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eilinelsghost · 1 year ago

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In Memory Beside You

A little birthday ficlet for @actual-bill-potts.

You are an absolute treasure of a person - brilliant, incredibly hard working, a marvelous writer, a truly kind and caring friend. You bring so much laughter and joy to all of us and it has been a delight getting to know you this past year. I hope your day is filled with lovely and delicious celebrations!

Tossing this one on the pile 😊

Arafinwë knew the path without thought. He had long ceased numbering these pilgrimages to the silent groves and his feet could find the way of their own volition. Here the low hill, then round about and over stream’s passage, now the living arch of yew branches bound in their fast embrace. And as on every visit, he shuddered as he passed beneath the boughs. Their shadow touched him with the breath of the dead and with their snaking arms came the image of spirits reaching out, his sons’ hands extending toward him from their long rest.

He left the passage and drew a stifled breath. The yew grove itself was less unnerving than its entrance, but still the air hung close and the branches wove a low canopy, muting light and sound alike. Arafinwë found himself wondering once again whether this atmosphere mirrored the Halls themselves, placed thus to ease the spirit’s return by degrees, or whether the weight was an opposite, pressing fëa and hröa together as they wove back into one.

It had been oppressive in his first visits, the silence resting upon his chest, and each time he fought down panic as the hours of his vigil crawled by. But now he shrugged into it as though drawing on a blanket and its weight was a comfort, here beside the dead.

He slowed before a particularly ancient tree and brushed his hand along the bark in greeting. Its roots were twisted about the base, branches arching in various formations, and along one side they curved into a makeshift bench. Arafinwë settled himself upon this with a sigh and tried to quiet his thought.

One breath in. My father, taken in the night.

One breath out. My brothers, slain in the dark.

One breath in. My sons, gone before me.

One breath out. I sit in memory beside you.

He had begun these ritual visits soon after the return from Araman, drawn in his loneliness to seek that grief which he had found no license to mourn. For his father’s death was his brothers’ banner and Exile the lament it demanded. And amid that cacophony his own grief had been drowned, buried beyond his own hearing until the reckoning came. Until the breaking.

He had heard it then throughout the empty palace when he stumbled back from the Doom, reeling in fury and anguish. It echoed along the marble halls. Its dirge was in the silence of stilled fountains. It was his one companion as he lifted the shattered remnants of his people, and his shadow while he set about the atonement for the dead.

At last he had followed its pull and ridden out from Tirion, passing like light over the starlit plains of Aman till he found the Halls and the yew grove’s grim, yawning arch twisting before him through the dark. He had come there only once before, long years ago when he was a curious youth trailing behind his brother’s sojourn.

What is her body, shorn of its soul? Fëanor had sensed the boy behind him when Arafinwë followed him in secret to Mandos’ gates and his voice drifted back through the yew boughs. Here will I keep vigil, not in the gilded vales of Lórien, for here my spirit sits beside hers where all is remembered, and nothing forgot.

And here Arafinwë too kept vigil—his brother’s ritual of lament the only comfort to beckon amid his sorrow. He had ridden to the yew grove before the sun’s rising, and every year since, lingering in silent remembrance first for his father, then for the brother who gave him this rite, for the brother who had been his steadfast companion, his guide. For each son in turn, the last less than a year gone. Ai Valar, each beloved infant he held…there, just there beyond the crags and the clinging roots, gone now beyond his reach.

Others came too to this grove, more often now than in those first years when naught but silent accusation walked beneath these tress. But the trickle of the returned was ever growing as the wars in Beleriand drew on and often he would encounter those he knew, waiting too among the gnarled boughs—Olwë’s people summoned to meet sisters and brothers who abandoned the Great March, parents who had disappeared in the dark years. Now and then a pair of his own people, waiting with hesitant hope to greet a grandchild of whom they knew naught till the summons—life announced through death. He watched their hope with longing, witnessed each reunion’s joy with the sharp pang of bitterness upon his tongue.

One breath in.

One breath out.

There was a rustle in the thicket behind him and he turned, expecting a similar break in the solitude. But instead, a tall stag strode past, black and sleek as obsidian, its movements rolling like wind through the grasslands. Arafinwë caught his breath with a gasp as it lifted its head and met his gaze. They were not unknown to him, the wardens of the fëantarwa, for they moved ever through the grove in ceaseless watch.[1] But only to the summoned would they raise their eyes in greeting, heralds too and not mere guardians.

His heart pounded as the creature’s gaze did not falter, but rested full upon him, purposeful, unblinking.

Then came another rustle in the wood, jarring amid the heavy silence—a twig snapping behind him, a sharp intaken breath. The stag sprang through the thicket with a crash of bracken and Arafinwë turned, anticipation pulsing through every fiber.

It was a mistake. This was no one of his knowing.

The figure stood a stone’s throw from him, of middling height, his hair dark and roughly cropped above the shoulders. He was staring at Arafinwë in disbelief and he took a halting step forward as their eyes met, his every motion flooded with confusion.

Where were his kin, the king wondered in indignation? They should be here to ease this passage. It was negligence to leave a soul staggering alone through its return—nay, it was cruelty rather. Death was unnatural; its remedy hardly less so.

The king’s face softened in pity. It was more likely, he realized, that there were none in Aman to greet him, yet one more of their Silvan kindred slain in the darkness and brought to life uprooted. A stranger in a land unknown and unchosen. There had been many such in recent years and Arafinwë struggled to discern whether life’s restoration was balm to them or injury.

“Arafinwë Ñoldóran?”

The king rose in surprise as the stranger’s voice broke through his thoughts. It was resonant, the syllables of his name warm and earthen within its touch, and a shiver ran down his spine at the other’s recognition. “I am he,” he managed at last. “How is it that you know me?”

“I do not.” The man faltered and shook his head, the dark eyes full of wonder. “Only you are so very like him…”

His speech was in Quenya, Arafinwë realized with a start—fluent, but tinged with an accent he could not place. None of the Silvan folk had known the tongue, nor the Sindar who too had joined the ranks of returned. An uneasy prickle rose at the base of his neck. “Who are you?”

“I am called Bëor.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with care as his tongue too relearned its steps. “But my name is Balan Beldarion. I was…in Beleriand I wedded your son.”

1. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

———

Sorry it’s just a teaser. The full au will materialize eventually, but I couldn’t help trying out a smidge of it for the occasion. 😊 Happy birthday friend, have an immortal Balan. As a treat.

#finarfin #finrod #valinor #reembodiment #the silmarillion #my fic #Bëor

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noirbriar · 9 months ago

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Glorestor: 5 Times They Denied (2)

+ 1 time They Did Not.

From the POVs of the various folks around the 2 elves who are convinced they are courting, or betrothed, even though they were told otherwise.

Let us welcome Lindir to the stage and hear his side of the tale.Thank you @mae-it-be-an-evening-dhros for suggesting Lindir! He actually had a small segment but Lindir popped in and said no, he would like to have the protag script instead lol.

Warnings: none too great but slight nudity.Nothing too mature.OOCs and dreadful writing mistakes are all on me ---

2] Lindir

As an ordinary young minstrel, Lindir did not expect to end up as Steward of the House of Elrond. Yet with war, it was inevitable that he had to lay down his harp and aid his Lord in every way against the forces of darkness. He is now one of Lord Elrond's longest serving staff, and have now seen the terror of war as well and its aftermath.The grief, the sorrow. The High King has fallen, and another Kingdom gone.

Ai, all that remains is woe to the living indeed.

With a heavy heart as Lindir hums.With Tilion's light absent, all he could find in him is a lament for all that is lost. With Lord Elrond now finally able to rest for the first time in awhile, the residents of Imladris finally settled, the bard is finally able to stop and breathe.

He leans back against the trunk of the oak tree he is on. As if by being nearer to the skies, he can find escape from the sadness that plagues this young valley fortress in mourning. Lindir wonders if how this is how the great Lord Maglor felt at the very end.

Lindir begins to sings a song of wandering folk and of hearth and home. Perched on the tree, he has a great view of the House in the distance and of the Bruinen and her little rivers. Soon, the other bards around Imladris joins the song, along with many more other voices echoing through their valley, soothing all the restless hearts on this moonless night of uncertainty together.

Maybe they will be alright, Lindir thinks.

Until his sharp hearing catches the sound of a soft splashing of water unlike that of the waterfalls.He continues to sing, in effort to not alert the possible intruder, while he takes a peek at the quiet creek near his tree.

A river spirit rises out of the water, his ivory skin marred with scars that has barely healed, hair dark as the moonless night above him flowing down, past that lithe body and into the water. The calm waters barely making a ripple around the figure's waist. The sight almost like from the songs of the edain of the unseen.

The figure shifts and Lindir finally sees the familiar face of Erestor. A complete professional and a master, Lindir paces himself, recovering from a dropped note and keeps singing.

Well, this is awkward.

Its not that Lindir is afraid of Master Erestor, in fact he is thankful and proud that the feanorian have recommended him to Lord Elrond for both his jobs. Its just that the advisor can be very...intense. In more ways than one.

Another soft splash and Lindir resists an urge to run in this strange situation.Quietly, he turns stiffly to spy another equally naked figure joining Erestor in the water.

Everyone has known that Lord Glorfindel and Master Erestor have been on good terms since their days in Lindon. Apart from the occasional dispute in the war room. Even with the distance before the Golden Lord was permanently stationed at Imladris, thier friendship never wavered. The two mighty guardians of Imladris are often seen sharing a glass or two, or sharing poetry and playing chess with the other. It has never occurred to Lindir till now how close their bond might truly be.

Elves are not body shy, yet something about this scene before him seemed peculiar that he felt oddly like he is intruding in something private. No matter how this situation looks like right now, Lindir takes this opportunity to silently swear to all of the Valar he lists off his head he is not a voyeur. He is just a simple bard who greatly appreciates Art and by Elbereth's name, are these two not the specimen of beauty and power?

