#dwelleth

[wiirocku]

Psalm 91:1 (KJV) - He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

[scion-of-kings]

𝐆𝐈𝐋 - 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃

LAST HIGH KING OF THE NOLDOR IN EXILE AND OF THE ELVES OF THE WEST

Independent, selective & private portrayal of Gil-galad of Tolkien's legendarium The Silmarillion ft. other works • Headcanon based • Trop friendly Written by Nin • 30s • Est. 2017 Guidelines + verses (mobile edition) • Headcanons • Playlist Affiliated with: @tallshipsandtallkings (Elenna, Elendil, Isildur & Anárion), @vardamaiden (Ilmarë), @sungsilver (Celebrían), @iriysse (Aredhel), @nuruhuine (Fingon), @celevrian (Celebrían), @springsdawn (Minuialwen), @laughingmaiden (Lalwen), @ccelebrian (Celebrían), @ofthevanyar (Amarië), @ondothlim (Glorfindel and Maeglin).

[tarninausta]

This is maybe not how it's meant to work but I like unquiet dead, so consider: when Gil-Galad dies, his soul doesn't go to Mandos as it was meant to, but is trapped in Mordor due to Sauron's magic (necromancer and all). It is only when Sauron is defeated and his hold on Mordor broken for good that Gil-Galad passes on to the halls and finds rest.

[eri-pl]

So, Book of Lost Tales continues.

Hiding of Valinor was a bad idea. Really bad. It's clearly said in the text.

This rejected fragment, which beautifully illustrates some of Tolkien's... problems, I suppose is the proper word, with deciding his mythology (tldr: the Valar messed up but we won't say that so rudely, also maybe it was the plan, also some do whisper some wild speculations. Some who? We aren't told who.)

[yeslordmyking]

John 5:30 — Today's Verse for Saturday, September 16, 2023

[scion-of-kings]

And at that, Gil-galad couldn't help but sigh.

Perched upon the edge of his desk, the High King lowered a gaze filled with as much sorrow as understanding. No notes of surprise betrayed his expression, because there was none; in prior times, when he'd been a very young king trying not to drown under the weight of a crown, Gil-galad had regarded Elrond and his twin as the little cousins he'd never had —time and war and responsibilities had seen that perspective changed, but not what he'd come to know about them.

"Elrond, I am not asking you to be your brother, nor do I want you to do my bidding to make me happy," he said after some moments of silence. "Or because you feel like you have to. It is still a proposal you are welcome to discuss."

"My brother was the leader, not me," Elrond said. "I don't have the talent," The lack of self confidence in him was great. Elros was a natural born leader, while Elrond stayed back and preferred to be a follower. He was the healer, the calm one, and the understanding one. Elros was outgoing, and a bit brash at times. They were different as night and day.

"If you think so, then I trust your judgement, my king,"

[kikisrings]

There are people who watch The Rings of Power and don't like Gil-galad and I'm like ????

What do you mean you don't love Gil-galad? Do you know he was an elven king? That of him the harpers sadly sing? And he was the last whose realm was fair and free between the mountains and the sea?! Do you even know that his sword was long and his lance was keen? And his shining helm afar was seen?? And don't get me started on the countless stars of heaven's field that were mirrored in his silver shield!Are you not sad that long ago he rode away? And that where he dwelleth none can say? Do you even care that into darkness fell his star?! In Mordor where the shadows are!

[wiirocku]

1 John 4:16 (KJV) - And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.

[scion-of-kings]

It is not often that the High King indulges his court and sings, but that is something most of Forlond has witnessed at some point or another —they are, after all, in the land of music.

Old Falathrim tunes are his personal favorite, having learnt them from both Círdan and his mother since he was a young boy, but he does know the catchy, lively songs his people keep composing in Lindon, as well as the melodies from Númenor in the days of Aldarion.

