feelings he was hiding.

“I am summoned to the court of the Valar,” Nolofinwe said a few days later. Anaire's heart sank: what will happen now? That’s how she felt: the story of the failed Council would not end just like that. Almost all of Tirion was ready to testify in favor of Nolofinwe. He, however, did not want to escalate the conflict. He said that only those ordered to appear. Anaire wished to go with her husband. Indis joined them: she said that she had not seen Ingwe for a long time. “My dear ones, we will travel together, but I ask you not to attend the trial,” he said. She nevertheless begged permission to be at the trial - she wanted to support him at least morally, with her presence alone.

- Don't worry. They won't imprison me in Mandos forever. Even Melkor came out and is sowing confusion,” Nolofinwe grinned. …They rode with him together on a white horse. At the trial, Nolofinwe behaved with dignity and did not testify against his brother. And when he declared his readiness to forgive Feanaro, Telperion and Laurelin flashed with an unusual, unprecedentedly soft pearl light. It was as if the Trees rejoiced at his words and illuminated his hair so beautifully.

…When they were driving back, Nolofinwe was saddened - he did not want his brother to be convicted. And soon Finwe also left for his eldest son. Nolofinwe bore the brunt of responsibility for the Noldor. He was constantly busy, and his wife almost stopped seeing him, as well as her sons who helped him. Irisse missed hunting with her cousins. Nolofinwe refused security. He asked Anaire not to go alone outside the city. And she loved to walk by the sea so much! He tried to find time and give her such walks. But his wife saw how tired he was and said that she did not want to go to the sea. He felt that this was not so, and asked Arafinwe and his wife, who often walked along the shore, to take her with them sometimes. During this period, Anaire became close friends with Earwen. Everything should have ended not even in twelve years, but earlier. Nolofinwe was again summoned to Manwe. Was hoped that the conflict would be forgotten. But instead of ending the troubles, that dark day brought a huge tragedy.

[maironsmaid]

I loved your drawing of shorn Tyleko! (Poor baby) I don't want to be intrusive or anything (I have a hard time communicating via text) so feel free to disregard this if you don't want to, but would you be able to write a drabble or smth about Celegorm and Curufin + forced haircutting/hair shaving? You have this amazing writing style which I think would really bring the trauma and shaming of the headcanon to life!

Hey anon guess what I finally finished!

I mean first of all Thank you!! I'm happy you like the art (I'm still aghast that people apparently know and like my writing?? <3)

So that story *might* be a bit longer than expected, so I'm trying to put it under the cut, but I'll also upload it on ao3 und ther the same name as well! (@Maironsmaid)

So here we go, I hope you like it

(P.s. sorry for the formatting Tumblr is weird like that)

When the strands fall like teardrops

The crowd seemed restless, unsettled, shifting here and there, whispering, their eyes cast to where he stood next to his brother.

He grinned at them, beared his teeth, flashing his sharp canines.

They would learn what it meant to humble them. The proudest sons of Feanaro.

He laughed at the thought. Did Orodreth really think that he could break their spirit with a measle punishment? 

What was he going to do? Brand them? Banish them? His mind flitted to their mother's face, to the burn scars still marring Curufinwe's hands and arms from where he held their father in death, to the grave face of Macalaure as he was announced regent and King in the absence of their brother.

There was no pain they had yet to learn. 

The grand doors looming over the court opened and a hush fell over the crowd.

Oropher followed by Finduilas and Lalwen strode to the raised platform infront of Tyekormo. Once there Oropher turned around, looking down his nose and for a moment Tyelkormo wondered if he could even see them, with his head held so high.

Probably not.

A guard came to stand behind him and his brother.  He tensed as he felt cold chain links glide over his sensitive skin, pulling his arms behind him, leaving him open.

He snarled. How *dare* they!

How dare they chain him like this, like he was just some low criminal.

He was shoved to his knees and as he looked up at Orodreth, shining golden Orodreth, he felt a well-known fire spark in his soul.

Sparking like hot iron being hammered into a sword, like a torch ingiting a fire to eat at the rigging.

His mouth started to stretch into a grin like grimace. He would not be brought low today.

"Have you decided to show your face today oh *King*? Truly, a great honour you bring me and my brother.", his voice drippedwith poisonous honey. He sneered when the guard behind him pushed his head down.

The crowd fell completely silent as Oropher raised his hands.