The advisor looks over his shoulder to watch the intruder of his peace with sharp watchful eyes. Lord Glorfindel smiles wryly and does not go further, but instead finds a spot among the smooth rocks and leans back.His hair spread like a halo, sculpted muscles in full view. Arms wide like it is his personal throne, letting the cool water lap against his golden skin filled with his own share of battle wounds. His azure blue eyes filled with treelight never leaving Erestor's form.

Erestor ignores the intruder and combs back his sleek dark hair.Before he dives into the peaceful waters and into nothingness, leaving barely a small ripple in his wake. It was awhile before the advisor resurfaces for air, and continues his slow swim elegantly, like a river fae.

Glorfindel watches on.Until Erestor finally swims to the shallow waters, resting beside to the Golden Lord.His head tilted back, eyes closed like the edain, as he lounges against the cool rocks with a slight shiver.

"You will catch a cold, little peredhel."

"I'm not that weak, you ancient ass."

The minstrel blinks.This is the first time he hears of Erestor's parentage, and he too is half elven? This was news to the bard.

Glorfindel gives a non committal hum and lets his fingers wander over Erestor's skin. Letting his fingertips chase the water droplets and trace the myraid of silvery scars idly.

Lindir was not there on the frontlines but he hears the whispers of Thandor and the warriors. They told of the unspeakable anguish of Erestor, having seen Lord Celebrimbor's defiled corpse hanging from the banners of Sauron's army. Of how with a wretched battlecry, the old feanorian general laid waste to all in his way, until his armor was nothing but a blacken mess, drenched with the blood of his kills.

It was the Balrog Slayer who pulled the Tempest back from his continued carnage. Who wrestled the mad feanorian, poisoned and wounded, arrows lining his back, hauling him back behind their lines with Lord Elrond. Oh how Erestor had raged then! With a desperate Lord Elrond desperately keeping the enraged elf from bleeding out. Lashing out without pause until he wore himself out hoarse screaming in the arms of Lord Glorfindel.

They, too, have been very close. Lord Elrond, Lord Celebrimbor and Master Erestor.

Lindir reminisces silently of bygone times and happier days as he sang, until he was rudely shaken out of his musings. When Glorfindel have not only started playing with those dark long locks, but begun braiding intricate braids into the finicky advisor's hair. The larger elf hovering over Erestor's figure, fingers teasing the rounded tips of the other's ear.Before leaning in, lips brushing over a ear,nipping it playfully.

Lindir nearly falls off the tree at the sight.

The eldar often share kisses and touches but even that was...rather intimate for friends.

"Do not even." Erestor warns dryly, his eyes still closed.

"Not until you get out of this water, Eres. You are freezing." Glorfindel chided lightly, caressing the cold cheek of his companion. Who finally peaks open an eye at the Golden Lord.

"...Fine." Erestor sits up, a palm against Glorfindel's arm.The cool water leaving his skin causing a shiver.In a swift blink of an eye, a large white robe gets pulled over from a low hanging tree branch and draped over the shorter elf. Glorfindel stands and Erestor takes his offered hand without hesitation as they leave the water, pulling on their robes and leaving the creak.

"If you are restless, shall we walk the longer path to the waterfalls? There is a lovely song of home to accompany us along the way."

"There is something odd with the song tonight..." "Must be the bards being too stubborn and tired to stop when they should rest!"

Lindir has to take a long moment afterwards as their voices trail off, hands clutching the tree trunk in a death grip as he processes all that he has seen.The minstrel lifts his head and finally sees the clouds parting, tiny stars twinkling overhead with Earendil, a strange lightness blooms from within and fills his being with such warmth.

For the first time in a while, as everything clicks into place, Lindir laughs brilliantly.

The minstrel is absolutely inspired, his fatigue gone, and his steps light.His fingers tingle and is aching to play a sweet melody. An excitement blooms in his chest.

"Oh! Oh, how wonderful!"

--- A quick word with the guards on their whereabouts, Lindir makes his way into the Inner Wing. A tray laden with whatever luxurious treats and some wine they are able to spare. However, its only right for the newly engaged couple to have something sweet.

Luckily, he spots the couple finally home and heading to Lord Glorfindel's chambers. Both clad in their simple casual robes,blue for the Lord and dark navy for the advisor. Though Lindir notices Erestor's white robe is peeking out too much like its an ill fit size.

"Lord Glorfindel! Master Erestor!"Lindir chirps brightly in greeting,"It is good to see you both still up, for I have brought you refreshments!"

"Our thanks Lindir, but, it is late? I am not complaining for this lovely wine though...What is this occasion that you spoil us so?" Glorfindel muses as he picks up the bottle and nods approvingly at the selection.

"For being here and bringing us light into our hearts." Lindir adds smoothly, as the Lord pops a raspberry into his mouth, offering a strawberry immediately to his partner.

"By the way, I must congratulate you both! When is the engagement?"

Master Erestor chokes on the fruit and Lord Glorfindel turns to face Lindir so quickly nearly giving himself a whiplash. The two officials then stare at their Steward blankly. Lindir then quickly realises his error in his eagerness.

"Oh! Oh, are you both bonding without the engagement? Ahhh, in such dreary times, I can understand how you both may want to do it quickly without the fuss. For who are we to get in the way of love-" "Lindir. Lindir, hold. I think you are mistaken. Glorfindel and I are neither engaged nor are we bonding." The advisor holds up his hand abruptly and explains slowly.His words spoken with such conviction that Lindir starts to doubt himself and what he had seen.

"What?"The ministrel twitters in dismay, dropping every bit of decorum in him,"that's impossible!"

"Indeed we aren't, though we may be close." Glorfindel replies with a shake of his head."Though if by saying 'yes' gets me this lovely tray you have painstakingly put together for us, then, certainly!" The light quip added earns Glorfindel a dirty look from Erestor, which he returns with a causual shrug. Erestor just rolls his eyes.

Meanwhile Lindir is just watching incredulously, hands full, and left by the side like an extra casted in a play. Standing there as he fills the empty space while the main leads take the spot light.

Eventually, Erestor finally gives up the silent,childish banter. He instead stares longingly at the lovely bottle of wine that has his attention for awhile now. He grabs it from Glorfindel's hand without hesitation,fingers trailing across golden skin with familiarity.Another hand flicking out a knife from his thin robes and uncorks the bottle smoothly before taking a swig at the vintage. An approving nod at the taste, the ellon leaves.

Glorfindel watches him go, staring at the elf sauntering away with his prize.His eyes darken,making that treelight within glow brighter as he follows Erestor's form. The Lord then turns back to a dumbfounded Steward. With a wide smile, he relives the younger elf of his burden with a cheeky nod, a wink, and thankful tilt of his head, follows after his companion with the tray of joy.

All that remains, is a terribly confused minstrel alone in the empty corridor, contemplating everything and his life.Before screeching out aloud the same baffling thought again that night, thought certainly not the last. The distraught commotion from his Steward causing a tired Elrond to poke his head out of his own chambers in wonder-

"WHAT?!"

---

A/N: ...and Lindir afterwards develop trust issues and there is little Elrond could do to stop his songbird from ranting to his Lord till the next age about it.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)

#the silmarillion #glorestor #glorfindel #erestor #lindir #elrond #ficlet #yeets this and run

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calim3ro · 18 days ago

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Numenor

Numenor era una grande isola nel mare di Belegaer, posta a metà tra la Terra di Mezzo e Aman. Quest'isola fu creata dai valar come ricompensa agli uomini che si schierarono contro Morgoth nella Guerra d'Ira. La popolazione prese il nome di Numenoreani e dai valar ricevettero doni come la saggezza e una vita 3/4 volte più lunga dei normali esseri umani.

Il primo sovrano di Numenor fu Elros (fratello di Elrond Mezzelfo) mentre l'ultimo fu Ar-Pharazon. A causa delle azioni di Sauron, nel 3319 SE l'isola venne distrutta da Eru Iluvatar come punizione. Alcuni uomini riuscirono a sfuggire dalla catastrofe e da loro discendono i Dunedain, che fondarono i regni di Arnor e Gondor nella Terra di Mezzo.

Etimologia

L'isola venne battezzata col nome "Elenna" (Terra delle Stelle). Il nome Numenor deriva dal Quenya e viene tradotto come Ovesturia. In Quenya è conosciuta anche come Andor (Terra del Dono).

Flora

A Numenor erano presenti piante che provenivano sia dalla Terra di Mezzo che da Aman, regalo dei valar per rendere questa terra ancora più bella. Esempio di queste piante furono l'Albero Bianco di Numenor (capostipite dell'Albero Bianco di Gondor) che divenne uno dei simboli del regno in quanto piantato nei giardini reali presso il santuario di Eru Iluvatar. Altra pianta famosa era l'Athelas, che venne esportata dai Dunedain nella Terra di Mezzo col nome di Foglia del Re (miracolosa pianta con capacità medicinali e in grade di liberare chiunque dalle infezioni derivate dal male di Morgoth). Persino la tanto amata Erba Pipa degli Hobbit proviene da Numenor, anche se i Dunedain non hanno mai pensato di fumarla a causa del suo odore ma piuttosto veniva usata come pianta ornamentale. Altra pianta che cresceva copiosa era l'Oilaire, molto apprezzata per il suo profumo. Da questa pianta veniva ricavato il Ramo del Ritorno (usanza di Numenor di donare il ramo ai viaggiatori per auspicare un sicuro viaggio di ritorno).

Territorio e Regioni

Numenor era un'isola molto grande co la forma di una stella a 5 punte. Il territorio è diviso in 7 regioni.

Forostar : Penisola più a nord dell'isola. Il terreno è prevalentemente sassoso e privo di vegetazione. Solo la parte occidentale è relativamente fertile e c'è la presenza di qualche boschetto. Qui sorgeva la Torre di Sorontil (torre edificata come osservatorio dal quinto re di Numenor per coltivare la sua passione per l'astronomia).

