#elrond and celebrían are mentioned only

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Amazon: you had the guts to do Sauron x Galadriel. As a Tolkien fan, I admit that’s brilliant and I’m hooked on this ship.

Now, your job is to give us Half-Maia Celebrían.

How could this fit Tolkien canon:

In one of his drafts, Tolkien “kind of forgot” that Celeborn was suppose to be in picture when Galadriel became pregnant (who moves next door around the same time? Annatar/Sauron to forge the rings with Celebrimbor). Yeah, I know Tolkien correct this later, but still. “Half-Celebrían theory” was born in the 80’s;

Poor Celebrían suffered a horrible torture at the hands of Orcs when she was on her way from Rivendell to Lothlórien and she lost her will to live and travelled to Valinor (leaving Elrond and their children behind). How could this work? Revenge for Adar’s death (not all Orcs were enslaved by Sauron);

In some versions of the lore, Elven pregnancies can last between 1 and 100 years (let that sink in);

Sauron loses the ability to take on physical form after the Fall of Númenor, and he’s on Annatar form when it happens;

Sauron not wanting to become like Morgoth, but that’s what happens, in almost every way (his bounds to Morgoth are too strong).

Every living being is a creation of Eru. It has been confirmed that Eru was the one who brought Galadriel and Halbrand/Mairon together in Season 1.

In other post I already explained “Maiar reproduction” according to Tolkien. In order to do this, Maiar need to take on a physical form. The catch: they become bound to it, and are unable to return to their true spiritual form, unless their physical form gets destroyed (to break them free, basically).

We are bound in spirit, lets us bound in flesh, too, my precious?

Tolkien also brainstormed the hypothesis of the Maiar corrupted by Morgoth (Balrogs and Sauron), and what would happen if they were to reproduce. It’s pretty much the same (bound to their physical form at the time). But there’s also, another, catch: if they were to do such a thing (produce child or children), they would be “damned” and “reduced to impotency” if their physical form got destroyed (these are Tolkien’s words, by the way). Meaning, they would lose the ability to take on a physical form, afterwards.

What would happen to Sauron if he did had sex with Galadriel and produce a child? This:

I know Sauron isn’t a ridiculous "giant eye ball" in the books, he's just “formless” and “faceless” (invisible spirit.... "damned" and "reduced to impotency"?), but you get the idea. Amazing how it checks out.

Why did I mention Morgoth? Well, Morgoth end up bound to a physical form because he spent too much of his power corrupting Arda (the world). Sauron thinks he’s smarter than this, and, as far as we know, this was the only way in which he didn’t replicate his former master. He bound himself to the One ring, but it’s a piece of jewelry, not actually flesh/physical form.

Galadriel herself would have a good excuse, because no one would tell the difference:

“A blond Elven child? Of course is Celeborn’s, duh?"

“Rings of Power” won’t go as far as making this theory actually happening, but still, they can play with it.

[balrogballs]

A bittersweet little Glorfindel & Elrond friendship story for you this Monday 🥰

The Worst Horse in Imladris

Celebrían’s very favourite horse was a small grey filly with an unmanageable mane and pure hatred in her eyes. It was neither abused nor traumatised, runty nor powerful. It was just a somewhat shit horse, but she adored it regardless.

The only one she would trust to look after her in her absence was Glorfindel, and so it was him — curator of bites and acceptor of kicks — who found it groaning with colic and thought well, about damn time. Colic was often fatal in horses; and this one was 29 years old, having outlived its mistress by 17.

He mentioned it to Elrond, who had neither a great love for horses nor particular patience for this rather awful specimen, and so was surprised when the lord rushed with him into the stables and began walking it to and fro, a stopgap for colic, and hastily bid Glorfindel to bring in the stable master.

“Elrond, she’s very old — there won’t be much he can do.”

“Do as you’re told,” Elrond snapped, pulling rank uncharacteristically.

He spent the night walking the horse in ten-minute bursts, refusing to sleep nor listen to the stablemaster’s protests that it was not worth working on a horse certain to die in the next few months regardless, and that this particular horse was both rather useless and tended to be somewhat aggressive in its reaction to treatment.

Five hours in, both Glorfindel and the stablemaster gave up, looking at each other in confusion. Elves are immortal, animals are not. This was a lesson learned by most elflings, one drilled into them for good by the time most were waist-high. Still, Elrond kept walking it to and fro repeatedly, a frantic cadence to his footsteps.

It was only when the next day dawned and Erestor almost bodily dragged him to council, that Elrond left the horse’s side, firmly instructing Glorfindel and the stablemaster to keep walking it. But when Glorfindel returned from a quick bath, the stablemaster was looking up at him from the floor, shrugging.

“It was about time,” he said, and then grimaced at his bleeding wrist. “Got a last good bite in too.”

Glorfindel nodded. “All right then, get it out of here before the lord gets back.”

“Certainly, but where are you off to?”

“The cavalry stables,” he said shortly, and refused to explain himself. And when Elrond returned after council to check on the creature, he found a remarkable grey warhorse in its place, a proud Rhûn stallion with utter obedience glittering in its clear eyes.

“What is this?” he asked, frowning.

“Asfaloth,” shrugged Glorfindel, looking at Elrond as if he were mad. “That awful beast. She got better.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows, blinked, and looked at his captain for a very long time.

“Is that so?” was all he said, a small smile playing at the very edge of his lips. He nodded, looking rather overwhelmed, and departed quietly. Glorfindel sighed, resigning himself to five hundred years and eighteen generations of identical grey warhorses.

As Elrond’s engagements with loss went, this horse would have only been a quiet, lukewarm loss. Only the closest would have even noticed any impact on him. After all, mortality lingered in Elrond’s life like an old friend, recurring like ice-crusted winter and the bloom of spring, woven into the very fabric of half-elvenness, too familiar to be questioned.

The day the worst horse in Imladris died of colic was like any other day. It would change nothing, and death would continue to slip in and out of view of Imladris as always. Elves are immortal, animals are not. Except for Asfaloth. Asfaloth never dies.

[writerthatcannotwrite]

Do not like any trop ship with galadriel that ISNT with celeborn.

What freaks me out most is the elrond/galadriel and halbrand(sauron)/galadriel.

Like yall, elrond canonically marries Galadriel’s DAUGHTER.

Sauron is almost the embodiment of tyranny, villainy, and dictatorships, and not in a fun and silly way!!! He's second to Morgoth!!!! MORGOTH!!!!!

I also think, as a person who is ace/aro and knows the canon relationships, that shipping is unnecessary at this stage of the series. I don't think romance is a necessary factor in EVERY TV show, and it think it's weird that people want a romance (right now) for trop.

ESPECIALLY these characters.

I also feel like it could be a way to narrow galadriel's character down to either, "oh, I hate Sauron/Halbrand but I love him too" or "this is one of my closest friends that I've known forever and now want to further our relationship."

Galadriel Artanis, daughter of Finarfin Arafinwë, the King of the Noldor in Valinor, should not be squished and confined into a y/n Mary Sue romance lead. The Second Age was far from romantic! The only romance I can think of in the Second Age would be Elrond/Celebrían, but that's later on.

Galadriel was trained under the tutelage of Melian the Maia, a very powerful Ainu who maintained a magical border around Doriath, a bonkers-big kingdom, to keep Morgoth out, AND successfully dealt with her bonkers-insane husband until his death!!! Galadriel went to Middle-earth even after her father decided not to because she wanted her own kingdom!!! She is an amazing character with so many amazing attributes, and I hate to see such a powerful female character turned into the dramatized, swooning female love interest.

Granted, I do like romance in some things, and there are a few non-canon ships I might dabble in (Elendil/Miriel), but if I remember correctly, Miriel was married to Ar-Pharazôn, her FIRST COUSIN, and was likely not content with that; I don't recall Elendil's wife being mentioned in the Silmarillion, which sucks.

And I fully accept that not all female leads with love interests are dramatized and such, but I ONLY see things about trop!galadriel that are shipping her with other people. I see little about her character growth through the first and second seasons, or about any loss she has faced. Of course, these things are not highlighted in the show, but Galadriel is more than her relationships with other male leads!

And, to give you my final reason for disliking galadriel/elrond, galadriel/adar, and galadriel/halbrand(sauron) or any other galadriel ships:

SHE IS MARRIED TO CELEBORN, WHO IS STILL ALIVE

And

CELEBORN IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS

To conclude,

Galadriel is a very powerful character that should not be narrowed down into a love interest for male leads. I do not think it adds much to the show and is a shame to her character.

If you read this far, thanks 👍

[swanhild]

WiP Snippet

Thank you @polutrope and @sallysavestheday for tagging me to share something I'm working on! So here's Maedhros and Fingon being overly competitive shit-talking their family dancing at their wedding in that post-canon fix-it fic that feels like it will never be finished (with bonus appearances by the parents and some siblings and other relatives):

While Turgon possessed many talents that he excelled in, dancing wasn't one his strong suits. It was a fact that Fingon sometimes couldn't resist teasing him about if an occasion presented itself, but right now he simply chuckled softly and said, "I can't decide who's more awkward- your brother or mine." Glancing away from Caranthir and following Fingon's line of sight, Maedhros, too, was amused by the somewhat stiff way Turgon led Elenwë around the dance floor. "Let's not be too harsh on them. They're trying their best," he nevertheless defended their younger siblings, smiling and feeling rather fond of every single member of their family who had come to celebrate with them today. Turgon noticed them watching and nodded at Maedhros and Fingon with an unnecessarily grave expression on his face as he and Elenwë twirled past them. Maedhros had to hide his face in Fingon’s hair so Turgon wouldn’t see him laugh, though Fingon had no such qualms. “I’m certainly grateful we have Turno and Moryo here now to make us look better. I was starting to think we'd be the worst dancers at our own wedding." “What? You’re a good dancer. And so am I,” Maedhros protested. “Yes, but we’re surrounded by show-offs. Just look at them!” Maedhros turned his head in the direction Fingon had indicated and took in the sight of Celegorm effortlessly lifting Aredhel into the air as he spun her around. For two people who spent significant amounts of time crawling through forests, covered in mud and blood, they did admittedly look stunningly elegant and in tune with each other tonight. Next to them, Elrond and Celebrían made an undeniably graceful picture as well, and so did Galadriel and Celeborn, though Maedhros was mostly struck by the unusually soft and adoring expression on Galadriel’s face as she stared into her husband’s eyes. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen his feisty little cousin look like that. “Not to mention uncle Arvo and aunt Eärwen over there! We just can’t compete with that!” Fingon continued, with feigned despair. Arafinwë and Eärwen practically floated around the dance floor, looking very much as if they had spent their whole lives doing nothing else. But then Maedhros’ attention was drawn to his other uncle and aunt — now officially his parents-in-law — and grinned. “I think we can compete with your parents at least. They're not as bad as our brothers, but they won't be winning any awards for their dancing either." “The only reason they're better is because they've been practicing for weeks. Ammë’s not very enthusiastic about dancing, but Atar secretly loves it, so he's been taking full advantage of the opportunity. They are rather unevenly matched in terms of skill and passion though,” Fingon said, before suddenly stopping. “Speaking of parents, Russo, look!” Whipping his head around, Maedhros followed Fingon’s gaze towards the edge of the dance floor where his own mother sat at one of the tables, looking strangely flustered and conflicted. His father was kneeling in front of her, extending his hand and asking her for a dance. With his breath caugth in this throat, Maedhros watched as his mother hesitated, a myriad of emotions flickering across her face in rapid succession. For a few tense moments, Maedhros was sure she would refuse. But then she rose from her chair in one fluid motion and accepted his father’s outstrechted hand. Together, they made their way towards the twirling and swaying crowd. Maedhros quickly buried his face in Fingon’s hair again, but this time it was to hide the tears that had suddenly sprung in his eyes.