Despite his love for music, it is very rare to have him play his harp where someone might listen. That skill is something that brings him back in time to Hithlum, to hazy memories of long winters when his father had been alive and singing softly by his side, and of his grandfather's big hands keeping him upright while he learnt to walk and dance. Consider yourself very lucky if you've seen the High King caress the strings with reverent fingertips.

[scion-of-kings]

There is one certainty, staring at the minute changes in her expression: he would follow her to the ends of the world and beyond, wherever that might be, if it meant her heart was whole and safe.

That is his duty, one he both fears and not that will become more important than his obligations as a king. Then again, he had never craved for anyone to be his queen in title only —he needs and wants an active partner, someone with whom to share every aspect of life.

“May we walk this path together, then,” Gil-galad says quietly, emotion lodged in his throat. His voice is rough, and he covers it with a gentle hum and a kiss to Celebrían's temple, the kind which never fails to make either of them smile as they hold the other close.

It feels intimate already, and yet the High King craves for more when his love's mouth wanders across his skin, teasing, biting, worshipping and setting fire to each inch they happen upon.

“We will see about who does the stealing,” he teases, standing up with Celebrían in his arms. The flower crown is secure on his head, but it does slip forward when he leans in to kiss her. “Shall we bring refreshments with us? It might take us a while until we find our way back,” Gil-galad proposes as he marches towards the garden's doors.

There are a few spots they favour but, with how the court behaves, they might have to play hide and seek for a while until they can be sure none will happen upon them. And how much will they talk, indeed, if they see him carrying his not-yet-bride like this?

It is with a reluctance that's born of tiredness that Gil-glad gently bends to help Celebrían to her feet. He cups her face in his hands, thumb trailing over her lips before he leans in to kiss her properly.

“The waterfalls should be quiet enough. There is a hidden terrace next to the top of the southern one.”

IMPOSSIBLE  FOR  ANY  SHADOW  TO  CREEP  WITHIN  THE  LIGHT  OF  A  REALMS  BRIGHTEST  STAR.  warmth  home  in  her  chest,  a  flutter  which  never  dulled.  subtle  the  shift  from  what  once  was  to  what  now  holds  it’s  deepest  place  in  her  heart.  her  finest  endeavour  had  become  a  quest  to  ease  the  weight  upon  his  shoulders.  formidable  to  bear  it  all  as  high  key,  he  deserved  respite,  deserved  to  feel  wanted  beyond  a  crown  of  duty. she  felt  whole  in  his  arms.  far  from  any  lingering  shadow  or  fear. 

content  to  breathe  him  in.  to  share  in  auras  interwoven  with  one  another.  the  very  idea  that  she  was  his  equal  another  reason  to  why  he  stands  in  his  position  as  high  king.  immeasurable  grace  and  honour,  goodness  to  the  very  core  of  him;  among  the  unending  list  of  reasons  why  she  loved  gil-galad.  intimacy  shared  in…silver  ?  molten  gaze  widens  at  musings  spoken  aloud.  celebrían  forgets  to  inhale,  holding  air  bound  as  the  racing  of  her  heart.  of  course  she’s  thought  of  it.  of  staring  down  at  a  symbol  of  their  adoration  shimmering  bright  as  twilight.  when  time  comes,  she  thinks,  there  will  be  no  second  of  hesitation  on  her  part.  ❛ mui  tinu,  where  ever  your  heart  goes,  mine  will  follow.  ❜ 

she  is,  enveloped  in  him,  in  the  moment  where  time  stops.  fingers  wrapped  around  dark  tendrils,  a  palm  that  travels  from  his  jaw  and  gently  trailing  down  his  neck.  the  brush  of  lips  and  pretty  words  from  her  beautiful  star.  ❛ you’re  indulging  me  too  much  already  ❜  a  gentle  tease,  a  giggle  spun  of  song  and  silk.  she  favours  a  trail  of  stolen  kisses  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other. 