"Eldar of Nargothrond! This gathering is not on the cause of great news or festivities; no. We are all here because we seek punishment to those who sought to sow Discord between our people, sought to take advantage of us mourning our King Finrod Felagund who left this coast while holding true to the promise he gave, kind hearted and humble as he will always remain in our memories!"

Next to him Curufinwe snorted and Tyelkormo had to agree.

Findarato had not been a bad king and not the worst of his cousins, but kind hearted and humble? He could think of several instances in his youth when Findarato and Macalaure had made his life hard with their behavior and tomfoolery. *Artistic liberties* they had called it.

Seemingly done with his speech Oropher motioned to his guards and Tyelkormo felt the heavy armoured hand of a guard on his shoulder, pressing him down, making him bow, cower before this false child King. Oh how he despised Orodreth.

Taking up the mantle of Kingship oh so humble. The same man, who he remembered snivelling and crying in his mother's arms playing the mighty, holding power he couldn't comprehend, had never learned to wield.

As the son of a daughter Orodreth should have never been in line for a throne, not like Tyelkormo, not like any of his brothers who where taught how to lead.

Princes by birth, leaders by right and fate.

And now here he was. Tyelkormo the Fair, the fey, Huntsman of Oromë. Kneeling before an impostor.

"Look at me Cousins, for you will now receive your punishments!"

"Oh I am looking *Cousin* hard to believe they let a weak bastard like you rule a kingdom. Are you sure Findarato wouldn't have preferred someone who knows the perils of war and leadership?" He spat the words trying to crack his cousin's mask.

A bitter feeling rose alongside the fire in his gut as Orodreth ignored his barb.

"Celegorm, you and your brother Curufin will be punished for treason against the court of Nargothrond as well as taking Princess Luthien of Doriath hostage against her will."

Orodreth's voice seemed to multiply as he once again motioned for his guards.

"You will be banished from Nargothrond at the threat of death should you come back. As a sign of your dishonour your heads will be sheared and hair burned. You may take the punishment in grace."

The King's face was stern as Tyelkormo felt the guard behind him grab his hair.

Pulling his head back, exposing his throat in an altogether humiliating way.

Tears burned in his eyes as he snarled, tried to curse Oropher and his whole rotten line.

A rough hand came from behind and pulled his hair back,  a mockery of a lover cradling him.

He heard the tell-tale sound of a blade being drawn, the cold metall ghosting over his exposed neck.

He tried to fight it, snarling, cursing, pulling away. Oropher would pay for this, pay for daring to do what he had done only in the name of his Lord.

Tyelkormo fell forward as the pull on his hair disappeared.

Hot tears threatened to spill as he pressed his brow to the cold tiles of Nargothrond's court. His hair played around his neck as the guard pulled him up, forced him into a kneeling position once again.

He felt the sharp edge of the knife kiss his scalp, strands of hair falling to the ground.

Star light locks mingled with raven dark ones. The light dancing in steel grey eyes as the ravenous fire devoured them.

[dialux]

bring on the fire, bring on the storm

Written for @aspecardaweek! I meant to put this up for either Day 1 or 2, but time flew past me. This fits into my Findis fic series, and is a very... roundabout exploration of how being aroace can affect your life if your dad’s the only person to have two marriages, I suppose?

...

“They are searching for you, little one.”

“Let them search,” says Findis coldly. 

For all that Findis is young, and that Tirion is at peace, she knows her politics well. Rumil had spoken strenuously against Finwe’s remarriage, and he remains one of Feanaro’s strongest allies. Findis- eldest daughter of Indis, first child to bring two divided people together- is not one of his charges, and never will be if Indis has her way. They both know this.

“Your father,” says Rumil slowly, before heaving a great sigh. “Your father is a great man, but he sees the world through his own eyes.”

“A king cannot choose to be half-blind.”

“And yet he is the king we chose. Envinyasse-” Findis does turn at that, levelling such a look at Rumil that he steps back, “-Findis, then. Findis: he is a good king, and a good father besides.”

“He does not understand me.”

“Have you allowed him to?” 

“I am not Feanaro.”

“Feanaro was very young when he met Nerdanel,” Rumil acknowledges. “But then, so was Finwe when he met Miriel. He only wishes for you to feel that joy as well.”

He sounds like he thinks she needs consolation. But Findis has not wept for her father in many, many centuries.

“My heart is my own,” says Findis. “Go to my father and tell him that I’ve given it to the sea, and shall not return until he learns that I’ve my own thoughts, my own loves, and my own mind.”