(and yes, Fëanor and Nerdanel eventually get back together in this, because I want them to)

Zero pressure-tagging @queerofthedagger @melestasflight @gardensofthemoon @elevenelvenswords @chrissystriped @thecoolblackwaves and anyone else who sees this and would like to share something!

[aspenrockymountainhigh]

Celeborn was one of the noblest of the Sindar— who wedded the Lady Galadriel of the House of Finarfin and with her, he remained in Middle-earth after the end of the First Age.

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Celeborn was a Sindarin prince of Doriath,being the grandson of Elmo the brother of Thingol; thus, he was the grand-nephew of the King of Doriath.

In the early First Age, Finrod and Galadriel came to Doriath as guests of Thingol. There, Celeborn and Galadriel met, fell in love, and were soon wedded. Galadriel remained in Doriath with Celeborn after Finrod went to the Caverns of Narog to establish the stronghold of Nargothrond.

For the rest of the First Age, Celeborn and Galadriel are not mentioned to have played any significant role in the general course of events of the Age, while their relatives, both Sindar and Noldor, did. By the Fall of Nargothrond in F.A. 495, Galadriel passed over the Blue Mountains so it seems likely that Celeborn followed her although this is not known for certain.

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After the fall of Beleriand, Celeborn and Galadriel lived in Lindon for some time. Celeborn ruled the fief of Harlindon, which was composed mostly of Sindar, under High King Gil-galad.

Galadriel and Celeborn crossed into Eriador with many Noldor, Sindar, and Green-elves in their following. For a while, they dwelt in the country about Lake Nenuial, ruling the Eldar in Eriador, including the wandering companies of the native Nandor. Probably around S.A. 300, a daughter was born to Galadriel and Celeborn, named Celebrían.They departed for Eregion and arrived there by S.A. 750.It was ruled by Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor and the distant half-cousin of Galadriel.

It was only sometime between S.A. 1350 and 1400 that Galadriel crossed the Hithaeglir through Khazad-dûm and relocated there with their daughter Celebrían, becoming great among the Wood-elves.Celeborn decided to stay in Eregion due to his enmity towards the Dwarves.It is said that Celeborn fought in the Sack of Eregion leading the remnants of Eregion out of the battle. He and Elrond narrowly escaped to a dell, where the latter founded Rivendell.

After the War of the Elves and Sauron, Galadriel passed again through Moria with Celebrían and came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn.[8] There she found him, and there they dwelt together for a long time.Some time later, Galadriel and Celeborn departed from Imladris and went to the little-inhabited lands between the mouth of the Gwathló and Ethir Anduin.There they dwelt in Belfalas, at the place that was afterwards called Dol Amroth; and their company was swelled by Silvan Elves from Lórinand.

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After long journeys in Rhovanion, from Gondor and the borders of Mordor to Thranduil in the north, Celeborn and Galadriel passed over the mountains to Imladris, and there dwelt for many years.It was there, in T.A. 109 that his daughter Celebrían wedded Elrond Half-elven of Rivendell.

When Amroth, the King of Lórien, perished in T.A. 1981, Celeborn and Galadriel took up the rule of Lindórinand jointly, and were called the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, the new name for Lindórinand, and together, they built Caras Galadhon.

During the War of the Ring in T.A. 3019, Lothlórien received the Fellowship of the Ring, composed of various travellers on the quest to destroy the One Ring. Celeborn and Galadriel offered advice and boats for the Anduin, sending them on their way. After the Galadhrim repelled the forces of Dol Guldur three times, Celeborn led the forces of the Galadhrim across the Anduin and took the fortress. Galadriel threw down its walls and purified the forest.

On 6 April,that was the Elven day of New Year, Thranduil met with Celeborn in the midst of Mirkwood and renamed it Eryn Lasgalen, "The Wood of the Green Leaves". With the forest now cleansed, it was divided among the Elves and Men; Celeborn took all the forest south of the Narrows and established East Lórien.

Celeborn attended the wedding of Aragorn II Elessar and his granddaughter Arwen, and on the journey to return, he bade a fond farewell to Treebeard as well. He and Galadriel escorted Gandalf and the Hobbits until the Mountains of Moria, and on 13 September they turned to return to Lothlórien.

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After Galadriel's departure, it is believed that Celeborn relocated to Rivendell to reside with Elladan, Elrohir, and some of the Noldor, having also grown weary of East Lórien.

At some unknown date, he sought the Grey Havens and sailed west aboard Last Ship with his mighty kinsman Cirdan the Shipwright, but when he did so, he took with him the last memory of the Elder Days in Middle-earth.

Art by zephyrAMerch

[anghraine]

I'm just thinking about Tindómiel's and Arwen's names again.

As I've mentioned before, Tindómiel's name seems a clear reference to tindómë, the Quenya word for the twilight of the morning or dawn, by contrast to undómë, the evening twilight referenced in Arwen's name Undómiel or Evenstar. The distinction between tindómë and undómë comes from LOTR itself, so it's not the relic of an early draft or a late retcon or anything.

If Undómiel = evening star (as it clearly does), it would seem to follow that the counterpart name Tindómiel would translate as 'morning star.'

People sometimes suggest that the meaning of Tindómiel mirrors Tinúviel rather than Undómiel. I don't think that works as well given the information in LOTR, though, because while Quenya tindómë and Sindarin tinnú are related etymologically, tinnú refers to evening twilight/early night, like undómë (in Sindarin, morning twilight is minuial). Hence the poetic translation of Tinúviel as 'nightingale.' So if either Undómiel or Tindómiel were going to be equivalent in meaning to Tinúviel, it should be Undómiel. That would even fit well enough with the frequent comparisons of Arwen to Lúthien.

But Undómiel is not translated that way in LOTR. It is translated as 'evening star.' Given the identical structures of the cousins' names and the nuances of Elvish terms for twilight in both languages, it seems more likely to me that post-LOTR, Tindómiel is meant to be a counterpart name to Undómiel, and that in-story, Arwen was named for Elrond's niece.

Tangentially, I think Tindómiel herself was likely named for her grandfather Eärendil, the morning star. But on the meta level, the subtext of her name's structure and meaning is to mirror Arwen. Tindómiel is born as the first of the mortal princesses and queens of the Númenóreans, where the death of Arwen, queen of the last Númenóreans, closes out the era of the Elves.

At the same time, while the evening and morning stars symbolically represent the inverse of each other, the reality is that the evening star is the morning star. Eärendil was hailed on Valinor as the "star in the darkness, jewel of the sunset, radiant in the morning." So both granddaughters' names call back to him and to each other, which I find very touching, actually.

I find it all the more so, though, because while we don't have any dates for Tindómiel's life, we know that she must have been born some time after the year 61 of the Second Age, since she is the second child and that's when her older brother was born. If her lifespan is similar to her brother's, she would live around 410 years—perhaps a little more, as Númenórean women were typically longer-lived, but I can't think by too much at that point in time, given the 500-year lifespan of their father. Tindómiel was likely dead by the year 500 of the Second Age.

The Second Age would last until the year 3441, another 2,941 years. Over a hundred more years passed before Elrond and Celebrían's marriage, and over a hundred more until Arwen's birth in the year 241 of the Third Age. By the time she was named, Tindómiel had been dead for over three thousand years. Elrond had seen the final wars against Morgoth, the rise and terrible fall of Númenor, the provisional defeat of Sauron, and innumerable nephews and nieces. Tolkien can't even fit the early house of Elros onto one genealogical chart and by Arwen's birth, there are numerous offshoots of Elendil's line alone. Elrond has seen a lot of people come and go, many of them related to him.

And yet, when it came time to name his only daughter, he thought of Tindómiel.

[nenyabusiness]

TOLKIEN TLDR: Where the fuck is Celeborn?

We all have a vague idea of who Celeborn is. He’s tall, he’s blond, and he’s married to Galadriel. He does, at some point, become the Lord of Lórien, and he dislikes Dwarves. I’d say that those facts are undeniably canon. This installment is not going to focus on what we know about Celeborn, though. This time, we’re heading straight for the question marks. 

In The Rings of Power, no one knows where Celeborn is. The only information we get is that he went to war and never came back. I mean, we all know that he was conveniently removed from the show to give room for Galadriel and Halbrand’s there-was-only-one-raft-shenanigans, but the funny thing about it is that Tolkien didn’t always seem to know where Celeborn was either.

In The Unfinished Tales, Christopher Tolkien himself states: “There is no part of the history of Middle-earth more full of problems than the story of Galadriel and Celeborn,” and, well, he’s not wrong.  

So, going age by age according to Unfinished Tales: Where the fuck is Celeborn?

Years of the Trees:

- Possibly in Lórien with the Nandor (one of the clans of Elves that never reached Valinor)

- Possibly in Doriath with the Sindar (another clan that never reached Valinor)

- Possibly in Alqualondë (chief city of the Falmari Elves; a clan that actually did reach Valinor) with Galadriel

First Age:

- Possibly in Lórien, meeting Galadriel for the first time

- Possibly in Doriath, meeting Galadriel for the first time  

- Possibly in the haven of Círdan with Galadriel

Early Second Age:

- Possibly in Lórien with Galadriel (highly unlikely at this point)

- Possibly in Lindon with Galadriel

- Possibly in Doriath with Galadriel

Brief palate cleanser: We do know for sure that he did at some point journey with Galadriel to Eriador, and we know that they established Eregion around SA 700 (750, according to outside sources). Alright, let’s continue with the mess. 