❛  thoughts  ?❜  she  hums,  soft  bite  follows  a  path  of  lips  along  his  jaw.  but  the  garden  speaks  of  hidden  intimacies,  of  beauty  shared  between  them  and  time  that  none  could  steal.  ❛  no  thoughts  that  are  not  you  and  now  stealing  you  away  to  the  garden.  ❜

[wiirocku]

1 John 4:15 (KJV) - Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in God.

[scion-of-kings]

//Tag drop

[marshmellin]

✨ Star and Stone or, The Fall of King Gil-galad

Elaniel, a stonemason fleeing the fall of Eregion, makes her way to Lindon. When she meets Gil-galad, something unexpected occurs. Amid the chaos of preparing for a war against Sauron, their growing love is tested by the weight of duty: his to lead armies into peril, hers to rebuild what darkness has destroyed. The pull of two fëa is strong for the Eldar. But is duty stronger?

F FOR FIX IT: Explicit for occasional smut scenes between consenting partners. All other content is PG-13/Teen for language and canon-typical descriptions of violence. All chapters tagged.

Tags: Gil-galad lives. I try to be as canon-compliant as possible except for the whole 'keeping Gil-galad alive part.' Gil-galad x female OC female Sindarin elf. Sort of a slow burn, but well get there. Canon-typical angst. No beta, we die like Mirdania.

Occurs between the Fall of Ost-in-Edhel in Eregion and the Battle of the Last Alliance. Contains references to other Tolkien lore and the Silmarillion with author notes for full explanations.

If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all of my TROP/LOTR content.

Chapter links under the cut.

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

-> NEW >> Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

//

Star and Stone or, The Fall of King Gil-galad

The Fall of King Gil-galad Gil-galad was an elven-king. Of him the harpers sadly sing; the last whose realm was fair and free between the Mountains and the Sea. His sword was long, his lance was keen. His shining helm afar was seen; the countless stars of heaven's field were mirrored in his silver shield. But long ago he rode away, and where he dwelleth none can say; for into darkness fell his star in Mordor where the shadows are

//

For days, survivors trickled westward along narrow paths toward Lindon, carrying few possessions but heavily burdened by the memories of what they had seen. Of who they had lost. 

Soldiers from Lindon supplied waypoints to help protect the survivors from straggling orc groups, with mounted soldiers ferrying civilians between waypoints from Ost-in-Edhil. Gil-galad’s scouts had reported the arrival of each new group, describing not only weariness but a grim determination in their eyes, a will to endure that hadn’t been crushed by the growing darkness.

The elves of Eregion were strong.

//

The road was long, winding through the remnants of ancient forests. Elaniel trudged along the rough path, flanked by the silent company of her fellow survivors. It had been days since they fled the city’s shattered walls, and the journey to Lindon was slow. She was with one of the last groups of survivors on the trail — an assortment of warriors, tradespeople, and elflings without their parents. 

Two handfuls of us at most. This week has made many orphans.

They stopped at the next the rough outpost built of half-finished wooden barricades, lashed together quickly and supplied with the barest essentials. There were no formal fortifications or armaments here, just hastily constructed barriers and watchfires burning low. This place had no room for rest, only vigilance. Around her, other survivors from Eregion huddled near the fires, speaking in hushed tones.

She watched as a small group of Lindon’s soldiers gathered around the central fire, speaking in low murmurs. Their faces were steady, their voices calm. 

Are they calm because they are so familiar with the horrors of war? 

Or are they calm because they are not?

Her gaze lingered on one of the warriors—a tall, lean elf with silvered hair braided down his back. There was a steady rhythm in his movements as he collected bundles of lembas bread to hand out at the campfires. His smile was soft as he came to the orphaned younglings, giving them a few sweets to share in addition to the bread. 

Elaniel felt a pang at the look of compassion on his face. She waited for feelings to flood her, but none came. 

Standing in silence, she watched the fires flicker in the clearing, the light casting warm shadows across the faces of her fellow refugees. 