“You’re leaving?” asks Rumil, startled.

“I will not stay in a home where I am not heard,” replies Findis, and draws the hood of her cloak over her head, and starts walking.

...

Findis is the eldest child of Indis and Finwe. She is the eldest daughter, and she represents, more than any other, the whole of that truth: it’s an open secret through Tirion that she is meant to bind herself to another high lord of the Noldor, to fall in love with him, to bear him children with shining eyes and starful beauty. To heal the rift caused by Miriel’s death, in the only way that she can.

It’s the greater pity that Findis refuses.

...

How did you know? she asks, once, desperate for advice. 

Feanaro, hot in the throes of his love for Nerdanel, smiles at her. ‘Tis not some difficult tapestry to weave, Nesace. You will find one for yourself, sooner or later.

And if I do not, she thinks, but does not say. If I never find anyone- if I never wish to find anyone- what then?

But she is named Envinyasse for the healing she is meant to bring. She is named Envinyasse for the bridge her father wished her to become, and that bridge is made up of Findis finding someone to love, and she was never asked, not once, whether this is a task she wishes to complete. Whether this is a task she can complete.

...

The sea is cold and silver, and Findis lets her rage run out into its rippling waters. She spends many years there: composing songs, sharpening knives, studying her own fea. Though she is not hiding from her family, she also refuses all her parents’ summons back to Tirion: if she returns, Findis will have to explain why she left, and that will be impossible if she does not have the words for it. 

She explains as much to Lalwen when she comes to fetch her. 

“And so you’ve spent a decade trying to find those words?” asks Lalwen, spearing a mollusk on a knife. Sand wraps around her braids, but she doesn’t seem to be bothered. “That is... pedantic, even for you.”

“I also wanted to yell at Atar,” says Findis. “I didn’t think he’d appreciate that either.”

“Well. He was- beyond- his authority, last time.” Lalwen waggles her eyebrows. “Amme told him so, after Rumil came back and announced that you’d left to the sea.”

“Did she?” asks Findis, startled.

Indis prefers to let them fight their own battles. She always has. For her to rebuke Finwe- to publicly rebuke Finwe- 

“And then Aro and I spent years scouring the beaches for you. You couldn’t have chosen somewhere further south?”

“I was furious,” says Findis plainly. “Do you think I would have calmed in the warm waters of Alqualonde?”

“I don’t think you’re calm now.”

Findis checks herself, and then relaxes the painfully stiff arch of her spine. “I apologize for the trouble I gave you and Arafinwe.”

Lalwen waves it away. “It gave us an excuse to leave Tirion. Though last I heard, Feanaro’s back in the city, and Nolo never left, so...”

“Let’s hope Tirion remains standing, then.”

“Precisely.”

After a long moment, Lalwen casts the mollusk in the flames and turns back to Findis. “You must return,” she says. “Findis. You cannot while your time away here. We need you. Someone needs to talk sense into Feanaro, and keep all those children from burning the palace down, and stop Amme from fretting to death. I tried, you know, for a year? And then I decided I’d rather spend the rest of my life searching for you. They’re all insane, and exasperating, and- and- and Aro’s in love, did you know that? Aro’s in love, and my fourth betrothal fell through, and I cannot bear staying in Tirion without someone tempering them, I cannot!”

Findis stares at her, and then laughs. "It’s been a busy decade, then.”

“Findis-”

“Fine, yes, I’ll come back to our wretched family.” Findis reaches out a hand and tangles it in Lalwen’s own, ignoring the stickiness of the mollusk on Lalwen’s palm. “For you, darling. For you and no other.”

...

She returns, and she never speaks on it to her father again, but it is quite clear that he has been ordered by her mother not to discuss it. It’s a tenuous kind of peace, but Findis’ life has been built on such peaces all her life, and she’ll take what she can get.

...

This is the truth at the end of all things: Finwe does not understand her, and never will. Findis does not hold that wholly against him.

Not wholly.

...

Not until he chooses Feanaro over all of them. Not until he proves himself incapable of even the dregs of understanding that Findis had offered him.

...

Later, Findis does not remember all that she screams. Finwë shouts back to her, though, and they are matched in their fury; they are matched in their ugliness, and their cruelty, and their knowledge of the others’ intimate, tender spots. Findis does not remember all that she screams or all that is screamed at her. But she remembers, well, that Finwë still leaves.