Andustar : Penisola occidentale con terreno prevalentemente roccioso, fitte foreste e baie con delle spiagge. Nella spiaggia più settentrionale sorgeva la città portuale di Andunie.

Hyarrostar : Nella penisola sud-orientale cresceva l'albero Laurinque, con fiori gialli a grappolo. I Numenoreani credevano discendesse dal grande albero Laurelin di Valinor. La penisola, grazie ai suoi boschi, veniva utilizzata per la costruzione delle imbarcazioni.

Orrostar : Penisola orientale con clima fresco e moltissimi campi di grano.

Mittalmar : Regione nell'entroterra di Numenor, la più estesa.

Nisimaldar : La più piccola delle regioni che affacciava sulla baia di Eldanna dividendo la regione di Hyarnustar e Andustar. Vi sorgeva la città portuale di Eldalonde.

Hyarnustar : Penisola sud-occidentale costruita con montagne a picco sul mare, ma nella parte orientale è ricca di vigneti e grandi spiagge.

Meneltarma : Montagna più grande e alta di Numenor. Sulla sommità si tenevano Le 3 Preghiere, cerimonia in onore di Eru Iluvatar. Le preghiere erano Erukyerme, ovvero l'orazione a Eru che veniva celebrata ad inizio della primavera; Erulaitale, ovvero la lode a Eru, celebrata durante la festa di mezza estate; Eruhantale, ovvero il ringraziamento ad Eru, celebrata in autunno.

Emerie e Arandor : Due province all'interno della regione di Mittalmar. Emerie è la provincia dei pastori caratterizzata da ampie prateriecon un terreno molto fertile. Arandor (Terra dei Re) è la più popolosa e ha uno sbocco sul mare.

Armenelos : Capitale del regno dei Dunedain e residenza del re di Numenor, costruita ai piedi di Meneltarma.

Andunie : Principale porto occidentale di Numenor e residenza dei Signori di Andunie, casa di Elros.

Nandunie : Fiume occidentale che nasce nel Meneltarma e sfocia nella baia di Eldenna.

Nisinen : Unico lago di modeste dimensioni presente su Numenor.

Siril : Il più lungo dei due fiumi di Numenor. Nasce nel Meneltarma e presso la sua foce si trova la città portuale di Nindamos.

Sorontil : Conosciuta come "Corno d'Aquila", era una grande montagna a nord di Numenor.

Romenna : Principale porto orientale dell'isola e sede dell'immensa flotta delle navi da guerra dei Dunedain. Era collegata con la capitale Armenelos grazie ad una strada lunga 50 km.

Nindamos : Città di pescatori alle foci del Siril.

Eldalonde : Grande città spesso visitata dagli elfi in passato.

Abitanti

Il nucleo principale di Numenor era composto da 10 mila anime, che decisero di lasciare la Terra di Mezzo per raggiungere l'isola. Questi vennero ricompensati dai valar con una lunga vita, ma non ricevettero l'immortalità degli elfi. I numenoreani erano molto alti, raggiungendo un'altezza tra i 2,10 e i 2,40 m, capelli neri e occhi grigi. La loro vita poteva raggiungere i 250 anni, mentre i sovrani di Numenor potevano arrivare anche a 400 anni.

Lingua e religione

Le lingue ufficiale dell'isola erano due, il Sindarin (lingua elfica ereditata per amicizia e usata a corte) e l'Adunaico (che deriva dagli antichi linguaggi degli uomini).

La religione prevalente su Numenor era dedicata al culto di Eru Iluvatar. Sul monte Meneltarma era presente un tempio dedicato ad Eru. Col tempo però, durante il periodo in cui Sauron divenne il consigliere di Ar-Pharazon, i numenoreani cominciarono al voltarsi al culto di Melkor (uno dei motivi per cui Iluvatar decise di distruggere l'isola).

Bandiere e simboli

Non esistono fonti riguardo eventuali bandiere o stendardi di Numenor. Tuttavia si accenna che le vele della flotta dei dunedain fossero nere con disegni bianchi.

Forze armate

Numenor ebbe nella seconda era l'esercito e la flotta più potente di tutta la razza degli uomini. Durante il rtegno di Ar-Pharazon, Numenor era in grado di schierare centinaia di migliaia di soldati. I nemici fuggivano anche solo sentendo i loro corni da battaglia, e quando Numenor attaccò Sauron a Mordor, gli orchi fuggirono e Sauron dovette umiliarsi arrendendosi davanti al sovrano nemico.

Tattiche militari

A causa delle continue lotte con gli orchi e gli Esterlings, i numenoreani dovettero escogitare nuove tattiche militari. Le principali erano Thangail e Dirnaith.

Thangail significa "recinto di scudi" ed era unaposizione difensiva. Si creava un muro di scudi da dove spuntavano lunghe lance, ci si disponeva a semicerchio e al centro vi erano arcieri.

Dirnaith significa "testa di lancia", tecnica offensiva per eccellenza. I soldati si disponevano a cuspide per poi attaccare tutti insieme alla carica.

Origini e fondazione del regno

Dopo la Guerra d'Ira e la sconfitta di Morgoth, i valar decisero di ricompensare gli Edain (uomini che vivevano a nord-ovest della Terra di Mezzo) che durante la prima era scesero in guerra contro il male al fianco degli elfi. Osse (potente maia conosciuto come il Signore delle Onde) fece emergere dall'oceano una bellissima isola accogliente, e gli altri maiar e gli elfi di Aman contribuirono a renderla un luogo incantevole. Inoltre, agli uomini che decisero di trasferirsi su questa nuova isola, i valar concessero loro il dono della saggezza e di una vita più lunga rispetto a quella degli altri uomini.

Furono in 10 mila a salpare alla volta di Numenor, e scelsero come loro sovrano Elros, che a differenza di suo fratello Elrond decise di vivere in mezzo agli uomini. In cambio di questa scelta i valar donarono a lui e a tutti i sovrani futuri una vita ancora più lunga degli altri numenoreani. Elros regnò per ben 410 anni, morendo all'età di 500 anni. Lasciò il trono a suo figlio Vardamir Nolimon che abdicò in favore di suo figlio Tar-Amandil. Per 600 anni i dunedain rimasero all'interno della loro isola non curanti di cosa succedeva nella Terra di Mezzo, preoccupandosi solo della prosperità del proprio regno.

Espansione nella Terra di Mezzo

A causa del Veto dei Valar (divieto che impediva ai dunedain di avvicinarsi alla sacra terra di Aman) il popolo di Numenor cominicò a guardare verso est e decisero di intraprendere un viaggio verso la Terra di Mezzo. Nel 600 SE una grande flotta approdò nella Terra di Mezzo nel regno elfico di Lindon. Era la prima flotta che giungeva da ovest da oltre 600 anni e questo fu visto sia dagli elfi che dagli uomini come un fausto evento.

Sotto il regno di Tar-Aldarion, Numenor si espanse nella Terra di Mezzo, stringendo un forte legame con Gil-Galad. I porti vennero potenziati e aumentati i cantieri navali. In poco tempo Numenor entrò in possesso della maggiore potenza navale di Arda. Dopo la morte di Tar-Aldarion lo successe al trono sua figlia Tar-Ancalime che era contraria alla politica di espansione del padre e questo causò una battuta di arresto.

Durante la guerra tra Sauron e gli elfi per la conquista della Terra di Mezzo, il re del Lindon Gil-Galad chiese aiuto a Numenor che rispose mettendo a disposizione un poderoso esercito. Sauron sconfitto dovette tornare a Mordor e cominciò così il suo odio verso la stirpe dei Dunedain. Dopo questa vittoria, per i dunedain cominciò un grande periodo coloniale nella Terra di Mezzo dove vennero fondate importanti colonie quali Pelargir, Tharbad, Osgiliath e Umbar, nel frattempo i rapporti con gli Uomini Mediani (che in passato avevano adorato Sauron) erano altalenanti. C'era chi si mescolò ai nuovi padroni riconoscendo la potenza di Numenor e chi si oppose scatenando diversi conflitti.

L'inizio del declino di Numenor

Benchè i valar avessero fatto dono ai dunedain di una lunga vita, loro non furono mai soddisfatti. Cominciarono a guardare gli elfi e gli Ainurcon una certa invidia. Crearono un gruppo chiamato "Gli Uomini del Re", una dottrina suprematista che non vedevano gli elfi e gli Ainur come dei veri e propri nemici ma come dei pericolosi rivali. Sempre più uomini aderirono a questa dottrina decidendo di abbandonare completamente la lingua elfica per comunicare solo in Adunaico. Tuttavia vi erano dei numenoreani che preservarono la loro amicizia con gli elfi e furono costretti a ritirarsi nel principato di Andunie (casata cadetta della casata di Elros) oppure a partire alla volta delle terre occidentali della Terra di Mezzo.

Re Ar-Pharazon e l'Akallabeth

Nel 3255 SE salì sul trono il 25° eultimo re di Numenor, Ar-Pharazon. Era un re molto ambizioso e grazie a lui Numenor raggiunse l'apice della sua grandezza. Viene ricordato con onore per la sua grande vittoria contro Sauron.

Quando il signore oscuro divenne una grande minaccia per la Terra di Mezzo, Numenor sbarcò con un immenso esercito ad Umbar e sconfisse le armate di Mordor prendendo Sauron come prigioniero. Egli, grazie al potere dell'Unico Anello e della sua scaltrezza, prese l'aspetto di un bellissimo elfo e riuscì ad entrare nella mente del re diventando suo consigliere. A causa di Sauron aumentò ancora di più l'astio dei dunedain nei confronti degli Ainur, venne distrutto il tempio dedicato ad Eru Iluvatar e ne venne costruito uno in onore di Melkor. In questo tempio vennero compiuti sacrifici umani a favore dell'oscuro signore e venne fatto abbattere e bruciare l'albero di Nimloth.