They were strong. They would rebuild.

//

Twilight settled over the sky. Elaniel reached a rise in the path and paused to take in the scenery around her. In better times, she might have found beauty in the rugged landscape, the mossy rocks, the towering oaks and golden aspens reaching high into the sky. The wind bit at her cheeks and she pulled her cloak up tighter against the chill, wisps of hair peeking out of her hood. They would make the city by nightfall.

Lindon was the elven kingdom furthest west in Middle Earth. It clung to a strip of land between the mountains and the sea, the rebuilt remnants of a near-fallen kingdom. 

This realm would be her new home. For now. 

She kept moving.

As their small band approached the end of the trail, the city gates opened, revealing stone walls that curved gracefully into archways and towers, glimmering like silver branches in the dusk. Her eyes lingered on the architecture, the skill of the stonework. She reached out to touch a foundation wall as she walked by, feeling the solid rock beneath her hand.

She was a stonemason with centuries of experience in her craft, but Lindon’s walls were unlike anything she had seen in all of Eregion or even Khazad-dûm. The skill in the curves, the way the stone flowed as if the walls grew from the earth itself. The old masons of Lindon leveraged the beauty of natural stone to craft protective walls. The masons of Eregion sought to tame the woods and rock around them. 

The thought stirred something in her, a memory of Eregion’s walls and those who had fallen to defend them. Now was not the time to mourn. She would have an Age to weep.

Or I will weep for an Age, she thought. Or perhaps both.

As the group entered the city, they were guided to a large courtyard where guards moved through the crowd, offering food, blankets, and kind words to each group. The survivors clustered together, many calling across the courtyard, begging for information of their families and friends who may have already arrived — and of those who had not. 

A ripple passed through the crowd, and Elaniel glanced up, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. At the head of the courtyard, a broad figure stood, wearing an unadorned, simple gray-blue and golden robe – if “simple” and “golden” were terms that could be used together. A circlet of gold leaves added to his already imposing height. 

Ah. This must be our welcome committee, then. High King, it looks like, unless everyone in this realm wears golden crowns. Wouldn't surprise me if they did. 

Annoyance twitched through her. She wanted to see a hot meal and a clean bed, not a politician offering platitudes. 

“Elves of Eregion,” he began, his rich baritone carrying across the courtyard. His tone was soft, yet he commanded a respect that quieted the crowd. “I welcome you all to Lindon, and invite you to stay with us as if this were your own home. You are safe within our borders, and your lives here will be as peaceful as the stars allow. Come; rest in safety with us.”

Gil-galad finished his speech and began moving through the crowd, greeting each cluster of survivors in turn, calling for healers or sleeping accommodations. Elaniel watched him draw nearer, noting his unhurried steps. 

I am exhausted, hungry and covered in dirt – perfect time to meet a king. 

She also noted he was quite handsome. Up close, his chest was broader and his build more muscular than he appeared from across the courtyard. Strong jaw. Soft brown eyes. His long, dark hair was drawn back into a half braid, a few gray strands at his temple. 

She reminded herself that she had seen many handsome faces over the centuries. His face was no different. And it was rude to stare. 

She was too tired to focus on not focusing. Her eyes started to flutter close. 

Finally, he reached her in the corner of the courtyard. “It is my honor to welcome you to Lindon, my lady.”

“High King Gil-galad,” she replied with a similar, if slightly sleepy, formality, blinking herself awake. “It is my honor to be welcomed. I am Elaniel, a master stonemason from Eregion.”

His eyebrows lifted in polite interest. “A stonemason? A skill of great importance for our people. Did you practice your craft in Ost-in-Edhil, I wonder?”

A red flush rose to her cheeks, and her tiredness waned for a moment. “Yes, I did, under Chief Mason Carasta,” she replied, a note of pride creeping into her voice despite her– admittedly unenthusiastic– attempts to squash it. “I designed and oversaw the construction of the eastern walls and watchtower fortifications.”