...

The stairs up to Finwe’s study are long and steep. He’d once told Lalwen that he’d constructed it so to cool the tempers of any petitioners who wished to speak to him in haste- and, if nothing else, it would leave them breathless enough for Finwe to offer tea and a kind smile, bleeding off the worst of their rage. Findis remembers that now.

But no stairs shall serve to temper the worst of her fury. Not after all that has happened.

The door is closed. Findis opens it, steps inside.

“Atar,” she says.

Finwe, busy writing a letter- to Nolofinwe; that stamp atop the page is the blue of Nolofinwe’s house- looks up. “Findis,” he says. “Oh, good. I needed someone to send this letter to your brother.”

Findis clenches her jaw, and deliberately misunderstands. “I am not currently in contact with Feanaro.”

“It’s to Nolofinwe, not Feanaro.”

“Why would you need to send a letter to Nolofinwe?” asks Findis coolly. “You shall see him soon enough. It is Feanaro who is banished.”

“I shall be accompanying Feanaro,” says Finwe slowly.

Something cracks- the windows, giving way under the howling pressure of the wind outside. Findis does not snarl, but it is a close thing indeed. Finwe shifts uneasily, and Findis tosses her- loose- hair out of her face, baring her throat: the throat that Feanaro cut.

“To the edge of Tirion?”

“To Formenos,” says Finwe. “Where he shall live, with his sons and his-”

“-and no other,” says Findis harshly. “Because you shall not be going. Let his sons go with him- I will not stop them- but you will not be accompanying him, not when he held a sword to your son’s throat-” when he held a sword to my throat, she thinks furiously, “-and threatened to cut it!”

“He was angry.”

“And now I am angry.”

“Findis.”

“But my anger has ever been the dross to his gold, hasn’t it?” Findis smiles like a snake: toothless, venomful. “None of us shall accompany you. Do you understand that?”

“I understand your rage,” says Finwe calmly. “I shall not ask you to send your followers into banishment. Of course not.”

The smile widens. “My followers? I wasn’t speaking of them- of course I wouldn’t ask them to go. I was speaking of your family. Of Nolofinwe, yes, but also Lalwen, and Arafinwe. I was speaking of your wife.”

“My wife,” echoes Finwe, as if he doesn’t comprehend what she’s saying. Then he does, and his eyes go cold: the first time, in a long time, that he’s truly seen Findis. That he’s paid as much attention to her as he has to his fair, fair, fair eldest son. “Indis has said she will not accompany me?”

“Does it hurt?” asks Findis. “Does it hurt you, to be so misunderstood?”

“I will explain-”

“No. The time for explanations has passed.” Findis smiles, mirthless, at his open mouth. “Is that not what you said to me that day? That day that you told me that you’d rather I were chained to another elf than alone, that day that you told me that a spouseless life akin to another death-”

“-you cannot hold grudges from centuries past-”

“-I’ve never been enough for you,” she says, quietly, coldly, furiously. “But I thought Nolofinwe might have mattered more to you.”

Finwe rocks back, looking like she’s slapped him. “I did not mean- I do not mean-”

But Findis has no desire to hear his justifications. She narrows her eyes and speaks over him.

“You claim to be the beloved of the Valar,” says Findis harshly. “But it was they who mandated that our marriage bonds must remain exclusive. Tell me, Atar, shall you ask for a third wife now? Shall you go to the Valar and ask for an obedient one, who shall follow you into strife as quiet as a shadow, who shall love you as if the Mingling sets upon your shoulders and the stars wheel in their orbits as per your pleasure, who shall bear you more children, faithful children, quiet and dainty and unassuming and stupid as the ones you wish your living children to become!”

She is shouting by the end, unpleasantly loud. Her face is flushed and her hands are trembling. Her eyes are burning.

“I am your father,” says Finwe, but he is angry now: Findis has made him angry now. Feanaro holding a sword to Nolofinwe’s throat had not made him angry. All of Feanaro’s insults and slights to Finwe’s wife and queen had not made him angry. But this- this- has lit a flame in Finwe’s gaze. “You do not speak to me that way.”

The wind is howling outside. Findis reaches for it with her fea, hands whitening on each other until the bones creak.

“I have waited all my life for your love,” Findis forces out. “But all I have received is your disregard. Over, and over, and over again.”