Alla fine Ar-Pharazon, timoroso della morte, fu convinto da Sauron a dichiarare guerra ai Valar in modo che concedessero ai numenoreani l'immortalità. Più volte i Valar cercarono di avvertire gli uomini dell'errore che stavano commettendo, ma ormai la loro mente era avvelenata da Sauron. Fu così, che nel 3319 SE, dopo aver raccolto la più grande armata nella storia di Numenor, un'immensa flotta salpò perla guerra contro di Valar nella Guerra contro Valinor.

Questa fu la goccia che fece traboccare il vaso, i Valar lasciarono ogni giudizio ad Eru Iluvatar che scagliò una terribile tempesta che distrusse la flotta di Numenor e seppellì l'esercito nelle Grotte dell'Oblio (obbligati a rimanere lì e ad uscire unicamente per il Dagor Dagorath, dove combatteranno contro Morgoth per espiare i loro peccati). Eru decretò inoltre che tutta Numenor dovesse essere distrutta, inviò dunque un terremoto e un maremoto che fecero tornare l'isola negli abissi del mare.

I dunedain sopravvissuti

Amandil, 18° e ultimo Signore di Andunie, predisse che Ar-Pharazon avrebbe causato la fine di Numenor. Così, prima dell'Akallabeth, riuscì ad organizzare una piccola flotta per salvare coloro che non erano stati corrotti dalla nuova dottrina per salpare alla volta della Terra di Mezzo. Tuttavia Amandil era fiducioso di riuscire ad evitare questa guerra, e così partì insieme alle navi da guerra verso ovest, lasciando a suo figlio Elendil il compito di scortare i numenoreani verso il continente. Purtroppo però, da quando Iluvatar scatenò una tempesta per distruggere le navi da guerra, di Amandil non ci fu più traccia, ed Elendil partì insieme ai suoi figli (Isildur e Anarion) e ai dunedain sopravvissuti verso la Terra di Mezzo. Qui si unirono ai numenoreani che già in passato decisero di lasciare l'isola ormai sommersa, dando origine ai regni di Arnor e Gondor, preservando così l'eredità e la gloria di Numenor.

#capitolo 3 #il signore degli anelli #passione #lettura #scrittura #compagnia #noia #numenor

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melestasflight · 11 months ago

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Hi Melesta! Your holiday list is a lovely and generous idea✨️

In case you're up to it, I am very curious about you might do with the prompt 'love would lead me' + Lalwen & Argon! 😉💕

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @searchingforserendipity25. Thanks for the prompt friend!

Lalwen doesn’t have the heart to quell Arakáno’s love for wild creatures. Things turn hectic when an eagle egg goes missing. (1,6k words of pure fluff 😄)

Posting the collection of stories on AO3 here.

love would lead me

Lalwen did not expect the matter with the eagle egg to become such a serious affair, certainly not something that prompted the involvement of the Valar. Although in truth, she should have known all along.

Arakáno already had a long reputation for providing shelter and friendship to any creature that seemed (to him) even slightly in need of comfort. At first, it had been the innocent thing of an elfling barely out of his cradle, when he would pick up fallen nestlings beneath the trees in Indis’ gardens and run carrying them in his small hands. Lalwen would receive the birdling gently from between his clumsy fingers, they would identify its species together before she would climb deep into the tree crowns to return it to its nest.

She could never resist the endless stream of questions that no one else had the patience to answer, never tired of Arakáno’s insatiable curiosity for the world surrounding him. Lalwendë, do fish have eyelids? Are bees just little tigers? Lalwen, do oliphaunts eat with their nose? Is wombat poo really square? Can eagles speak Quenya? Why does Manwë have wings sometimes?

Each question — a small window into the colorful landscape of a child’s wonder. More than anything, it was the twinkle in the sky blue of Arakáno’s eyes, a hue mirroring perfectly her own, that called to Lalwen’s heart. For though Arakáno was Nolofinwë and Anairë’s son, in everything else he was Lalwen’s own, a piece of herself that she readily gave away. With each answered question, each smile, and each shared secret, he grew to become Lalwen's best friend housed in the small body of her nephew.

So Lalwen had long accepted her own incapacity to deny Arakáno anything, and over the years, she allowed her home to turn into a small sanctuary for all sorts of beasts, big and small, lost by chance or on purpose. An impressive variety of bird species chirped above the edges of the windows, geckos as colorful as rainbows crawled up the walls, ocelots slept stretched in patches of tree light, raccoons raised their young in the cellars, and a colony of bats hung in the attic.

Sometimes, Lalwen almost felt like an intruder in her own house, a creature all too civilized for the micro-ecosystem that was developing inside. She let it all happen for Arakáno’s joy, for the bliss in his voice as he named every one of his friends: Linquendil the hummingbird, Kemmótar the mole, Vindusquë the wolf.

But when Nolofinwë finally stood at her doorstep, his usual calm smile jagged by something between shame and worry, she knew it had all gone too far. ‘You allow him too much, sister.’

‘Oh for the love of Eru, Nolo, Arakáno is still a child. Let him have fun while he can.’ Lalwen wasn’t ready to surrender.

‘He sequestered an eagle egg, Lalwen! Manwë himself has sent word to father requesting that the egg be returned.’

‘Don’t you think they are being a little too dramatic over this?’ Lalwen said with a chuckle as she imagined the King of the Noldor and the King of Arda corresponding over bird eggs. Nolofinwë followed suit, their chuckles turning into giggles as their minds met. ‘Ai very well, I will speak with him.’

When Lalwen knocked on the door of Arakáno’s attic room, a frustrated little warning came from within. ‘I haven’t changed my mind, Dad!’

‘Your father is downstairs, Arakáno. It’s me, let me in,’ she demanded as softly as she could.

Arakáno opened the door almost immediately, just barely to let Lalwen squeeze inside. ‘Come in quickly before Dad can hear him.’

‘Hear whom?’ Lalwen got her answer as soon as she asked. The shells of an egg were lying on the floor and a small, fragile pile of pink skin and soft down was resting folded in Arakáno’s shirt. He handed the nestling into Lalwen’s open palms. It was softer than anything she had ever touched. ‘When did it hatch?’

‘Not three days ago.’

‘Arno! You could have told me—’

‘I know, I know,’ Arakáno’s remorseful tone was a heart-wrenching thing. Then his words came out of his mouth in a rush. ‘I didn’t mean for it to hatch here. I was just curious and intended to return the egg after I sketched it in my notebook. But then it began cracking in my lap, everything was so fast I didn’t know what to do, and when I heard his cry I couldn’t let him go. He can barely see, I wasn't going to leave him alone.’

The eaglet was snuggling against Lalwen’s palm, eager for the warmth she provided. ‘I can see why you want to keep him. He is a darling,’ she said and heard Arakáno’s exhale of relief. ‘But you must return him to his nest at once.’

‘Can’t he stay just a little longer?’

‘If I say yes, love for you would lead me. There is nothing that I wish more than your joy, my dear. Yet I will have to say no for love of our small friend. Don’t make such a face, Arakáno, you know you cannot teach him all that a little eagle must know. How many eggs were in the nest?’

'Four,’ Arakáno confessed.

‘They will all hatch if they haven't already. Don’t you think he will begin feeling lonely without his siblings soon enough? Just like you miss your brothers and sister when they are away?’

‘But if he leaves I will feel lonely too!’ Her nephew was now on the verge of tears. ‘I know I am too young to be in Finno’s company all the time, even if he had the time to take me with him. Turno spends every waking moment with Findo, and they are honestly quite boring, reading their books and debating things I barely understand all day long, and Írissë is always away with her friends from Oromë’s hunt.’

There was the truth, at last.

Arakáno was the youngest among the wild bunch of Finwë’s grandchildren, and unlike his elder siblings, he did not have the luxury of growing up surrounded by his many cousins. As Fëanáro and Nolofinwë’s arguments acquired a sharper edge, Lalwen watched how a chasm was opening between their children too, ever-expanding, pushing them apart like a glacier between mountains. Her chest turned too small to contain her heart.

‘I know what it’s like to be much younger than your siblings, Arakáno, but trust me, soon enough the age difference will be all but invisible. Before you know it, you will grow tall and strong and spread your wings wide to go on many adventures, and I will be with you every step of the way.’ Lalwen offered the nestling back to Arakáno, and added gently, ‘We should let our friend do the same, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You are right, Aunt, I will let him go back to his kind.’ A smile, even if a little wistful, was finally returning to her nephew’s face again.

Just as they readied to leave the house, nestling the eaglet into a pile of blankets, two redheaded elflings burst through the front door, quick as lightning.

‘The egg has hatched!’ Exclaimed Pityo, catching sight of the bird at once.

‘It has?’ Came from Nolofinwë, alarmed.

‘How can it be so ugly and adorable at the same time?’ Asked Telvo, ignoring his uncle’s question. ‘How old is it? Is it truly one of Manwë’s eagles?’

The inquiries came in a storm as the twins huddled around Arakáno to take a better look at the small bird in his arms.

‘What are you doing here, Ambarussa?’ Lalwen asked, realizing that Fëanáro’s youngest sons had never before come to her home.

‘We wanted to see the egg before it was returned, and begged Papa to bring us,’ Pityo answered.

‘Your father brought you here? Where is he?’

‘Right here,’ came from Fëanáro who appeared in the doorway. He crossed the room and his face turned somber as soon as he spotted Nolofinwë. ‘Good day sister, half-brother. I have brought the twins but I must warn you—’

‘Fëanáro, you—’ started Nolofinwë before Fëanáro was done speaking.

‘If you mention anything about your feud,’ Lalwen interrupted them both, raising a warning finger, ‘I swear to Eru, you will both be dealing with me. The children barely know each other because of your ridiculous quarrels!’ Her voice came in a whisper, sharp as a blade, making sure only her brothers could hear her.