They were strong. 

A shadow passed over her face, a reminder of the destruction that had claimed her city. Of crumbled walls that she once marveled at, thick and sturdy.

But not thick enough. 

“Fine work, indeed, and no small task,” Gil-galad said solemnly, his eyes filled with sadness. He dipped his head to catch her gaze. “Elaniel of Eregion, you have my respect and gratitude for your service to our people. Many are alive today because of your work.” Reaching out, he clasped her hand between his in a simple gesture of thanks. 

And then, the world shifted. 

She looked up at him, curiosity blooming into open surprise. She sensed his fëa, a deep knowing she had never experienced with another being in her two thousand years of existence. His soul contained a fierce tenderness she hadn’t expected, a warmth that softened the sharpness of his mind. And a pull towards duty, to do better – be better, stronger, wiser – for his people that bordered on frustration. Impatience simmered at the edges of him, held back by wisdom and weariness. Her eyes went wide with wonder.  

And Gil-galad stared back at her, shock etched into every line of his face. His eyes flicked down at their clasped hands, before he held her gaze again.  

Elaniel felt known in return. Her stubbornness, the defiance and wit she used to hide her more vulnerable emotions. The compassion for others that hammered in her heart, louder than anything else. The anger she wrapped in layers and buried beneath a pressure to work, to do more, to earn her place. The sadness that sometimes filled her when she looked at the stars, a stirring she never named. 

He had not let go of her hands. She did not want him to.

They could stay here for an Age. No, they would stay. Like Melian and Thingol, they would stay rooted to this spot, bathed in moonlight, unable to leave each other. The courtyard would crumble and overgrow. The trees would reclaim the land. Tilion would chase Arien’s flame across the morning sky and finally hold her sunfire in his arms. 

And Eleniel and Gil-galad would still stand here. Knowing and known. The string between their chests tying them together. 

“High King, Herald Elrond requests your presence as soon as possible. The Commanders have gathered to present an urgent report,” came a strong voice over Gil-galad’s shoulder. The voice could have come from the wind or the mountains – Elaniel did not see who spoke. She did not care. 

But the message seemed to shake Gil-galad awake. He nodded over his shoulder in response, his eyes never leaving Elaniel’s.

“The walls here are different from Eregion,” she whispered tightly, groping for something else to say, anything to say to keep him here. “Living stone. Beautiful.” She was not sure she was speaking in full sentences. Again, she did not care. 

A deep noise came from his chest, a rumbling agreement only she could hear, his voice low. “Yes. We treat beauty with reverence here.” His thumb brushed softly against her knuckles. A flicker of hesitation – burden and responsibility fighting curiosity and desire – played across his face. She thought she saw his jaw twitch. She knew she saw him hold back a sigh.

And she saw the exact moment that responsibility won. 

“Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo,” he whispered. A star shines on the hour of our meeting. 

Gil-galad pressed her hands between his once more before letting go, and she instantly missed his warmth. Then, as if a door had shut in front of her, his face smoothed into one of a politician. “Welcome, Elaniel of Eregion.”

And without a glance back, he moved on, leaving her standing among her fellow survivors. She watched him until he disappeared from the courtyard into the palace. Seeing the last glimpse of his robe as he walked out of the courtyard caused a tugging at her heart. A new, unfamiliar type of….sadness? Yearning? A pulling at this new knot in her chest. 

She blinked, confusion on her brow.

What was that? 

By the time she fell asleep that night, face down in a hastily set up cot, she wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not.

//

Elaniel wound her way from the low, humble building that served as the gathering place for Lindon’s refugees to the city center. Her quarters—if they could be called that—were modest, one of many small, shared rooms in the main hall set aside for those who had fled.

Elaniel often shared the space with two other women from Eregion, each bearing their own wounds from the city’s fall. Every evening, they sat together in silence, staring at the flickering candlelight, each lost in her own thoughts.