“I have always lo-”

Findis’ hands clench into fists. The windows crack, glass shattering inwards, and the wind howls as it spills into the room. Finwe flinches. But his will is strong too; the wind ruffles through the papers of the room, but it does not throw him end over end.

“These answers cannot be sought by petitioning the Valar,” says Findis. “You cannot resolve this by asking them for aid. This is an elven problem and an elven decision. But then, when have you ever accepted your mistakes, Atar? When have you- ever- once- claimed- responsibility?”

And now the wind is a flood, snatching at Finwe’s clothes, tearing at his hair. 

He stumbles, once, and then he moves, too, a song of silence and stillness and calm from his throat, and Findis is so taken aback by the sheer power of it- she’d forgotten how powerful Finwe could be when he puts his mind to it- that she is thrown into the door from which she entered.

She lands on her knees.

The wind goes silent.

Finwe says, into the yawing silence, “I forgive you for your lapse in judgment. I understand- tempers are running high- but your brother needs me. Just because I go to Formenos does not mean that I do not love you, Findis. Understand that.”

Findis looks up at him, and Finwe pales at her expression.

“There can be no love without understanding,” she says. “There can be no love without effort. Understand that.”

She lifts her hands, rolls her wrists, and her song surges like a river swollen with snowmelt, like the sword had leapt to Feanaro’s hands in a silver blur as he cut her throat.

The shattered shards of window-glass fling themselves at Finwe. He shouts, once, and then strains his song against her own, as if puzzled as to why he cannot overpower her once more. But Findis is more powerful than him- she is trained in the art of using her voice. She is a Songstress, and she is his heir, and she is as full of rage now- full of a lifetime of rage- as ever Feanaro has been towards Nolofinwe, and she will not stop, because she is as the wind, and who has ever heard of stopping the wind?

But then Finwe turns, and they have exchanged places: he is at the door, and Findis is behind his table, and his eyes are large, and there is blood spotting his once-fine robes, and the glass caught in his hair shines like the crown that he has abandoned-

He yanks open the door and flees.

Findis screams. She screams, loud and louder, and anything capable of shattering within the study shatters at it: inkwells, pots of incense, glass cabinets, the last vestiges of the window panes. She slips to her knees.

Findis does not weep.

(Fifty years later, when the world goes dark, she still does not weep. For six thousand years, for six thousand bitter, bitter years, Findis does not weep.)

...

A lifetime later, Finwe comes to her in her forest dwelling. He sits at her feet, and does not speak, not until she has finished whittling a little star-crowned bird for Elwing’s newest child and set it aside.

Then he turns to her, and he touches her wrists, and Findis lets him, heart twisting in her chest.

“Envinyasse,” he says quietly.

“That is not my name.”

“I named you that,” says Finwe. “But I never dreamed you to do- to do this.”

“Atar-”

“There can be no love without effort,” he says, and Findis goes as still as a windless tree. “There can be no love without understanding. I spent too long not understanding you: seeing what I wanted, hearing what I wanted.” He swallows. “Doing what I wanted.”

“And you’re here to fix that?”

He breathes deep, and then releases her hands, and sits back: as a pupil would, before a master. Findis barely allows herself to breathe.

“I,” says Finwe, with the resolution that had led his people to safety once, eyes bright as the stars hanging around them, “am here to listen.”

[sweetteaanddragons]

Fire and Ice

@arianaofimladris wanted Feanor and Fingolfin, hurt/comfort, and “Why didn’t I think of that?” 

With the completion of this prompt, I only have one more left to write!

. . . 

Turn back.

It is not the first time the thought has crossed Nolofinwe’s mind since he first led his people out onto the Grinding Ice, but it is the first time the thought has sounded so incredulously angry. And the first time it is sounded quite so much like his half-brother.

Even you cannot be this stupid. I thought you were supposed to be wise. Or did changing your name cancel all that wisdom out? Turn back before it is too late.

So great is the imagined anger that Nolofinwe almost thinks he feels warmer from the heat of it.

Then he stumbles on the treacherous ice, and he shoves all thoughts aside except for the grim determination that keeps propelling one foot in front of the other.

He will cross to Beleriand, and he will have words with his half-brother when he gets there.

. . .

Congratulations. The word is acid in his mind. It is now officially too late to turn back. You’d better hope you’re over halfway there, or your supplies won’t last you the rest of the way.

They might even if they weren’t halfway there yet if the rate of casualties kept steady. It was a hideous thought, but Nolofinwe held onto it anyway. He was the one that had led them here. It was his job to think of these things and plan for them, no matter how unpleasant they might be.