Second Age 1400 (kinda depending on whether or not Celebrimbor revolted against him and Galadriel):

- Possibly in Eregion (if revolt: without Galadriel)

- Possibly in Lórien (with or without Galadriel; there are two versions of this because hey, why not make things even messier)

Second Age 1700:

- Possibly in Lórien

- Possibly in Rivendell

Second Age 1800:

- Almost certainly in Rivendell

Late Second Age:

- Probably in Belfalas

The rest is pretty clear. Some journeys in Rhovanion, staying for a while in Rivendell after Celebrían and Elrond’s wedding (do not get me started on the inconsistencies regarding Celeborn and Galadriel’s kid/kids), and then we reach the plot of The Lord of the Rings. In the Fourth Age, Celeborn sails into the West.

So… yeah. When people ask where Celeborn is in The Rings of Power, “who the fuck knows” is a pretty legit answer.

(A/N: All of these statements have been taken straight from Unfinished Tales Chapter IV: The History of Galadriel and Celeborn. Some of them are considered far more canon than others, but they all existed at some point. I’m sure there are even more statements that could be added to this list, but these are the ones mentioned in this particular chapter.)

[tar-thelien]

Rewrote chapter 3 of child!Melkor and Elrond trying to be a better dad than Eru :)

Summary:

Melkor gets a dragon plus and Celebrían gets a laugh

Words: 632

"I want a dragon!" Melkor suddenly declared a day they were again sitting on a balcony. Melkor drawing and Elrond looking through documents.

"A dragon, like a living one?"

“Yes! And if I can’t get a dragon, I want a snake!”

"I doubt you'll be granted permission to get a dragon... perhaps a snake could be a more realistic option?" Melkor simply let out a disapproving grunt in response to Elrond´s suggestion.

"Do you have any family?" he inquired a little later, seeking to delve into the personal aspects of the healer's life perhaps.

“Yes, I intend to visit them tomorrow, and I plan to stay for a duration of two days."

Melkor expressed his emotions with a bewildered "why!?" before composing himself swiftly and resuming his sketching, this time on the table instead of his paper. Elrond was convinced that he saw a solitary tear welling up in the eyes of the dark lord´s eye.

-

"Tell me Melda, how is he?

"Melkor?" Elrond asked as he found himself in the lone presence of his wife

"He isn´t as I had accepted I much admit. Upon informing him of my coming departure, I would swear, if I didn´t know the danger of it, a tinge of hurt flashed across his face," he told Celebrían with a brief laugh and a quick stern look when mentioning the swearing, "he exhibits a remarkable combination of creativity and compassion! For bugs that is. Just bugs and any form of reptiles."

With a tinge of amusement in his voice, he chuckled softly, remarking, “he believes he appears quite formidable and intimidating, almost akin to a small dog. And lo! His heart desires a formidable dragon companion.”

“A dragon!”

“Yes. And if he couldn’t get one, as he wanted a snake he said!”

Celebrían laughed as she tried to picture the being her husband had just described and responded with a laugh, "I suppose it becomes quite challenging to harbor any hatred towards such a character."

-

"Love?" shouted Celebrian after Elrond as he mounted his horse to ride away towards Taniquetil.

"Stop for a moment! Look, behold the formidable dragon!" she exclaimed with a breathless laugh as she presented him with a soft and cuddly blue dragon plush. 

Elrond's face lit up with a gentle smile at the remark, expressing his joy, "he will surely be delighted!" he exclaimed warmly, bending down to tenderly place a kiss on her forehead before taking the formidable dragon and continuing his journey towards that of the Eldar King and the dark Lord.

-

"Melkor?" Elrond asked looking around the cozy Vala´s room as he set the plush toy gently on the table before calling out again, "Melkor, where ever are you hiding?" 

After a period had gone, he eventually discovered the small Vala perched by the window gazing at the sky while softly vocalizing a melodious tune.

Curiously, he questioned, "Melkor?" escaped his lips, prompting a piercing gaze from the dark lord, "what are you doing?"

"Speaking," he uttered curtly before resuming his humming once more.

Elrond retraced his steps to retrieve the dragon plush toy and with a calm demeanor, declared, "I have an unexpected surprise for you," enunciating each word clearly, to make sure to hold Melkor's attention as he glanced in Elrond's direction.

Slowly, with deliberate movements, he presented the plush dragon to Melkor, whose face immediately lit up with a beaming smile as he accepted it with great enthusiasm, consisting of mostly jumps, “IT´S A DRAGON!!!”

“It´s a gift from my wife she spent the whole time I was away on it,” Elrond explained, “what will you call it?”

“Haldamir!” then quieter, “thank you to your wife then,” he said and hugged Haldamir as he took off running away for only where Eru knew.

Haldamir means Hidden Jewel and I just think it´s such a Melkor codded name - and a bit Mairon too…

[lordgrimwing]

Friends and Family #08

Arwen came home from school furious. 

She stormed upstairs to her room and slammed the door behind her. Celebrían felt the reverberations all the way in her office on the ground floor. Wondering what had her so upset this time and hoping to help her talk through it rather than stew for the rest of the day, Celebrían went upstairs to check on her.

“Go away, Mom,” Came the fourteen-year-old’s muffled response through the door when she knocked.

“What’s wrong?” She asked through the door.

Her daughter groaned. “I hate boys, and I hate Maeglin!”

Oh… Well, whatever she expected to hear, that was not it. Last thing she knew, Arwen and Maeglin were fast friends again, well and truly over that awkward period when they tried dating. Just last week they came home and worked on a class project after school and then played video games with Elladan and Elrohir before Elrond drove him home. She hadn’t picked up on anything that could explain this sudden change, and Elrond would have said something if he thought anything was amiss.

“I thought you two were friends.”

The door creaked open and Arwen let her in with a sigh. “We are,” She explained. “But he didn’t show up to our presentation. I had to do all of it, and I didn’t know his part very well, and Mrs. Boffin docked us points because he wasn’t there. He just didn’t want to do it and he’s just as stupid as all the other boys!” She finished with heat, sitting down on her rumpled bed covers. 

“That is frustrating,” Celebrían said, sitting next to her.

“I’m so mad at him. I’m going to tell him he can’t sit with me at lunch tomorrow.”

“Are you done being friends then?” From her perspective, it was far too small a thing to give up a friendship of nearly four years for, but things always felt so much bigger the first time someone experienced them. 

Arwen sighed and flopped back on the bed, ponytail dangling over the edge. “No,” She admitted, and then firmly added, “if he promises to never, ever do it again.”

That settled the matter for the afternoon.

The next day, Celebrían expectantly waited for the recounting of how things went with Maeglin. Elrond was still at work, managing some kind of crisis, and Glorfindel and Erestor took Elladan and Elrohir to an arcade. There wouldn’t be anyone to interrupt the very serious work of discussing friendships. Since it would only be the two of them having dinner, she made Arwen’s favorite soup and toasted garlic bread in the oven. When Arwen arrived home after her debate club meeting, they sat down to enjoy dinner.

They talked about this and that. The conversation was notably bereft of any mention of her ill-behaved friend until they were almost done. Arwen set down her thick slice of garlic bread and suddenly said, “Maeglin wasn’t at school today.”

“Really?” 

“He must know I’m really upset about yesterday. I bet he’s just too scared to face me so he’s pretending to be sick so he can stay home.” She gave the soup in her bowl an angry stir. 

“That isn’t very nice of him.”

“He’s always getting in trouble with the teachers,” Arwen continued, her shoulders tight with frustration, “and he never cares about that. Why can’t he let me be mad at him instead of being a coward this time? Then we can go back to being friends.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot,” Celebrían acknowledged, torn between commiserating with her over the foolishness of teenage boys and helping her learn about relationships.

Arwen poked at her glass of water. “I had a whole speech planned for lunch.”

“Oh? Can I hear it?”

“No, it was just for him.” She looked a little embarrassed now.

“Why do you think he didn’t come to school?”

“Because he's a coward. I just said that.” She rolled her eyes.

Celebrían wiped the grease off her hands with a napkin. “Do you think, maybe, he may be worried that you’ll stop being friends?”

“We aren’t going to stop being friends,” Arwen insisted. 

“But does he know that?” Was her gentle reminder. “He doesn’t have very many friends at school.” Only one, as far as she knew. 

Arwen sighed. “I guess not.” She picked up her spoon and ate some more soup. “I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow that we’re friends and that even if he makes me really angry sometimes, we’ll always be friends.”

Celebrían smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“He’d better be at school tomorrow, though,” Her daughter added around a mouthful of toast.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s Friday and I need to give him the homework sheet he missed.”

Friday afternoon rolled around, and Celebrían mostly forgot about her daughter’s worries. There was a small crisis at work she had to manage with several dozen rapid emails and two phone calls with staff in time zones that did not line up well with her working hours. Everything was mostly smoothed over now, though she’d probably have a little more fallout waiting in her inbox when she logged onto her work computer next week. She was just getting around to feeding Gilly, the family’s beloved and round housecat, when the children came home.

Arwen shepherded her brothers inside, the twins engrossed in a comic book they’d borrowed from the school library. Her backpack hung limply from her slumped shoulders, sagging from a weight few children had on them at the start of a weekend.

“Is something bothering you?” Celebrían asked as the twins disappeared into the backyard.

Arwen knelt to pet the purring cat. “Mom, what do you do if someone’s missing?”

“You go looking for them, and you tell an adult. Sometimes, if you can’t find them, you need to call the police. Did something happen at school?” She asked. Arwen was as interested in the morbid as much as any other teen but she didn’t usually dwell on darker topics.

“Maeglin didn’t come to school today.” Her voice trembled and she pulled Gilly into her lap. The cat meowed when she couldn’t reach her food but settled onto the warm lap. “Mr. Gror called me to the office because we’re friends and asked if I knew where he was because his parents didn’t call him in sick or anything. Mom, what if—what if something happened to him?”

Celebrían sat on the floor next to her. She didn’t want to jump to any hasty conclusions or make Arwen more anxious than she already was. “Well, there’s a lot of reasons someone wouldn’t come to school.”

“But you’re supposed to tell your teachers if you’re not going to come. I know he would have told me.”

 Gilly turned and butted her head against the hand that stopped its scratching. Rather than petting her, Arwen released the cat to devour her food.

“We have to go look for him!” She jumped to her feet. 

“Slow down, Arwen,” Celebrían said, climbing to her feet. “You can't just go running off.”

“But we have to find him.”

She shook her head. This felt like it was starting to get out of hand. She was trying to help Arwen calm down, not send her off in a near panic. “We at least need a plan first. Running off without planning never does anyone good.”