But she would not let herself be idle with her thoughts for long. She busied herself helping where she could, assisting with basic repairs, offering an extra pair of hands for craftsman work. 

Herald Elrond put out a call for skilled craftsmen to volunteer their skills to prepare for the upcoming conflict, and she had answered. She was glad for the distraction it provided, even if she often lingered on the fringes, an outsider looking in. 

Today, as she entered the small council chamber for the stonemasons’ meeting, a hush seemed to fall over the craftsmen gathered there.

At the end of the table sat Halion, one of the oldest and most influential masons in Lindon, known for his meticulous designs and proud, exacting standards. He barely acknowledged her presence, instead choosing to ignore her altogether.

Today was no different. As the council discussed the defensive measures for Lindon’s outer gates, Elaniel waited for a pause to interject. She cleared her throat when there was a lull.

"I would like to share this concept," she replied, her tone upbeat and respectful as she pulled a drawing from the stack of papers in front of her. "I have experience with fortifications—"

Halion interrupted with a scoff, his arms crossing over his chest. “Experience with fortifications? In Ost-in-Edhil?”

Elaniel held his gaze, determined not to be shaken. Her tone flattened slightly. A warning.  “Yes, in Ost-in-Edhil. I was part of the team that oversaw the building of city fortifications and the eastern wall. I know where we fell short and where we succeeded after four weeks of continuous siege. I believe Lindon could benefit from these insights.” 

She paused for a moment before pushing on, clamping down the anger in her voice. 

“During the fortifications of Eregion, we strengthened the ramparts with reinforced stone blocks with chains attached to anchor points in the rock,” she began again. “A similar approach here could add to the strength of—”

Halion’s hawkish face was hard and unforgiving. “Had the walls of Eregion held but moments longer, perhaps more of our kin would be with us.” He spoke as though each word were calculated to cut deeper. “I am unsure your counsel is needed here, stonemason.”

A murmur of agreement moved around the table, some of the others nodding or casting her brief, condescending glances. 

The accusation stung. She had fought so hard to tame the memories of that day—the crashing of stones, the cries of her elves around her, bodies amid the rubble. But here it was, brought to the surface casually by a man who had not been there. Had not seen. 

She dug inward for a measured, appropriate reply. 

And all she found was anger. 

She dug again. 

Rage. 

“If we’re assigning blame for the loss of Eregion, perhaps you ought to consult the enemy,” her cheeks heated, scathing words flowing quickly now. “Do you not allow for growth in Lindon? Or is it your intent to personally cast out every stonemason here should their work fail once? I did not recognize we all stood in the presence of perfection.”

“That’s enough,” Halion started, standing up. 

No, it’s not.

“Oh, I understand, Master Halion,” her voice lowered, a false softness. Poison and mockery filled every syllable. “Perhaps if you had been in Ost-in-Edhil with a bucket of mortar and a trowel, they would all still be alive. I know you would have single-handedly turned the tide of the battle with a stack of bricks if you were. but. there. 

“But you were not there, Master Halion, so I suppose we must disregard your thoughts on the matter.” She could see outrage and embarrassment flash across Halion’s face, and a twisted satisfaction blossomed in her chest at his discomfort. The other craftsmen around them began murmuring louder, and she knew she was not winning over hearts or minds.

Anger does not serve me now.

Anger does not…

Anger…

Be angry later. 

She let out a slow, steadying breath, willing her muscles to unclench. Weariness crept into the lines of her shoulders, her body sagging slightly. “Forgive me,” she continued, “But I share my failures to ensure that none of you must face it in the future. You may not welcome my insights, but Herald Elrond has asked all capable stonemasons to contribute to this council. And until he says otherwise, I intend to.”

The room fell silent. Halion glared at her, but something in her tone must have touched a nerve, for he gave a grudging nod.