Fëanáro looked taken aback, not expecting that kind of tone from his much younger sister. But he recovered quickly. ‘In fact, I was going to ask if they can stay here for the day. Nerdanel and I have our hands full and could use the break. I see they have already found good company.’

Even Fëanáro could feel overwhelmed. Lalwen had not thought it possible, but she was relieved to know it was so. ‘Of course they can stay, they are as dear to me as any of your children. But what were you going to warn me about?’

‘Oh, only that my youngest sons are wilder than Oromë’s creatures in the forests. We believed we had passed the test with Tyelko, how wrong we were!’

As Fëanáro spoke, Lalwen glanced past his shoulder to catch the blissful smile that stretched Arakáno’s lips as he was answering the twins’ questions.

‘I’m confident I will manage,’ she responded to Fëanáro and beckoned her brothers to join the children where the eaglet was being passed from one set of hands to another.

‘Have you named him already?’ Telvo asked.

‘Yes! His name is Sorontar,’ Arakáno announced proudly.

‘It is a good name! Pleased to meet you, little king.’ Pityo reached out a finger to scratch the soft head of the nestling and everyone broke into laughter as Sorontar squawked in response.

Lalwen felt something warm unravel in her chest.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#lalwen #irime lalwen #argon #arakano #fingolfin #feanor #amrod #amras #thorondor #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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nelyos-right-hand · 8 months ago

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You know you have been in the Silm fandom for too long when your first reaction to something shocking changed from "OMG!" to "Ai, Valar!".

#silmarillion #tolkien #silm fandom #valar #my post

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batsyforyou · 2 years ago

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Little Dove: Prologue

Manwë X FemChild Reader:

Warnings/Tags: POV changes, child crying, dramatic intro, a child getting lost, child-ish shenanigans, stress and slight depression mentioned and Future kidnapping. Everything here should mostly be fluff right up til the end anyway. And I made a point to remove any and all possible cuss words/phrases. I also just stuck with the names the majority of people would probably recognize.

Reader Info: Pronouns Used: she/her. I also mentioned that the reader is blonde and female. If that doesn't work with you just imagine what you want.

Character List: Manwë, Varda, Feanor, Finrod, Maglor, Maedhros, and Finarfin.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with The Silmarillion, the Lord of the Rings, or The Hobbit. I do, however own my fanfic and I ask that no one reposts or puts my work in an AI system. Thank you.

Author’s Note:

Hello! I didn’t think this would actually make it to being posted but no! I proved myself wrong! Thankfully. So, the original idea behind this story was to just have some cute Manwë and child interactions. However! It had been brought to my attention, by my sister, that I had made the whole thing too long for a one shot. Which is possibly why I was struggling. I had to cut everything into pieces and edit the life out of it and now I have a mini series of hopefully cute Manwë moments. It genuinely felt like I had taken a 2 by 4 grabbed an axe and went WACK.

So far I have two through three parts I have yet to finish fleshing out. I did take some creative liberties, though not many. And I am very open to criticism! I tend to have the “hit me with your best shot” mentality towards criticism overall. So if you have something to say about literally any part of my writing from here out about my grammar, punctuation, word choice, setting, description, theme, dialogue, characterization and literally anything feel free to tell me. Also, I might have gotten some elf terms wrong or mixed up. Please let me know if I did and I’ll try to make time to fix it.

P.S. Some of what is written for this story was inspired by headcanons made by @edensrose and my own. And part one will be posted in a couple of days from now. I unfortunately can’t get to it any faster. And this prologue is indeed the Attempted Dramatic Intro. So anyway, I hope y’all have a great day!

Little Dove

Valinor was a place of great beauty. With many blue mountains, green forests, and pastures full of wildflowers and bountiful farmland. Where glittering blue rivers and lakes spotted the landscape with great splendor. This was the home of the Elves… and of the Ainur.

This land had many Kings. Kings of Elves mostly and of the elves there stood three Great Elven Kingdoms that belonged to: the Vanyar, the Teleri and the Noldor. Ingwë ruled over the Vanyar, Finwe over the Noldor and Olwë over the Teleri.

Above them stood Manwë, King of the Valar, Ruler of Arda, brother to the Dark Lord Melkor and husband to the Lady Varda. Lord Manwë was held in high regard and was most notably known for his kindness and compassion towards others.

Lord Manwë lived atop Mount Taniquetil the highest mountain of the world where birds of all kinds brought him word about the happenings of the world. Though the most exciting news came from his herald, word from the Noldor, the Line of Finwe in fact.

The wife of Finwe’s youngest son, Finarfin, had given birth to his youngest grandchild, an elleth. Princess Y/N, a special little elleth so fair in face and hair the color of spun gold. She was adored amongst her people and had many tied around her finger. Most notably, her brother’s. As the years passed, Y/N’s tenth Begetting Day was getting closer. This was where the young Princess was to be Presented to the Valar, as her predecessors before her. All members of the three royal households were to be Presented to the Valar to be chosen by one of the Vala and receive their blessing.

And now, it was Y/N’s turn.

It had been decided that the young Princess would be Presented to the Valar on the every eve of Spring. Every elf who could come would be in attendance and meet in the Mansion by Lord Irmo’s domain. For food and drink was to be served and a night full of song and dance was promised. Elves would wear their finest clothes and the greatest minstrels would be paid to sing. Young Prince Maglor, Y/N’s cousin, and her oldest brother Finrod were rumored to be performing that night. It was to be a grand occasion, definitely not one to be missed.

This is where our story begins.

Masterlist

Tags:

@floraroselaughter did you still want to be tagged for this?

#Tolkien #Manwë #Manwe x child reader #Manwe x platonic reader #some of the tags in the beginning hint at part 1 #Prologue for Little Dove #future mentions of kidnapping #kidnapping

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urwendii · 1 year ago

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Prompt: marriage - Russingon

There had been a time, long ago but also not that long ago, when Fingon had dreamed and yearned with the innocence of youth that had only ever known the bliss of Aman under the light of the Two Trees. He had been fearless and impulsive, running around in the green, green fields of Tirion with a laugh on his lips. Ai, those had been the days.

Glade of flowers stretching for miles where you could sometimes see Ever Young Vana dance, splash in cold rivers in the ever-summer of Valinor, sing and be loud and brash and not heed any consequences because the worst thing that could happen was a mild glare from his father who loved him too much to be able to scold him in earnest when he got his younger siblings covered in mud and late for dinner.

Those were the times.

Then. Then everything changed. There was darkness and blood and oaths and exile then betrayal and the unforgiving Ice for so so long.

And when Findekáno arrived in Beleriand, skin on bones, heart in pieces and anger through his cold veins he was told that Maitimo, his Russo, had opposed the Burning and that his uncle had died and Maitimo probably shared this fate - taken to the Enemy's fortress not to be seen nor heard again, and so, and so this was the fate of the high Kings of the Doomed Noldor in Middle-Earth.

Fingon had raged and cried and did the most impulsive and reckless action of his life so far. He had walked to Thangorodrim with spite burning in his hröa. And saved Maitimo who was not Well Made anymore, a skeleton hanging on a cliff battered by elements and how in Eru's Grace was he still breathing?

And his cousin had lived somehow, after Fingon had cut his wrist, lived and healed but the price to pay had been high. So many nights spent calming the trashing, the memories of torture, the guilt and self loathing. And the distance between their fëar. For he had still been angry at his Russo, and so very fucking glad and relieved to see him and all these emotions warring every day, every hour.

And Maedhros was building walls of steel around his heart and keeping him - Findekáno, Fingon out. And it hurt, hurt so bad. Yet, because it seemed that despite their Doom the Valar still had some little grace toward them ( no, only toward you Findekáno, Russo would say. An argument he refused to have again) Maitimo- (no, please call me Maedhros he had croaked) survived and the fire in his eyes had burned white and blinding, the Enemy had no idea what was coming - a storm, a storm of red and silver fires.

And he had left Fingon and shoved Kingship at his and his father's feet, took his rambunctious siblings and left to Himring, last stronghold before the Enemy. And Fingon had wondered and shed tears for a dream that seemed too distant. As the box of memories left in his rooms in Valinor, forgotten in the rush of the Exile.

Running blind through wistful thinking and pinning for adolescent dreams. Before all of this, the fuckery of their own making and he was so tired, so very tired because all he had wanted was to run free and explore and call Maitimo his as Russo would too call Finno his. Where gauntlets of metal now covered their fingers he had wanted gold rings, a promise, a binding lasting ever beyond the Breaking of the World.

"I would have married you." He had whispered to the night, letting the wind carry his love, let it be lost amongst the stars, let the Valar hear how his heart bled out. Let then mock Fingon's defiant love amongst the death and carnage. Let them see him burn for Nelyafinwë.

That night Fingon dreamed of lands made of ashes and his name being yelled by Maedhros across a field of devastation. He remembered thinking you came for me (I always will Maedhros had seemed to answer, across space and time, I will always find you Findekáno) and then shadow and flames and - he had opened his eyes.

Fingon had lied in bed, eyes filled with tears and heart hammering and thought, no, certainly this was a nightmare.

In the evening a letter came for him. A meeting requested- formal speech, straight to the point.

And then Maedhros stood in front of him, clad in armour, cloak draped over his right arm. The lake reflected in his eyes. Fingon ached.

"I dreamed-"

"Me too."

The silence stretched. It was a nightmare he said, half convinced. He shivered. Somehow sometimes he felt as if he had never left the Helcaraxë.

"I will not let that happen." The steel in Maedhros' eyes sent tremors of fear in Fingon. Where are you Russo he wanted to ask. His hands clenched the red cloak.

"I won't either." Now he could feel his own fire untamed through his heart.

"You and I until the Enemy is defeated."

Maedhros didn't smile but his shoulders - slightly crooked now- seemed to tense ever more.

"And beyond that." He simply replied and Fingon almost sobbed against his chest.

"Yes beyond that." He echoed and allowed himself to reach for those naive dreams once more.