“Ok.” The teen grabbed Celebrían’s purse from the table. She wasn’t quite old enough to start learning how to drive herself. “Let’s go check his home. If he is sick, then he has to be at home, right?”

“Probably,” Celebrían agreed, taking the offered purse. “Go get Dan and Roh; Dad won’t be back for a while so they’ll have to come with us.”

Arwen ran outside, shouting for her brothers.

Celebrían pulled her phone out and texted Elrond, knowing he wouldn't be in a position to answer a call between patients. Briefly, she told him what was happening and where they were going. It wasn’t that she thought anything bad might happen to them; if she did then they wouldn’t be doing this, no matter how worried her daughter was, but there was just something too… off about this whole thing with Maeglin for her to not tell someone where they were going. She was just being cautious. She began to put her phone away but reconsidered and sent a similar text to Glorfindel, knowing he checked his texts frequently.

Arwen returned with the protesting boys just as she slipped the phone back into her pants pocket. 

“Mom,” Elladan complained. “Why do we have to come? We’re reading.”

“Yeah,” Elrohir echoed. “And we don’t need a babysitter.”

“You can read in the car,” Their mother said, ushering the eight-year-olds into the garage after their sister. 

The drive over to Maeglin’s home was unexpectedly tense. The twins sat sullenly in the minivan’s back seat, and Arwen perched in the passenger seat as the small lawns faded for wider sidewalks with thin strips of meager grass and occasional twiggy trees struggling to grow. Individual houses gave way to townhouses, townhouses gave way to old brickwork apartments. Parked cars dotted the street Celebrían turned onto. Navigating the road would be a nightmare if there were more vehicles. As it was, she found a spot directly in front of their destination. 

Arwen undid her seatbelt and jumped out of the car almost before it parked. Celebrían hurried to catch up with her, instructing the twins to stay put before locking the car. She caught up to her at the steps down to the front door. Maeglin’s family lived in the bottom unit on the right, the short windows above ground just large enough to meet fire safety regulations. Any light they might have let in or any glimpse inside the apartment was blocked with heavy curtains. 

The fourteen-year-old rang the doorbell. When the bell made no sound, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. The knocking was not so urgent as to be frantic, but each hit had more force behind it than was typically considered friendly. 

Mother and daughter stood before the flaking paint of the door, waiting.

A small dog barked in one of the other units.

Arwen reached out again and knocked.

No sound came from inside. The home stayed quiet and dark.

Arwen raised her fist a third time.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Celebrían said, stopping her from knocking again.

Arwen looked up at her, eyes wide. “But—but he has to be here, Mom.”

She shook her head, starting to share her daughter’s worry. Perhaps his parents were at work and Maeglin wouldn’t answer the door without an adult around, she told herself. Perhaps the family was gone today but would be back tomorrow. She said as much to Arwen before saying they had to go home. She and Elrond would come back tonight or tomorrow morning to try catching someone at home.

There would be a simple explanation for this, she tells herself as they climb into the car. For a simple explanation, she’d gladly feel like a fool for thinking it could be anything else.

[dwarrowdelf]

moonlight and starlight (chapter two)

Rating: M | No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elrond/Gil-galad, Elrond & Gil-galad, Elrond/Celebrían Word count: 1.3k

Read here on AO3, or under the read more break. Kindly pretend that I am not horrifically late on this submission for @silmsmutweek day 4.

Content warnings for scattered mentions of things like Gil-galad’s death and Celebrían’s scars, but they are not the focus of the fic.

Elrond has been in Tirion for far too long for his tastes, settling some dispute between the Sindar and Noldor caused entirely by Oropher being difficult on purpose. The old bastard sees Noldorin politics as stuffy nonsense — which is true, in fairness — and seems to find most of his amusement on these shores in making things difficult for Finarfin, whom he tolerates only because he is Galadriel’s father. Or, more precisely, because he is Celeborn’s father-in-law. Elrond has the distinct political advantage of being inoffensive to nearly everyone, and the distinct disadvantage of being Galadriel’s son-in-law and thus unable to retire peacefully into obscurity in his home in the eastern foothills of the Pelóri.

Celebrían and Gil-galad’s letters are the only things that have kept him sane, except when they decide to include things that make him lose his grip on sanity for entirely different reasons.

I know Celebrían has mentioned to you the silver phallus she commissioned from that particularly adventurous smith in Alqualondë. Well, it finally arrived last week, and since you were not here for her to try it on, she graciously allowed me the first use. It did not compare to the feeling of you inside me, but then, nothing does. Still, I rather enjoyed myself, and I daresay you will enjoy yourself as well when you finally return to us. Please find enclosed Celebrían’s sketch of the experiment to tide you over until then.

Elrond is immensely glad that he waits for the privacy of his own rooms to open these letters. The last page of the letter is, indeed, a sketch of Gil-galad. He is entirely naked, presumably propped up against the headboard of a bed with his head thrown back in pleasure and his legs spread on display. One of his hands is wrapped around his own cock, the other in the process of either pulling out or pushing in a phallic object halfway hidden in his ass.

You are going to be the death of me, Elrond writes back after he’s taken himself in hand and cleaned himself up again. I’ll be home within the month, whether or not Oropher has gotten over himself. Do try to be patient.

No promises, Celebrían writes back by pigeon rather than the less direct courier. You’ve left your poor wife so bereft that she’s resorted to watching her husband’s lover. Hurry back so I can fuck you properly.

Well. Who is Elrond to deny his lady wife a direct request?

——

The silver phallus and its harness are sitting innocuously on the bed when Elrond goes to drop his bags in the main bedroom.

“Darling,” he says, and nothing else.

“Yes?” Celebrían asks innocently, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She has to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder, but she does it anyway, and presses a kiss to his jaw for good measure. “Gil-galad is drawing you a bath. Go wash the road off yourself, I can wait a little longer.”

That sounds like just what he needs. He turns his head to press a kiss to her temple, and then turns fully to kiss her on the lips. “I love you,” he says.

“And I love you,” she returns, and then steps back and swats at him lightly. “Now go on before your water gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs, and retreats.

Gil-galad is indeed in the bathroom, wearing an old sleeveless tunic and worn trousers with stubborn grass stains on the knees, a sure sign that he was helping Celebrían in the garden earlier. He grins when he sees Elrond, and again Elrond is struck by how much freer his friend is with his happiness here away from the weight of the crown. Gil-galad meets him and presses their foreheads together for a long moment, and Elrond only realizes that Gil’s fingers are working at the buttons of his overcoat when it starts to slip down his shoulders.

He laughs. “Are you going to bathe me too, or just undress me?”

“That was the plan,” Gil says, moving on to his shirt. Elrond sighs and surrenders himself into his friend’s care.

He groans as he sinks into the perfectly hot water, and groans again when Gil’s hands start to comb out his simple travel braid. For all that Gil-galad is not much of a hugger, nor sometimes much of one for kissing outside of sex, he is still tactile, at least with Elrond. It is with tender hands that he combs and washes Elrond’s hair, and then starts to wash his body. Elrond has done the same for him many times, though at the end it was usually a solemn affair, washing away the stress of war councils or the mud and blood of battle. He hadn’t gotten to wash and prepare his king’s body for burial, much of his hair burnt away and much of his armor melted to his skin. Gil-galad had been entombed there on the plains of Gorgoroth as he was, along with what remained of Aeglos; they were too far from Lindon to bury the High King at home. Elrond doesn’t know what happened to the tomb when Sauron took up residency in Mordor once more. He can only hope the bones and metal were tossed aside rather than desecrated.

“Where have you gone, my friend?” Gil asks gently, always seeming to know when his herald’s mind wanders to places best left to memory.

“Nowhere good,” Elrond murmurs, eyes closed. “Bring me back.”

And he does. Gil-galad’s singing voice is nothing special, though it is pleasant and more than dear to Elrond all the same, and he lets the wordless tune of an old Balar ballad wash over him, feels his lips twitch into a smirking smile when his friend’s steady hands turn wandering and teasing. Soon enough he is moaning, squirming trying to get Gil’s hands where he wants them. Gil-galad just laughs, bites gently at his shoulder as his fingers graze one of Elrond’s nipples.

“Celebrían wants to watch me get you ready for her,” he says in Elrond’s ear, voice low and warm. “If you think you are clean enough���?”

“I have been clean, you dreadful tease,” Elrond protests, and Gil laughs again. He helps Elrond out of the bath and then insists upon drying him off, which apparently requires further teasing and a pointed groping of Elrond’s ass to make him yelp.

“Are you boys starting without me?” Celebrían calls from the bedroom.

“No!” Elrond and Gil-galad call back in unison, and glance at each other for barely a second before they start snickering.

“Best not keep your lady waiting,” Gil says when they’ve calmed, ushering him forward with a pat on the ass.

Elrond’s cock twitches despite himself. Gil-galad just grins at him.

Celebrían is lounging on the bed, on her stomach in nothing but a dressing gown. She sits up when they enter, the unsecured dressing gown ending up more like a cape with sleeves for all it covers her. Elrond goes to her easily, hands sliding up her thighs before resting on the bed on either side of her hips as he nuzzles along the curve of her neck. She giggles, ticklish. “Hi, love.”

“Hi, beautiful,” he returns. There are few places that she likes to be touched these days, and while she’ll proudly display her scarred back with scandalously-hemmed gowns at formal events, at home she dislikes the reminder. Hence the dressing gown, seashell pink silk that Elrond thinks looks lovely against her soft skin and moon-silver hair.

Celebrían ducks down to catch his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss that makes him melt. Eventually she pulls back and says, “On the bed, sweetheart. Gil has work to do.”

[raointean]

Day 1 - OTP

@ringsofpowervalentinesweek

[Context for non-Silm fans: Celeborn (the husband that Galadriel mentioned) canonically helped Elrond establish Rivendell and brought their daughter with him. Elrond and Celebrían were married at the beginning of the third age, I believe.]

Celebrían sat down next to her father by the campfire with a bowl of stew as evening fell. Shelters for the laborers of Imladris had not yet been constructed and so they lived in camps scattered around the valley. Celeborn had elected to set up his tent a ways away from the others that evening, and Celebrían had gone with him.

As they began to eat, she struck up a conversation. “You know, Elrond is not bad looking…”

Celeborn gave her a stern look. “Leave him be. I know your way with ellons and I advise you to keep your claws out of him. Do not dally with him.”

Celebrían laughed. She had strung many ellons along before, she enjoyed seeing their futile attempts to woo her, but never had her father done more than roll his eyes at her youth.

“I mean that, Celebrían. He is good, in the truest sense of the word. Do not entice him unless you mean to actually court him.” 