“We present our recommendations for fortification improvements to the High King in two weeks,” he said finally. “We will allow you to share your council if it is requested.”

Elaniel nodded, her jaw set. “I look forward to your questions.”

With that, she turned and took a seat among the gathered stonemasons, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, determined to carve out her place here, no matter how many skeptical gazes she had to face.

//

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

-> NEW >> Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all of my TROP/LOTR content.

[eri-pl]

Death and taxes

So I was thinking about Erestor son of Caranthir and Haleth (as you do), and I realized it can work (as long as you assume they were an item. But it san work mortality-wise)

I'm sorry for all the ocasions I said it can't canonically work at all. I oversimplified.

One way (more canon):

Yes, non-Earendilian half-elves got the Gift of Men, but do they have limited lifespans? I don't think we have a proof for that. All canon ones die tragically (from Feanorians). Maybe they do not die from old age, but when they die (killed or something), they do go brrr out of Ea? It is technically possible.

(Yes, Elros worked in a different way, but he is a different thing. He is not this weird unresolved Man/Elf mix. He is Earendilian, he got to chose. )

So if they look like elves (and canonically elves and humans look very much the same), Erestor can be one. He works more or less like an elf until someone kills him. (Or he dies on this thing that makes the Elves fade, which he will because he cannot sail.)

(also Gil-"and where he dwelleth none can say"-Galad… Hmm…)

The other way (crack):

Caranthir has a kid with Haleth. The kid grows quickly, but doesn't grow old as fast as Men do, so when Caranthir dies, his son is an adult, but not old.

Caranthir dies and lands in Mandos and his two brothers do too, and Dior disses Celegorm and then goes brr, and Caranthir is like "what do you mean half-elves do that??? But. My son."

And Namo is like "yes, they do it, untill the exception happens".

And Caranthir starts asking, and arguing, and why would some get an exception, but some not. And it's not poor Erestor's fault that his father is a kinslayer and it is unfair in general… and Caranthir is the best lawyer to ever lawyer + has all the motivation of a desparate father and all the insufferableness of a five-year-old arguing that he deserves more screen time.

And finally Namo is like "oh Eru please throw him into the Everlasting Darkness do something, I can't handle it any longer", and long story shory, Erestor gets to be an elf, but nobody is allowed to talk about that.

Caranthir is as good as being insufferable as Luthien is at singing.

[wiirocku]

1 John 4:12 (KJV) - No man hath seen God at any time. If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us.

[scion-of-kings]

@oflorien sent: imposing darkness looms, its malevolent breath of impending war. ❛ i’ll fight at your side.❜ still a whisper in the refuge of one another, hushed against his shoulder. uncertainty suffocating, the weight of it pressed in fear against the cage of her chest. a refusal to fathom the horror of defeat, more to imagine a life without him. her fingers curled within his, golden gaze a well of melancholy that clings to hope left. ❛ you’re my king still, command me to action, i may go mad in idleness.❜

★

Imposing darkness looms, and Gil-galad knows he will not bask in the light that will shine in its wake.

He's known for some time now.

There's a fierce kiss pressed to the top of Celebrían's head, one that lingers while the High King composes himself. He has given thought to her plight before, to the ways in which they will inevitably part before peace can be a reality for their people; whether he says his goodbyes in the safety of their home or inside a battered tent which only holds pain and the scent of war is yet to be seen.

“I am not only your king, my love,” he pleads, his voice breaking at each syllable, until nothing but a coarse whisper remains. “Please.”

Do not make me think about losing you to the battlefields, he thinks, but does not say. He does know, as his hands skim down her arms and his gaze finds hers, that he cannot really command her whether to stay back or stand by his side.

Those words are incredibly difficult, and he waits, his eyes roaming all across her well known features as though he needed to commit them to memory. The words won't come, and the only thing that makes it through his lips is desperation, in the form of a kiss so raw that will only trail heartache in its wake.