"I will always find you Russo." He vowed, he refused to make it an Oath, no but his heart had been Valiant enough, and he took another step closer.

"And I too."

There had been no rings. Maedhros' lips had been as icy as the Lake.

And when Findekáno had walked amongst them again, long, long after another Dark Lord had been vanquished, even longer after the world had grown strange and Elves had been nothing more than mythology he had looked for and waited still.

For a return.

For a sign.

And Námo had only stared at him and said nothing.

He had waited. Sitting in the grass in front of the Halls, for so long that the skies changed and rumours of an end came forth. He had waited and hoped, and sung, and begged and raged and cried then sung again. So long that another Battle began and the world Broke under his feet.

Russo he had called still. Relentlessly.

Russo.

Maitimo.

Nelyo.

Finno? You found me.

#russingon #maedhros x fingon #prompt: tolkien lgdrm #oh i am unsure if i like it or not but i had to expel this from my mind #they make me sadddddddddddd but also NNFJFJFKGKFODKQPDNBFJR #if there are typos: no there isnt and you saw nothing

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lamemaster · 1 year ago

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For the Silmarillion Ship (unburnt version please)

You have a 155cm Impatient raisin with dark brown eyes and wavy hair who like shiny rings and earrings always pouting her lips and give people an awkward smile.

*please don't be Feanor

(I assure you no ships or Teleri were harmed during this event)

I ship you with dun dun dun 💃💃💃 Feanor (jk i would never) the slayer of Balrogs, the legendary elf who died because of a good hair day-🎺 Glorfindel🎺!

I heard you like shiny things, he is one of the shiniest elves ever. Valar approved of this message.

Behold your magnificent ship dynamic. This elf will scream his love to the moon and back (I mean come on he is a dramatic soul, home boi went to battle Loreal hair commercial style).

"Show me something brighter…something that the Sun could light on fire with its rays," the merchant turns back with another exasperated look thrown at Elladan who was doing his best to appear as apologetic as possible.

Tugging the somewhat obnoxious elf named Glorfindel next to him, Elladan attempted to engage in damage control. "Ai, Glorfindel," he called out, trying to gain the attention of the golden-haired elf who seemed entirely entranced by the dazzling array of jewels. "There's a limit to jewels, you know. They can only shine so much."

With a genuinely hurt expression, Glorfindel turned to Elladan, "In our times, jewels shined brighter than the Sun itself."

"Yeah, and look where that led us…"

"What?"

"Nothing. Why don't you take a look at that emerald bracelet?" Elladan suggested, barely escaping disaster and breathing a sigh of relief.

Examining the bracelet, Glorfindel wore the same look of dissatisfaction he had for the past 50 pieces they had examined. "I don't like the silver. Nope, silver won't do. We need something gold."

As the Sun began its descent toward the horizon, nearly an entire day had passed in the pursuit of the perfect present for you. Glorfindel had insisted on Elladan's assistance for this extremely important task.

"Her present needs to be impeccable. Brighter than the Silmarils themselves," Glorfindel declared, completely ignoring the scandalized looks from the merchant and Elladan.

"And it needs to be golden so that it reminds her of me." They had traveled through towns in search of this special present, but to Elladan, it felt like a losing battle.

"Why does it matter? Y/n likes everything sparkling; that's why she chose you. She isn't the type to make a big deal about such things," Elladan reasoned, his words seemingly falling on deaf ears.

"She never complains, but my beloved loves jewels. She would never complain, but my heart longs to see her in unadulterated joy. A smile that will be worthy only if I find the perfect present. And then maybe she will remember me every time she wears it." With a dreamy look in his eyes, Glorfindel continued with his quest to find you the best present.

#the silmarillion #ship event #Glorfindel

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amethysttribble · 2 years ago

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Caught at Low Tide

Hey, @aeondelirium (or rather, @aeondecember) I’m your Secret Santa! I hope enjoy this fic!!

Thank you to @officialtolkiensecretsanta for organizing this event!

Elrond mourns his brother, and so, naturally, he finds himself in the water and at the mercy of Ulmo, as his family always does in times of turmoil.

Today, the smells of muck and brine and smoke were thick in the sky. Everything felt heavy, weighed down by the oppressive moisture in the air that was trapped and pressed low by the dark gray clouds above. It wasn’t raining yet, though. No rain, but sharp wind, tumultuous wind.

“The king of Arda mourns,” Vardamir had said, eyes closed but lids fluttering, head tilted towards the stormy sky.

Elrond- and this was not his proudest moment- had snorted.

That certainly put a damper on the grim but glorious funeral proceedings of King Elros Tar-Minyatur.

To think, the king’s Elven brother exhibiting obvious and loud disbelief at the idea of Manwe’s consideration. Disdain at the idea.

And short-lived Men had so little personal experience with the Valar, they were so insecure and impressionable about if they were loved by Eru’s steward. Morgoth’s whispers still ran deep in their history and lore. Their fledgling faith lived on interpretable spectacle and small signs and little blessings. The weather probably was a sign from Manwe too! It was all just a harmless expression of grief and desire for comfort, and Elrond-

Elros had always held so much respect and awe and love for the Valar after the War of the Wrath and Elrond successfully unwound a good bit of his work building trust for them in Numenor with one snort.

Stupid.

His nephew forgave him, though. How could he not? Vardamir was a father, a grandfather, and an eldest child. He was made of nothing but grace and patience for tempestuous youths.

Elrond did not feel like a youth. He wasn’t one, though the Elves eternally thought of him as Earendil and Elwing’s sad little boy, and the Men? His traitorous niece and nephews had aged to the point of graying and not respected him since. Even his little brother, in his last years, had treated him gently and sweetly, like he was a child.

It was humiliating, but what was more humiliating- Elrond felt as he sat in Elros’s chair in Elros’s study and felt small in the shadow of Elros’s death- was that he was validating them by acting like a child.

Can’t I be forgiven today? he thought bitterly, twirling an eagle-feather quill that he gifted Elros in his hands.

He already knew that he’d long since been forgiven for any indiscretion. He’d be forgiven anything this week. Fuck, but Elrond had been forgiven for everything his entire life, by everyone, with no hesitation, no quibbling, no reservations. Not even loving kinslayers or refusing the personal invitation of Manwe and Varda to join his parents in Valinor was beyond the good grace of Gil-galad and his court of the well-intentioned.

Ai, Elwing and Earendil’s little boy has suffered so much, give him time, we Elves have so much time.

Elros, though, noble Elros, Earendil and Elwing’s kingly son, he had not so much time and what wondrous things he did with it. He matured so quickly didn’t he?

But none of them- not the court of Lindon, not the children of Numenor whose predecessors had aged and turned over so many times the Elros was following in the wake of hundreds of his true friends, not even his nieces and nephews- knew Elros as Elrond had known him. They did not know him angry. They did not know him sad. They did not know him scared. They did not know him filled with regret and loss until his last, not nearly so unwavering as the many speeches given in his honor suggested.

My hands are shaking, Elros had said to him in their last private conversation together. I don’t know why. Fear? Excitement? Strain from hanging on? Or, perhaps it’s just death setting in.

He’d laughed.

All of that, maybe.

Elrond was taken with the urge to snap the quill in his hands in half. No one could get mad at him for that. He’d given this quill to Elros. No one could get mad at him for breaking it.

Slowly, Elrond set it back down.

He didn’t know why he was sitting here. Well, he did. He knew why. Vardamir wanted him to give a speech, and this was the only place where he might reasonably be left in peace to write one. The new king still balked at entering his father’s study. His siblings were not quite so deterred, but after Elrond glared Manwedil from the room, none had tried again to bring refreshments.

Elrond didn’t want refreshments. He wanted to wail for his fucking brother, the version of him that only he knew. That was the only version of Tar-Minyatur he could think to write of, but no one wanted to hear of that boy.

An Elros who was not perfectly magnanimous, perfectly in control, perfectly at peace all the time? Perish the thought. No, really, perish it. The first King of Numenor could not be remembered as anything but perfect.

Whenever Elrond had complained about the spectacle he was currently living through to his brother in years leading up to his death- during the long planning of a funeral that wasn’t yet needed, something that still baffled Elrond- Elros had just smirked.

“Come now, I know you appreciate the importance of a good show. We were taught the same lessons after all.”

Yes, he had been, and Elrond was still sure that Maglor would find this week-long event just as macabre and odd as he did.

But Men were odd creatures. Well, at least as odd as Elves, but unlike the former, Elrond had never claimed to understand Men. He’d understood none but one, but through him- and Elros through Elrond- he’d felt like he’d understood the whole world. And now…

Now, Elrond pushed back from his brother’s chair to stand, and turned towards the large, open space at his back. Past two glass doors that were hardly ever closed was Elros’s ‘balcony’, though it was as large as a courtyard, strewn about with couches and chairs and braziers; cushions, tables, and children’s toys. There was a telescope mounted in one corner, a liquor cabinet in another. This is where Elros's family had practically lived.

Deserted now, except for Elrond, at Elrond's own desire. He’d feel selfish for monopolizing this space in these days of mourning, which were different but no less hard for his nieces and nephews, but the weather was so bad. No one would want to sit out here anyway.

He meandered outside.

With the day so dark and gray and miserable, it was no wonder that it was starting to drizzle. Manwe must have had a hand in the weather, because this was truly how mournful days should look; all the poets and singers agreed. Strange then, how overcast always took Elrond back to days that made sense.

Back in the days where Morgoth’s smog clouded the sky so heavily and consistently, they hardly ever saw the sun and moon, and never the stars- except for one. Now knowing that the silmaril sailed the sky, even in those days, Elrond often mused that if he’d just put a little thought into it, he might have realized what that bright light up there was. Maedhros and Maglor certainly did. But they never told and Elrond and Elros never figured it out. They were far too busy.

Survival occupied their every day.