And no matter how difficult the endlessly biting cold made it to think.

Not that you ever think too much anyway, do you? You still won’t admit what’s going on. Or am I wrong?

The sneering words sound so much like his half-brother that for a moment he looks around, expecting to find that Feanaro has come to meet them on the Ice. They have been worn so thin that at the moment Nolofinwe would greet him with joy despite all that’s come before.

But no. Feanaro isn’t there, of course not. There is nothing but the silver glint of ice and snow beneath the stars and the rare ration of torchlight scattered throughout the long line of people behind him. If he thinks otherwise, he has become too cold to trust his own thinking.

And if that is how he, one of the strongest, is faring, he can imagine how much the others must need rest and the chance to huddle together for warmth that comes with it. He should call a halt.

A little longer, and the thought is softer and surprised by its own softness. It’s not quite time for a halt, not yet. You’ve lost count of the hours again, haven’t you? You always used to do that during those disastrous lessons in the forge, remember? You could never keep track of how long you’d kept the metal in the fire.

He did remember. Feanaro had taught him, or tried to; in hindsight, he was pretty sure their father had insisted in a desperate attempt to mend the rift that was already opening between them even then.

It hadn’t worked, of course. In the long run, nothing had worked. But there had been a few moments, a few lessons where he had almost thought - 

He isn’t surprised that the first thought of them had been fond.

And after all, there are few memories of fire that aren’t appealing these days.

He clings to those memories of the forge’s fierce heat and his half-brother’s tentative stabs at warmth.

It is probably just his imagination when the wind seems less bitter after that.

. . .

Elenwe is gone, and all his attempts at comforting Turukáno have brought him nothing but a son that has to be prodded to keep walking.

Turukáno’s sleeping now, burrowed under his father’s outer cloak with Itarille, all his siblings curled around them, and Nolofinwe prays that the small comfort will bring him some tiny measure of peace.

But the Valar will not hear their prayers, not now, and Turukáno is no longer a child to be comforted just by the fact that his father is near.

It is the coldest night he can remember, even on the Ice, and he knows that he should be in the tent with his children and however many blankets they’ve managed to scavenge up, but he can’t bear to. Not just yet.

He can almost imagine that he can still see the crack where Elenwe fell through from here, just on the edge of his sight. The air feels like shards of ice in his lungs, and he wonders if that’s what she felt as she at last gave up and breathed in -

It wasn’t your fault.

No. It’s Feanaro’s. Feanaro’s for burning the ships, for not trusting him, for not just letting him be king since clearly Feanaro isn’t capable of handling it -

But the bitter thoughts have worn thin by a hundred tracings on this endless journey, and they haven’t the strength to stand up to the all consuming cold. 

He remembers their old arguments, and their father wearily presiding between them, trying to make them see that one hasty word did not justify another.

Feanaro had burned the boats. That had been his half-brother’s choice.

Nolofinwe had decided to cross the Ice. That choice had been his own.

Choice and counter-choice, and nobody won. In this world stained with darkness, they just die instead.

You need to get inside a shelter or you might be the next to.

His sense of self-preservation, presumably. It’s just . . . just at this moment, it seems so hard to care. What use is saving himself if he can’t save anyone else?

There’s someone you can still save, and the promise is so full of hope and fear and love and rage that Nolofinwe shudders back in the face of it.

You’re almost there. Just a little further now.

He doesn’t know that. He can’t know that. They’ve lost track of the distance and the time in all this endless darkness.

But the promise is enough to get him stumbling back to the tent where his children are sleeping.

His movements are clumsy with cold as he tries to lie down. It’s too cold, he knows it’s too cold, even all their preparations may not be enough but -

It’ll be alright. Just rest already. You’re worrying too much.

He feels warmer already - dangerously warm even, and a sluggish fear starts to rise in him because haven’t they learned that it’s a bad sign when someone claims they feel warm, warm enough to shrug off their cloak and reach out for the snow - 

But he is too weary to care much and the warmth feels like a half-remembered sense of safety, so he forces himself under the blankets and decides that’s good enough.

When he wakes up in the morning, the blankets are all unnaturally warm, and the corner of one is singed.

He stares at it for a long moment before Itarille lets out a whimper as she too wakens and memory hits her. All concern about the blankets flees in the face of that.

. . .