Celebrían scoffed. “I declare, I do think you are more fond of him than you are of me!”

Celeborn merely raised an eyebrow. “Promise me?”

She released a long-suffering sigh. It seemed her father was not going to give this up easily. “Very well. I will not let it go beyond friendship, if ever we even get that far.”

Satisfied, Celeborn nodded and returned to his stew.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrond’s heart skipped a beat as he entered the library. Construction on it had finished only a few days ago and Elrond was determined to organize it himself. He simply didn’t trust anyone else to meet his standards of efficiency.

Unfortunately, the library was not unoccupied. Near one of the broad, arching windows, stood Celebrían. Celeborn was becoming a dear friend of his, but Elrond did not know his daughter well, only that she was very beautiful. She was tall and slender, save for her face. Her face was round and cheerful, framed by curling silver hair that fell down her back and shoulders like the waterfalls of the valley with their glistening iridescent spray. The green of her eyes was like to the depths of forests and- oh no. He was becoming poetic.

He would have to leave immediately, lest he stay to appreciate her and end up making a fool of himself. No, the library would have to wait. He turned to go, but a musical voice came from behind him and held him in place as if he was bound there.

“Ah, Lord Elrond. I apologize, I did not see you there. I was looking out at the passion flowers.” Elrond turned back to Celebrían and saw her point to a place not far from the window. Almost against his will, he was drawn to her side.

Sure enough, beyond the window, a little ways from a stream, grew several winding vines of passion flowers in full bloom. Celebrían sighed happily. “They are my favorite flowers, you know. Many overlook them because of their strange appearance, but I love them all the more for it. It is in the strange that we find the yet unexplored mysteries of life.”

It was then that Elrond knew he was doomed to love her forever. Not only was her beauty greater than the light of the sun, but she did not fear mystery and her thought seemed to run as deep as the depths of the Sea.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Whoa,” Celebrían breathed. She was lying on her back on the grass at the top of a hill in the hidden valley watching the silver rain of a meteor shower above her head. Elrond lay next to her. He, in his vast knowledge of astronomy, had predicted that one would occur that night and had brought her with him to watch it.

In the centuries since they had met, they had become fast friends, although Elrond’s awkwardness had never entirely faded. Celebrían still maintained that he was not unattractive, but neither of them had made a move and Celebrían was not entirely sad about that. He was interesting, certainly, but not so fascinating that she wanted to spend her entire immortal life tethered to him.

She turned to see his face and started. This was not at all the elf she had lain beside! His hair was no longer solid strands, but was as a black liquid pooled about his head like an ebony halo. In the dark mass, she swore she could see dancing tendrils that lit up blue and purple and green.

Hearing her start, Elrond turned to her. His eyes burned with starlight; a thousand galaxies spinning within them. 

“Are you well, Celebrían?” His voice was not one, but many. Male and female, young and ancient, great and small, all weaving together to form something that pretended to be a single voice, but was not.

“Y-yes, I am just fine,” she managed to choke out and she turned back to the sky as quickly as she could. A warmth that she could not name flooded her heart. She had known that her friend’s mind was as vast as the ocean and that his heart was as great as the mountains, but never could she have guessed that his soul was so truly, incalculably immense. She loved it.

No.

She loved him. That was the feeling that filled her now. 

In her youth, her friends had called her ulunndil, lover of strange and monstrous things. She supposed they had spoken truly.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Father?” Celebrían stood in the doorway of Celeborn’s room. He looked up from his book, but did not stand from his chair by the fire; he was comfortable. Celebrían looked almost nervous. That was strange. She had inherited her mother’s boldness and pride along with his own fearlessness; she was never nervous.

“Yes, daughter? What is it?”

She moved fully into the room and straightened herself. “I have begun courting.”

Celeborn sighed. “And which unfortunate ellon has fallen into your trap this time?” It must be someone strange indeed if he made her nervous to tell her own father.

Celebrían’s resolve seemed to stiffen. “Elrond,” she answered. “And he has fallen into no trap.”

At this, Celeborn set his book aside. “Did I not warn you against misleading him? Never have I seen you court anyone in earnest! What then has changed? Or did you simply ignore my wisdom?”

“I have not!” protested Celebrían. “I care for him dearly! In all the years of my life, I have never met someone so kind and wise and beautiful and interesting! Glad would I be, if I could stay by his side all the days of my life.”

Celeborn’s face softened and he rose. His heart swelled with too many emotions for him to name. Elrond was as dear as a son to him, but he was gentle. He had survived more heartache already than should have been his lot in life. He had grown into a strong, if young, lord, but needed someone with an iron will to back him up.

Celebrían, in turn, had never learned to take things seriously and bulldozed her way through life. She needed a gentle and restraining hand to show her the value of caution and tact.

Celeborn caressed his daughter’s face. She had grown so much already in the few short centuries they’d been there. Yes, this match would be good for both of them, and for him as well. He would be loath to trust either of them to anyone but each other.

At last, he spoke. “Then I am happy for you, dear one. And I hope you shall be happy with each other.”

[azaisya]

stars in our veins

I have a modern fantasy au?? I don’t want to post this to ao3 bc my timeline has changed but , , , i still like it and also the Peredhil kids and Aragorn are Good

Whispers shifted at the edges of Aragorn's consciousness, pulling him from the dark mists of his dreams. With great reluctance, he found himself awake.

Brow furrowing, Aragorn twisted in his blankets, instinctively reaching for his girlfriend. When his fingers grasped nothing but empty sheets — startlingly cool despite the warm night — Aragorn sat up, blinking bemusedly in the dusky light.

New York — eternally awake, even when in the throes of night — glittered faintly beyond the gauzy white curtains that covered the windows. The quiet felt pervasive and unnatural; it felt as if a haze had fallen over the normal honking and nightlife of the city.

Aragorn had just opened his mouth to call for Arwen — their apartment wasn't very big, after all — when he heard her voice, lowered to a whisper.

"—won't tell Ada, and that's why you're here, isn't it?"

Another voice, lower and indistinctive, responded. Aragorn's frown deepened. That vice, muffled though it was, tugged at something in his memories, like a once beloved dream.

Arwen's soft murmur sharpened into something more dangerous. "I said I wouldn't. But I still think you should tell him."

Another indistinct reply sounded, different from the first but still eerily similar. It was like listening to an echo, or a memory.

"I don't care," Arwen's gentle voice replied, "He worries. He deserves to know that you're still alive."

With mounting concern, Aragorn kicked his legs over the side of the bed and padded silently into the living room. The shadows in the apartment seemed to come alive at this time of night, twisting and fumbling and seeking to tear themselves away and join their fellows in the night sky.

It's the witching hour, Arwen always said, voice glittering with traces of star-bright laughter.

Without a sound, he poked his head through the hall, seeking his girlfriend's dark hair and summer-blue night gown. He found her easily, a brilliant wisp of a dream in the quaint lamplight of their almost painfully mundane living room. She sat on the arm of the couch, bent over another figure, her pale fingers flashing as she wrapped a strip of gauze around pale flesh.

For a second, Aragorn thought he was seeing double. Two seemingly young men sat perched on the couch, long limbs sprawled carelessly on the suede. They were raven-haired and fair of face, with slate-grey eyes and danger in their footsteps. There was a strange feyness to the slant of their eyes and the overwhelming grace of their bodies, a trait they shared with the lovely girl standing over them.

But unlike Arwen, there was a haggardness to their faces, a terrible sickliness that seemed to cling to their bones and seep from their pores.

Aragorn knew them both, knew their every mood and jibe, and their state both startled and worried him.

Now content that Arwen hadn't summoned a demon while he'd been sleeping, Aragorn entered the room fully, scuffing his heels on the floor as he did so.

Arwen looked up, the movement bird-like in its abruptness, and her lips twitched into their customary smile: brief but genuine, like the moon at its height.

But the twins reacted as if they'd seen a ghost, faces paling and jaws falling slack. "Estel?" Elladan asked, puzzled, "What are you doing here?"

Aragorn leaned against the couch beside Arwen, dismayed at seeing the bloody cuts that covered both twins. The first-aid kit was propped open on Elrohir's lap, and the younger twin twisted around to stare at Aragorn.

Arwen made a clicking sound in the back of her throat. "Don't move unless you want me to make this hurt."

Elrohir dropped back into his previous position, watching Arwen warily as she stitched up a particularly bad cut on his arm.

"What happened to you two?!" Aragorn demanded, shocked. He'd grown up sparring with the twins, and he'd never seen them with anything worse than minor bruises.

Elladan, who was not being tended to and thus could move however he wished, swiveled his head to stare at Aragorn, fathomless grey eyes narrowing. "Why are you here?"

"I live here," Aragorn replied patiently, already reaching for the alcohol swabs to clean the cuts on Elladan's face. "Now tell me what happened."

Elladan was as poor a patient as ever, twisting out of the way when Aragorn tried to clean his face. "But why do you live here?"

Arwen finished her task and fixed her oldest brother with a sharp stare. "I'd like to know what happened as well."

Elladan ducked under Aragorn, who mumbled something inappropriate under his breath, and protested, "But, Arwen, why is Estel living with you?"

For the first time that night, the vicious creature that dwelt beneath Arwen's skin was revealed. Eyes piercing, she smiled deliberately, teeth suddenly sharp beneath her thin lips. "Elladan."

Elladan immediately sat still, and Aragorn happily began cleaning the grime from his cuts. Stripped from his humor and bristling, he felt suddenly brittle, as fragile as a fledgling fallen from the nest. His skin felt papery beneath Aragorn's fingers, and he frowned to see the thin black threads — like forgotten shadows — that twisted beneath Elladan's skin.

Elrohir shifted until he was at his twin's side, gaze oddly defiant. "We've been putting to right what is wrong."

Aragorn tossed his swab into the trash and replied warily, "Righting wrongs is not always your right." He knew his brothers, knew how quick to anger they were.

They made a sorry sight, sitting on the couch with their marble skin marred by strange cuts and all-too-human bandages. Darkness lurked beneath their eyes, and there was a stalwart defiance in the sets of their shoulders. But exhaustion exuded from them both in waves, and Elladan seemed nearly sick with it.

There were those who said Elrohir was the gentler of the twins.

They would be wrong.

Elrohir's lips drew back into a feral snarl, and a streak of raven feathers erupted across his skin. "We did not come here to be judged by you!" The feathers faded, and his skin returned to its unnatural whiteness. The cuts that Arwen had not covered stood out, starkly scarlet against his star-pale flesh. "By either of you," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Of the three blood siblings, Arwen had always been the intellectual one. Elladan and Elrohir were the ones with their souls forged in flames; Arwen had always belonged to the stars, distant and cold. "Yes, but you came anyways and knew we would.” She paused, considering, and amended, “Or, you knew I would. You didn’t know Aragorn was here. Tell us what happened, El."