During their roaming march- never in one place for long for fear of assault; ostensibly from Morgoth’s forces, but assaults from other peoples was always an unspoken possibility- there was never any time for long bouts of contemplation. Everyone worked. Elrond and Elros gathered wood, set up tents, trapped animals, fished, cooked, cleaned, bore wine and water during war meetings between the Sons of Feanor and their commanders.

And in between their chore, they learned, learned, learned.

“Are they not princes of the House of Finwe?” Maedhros had once growled at a former mathematician turned spearman who was foolish enough to question what the point of schooling in this day and age was. “They will learn how to compunct themselves as proper lords; polite, learned lords. Has Morgoth taken our pride, sir? Or just yours? No prince of the Noldor shall go uneducated.”

He’d spit that word like a curse, ‘uneducated’. That had always stuck with Elrond, it was so different to how their mother thought. Elwing had prioritized knowing the most beautiful songs- that sounded just a little prettier in her voice- and understanding the ebb and flow of nature. Maedhros wanted them to know grammar.

And Elros and Elrond hated it, they really did. The days went in and out like that, chores and lessons, lessons then chores, meals spattered in between, and it was exhausting. They slept hard at night. Things were simple, though. Those days were occupied with routine, with familiarity, with certainty.

Routine, familiarity, and certainty can bring fondness to even the most gruesome of times, as long as they came with fairness. Or complete lack thereof. Nothing was fair in Morgoth’s Middle-earth, but that was its own kind of equality. It was the kind of cruel environment that brought clarity, like who you could afford to have as an enemy and who you couldn’t.

Like grief is a feeling that is inevitable and should be dwelled on for as short a time as possible. Spending too long on grief just brought more of it.

Now, though, with Morgoth vanquished, they all just had too much time on their hands. At least, that's how Elrond felt about it. Too much time for funerals, too much time for kindness, too much time for thinking.

“All I do these days,” Elrond muttered to himself, head tilted back towards the rain, “is think until I’m miserable.”

And now he did not even have Elros as a sounding board to tell him that he was being stupid.

A sob welled up again in Elrond's throat, and he swallowed it with a shout, stomping up and down. Dammit, dammit, dammit, he was tired of crying. He was tired of crowd-appropriate sorrow. He wanted to move, he wanted to-

Elrond danced miserably- stamping his feet with great power every time he landed- around the patio where he and Elros had so many joyous moments, so much happiness and love that they couldn't even imagine as children, and he hated all of this.

Elros lived such a good life. He lived such a good life. A happy, full life, overflowing with legacy that was being celebrated and carried on, and he’d been content to die. Elrond had helped his brother make this choice, he thought he would be content to see Elros die when the day came. But he wasn’t.

He fucking wasn’t.

Taken by a manic fury, Elrond sprang across the balcony towards the telescope, climbing his way onto the balustrade it was perched on, and leaned. He latched one hand around the pole that held up the telescope, planted one foot on the slippery rock beneath him, and leaned over the edge, one leg in the air.

“Why does everyone leave me!” he screamed at the sea and the sky and the western horizon of Valinor.

Elrond received a mouthful of seawater for his efforts.

Hacking and coughing, he looked ruefully at the waters below. Elros’s study was a hundred feet above the shoreline and it was low tide. If water was reaching so high up just to make Elrond’s day that little bit worse, it must be…

Elrond started to climb down the cliffside.

Damn Ulmo, he thought as he started painstakingly maneuvering his way down the sheer, wet rocks of Numenor’s western edge. Damn his water and his oceans and his meddling rivers.

Oh, how annoying they had been when they were children, trying to sweep them down stream, away from the kinslayers. To where, Elrond had always wondered. Surely not all the way to Balar. The ainur efforts at liberating them never came to anything but inconvenience, they were always plucked out of the waters by worried guardians.

Maedhros always worried they would drown. It was Maglor who exhaustedly explained that, no, the grandsons of Tuor must be beloved by the waters. Ulmo was trying to send them home.

Elros and Elrond had no scope to appreciate either sentiment. They were just tired and wet and scared.

Elrond was tired and wet now. His hands cut open by cold rock, knees scraped, limbs straining, he was angry, he was also as angry at Ulmo as when the Lord of the Tides had stooped before him and his brother and told them of the boon he gave their mother. As his feet hit the mucky sand of low tide and he shoved his sopping hair out of his face, he had the same demand for him.

Could you think of nothing more helpful to do?

“Oi!” Elrond yelled as he strode forward into the sea, “Do you have something to say!”

The sea was massively loud, churning and twisting as it had been doing all morning, the wind whipping it up into a frenzy. Elrond had to fight every step, both against being pulled forward and by being pushed backwards by the tide. And down. The sand was soft and grasping. It seemed like Ulmo had quite a lot to say, and if Elrond was in a more philosophical mood, he’d unplug his ears and listen to what the Lord of Tides’ domain was trying to communicate.

But that was a habit that Elros always rolled his eyes at and called, “So Elvish,” with a stupid smirk and then Elrond would tackle him to the ground and they’d wrestle until one of them had mud forcibly rubbed behind his ears, and-

And those days were gone. Those days were gone without any possibility for recovery and Elrond scarcely comprehended how short they’d been. So long for Elros, so short for him.

Battered and deafened by the sea, Elrond finally screamed at the top of his lungs.

He yelled until the breath ran short in his throat and then he drew in a large gulp of air, and cried out again, tilting his head back. This time, his throat burned when all the air was gone, but now that he’d started, Elrond wasn’t done. No one on Numenor could hear him here. No subjects to draw conclusions, no nieces and nephews to baby him, no Gil-galad so soon to arrive with his soft understanding that didn’t understand anything.

No Elf could understand this. No Man could understand this.

To be separated in fate from the one person who had been consistent throughout your life? Even when you’d both made those choices with eyes wide open and sure, it was… The dissonance could scarcely be comprehended.

So Elrond screamed until his voice was raw.

He let his knees give out and collapsed into the surf. The sand was soft beneath him and ruining his black mourning clothes, but damn, it was the calmest he’d felt since…

When Elrond tilted his head back towards the misting rain, he closed his eyes and was lying in bed with Elros once more. His little brother was wheezing with each breath, so drained and weak he could hardly sit up, but it did not impair their conversation. They were talking about being younger, the wild years of Numenor’s construction, when Elrond would leave the equally unfinished Lindon and they’d roam, alone and together around the lands of Eriador.

“It was Nîn-in-Eilph that I’ve missed in these infirm years. I loved it there. Every step was an adventure,” Elrod said in his creaky voice, and Elrond had smiled.

Lying on his side, face half covered by pillows, holding Elros’s hand, he said, “All of the Bruinen is beautiful. Do you remember that valley we found? I keep meaning to go back there, I keep thinking of it.”

Elros chuckled weakly.

“Only you would find yourself entranced with a patch of land so near troll dens. Oh, I worry about you, Elrond. What shall you do without me, hm? Without Numenor and the wisdom of Men to come running to when you are annoyed with your Elves?”

“And what about you?” Elrond replied softly. “What shall you do once you cross and you’re surrounded by only mortals? Where will Elrond be then and his Elvish wisdom to save you when you are annoyed by Men?”

Elros did not reply to that; Elrond supposed that they were too close to that eternal uncertainty for it to be funny.

He squeezed his brother’s hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” Elrond had whispered. “I’ll be fine. You know me. Comfortable everywhere.”

“And home nowhere,” Elros muttered in reply, squeezing back. He turned away with a slight smile, though, the knowing kind old Men and elder Elves got. “Too brave, too adventurous for your own good. But, no, no… You’ll be fine. I know it in my heart that you’ll find your home one day, Elrond. First, you just have to do everything and talk to everyone!”

“I will taste the world,” Elrond said, smirking.

Elros had chuckled, and started to drift then. Elrond sang for him. His brother napped for the last time, because when he awoke in just two hours, he summoned everyone important to his side and said his final goodbyes. Elros was gone before sundown.

Opening his mouth for the rain and the salty mist, Elrond thought they tasted very bitter. He did not want them, suddenly. He did not feel brave and adventurous; he did not feel like King Elros’s wild Elven brother with hands that could heal any ailment. Elrond felt very like everything he’d ever known was burning at his back and he didn’t want to run from the thing that caused that loss. After all, what did it hurt to embrace that which had destroyed you when there was nothing left behind you?

Not for the first time, Elrond wondered what it would be like to have made a different choice. Would he and Elros have died hand-in-hand as they’d been born hand-in-hand?

But his heart tugged and pulled, and he found himself bitterly wondering instead what it would be like right not if Elros had chosen differently. He would have liked that better. It wasn’t how it was, though.

Nothing was ever how Elrond would have liked it.

Which brought him right back around to the self-pity that had dragged him out to the sea which had stolen so much from him and still taunted. Mother, father, brother, Maglor, all of them stupidly entranced by the ocean water when Elrond thought he’d rather go rot in a river valley. Maybe he should just go lay down in the mud near that troll land and stay there for an age until he was subsumed and made part of the very earth, watching it all pass.

And when he awoke from that most natural slumber, perhaps the grief would be gone. Perhaps he would not mind being alone.

“Bah!” Elrond cried, letting out all his air with his exhalation. He threw himself back into the water, clueless as to what else to do with the storm in his chest. Under the water, Elrond drank and tried to say, Ulmo, if you’re to interfere, turn me into something else and let me fly away.

His lungs ached, his raw throat burned, and it felt good to focus on that pain. Everything was dark and white noise beneath the waves and he was free.

Which was why he was so annoyed when a gentle hand cupped the back of his head and lifted him up.

As he hacked and coughed and wiped at his salty face, Elrond glared miserably at the watery visage of Ulmo, Lord of the Tides. That transparent, saltwater form just raised a coy eyebrow at him, and Elrond spit some of the water from his mouth. It had been some time since he’d seen or spoken to this entity, but he felt no surprise; or awe.

“I knew you must be near,” Elrond muttered petulantly.