“Dead,” he repeats as his nephew’s words struggle to sink through his mind. Feanaro is - dead.

In this new world so full of death, why had he never even considered that?

Because you’re an idiot, he hears and now he feels what he was too stubborn to consider before: the brush of a mind, almost familiar, but shadowed now. An inferno turned to embers.

Beside him, the torch in a guard’s hand leaps.

Embers, maybe, but not ash. I’m dead, Nolofinwe, not totally useless. Now do something useful for once in your life and help me save my son.

[arianaofimladris]

Reunited

Nerdanel comes to the gardens of Lorien to meet reborn Feanaro. Warm and fluffy, since I am not going to argue with my fevered brain.

The gardens of Lorien were not a place Nerdanel visited often, nor one she had good memories of, but she had come nonetheless. If anything, this place was meant for rest and healing. The path she picked led her among trees and paths that seemed to change endlessly, adjusting to what the dwellers needed and providing them with privacy. She never saw a soul. No one showed her the way, save for the path directing her steps. Yet she found the one she was looking for.

He looked but a little older than when she first met him and just looking at him made her heart sing with joy and weep at the same time. Remaining hidden from his sight, she stood and watched him wander aimlessly, picking leaves, brushing grass, constantly checking, touching, feeling. He combed his black hair from his face and Nerdanel almost chuckled at the well-known frustration. The hair length was like she remembered, just below his shoulders, in a way he had used to wear them – practical for work, but easy to style for more official occasions. But now the raven locks were hanging freely, in a way she had only seen when they rested. Or on those rare occasions they had simply lazed around the day...

He wasn’t younger, she realised suddenly. He was simply more slender, his arms too slim, his hands too smooth and soft. The man she had once known and loved in a body of an elf who never worked in his life.

“Fëanáro.”

He turned around at her voice and his eyes went wide. He was never one to hide his emotions and now Nerdanel could see them all written on his face. Shock and hope, regret, but also blinding joy upon seeing her. For a split of second he looked like he was going to run to her but would not dare to do so. “I... didn’t think you would come,” he sounded equally surprised at hearing his own voice.

In another time, a part of her would have wanted to hit him and yell, shout all her pains right into his face. But this part had long since faded and she would rather take the joy his return could promise than dwell in her misery.

“Neither did I,” she admitted. “Yet it is a custom that those who return from the Halls of Mandos are welcomed by their family. Why would you not be?” Stepping closer, she offered him a hand and he took it, still acting as if expecting her to disappear at any moment.

His hand was warm and soft and she could feel his fingers examining her own, searching for callouses, getting to know them like a blind man would. She squeezed his hand and he stopped his examination, and looked down at the golden jewellery she wore.

Nerdanel reached to a small pouch she had by her belt. “I once gave you a ring,” she said, the memories of their wedding  and the ruin their marriage had turned to still causing a bittersweet ache. She took his hand and opened it. “I believe it is long lost in the lands that no longer exist, so I am giving you a new one,” she placed the ring of gold in his palm, white and smooth like that of a child. “You are mine and I am yours, heart and soul, till Arda is remade. And don’t you dare  let anything change that again.”

As if in a dream in this realm of dreams, Fëanáro picked the jewel and put it on his finger. “You are mine and I am yours,”  he echoed her words and bent to place a kiss upon her hand. “If you shall have me back.” He traced the ring on her finger, the same he had given her ages ago, in another life. Even his creation after a few thousands of years bore marks of being worn. Yet it was still beautiful.

“I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” She smiled and that was all he needed. He swept her and kissed her, and Nerdanel found herself giggling, like she had not in ages. She let herself be swirled around until they fell on the grass, kissing and laughing. She rose and placed her hands on the ground by his head, and leaned over him, her long braid falling on his neck. “I want you back. The whole of you.”

The clothes he wore were dull grey and plain, a simple shirt and trousers, and a pair of soft shoes. She had never seen him in anything this shapeless, so she didn’t mind to see them gone, nor did she miss her own. Why would she? This place here was for them and for them only.

Hand in hand, heart to heart, they became one, the bond of their feas strong again. The gaping wound, which had appeared long before Fëanáro had left and died, and which then had scarred in time, was finally gone.

A husband and a wife they were once again.

So this was how it felt to be whole, Nerdanel thought as she listened to Fëanáro’s heartbeat and to her own, perfectly synchronised. She felt young again, and full of life, enough perhaps to share it with another being.