Elrohir looked down, unexpectedly chastised by the childish nickname. Aragorn seized the lull in the conversation and extended his hands towards the younger twin, fingers brushing feather-light above his injuries. A power — as natural and unexplainable as the universe itself — shifted, pooling at Aragorn's fingers and spilling into Elrohir. The burning of his cuts calmed, and his flesh knitted itself back together.

Elladan raised his head to look at his sister, allowing her to see the emotions that stormed beneath his glassy grey eyes. "We need somewhere safe to stay, Arwen."

There was history in those words, history that Aragorn didn't understand, and he paused in his work to frown at his girlfriend.

A shadow passed over her face, and her voice was carefully neutral when she spoke. "You've been hunting the Corrupted?"

Elrohir felt the shock that lanced through Aragorn at those words, and his eyes flashed fleetingly to him. "It's not as bad as she makes it sound."

"No," Aragorn agreed, "It's not. It's worse." He drew his hands away, for his hands were shaking now, and he didn't want the healing bond to be active when he was so distressed. "The Corrupted are twisted abominations of that which was fairest. They’re dangerous." There was some resentment in his tone, just the barest whisper of anger. He loved the twins, but he would forever be angry with them for vanishing without a trace on his eighteenth birthday, taking nothing but the clothes on their backs and the ceremonial longswords that hung in Elrond's study.

Elrond had been shattered to discover his sons had left, vanished into the night as they had decaded prior, and Aragorn had missed them terribly.

A bright light — foul and foreign — entered Elrohir's eyes, and he insisted, "We're dangerous too, Estel! Elladan and I— it is our sacred duty to keep the streets free of those monsters."

"But you needn't vanish for years on end!" Aragorn said abruptly, louder than he'd intended to.

Both twins flinched, for Aragorn so rarely raised his voice. He'd always been a happy child, and he'd grown into a noble adult.

"You don't understand!" Elrohir cried, making to stand. But Elladan grabbed his arm and kept him down.

"We have other people to fight," Aragorn protested. "Glorfindel has always kept the peace in Imladris—"

"But Imladris' borders don't even reach Maine," Elladan said quietly, "And Glorfindel cannot protect everybody."

Confused, Aragorn asked, "So you take it upon yourselves to singlehandedly hunt down all of the Corrupted?"

"If that is what it takes to protect innocents, then yes," Elrohir snapped.

Frustrated, Aragorn demanded, "Do you know how many of them there are on the East Coast alone?"

Arwen's voice, soft but powerful, cut through their argument. "Naneth died to give us a second chance."

The twins flushed angrily and, for a second, something foreign and ugly and dangerous filled their eyes. Elladan exclaimed, "And we're taking it by avenging her!"

Arwen's eyes flashed, and something very old awoke within her. "She didn't die so you could waste your souls on something as foul as revenge! Did you learn nothing from Ada's lessons? Would you honor her memory by squandering your souls on killing?"

"What else would you have us do?!" Elrohir cried, voice cracking. "Go to a school that can teach us nothing? Buy an apartment in New York? Live with our little brother?"

Arwen stood still as a statue, but there was something darkly angry under her passive expression. "Aragorn is not my bother. I was not raised with him, and what little blood we share has been diluted enough that I don't care. I don't care if you think college is useless! I'm not telling you to live my life. I'm telling you to live. You deserve so much better than devoting your life to vengeance."

Aragorn murmured, "Ada will be happy to see you again. He hasn't been the same since you left."

Something crumpled beneath Elladan's eyes. "I- I don't know if I can do that," he whispered, and everybody in the room noted his switch from we to I.

"You can," Arwen said fiercely, reaching forwards and grasping his hands, "You can let go of your anger and your revenge and even your oath!"

Elladan just stared miserably at her. "You don't understand," he said, but the words were weaker than before. "We've spent so many years hunting. If we give up now, what was it all for?"

Elrohir cut off whatever Arwen had been about to say, eyes blazing. "We can't just stop! We swore an oath, Arwen!"

"Then break it," she replied, matter-of-factly.

Elrohir's lips curled into a sneer. "You don't understand."

"But I do!" Arwen exclaimed, her frustration finally breaking her calm mask. Something swift tore across her face, and she leaped from the couch and turned away from them. "You don't! I loved Nana just as much as you did, but I don't go on a massacre because she died!" She turned abruptly, star-bright eyes suddenly glittering with tears. "Can't you see that you're doing nothing but hurting everybody?"

Taken aback, Elrohir could only stare. Aragorn scowled at his brothers, and raised his head to look at Arwen. He felt her mind, feather-light, touch upon his, and he sent a wave of reassurance to her. The panic in her eyes faded a little, but she didn't stop crying.

Elladan slowly stood, and it didn't escape Aragorn's notice that he was favoring his right leg. "Oh, no, don't cry." Dismayed, he tried to step forwards, but Arwen stopped him with a look. "Arwen, please. We're sorry. I'm sorry. I just—" He trailed off, clearly miserable.

Quietly, Elrohir murmured, "I'm sorry too." He looked sheepishly from his blood sister to his foster brother. "We've been idiots, haven't we?"

"Yes!" Arwen cried, tearfully furious, "You need to grieve, not kill." She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes.

Aragorn perched on the opposite side of the couch and asked, "You'll stop disappearing now?"

Elrohir shrugged. "We'll try. We can't break our oath."

Aragorn only knew bits and pieces of the twins's story. He'd picked up hints and whispers and sorrow from his foster father and from Arwen, and it horrified him to learn that his brothers had truly sworn to wipe out the Corrupted.

"But you can visit home more often," he suggested, tactfully not mentioning the last three years that had passed without a word from either twin.

"Or not bring swords to Thanksgiving," Arwen added, "And . . . I know I cannot ask you to break your oath. Just . . . please don’t be so reckless." She alighted on the suede, hair fanning out on the back of the couch, and Aragorn instinctively reached out to rest his hand o her shoulder.

Elladan closed his eyes. "I don't know if we can stop, Arwen."

"You can," she said decisively, "Hunting the Corrupted is not a bad thing, El. But to do so out of hate? For revenge? That will destroy your souls."

Both twins flinched and Aragorn's eyes widened. "It has, hasn't it?" His grey eyes suddenly flashed silver, and the sleep-mussed human man that had been sitting there moments ago was replaced by something otherworldly. To his eyes, Arwen gleamed with starlight. She was pure and beautiful and whole; she belonged here. But the twins. . . .

Their souls were torn nearly to ribbons, blackened feathers drifting from pale strings that strained to hold skin onto bones and life onto flesh.

Horrified, Aragorn reached out. "You can't Phase anymore, can you?" His fingers touched Elladan's knee, lightly, and the older twin flinched as though struck. Milky light streamed from Aragorn into Elladan, soothing the rifts in his soul.

Elladan relaxed against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. "Estel, we haven't been able to Phase since Nana died."

Arwen shuddered and ran her hands over her bare arms. "I can't imagine being trapped in my own skin."

Elladan cracked one eye open. "It's not fun," he said miserably.

Aragorn maneouvred around Arwen to repeat the process with Elrohir. Elrohir protested at first, but Aragorn firmly placed his hands on the younger twin's shoulders. "I've gotten better since last time," he said mildly, "I won't turn your skin blue."

"As if I'd trust you," Elrohir said, his voice trembling with the memory of the banter they'd once had.

Aragorn flashed a brief smile, unsure if he had forgiven his brothers yet, and sent his power into Elrohir. The younger twin immediately sighed and fell limply against Elladan, eyes slipping shut as well.

Arwen unfolded herself from where she sat, eyes lidded with exhaustion. "They'll fall asleep soon," she murmured.

"That's good," Aragorn replied, holding his arms out to her. "They need healing, and lots of it. How long have they been hunting?"

Arwen threw herself at him, her form shifting into a raven halfway through her leap. He caught her and held her close to his chest, taking comfort in her familiar feathers. In his mind, she said, Too long.

"That's true enough," he agreed, checking one last time to make sure the twins were alright. They were both sound asleep, expressions peaceful for the first time that night. "They'll need Ada to see to their souls. I'm not sure if they'll ever be whole enough to Phase again."

In his arms, Arwen trembled, and he ran his fingers over the soft feathers on her head. They wouldn't have come to us if they hadn't been injured. Their promises tonight might just be their exhaustion.

"I'll text Ada in the morning," Aragorn said decisively, turning to head back to the bedroom, "And I'm linked to them right now. I'll notice if they leave."

They'll be angry, she murmured, They've spent so long avoiding any sort of comfort.

Aragorn shrugged. Arwen shifted and took to the air. By the time she hit the bed, she was human again, her night-dress stained pitch black, and she curled up in the covers and closed her eyes.

Smiling softly at her, Aragorn settled in beside her. "They'll be alright though," he murmured, burying his face in her hair, "We won't let them fall into darkness again."

She turned to grasp his hand, and he could feel the stars beneath her skin. "Not ever again."

(The Peredhil are shape-shifters in this world. Aragorn, who’s descended from Elros, isn’t able to Phase like Arwen can because his “other” blood is too diluted by “human” blood, but he has enough “otherness” to heal)

[balrogballs]

This is to say congratulations on the second book and wish you all the best with it, and hopefully the prize submissions! If your prose is anything like my favorite story of yours, the one about Elrond and Celebrían parting in the forest, I am certain your book will be amazing. The sensitivity and care you give to anticipatory grief has made me think a lot about how I myself think about it. So impactful, thank you.

Thank you so much that’s so kind ❤️

This also made me giggle a bit because I was like “wait which one” because I realise I have two, soon to be three, fics that have to do with Celrond and forests to varying degrees… but since you mention parting, I think it’s The Forest House ?

Also very lovely of you to say that about my approach to anticipatory grief! I think it’s a very complex and interesting aspect of being of the Eldar in general, but specifically with regard to Elrond. I think Maglor says it best (from one of my other fics) with reference to little Estel:

"Sometimes, Atya — sometimes I fear I was born at the precipice of some disaster, and lived my life as an appendix to all the great tragedies of Arda," Elrond's smile twists bitterly. "That I am destined to only love the dying things of this world. I suppose this boy too is yet another of that tremendous procession of things that will one day come to pass."

"You were not destined to only love dying things," Maglor shakes his head, as if delivering a lesson. "You were destined to be someone whom dying things cannot help but love. There is a difference."