“I’m always near,” Ulmo intoned, voice bubbling like a creek, every word a song unto itself.

“Shall I find a desert, then, and see if you appear?”

“Cheeky.”

Elrond managed a strained quirk of his lips and not much else.

Ulmo blinked lazily at him, water flicking off his viscous eyelashes. Such a strange creature, even more timeless and unreadable than the most enlightened Elves. There was something alluring about such infinity to Elrond, but it did not come with reverence. Not for the first time, he was taken with the desire to stick his hands into an Ainur’s fea and dissect what he found there.

“Yet,” Ulmo burbled, “you were cheekier still in the days when we spoke often. Sweet child, sharp tongue. Wide eyes, stern stance. Gentle hands, long sword. You were scared, then. You are scared now.”

And Elrond sighed.

“I suppose so, my lord,” he mumbled, holding onto his ankles and leaning back. He turned his gaze towards the setting sun and pretended to study the clouds.

“Fear is not something to be ashamed of.”

“I know, my lord.” “Especially when faced with situations we have never known before.”

Elronnd’s eye twitched, and for the fourth time today, his temper got the better of him. He splashed water at Lord Ulmo, dismissing him and his words, and glared.

“Never known before and never again,” he snapped. “I only have one brother, one constant companion to lose. In fact, I am the only one who has ever known such a thing, and with a little luck, am likely to be the only one ever. So, yes, I am scared and cheeky in the face of such a thing. It is always I who is asked by Iluvatar to suffer strange and singular pains, so I hope you’ll forgive me for not acting with perfect grace.”

“The Valar have lost siblings to unknown and diverged fates,” Ulmo said and Elrond’s eyes went massive as shock and fury battled within him.

“Do not compare my brother to Morgoth,” he hissed quietly and the water around him grew unnaturally still, only the slightest ripple of tension emerging in a circle around him.

Ulmo did not look phased.

He merely said, “I meant myself, truly.”

Elrond floundered. Anger and indignation had been building, and just as suddenly, they fled from him, the waves moving once more. Lukewarm sea water splashed up his back, and Ellrond merely stared, stunned and lost. Ulmo, thankfully, explained.

“Myself, and the others whom you know. Our Manwe, our Varda, our Yavanna, so on. And our Melkor. Those of us who came to shape Arda left kin behind and we knew when we did that we would never return. Tulkas feels this choice most keenly. We still miss those left behind as I’m sure they miss us, but it was a choice made with open eyes. To leave, to stay. It was what was desired, needed by each individual. Sometimes we must leave loved ones behind when our paths diverge too heavily, and that is as natural a thing as… Well, as my rivers diverging never to meet again! Some, most, rather, come back together in the ocean, but some lonely few do not. Only the breaking of the world will reunite us.”

Ulmo tilted his head, hair dipping and dripping back into the sea.

“Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Elrond whispered, looking away. He was suddenly embarrassed by his outburst, by his… lack of perspective. Yes, of course the Valar might be the only of Iluvatar’s children who understood him. How strange to not be alone in this pain. How… bitter. “Yes, I see now. I’m sorry.”

Slowly and gently, a water-light touch lifted his chin. Ulmo had no eyes, not in the traditional sense. In the liquid facsimile of a face, there were pockets of light where one's eyeballs typically were. They were infinitely deep and Elrond wished for such a perspective. He wished he could see instead of being bound by his hroa.

“Do not apologize, like a child caught with dirty hands. You do suffer uniquely. But even with Elros’s equally unique existence diverged beyond you, you are not alone.”

“I do know that,” Elrond said, sadness gripping him. He did, he did know he was not alone.

For all he dreaded having to see and feel Gil-galad’s grief and sympathy, Elrond knew he would embrace his almost, nearly brother like the world was ending all over again as soon as he saw him. He knew that Galadriel would be just as annoyed with the spectacle of this funeral and let him curse the world without judgement and Celeborn would hold him up without any fuss or trouble, easy to let love him. Celebrimbor would never flinch when Elrond wanted to talk about the strange and politically-difficult childhood he shared with his brother, and would let him cry bitterly for who wasn’t here. There was Thranduil and the other children of the War of the Wrath who would pass him a bottle, no questions asked, and not treat him as fragile.

But being alone and being alone were two different things. Elrond and Elros, Elros and Elrond… Who was just ‘Elrond’? He didn’t know. He was scared to find out.

As soon as Elrond’s face crumbled, Ulmo’s giant, watery hand began to caress his head and for the twelve-billionth time, he cried.

“When will it end?” Elrond blubbered around his tears. “When will it stop feeling like the right choice was to stay together?”

“Oh, child, never. You need be more concerned with if you ever start to feel like the right choice was for you to have made for Men. I don’t think you feel that way. I think you wish you could have had it both ways. That you could have had your choice and your brother. But you would have never wished miserable immortality on him just as he would have never wished miserable mortality on you. It is a tragedy; there were no perfect ends.”

“It hurts so much,” he wailed. His eyes and the sky and Ulmo were all so wet and blurry that it was hard to distinguish. The only thing clear was the star of Earendil rising in the sky. “We all keep having to make these choices and it hurts so much!”

“I know, child. The waters never stop moving, and it is cruel and it is glorious. My heart is filled with sorrow for you, but also hope.”

Elrond was hiccuping around his tears, shaking his head. Hope, hope, hope, what was it Maedhros said about hope? That it was for lovers and martyrs. Elrond did not want to be a martyr, but he did know love. He just… was so tired of that love bringing him pain. Of those he loved all but fleeing from him.

His love for Elros had not gone with his brother’s soul to the place of the Men. It was still here and it was heavy. Right now, Elrond had little hope of that love not drowning him.

“I’m scared,” he rasped, wiping at his eyes. “I knew it was coming, but I don’t know how to live with this eternity I’ve chosen without him. I’ve never done… anything without him.”

Ulmo made a noise like a rumbling waterfall, that washed away his fears as easily as cleaning up silt.

“Nonsense,” he rumbled. “You have made a home of Lindon without him. You have forged friendships without him. Traveled west of the Misty Mountains without him. Written treatises on the nature of the world without him. What you have not done is lived your life without him in your heart. You never will; I still remember our kin beyond the edge of Arda and you will always remember your brother. But what you will find is that the place in your heart he is held in will grow fonder and gentler in time. Lighter. Every weight feels heavier at low-tide.”

“Low-tide?” Elrond snorted, wetly and then had to cough around his tight throat.

“Yes,” Ulmo said, patting his head with one hand that just further drenched his hair while the other gestured at the drawn out tide around them. “Low-tide. The currents of life and time wash us up and pull us out, leaving us stranded for a time. But as long as we choose to keep trudging forward, the waters always come back.”

Elrond briefly considered telling Ulmo that this metaphor felt a little stretched, but… no. Woe betide him to reject poetry in times of pain. It was Elros who had preferred prose.

“But we still come back to the main issue,” Elrond said. “I don’t know how to swim alone.”

Ulmo shook his head at him, but did not scold. He merely said, “You don’t need to know how, you have done so all along. But if you are so frightened, think of it this way. Like a duckling, it will come naturally to you, after a time. You just need to let life carry you, follow the flows of water down the diverging paths according to what feels strongest, and you’ll get there. I know you, Elrond. The never-ending chase inspires you. You are scared now because you have found yourself in one of life’s many low-tides. You are stuck. But the waters will pick back up again, in time, and take you along. Be scared. But know that you will keep going.”

“I guess that’s what I signed up for,” Elrond laughed wryly, “to keep going and going and going. My Eru. I’m already tired.”

“You’ve hardly begun, child. There are many more tired days ahead of you.”

“So the Men keep telling me when they call me child,” Elrond said, glaring at Lord Ulmo once more, but this time it was with a slight smile on his lips.

“You are a child,” Ulmo sang, and he was already melting back into the waters. “Enjoy your wandering feet, Elrond. Let them take you where they need you to go. Search for all the answers your heart and mind taunt you to find, and then enjoy the days where you might call others ‘child’.”

Elrond, small and alone, didn’t think he’d ever know enough to call another ‘child’ so surely. But he… he… When he thought of following Elros beyond, he balked, because he wanted to learn. There was so much more to see and understand.

He was still sad that he did not have Elros to share it with.

On leaden limbs, Elrond stood. He could not sit in the sand forever. He was sure that his absence had already been noticed and Vardamir had sent people looking for him. Numenor loomed so largely before him, though. Elrond didn’t want to climb up its vaulted walls.

As he was considering the value of calling for help, he felt the water start to rise and come back in; and, more importantly, he felt the waters start to tug his legs to the left.

A boon, a melodic voice whispered in his ear, and Elrond decided that, well, he wasn’t a child anymore. He would follow the waters of Ulmo where they would take him today. He did not have anyone else to go running scared to, after all.

The tides carried him around the edge of Numenor’s slopping cliffs where the oldest parts of the grand city were built. They dipped lower as Elrond trudged forward until they gave way to grassy beach. Still, the waters guided him onward. As his legs started to ache and his feet grew sore, this strange path towards an unknown destination did not feel like a boon.

The night was growing closer, the star of Earendil bright but far away. Elrond walked, confused, in the dark until a familiar song greeted him from a distance. He moved faster, after he heard that, until a strange silhouette emerged before him, and Elros’s whispers about a shadow that visited him in the night made sense.

Yes, there was someone who knew and mounted Elros the peredhil and not Elros the king.

Out from Ulmo’s waters, Elrond ran for Maglor. When the music stopped, he was greeted with open arms. He breathed in harp polish, brine, and seared flesh, and felt at peace for the first time since Elros’s hand slipped from his.

Someone had come back to Elrond.

#i think this ends a little fast I'm sorry about that!#I enjoy writing young and angry and unsure Elrond #he was not always perfect #he earned his wisdom the hard way!#elrond #ulmo #elros #the silmarillion #tolkien #tribble post #fanfic

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