They laid sprawled on the grass and gazed at the stars slowly appearing on the darkening sky, their fingers still entwined in a grasp no force in Arda would manage to unmake. Not if Nerdanel had something to say.

“So?” She rolled to the side to look at her husband. “Will you be just Fëanáro again?” Like you once have been, a High Prince, but still just a son of the  king and not the orphaned ruler? Nerdanel shook her head and trapped this thought deep within her mind, so that he would not pick it. “Or,” she smiled playfully, “ will you follow the trend of your brothers and change to Fincurfin?”

The moment of sheer confusion written on Fëanáro’s face was definitely worth it. He half sat. “What did you-“ and then it hit him. He groaned and fell back on the ground. “No, thank you.”

“So Fëanáro it is,” Nerdanel smiled, the name rolling on her tongue. She missed it being spoken without contempt. “Perhaps I won’t even mention that form to anyone.”

“You’d better!” Fëanáro tried to feign indignation, but failed thoroughly. The smile he returned her she had missed even more.

“Only if you come back with me.”

“Are we in a hurry?” He stole another kiss from her. “Thought not. Let’s stay here and watch the stars.”

Pulling his tunic over them, though she felt neither cold nor warmth, Nerdanel nestled herself and rested her head on his shoulder. They could gaze at the stars forever, for all she cared.

 The story is also here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038918

Good or bad, I’d love to hear from you!

[descendantsoffinwe]

malkuvoitenoldoran:

Feanaro gave his half brother an incredulous look. That was his concern? Moryo who had calmed as soon as he’d been picked up started fussing again demanding Feanaro’s attention once more. Gently rocking him Feanaro reached for the bottle of milk he’d prepared not long before Ara entered his office. After a moment he smirked a little and offered both the bottle and the child to his little brother. “Here, you can feed him that way I can make sure you know how to do it properly.”

It was a peace offering of a type from him. He rarely softened his words or his actions unless his children or his father happened to be involved so he made little gestures like this with coarse offerings of assistance. Besides soon enough he would need to feed Findarato like this so knowing how to do so properly would only be a benefit. That did not answer the insecurity that Arafinwe had revealed to him though. “Your son will only want you to be yourself. Think, you are his father. With our father did you ever feel he was not good enough, even with how busy he is? I know I did not. He is my father and that has always been enough, and for the things fathers cannot do at least he will have a mother to turn to as well.” Despite himself bitterness seeped into his tone as he mentioned having a mother as well. It was rare that something reminded him of the aching lack of such a figure himself.

Too familiar with that smirk, Ara half rolled his eyes. “I know how to do it properly,” he said, reaching out to take Moryo all the same. He cradled the baby close, a smile coming over his face. Each time he was allowed to hold his nephews he treasured it, Feanaro had a way of making Ara feel like he need both permission and supervision to be around them. After making certain Moryo was still content he took the bottle from Feanaro. After getting Moryo to take the bottle he sat on the edge of the desk.

A sick feeling coiled around in his chest at the question, no he did not think Finwe had been enough which led him to worry he could hurt his own son the same way… But that was not something he could reveal to his brother. To anyone. Only at the last did Ara look up. It would be impossible to belong to this family and not know Feanaro’s relationship with his mother. “Are there things a father cannot do?” He smiled, trying to soften the pain he’d seen in his brother’s eyes. His relationship with Finwe had been strained, his wedding was the first time in a long while he’d felt satisfied with the amount of attention he’d gotten. But Feanaro and Finwe had a bond closer than any of them. “I suppose fathers are too indulgent and let their children do as they please. In the end, they love them wholly, faults and all.” He’d come here for comfort but could help trying to sooth his brother, even if it was just some playful teasing.

Ara sighed, resting his chin on the back of his folded hands. "What if this was a mistake? I don't think I'm ready. What if I can't do this?"

Rolling his eyes in exasperation Feanaro turned to give his half-brother a stern look. This was not the time for Arafinwe to be worrying about that and further he should be home with his wife rather then here in Feanaro’s study asking for advice. “What do you want me to say? That you are a fool for spreading Vanyar blood further through Tirion?”

Shaking his head he moved the letter he’d gotten that morning out of the way so he’d focus on Arafinwe. “You and she both wanted a child right? If so then you both will be taking care of it, and you both have your parents to go to for advice, you also have Nolofinwe to pester so if it gets too much you can just leave your child with him.”

~|| @descendantsoffinwe ||~