So I always like handling the concept with grace, and viewing it not as “bad things happening to elrond” and more “elrond choosing to do the kind thing knowing full well how much it will hurt” — iirc I called them his covenants with loss in some other fic LMAOOO…

Sorry did not mean to ramble this much at all but you touched on one of my favourite character motifs to work with 🤪✨

[i-did-not-mean-to]

October 27th

Haunted House

OOoooftiiii, this is a rather long and sad one...I am sorry...

Inspired by @cochart's beautiful art and the many people truly invested in this gen pairing...

@mismaeve a story about the husband you left lol I blame you for this one turning out so sad instead of fluffy LOL

Words: 872

Warnings: sadness, mention of canon-death

Humming to himself, Elrond Peredhel knelt by the river and closed his eyes; their enemy was getting ever stronger, and the fate of the whole world such as they knew it hung in the balance.

Hence why he had drawn the ghosts that haunted his house to the water to converse with them as best he could; here, in the shadow of the trees, he allowed himself to discard the heavy robes that symbolised his station and to tie up his hair in the simple braid he had worn in his childhood.

He tilted his face upwards to bathe in the light of the celestial luminary that had once been his father and his hands plunged into the cold waters of the stream; summoning memories he kept buried in his heart most of the time for fear of being incapacitated by his grief, he let them wash over him like showers of stars and flames now, welcoming the pain rushing through his system.

“Grant me strength and patience,” he whispered slowly and opened his senses to the world around him as much as to the dimensions beyond his reach. “Sky who has taken my father, sea who has swallowed my mother, fire who has engulfed Maedhros, and earth who has claimed my beloved brother, hear me in my hour of need and give back a fraction of what you’ve robbed me of.”

A dry sob tore itself from his spasming throat. 

“If only this blessed Middle-Earth for which we are risking more than we can bear losing could rise in defiance to strengthen the arms and lighten the hearts of those devoted to it.”

He felt old now, worn and heavy like the coat that fearsome Fëanorian had wrapped around him and Elros when he had carried them away to safety, brittle and cracking like the strings of Maglor’s old harp that had fallen prey to roughhousing one fateful summer evening.

Celebrían had often chuckled that they lived in a haunted house but that it was besieged by loving memories; now, she was one of the spectres walking the empty halls alongside the parents Elrond still missed with all the intensity of a frightened orphan in the middle of an autumn storm.

Upon building his own home, he had insisted on open spaces even though it had been deemed unwise and unsound in the face of the lingering evil in the world; he had refused to explain in so many words that he could never forget how Maedhros had struggled with doors and what joy the young half-elven wards had felt whenever they saw that tall frame push through gauzy curtains instead – a platter of treats in his lone hand – crooked shoulder first, followed by the lopsided grin and the pain-bent frame of one who had been born with great purpose and who had seen all his glory burn to ashes.

How could Elrond have made anyone fully comprehend why – despite everything that had happened – he yearned to see the starlight fill the rooms and to hear the soft sighing of white wings on swift winds? 

Galadriel understood, of course, for – in her youth, in another realm – she had been lulled to sleep by Maglor’s melodious voice, teasing his brothers mercilessly or singing a song that had just come to him, echoing through open halls and down doorless corridors.

“Harken,” he begged again fervently, “for I truly am in need of some solace tonight.”

A long-forgotten recollection stirred like cold smoke within his soul, and his fingers clawed themselves into the silty ground at the bottom of the river frantically. 

Maedhros who was as tall as a tree

Maglor whose voice moved friend and foe

Celegorm who was wild and free

Caranthir and his tale of woe

Curufin his father’s shadow 

Ambarussa precious twins of yore

They all shall reap what doom they sow

And hence shall be seen nevermore.

It was but a silly nursery rhyme made up by their captors – by their protectors, by their providers, by their fathers – in a rare moment of humour, but Elrond now hissed the words like a desperate prayer into the still night air.

“Blood of my blood, love of my heart,” he groaned, “bring back what I have lost and inhale into this aching body the strength and the faith of those who have gone before me.”

His parents had taught him that desperate times called for desperate measures, his foster fathers had shown him that loyalty and kindness were possible even at the bleakest of times, and his beloved wife had let him understand that physical absence was not a testament to lack of love. 

“Let me be haunted then,” Elrond declared, straightening slowly and steeling his nerves, “let the deaths and departures that are etched into my skin harden into impenetrable armour. Let them come!”

Behind a thicket, an old creature with luminous eyes blinked; Maglor had not expected his little star to remember the empty words of regret and love he had offered the child like a veiled treasure.

“To war once more, you old wreck of a cursed Fëanorian,” he whispered to himself, clenching and unclenching an aching hand, “and then home. Ai, I shall finally be homewards bound.”

@fellowshipofthefics and we're going for the final sprint here...

Force and courage to all of you & of course, lots of love...

-> Masterlist

[runawaymun]

Equinox

For @tolkiengenweek day 5 - loosely on prompts “culture” and “traditions”. 

Posted late in the day because I kept meaning to write fluff and then this happened??? Anyway let’s play the Lindir whump game, because he’s my woobie babie who gives me cuteness aggression. 

My headcannoned Lindir (Hobbit films specifically!) backstory has had me no thoughts head empty and this happened to be the perfect time to also sneak in some headcannons about Sindarin vs Noldorn vs Silvan cultural values as well. Quick disclaimer: I think the Silvan elves are really cool I promise they just happen to be jackasses in this particular moment in time. 

SUMMARY: Elrond finds a stray in Thranduil's forest and takes him home. Because of course he does.

CW for bullying and for mentioned interactions which are not exactly but could be metaphors for harassment.  

Read on AO3 

-

Thranduil was nothing if not an excellent host, but there always came a point where the autumn festivities in Greenwood became a little too rambunctious for Elrond’s taste. Usually, this happened around two o’clock in the morning when it seemed all of Greenwood the Great was gathered in Thranduil’s caverns and submerged up to their ears in wine. 

Elrond had never had much of a stomach for alcohol. It affected him earlier than the others (a point Celebrían loved to tease him on), and so eventually he left her to enjoy the current musical game she was absolutely thrashing their table at and slipped out on his own for some peace and quiet.

The cool night air snapped Elrond’s muddy senses back into place, just the way he liked it. The moment he was outside he felt as if he could finally think again. 

He went for a walk down beneath the crimson maples and sparkling-gold aspens, enjoying the crunch of the dry leaves underfoot and the particular crisp quality that the air always had this time of year. 

After about five minutes of walking, he took a turn down a smaller trail and that was when he heard it: quiet crying.

Whoever it was did not sound particularly upset. The tears were more fretful than anything else. Still, Elrond gravitated toward the noise without really thinking and came across an ellon sitting on a bench beneath a giant blood-red maple tree, fussing with his half-braided, rather jarringly messy black hair. 

As soon as Elrond entered the glen, the other elf looked up and flushed bright red and ducked his head. 

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Elrond told him with an apologetic half-step back toward the main path. “But…are you well?” 

“Yes! Yes,” the other elf insisted at once, and then just as quickly backtracked to: “No, not strictly speaking. I ought to be honest. But I will be. ‘Well’, that is. I will be well shortly.” 

It was such a roundabout answer that it made Elrond smile. There was something too: a quality to his cadence of speech that was peculiar. 

His face was blotchy and tear-streaked and he looked as if he was just one misstep away from dissolving into tears all over again, and so Elrond couldn’t help but fish out his handkerchief from his pocket and offer it to him. 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” the other elf said, sniffling. 

The corners of Elrond’s mouth twitched. “I insist.” 

Tentatively, the other elf reached out and accepted it. He held it like it was a holy thing, only cradling it in his lap, not daring to bring it to his face. 

“If you would rather be alone, I understand,” Elrond tried again. “But you seem quite upset.” 

“I am,” the other elf said abruptly, and then blushed again. 

“Would you like company?” Elrond offered. 

“--You’re the King’s honored guest!” 

Elrond actually laughed. “Thranduil considers me a bore at parties and will try to get me far more inebriated than I generally like to be. I will not be missed.” 

“No, I mean…I’m—” the other elf looked down at Elrond’s embroidered handkerchief in his hands. “I’m nobody. And I would be truly awful company right now— and I am sure you have better things to do because you’re Elrond Peredhel and you’re a lord and I— here I am blubbering in the gardens for no good reason—” 

“What is your name?” As a general rule, Elrond disliked interrupting people, but he worried that the other elf might dissolve into a circle of self-abasement if left to go on much longer.

“Lindir,” he answered. 

“Lindir,” Elrond repeated. “Well met.” 

“Well met!” Lindir replied in a baffled, surprised voice. He let go of Elrond’s handkerchief with one hand to push self-consciously at his tangled hair. 

“Would it be alright if I joined you, Lindir?” Elrond asked, for the other elf still had not given him a direct answer.

Really, what he was trying to say was that he did not think the other elf should be alone. There was something about this that felt instinctively wrong, and even if the other elf did not wish for company, Elrond would have insisted on walking him back to somewhere less isolated.

To Elrond’s relief, Lindir was indifferent to company. Elrond came over to sit on the stone bench with him beneath the giant spreading maple tree. They were quiet for some time (save Lindir’s fretful sniffling), and Elrond was content to sit and look up at the stars and trace shapes in them, waiting to see if Lindir would talk or if he would prefer to sit in the silence. Either suited Elrond just fine. 

Red maple leaves sifted down to the ground beneath their feet. The air was alive with the sound of all the night-things: crickets, warbling loons, mockingbirds, the occasional screech of an owl as it hunted through the canopy overhead. Thranduil’s party could be heard, too, but the din was pleasantly muffled and thus wasn’t intrusive. 

What was intrusive, however, was the anxious pressure that seemed to be mounting in Lindir’s body. Elrond could feel it: Lindir’s heartbeat speeding faster and faster; the nervous tapping of his foot against the ground; the pressure like steam in a bot of boiling water, threatening to spill over.

Eventually, it did. Lindir blurted: “I enjoy the King’s parties. He is a very good host.”

Elrond hummed his agreement but offered nothing else on the topic.

This only seemed to make Lindir fret more. He fidgeted with the handkerchief in his hands, then fussed with the ends of his hair. 

“It’s just that…I am not…” his voice shrunk. “I am not very well-liked. Or— or wanted there. I don’t like the noise and— and I am the only one who doesn’t braid his hair, because I cannot-- I am not allowed--” 

It clicked, all at once, falling into place. Elrond realized what Lindir’s accent reminded him of. 

“You’re Silvan,” Elrond said, turning to look at him. Lindir had an almost perfect Sindarin accent, but there had been a peculiar quality that Elrond hadn’t been able to name but now could: the effort of a trained tongue, painstakingly taught to corral the Silvan lilt. 

Lindir swallowed and nodded, still fussing with his hair. “I have never… I haven’t earned any good braids. I am the only one my age that hasn’t. I’m a coward. And they…” he sniffled again. His round eyes were growing wet again, and he looked so horribly embarrassed and small. “They talk about it. About me. So… I never have a good time. That’s all. The King is an excellent host.” The refrain was repeated. A hasty deference: the way a dog will show its belly or lick its pack-leader’s mouth. 

“The King wears no braids,” Elrond pointed out.

“He’s Sindarin,” Lindir protested. “And no one doubts that he is a mighty warrior.”

Elrond cocked his head. He knew, of course, the importance Silvans placed on such things. Silvans perfected the art of bushcraft and hunting as obsessively as the Teleri perfected their ships and wayfinding arts and the Noldor perfected their masterworks and lore. Silvans were disallowed from wearing certain styles until they had earned the right to them through deeds of valor or feats of great skill. 

Lindir, apparently, had neither? 

Gently, Elrond said: “I find it hard to believe that you are a coward. That’s a strong word to use.” 

“Oh, I am,” Lindir sighed with miserable resignation. “I am afraid of high places, and of spiders, and of very deep water or strong currents. I cannot swim and I cannot skin an animal without losing my lunch. Dirt and mud upsets me. Death upsets me. Just about everything upsets me. My first instinct upon seeing anything even remotely dangerous is to hide. I am a useless coward who can’t even make a good joke and I couldn’t get a campfire started if you held me at swordpoint to do it, and I shall never earn any braids, save a minstrel’s which are hardly worth anything—“ and at this he fussed with the ends of his hair again, at the crimped mess where it seemed a set of braids had been hastily unwoven, “So—” he sniffled and finally gave in to using the handkerchief to dry the tears that were beginning to leak out of him again. “I am not really sure what the point of me is— for I shall never amount to anything—“ and there he cut himself off to apologize, to shrink, as he seemed so accustomed to doing: making himself smaller so as not to take up more than his due.

Elrond found himself growing quite hot. 

“Who told you that?” he demanded to know. 

Lindir’s pink mouth parted. Two bright spots of color came into his cheeks and he looked down at his shoes. “Well, no one. Not specifically.” 

“Were these minstrels’ braids?” Elrond asked, tentatively touching the crimped, mussed strands of hair by Lindir’s ear. It always felt strange to be so informal, but time and marriage to Celebrían had eased that very Noldorin sensibility. 

Lindir looked so ashamed of himself that he was on the verge of bursting into tears. He nodded, seemingly too upset to speak.

 “Did you take them out?” 

Elrond’s stomach sank when Lindir shook his head.

“Did someone else?” 

A long, heavy pause passed between them. Then Lindir said: “They— they were very drunk— it was meant as a joke—”

“A joke is only a joke if everyone finds it funny,” Elrond seethed. “Who was it?” 

Lindir shook his head in a panic, and though Elrond wanted to press him he forced himself to take a deep breath and tamp down his outrage. It was, of course (he had to forcibly remind himself of this) not quite the same thing as if it had happened to a Noldor, but it was still unthinkably cruel to pull out the one set of braids that Lindir seemed to have actually earned.

“It’s— It’s stupid. That’s why I’m a coward,” Lindir muttered tearfully, “I have no mirror to fix them and I’m too ashamed to walk back like this—”

“Let me,” Elrond said at once. 

Lindir stared at him. Elrond resisted the urge to backtrack. Such an offer was not nearly so intimate for Lindir as it was for him, and he could shove down his own discomfort. This was far more important. 

Something broke in Lindir: a crack the way a dam cracks. Air rushed out of him like water: a sigh, a choked, relieved nod and then a quiet: “Yes, thank you. If– if it isn’t a bother—”

“It isn’t,” Elrond said fiercely, and asked him what kind of braid he ought to make. 

He accepted Lindir’s guidance and set to work. They fell into silence while Elrond braided, and Lindir —to Elrond’s private relief— seemed to relax enough to allow himself to actually use the proffered handkerchief. 

Elrond tied off the first braid and brought it around Lindir’s shoulder so he could feel the shape, then set to work on the next one. 

Lindir ran his slender fingers over the texture thoughtfully, then quietly remarked: “You know. You’re really quite-- quite good at braiding hair.”

He sounded so shocked that Elrond had to bite back a laugh. “Were you expecting me not to be?”

Lindir’s cheeks stained pink again. “N-no! I only— I had thought that—” He scuffed the toe of his boot against the red earth, seeming to grapple with his words the way a person might grapple with a wet bar of soap. “You seem like the kind of person who-- who has-- you know-- the kind of person who--”

“The kind of person who has my hair braided?” Elrond finished for him. “Rather than the other way around?” 

It was a distinctly Silvan custom: the braiding of a senior’s hair as a sign of deference and respect. Their leaders hardly touched their own hair. Captains would have their hair braided by subordinates before skirmishes or hunts. Children, when old enough to be taught, learned on their older siblings and parents, and on and on it went. 

When Lindir nodded, Elrond went on: “The Noldor do not have the same sensibilities.” 

Lindir sounded genuinely shocked. “They…they do not?” 

“No,” Elrond said, and offered nothing more on the subject because if Lindir did not know, then he would not tell him what the Noldorin sensibilities on hair were. It would only serve to make things awkward and the last thing Elrond wanted was to give him the wrong impression. 

The thought occurred to him: “Have you not left Greenwood?” 

“I–I have never had the occasion to,” Lindir admitted.

Elrond tied off the second braid and started work on a third. “Would you like to?” 

“I am not sure where I would go.” 

Elrond’s hands paused their work. He measured his words with care when he said: “If you are unattached here, you could return with my company to Imladris. I think it would suit you well.” 

Regardless of Lindir’s answer, Elrond would tell Thranduil about Lindir’s treatment. This was, of course, not strictly a crime, but he knew his friend. Thranduil held vehement contempt for weak-minded bullies and Elrond had little doubt that he would see this matter swiftly sorted. 

But still, it bothered him. Lindir was only one among thousands of Elves who resided in Greenwood, and Elrond could not ask Thranduil to see to his continual personal safety. This had clearly not been the first time such a thing had happened to him and Elrond was certain it would not be the last. Imladris by comparison was smaller, more diverse, and would suit someone of Lindir’s temperament very well. Though Elrond had only known Lindir for an hour, he felt compelled— no— responsible— for his safety. How could he abandon him to be tormented for traits he couldn’t help? Elrond would not leave him like this. Not when it was in his power to offer sanctuary. 

Lindir had been quiet for some time. The space between was filled with the warbling loons in the nearby lake and the rustling of the turning maple leaves overhead. Elrond felt the need to clarify.

“It is merely an offer. Do not feel obligated to say yes only because it is a lord making it.” 

“No–!” Lindir blurted out. He turned to face him on the bench, leaving the third braid only half-finished. “No, I have always wished I was somewhere else, but I never knew where that somewhere else might be. I only...I don’t want to be a burden on your house. I have no talents to speak of.” 

Elrond touched the half-finished style with a soft smile. “Are these not a minstrel's braids that you have earned?” 

“Well…” Lindir flushed red. “Yes, but—” 

“I and my House hold a great deal of love for minstrels and song and poetry and lore,” he said, strategically leaving out the fact that he was a minstrel himself, lest Lindir find it intimidating. “You would be wanted and welcome in Imladris.” 

Lindir’s luminous blue eyes grew somehow rounder, wet, and heartbreakingly hopeful. “I would? I would be wanted?” 

It was if he had never been told such a thing. 

Elrond swallowed back the choking mixture of rage and sadness welling up in his throat and simply inclined his head once.

“Yes, you would be wanted.” 

He returned to his work on Lindir’s hair to give Lindir some space to think. It took him twenty more minutes to finish the style, for even though it was not a lot of hair to braid, Silvan braids were much smaller than the ones Elrond was used to weaving. He doubted that the ones he wrought were anywhere near to being as intricate and well-shaped as whatever Lindir had been wearing before, but it hardly seemed to matter for how Lindir would not stop touching them with that small, wondrous smile. 

Once Elrond tied off the last braid, Lindir turned back to Elrond with shy determination.

“I would like to go to Imladris and be a minstrel,” he announced.

Elrond beamed at him. 

“Then you shall.” 

[anghraine]

I think it's interesting that Elladan's and Elrohir's names, which have individualized meanings, but are both also translated as "Elf+Man," could refer only to Elrond's heritage. He is described as great among both Elves and Men—quite literally Elf and Man. Aragorn calls him "the eldest of all our race."

But it doesn't have to refer to that alone. The "El-" (star/Elf) could also refer to Celebrían, who has no mortal ancestry or known affiliations with Men beyond Elrond himself. But it also carries on the naming tradition of the line of Lúthien from Elrond's mother, which he seems to emphasize in his description of his origins in LOTR.

Whatever the case, it's important to one or both of them to acknowledge Elrond's mortal ancestry and kinship, regardless of their sons' unknown choices of fates or exact quantities of mortal heritage.

I've mentioned it before, but the rohir in Elrohir refers to Men according to Tolkien, and is translated as "knight." But as he points out, it's the same rohir as in Rohirrim, horse-lords, in the later Númenórean or Gondorian form (Elvish Sindarin would be rochir/Elrochir). And the old Númenóreans were known for their great love of horses and riding, so it makes a certain sense that rohir is used specifically of mortal horse-lords/knights.

(I'm trying to remember if Tolkien ever refers to knights other than the knights of Dol Amroth, actually, who are in service to the part-Elvish princes of Dol Amroth. An interesting coincidence!)

Tolkien also translates the adan in Elladan as a more specific term than Man: it's not even just the singular of Edain, as in the Silm, but translated as Númenórean. We don't know when this shift in meaning happened, or if it would have meant that in some areas but not others, but it's doubly intriguing because Númenor fell before Elladan was even born. He never set foot on it. He is only Númenórean in essentially the same way that Dúnedain are Númenórean—at a remove, through heredity, just via Elrond instead of Elros.

And it's interesting as well that Elrohir and Elladan, whose names so scrupulously include Númenórean and Elvish associations, are mainly characterized through 1) association with the Dúnedain of the North and 2) spending centuries trying to avenge their Elven mother's suffering. So the names seem reflected by their actual lives and motivations.

We know that after Elrond leaves, Elladan and Elrohir delay choosing which kindreds to be counted among, which I think also reinforces the sense of them belonging to both. Fandom tends to prefer sending them to Valinor, and there are some strong reasons for them to go. That makes it all the more intriguing that they delay, that the choice is difficult, that we never actually find out what they chose in the end or if they even made the same choice.

Even though we don't know that much about them, that final ambiguity seems very fitting to me.