#elven oath

[silmarillion-ways-to-die]

"Oh, what are you doing, And where are you going? Your ponies need shoeing, The river is flowing! Oh, tra-la-la-lally Here down in the valley, ha! ha!" – Elves of Rivendell, The Hobbit

“You are more worthy to wear the armour of elf-princes than many that have looked more comely in it.” – Thranduil, The Hobbit

“May your shadow never grow less (or stealing would be too easy)!” – Thranduil, The Hobbit

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna miriel. 0 menel aglar elenath!" – Elves of Rivendell, The Fellowship of the Ring

"Such is of the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere." – Elrond Halfelven, The Fellowship of the Ring

"Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!" – Elrond Halfelven, The Fellowship of the Ring

"Yes, they are elves, and they say that you breathe so loud they could shoot you in the dark." – Legolas Greenleaf, The Fellowship of the Ring

"And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!" – Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring

"In this phial is caught the light of Eärendil’s star, set amid the waters of my fountain. It will shine still brighter when night is about you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out." – Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring

"Get thee gone from my gate, thou jail-crow of Mandos!" – Fëanor, The Silmarillion

"...neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril." – Fëanor and His Sons, Morgoth's Ring

[wayshrines]

“that homeless looking chap”

“the veil is fragile here”

[sunshinetomioka]

[hollowwhisperings]

The Oath of Fëanáro

Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear we all…Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, Woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth…On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!

[wethecelestial]

just saw someone point out how weird it is that the statue of the elf and the dog in lindon in trop (who i assumed was luthien bc like...who else) has a star of feanor on its chest

which like. i mean obviously the star is there bc somebody just didn't think this through beyond "oh this looks cool." BUT i think it is very funny to imagine that in the trop parallel universe, instead of becoming cautionary tales about hubris and ghost stories that parents use to scare their children into behaving, the feanorians have just become like. completely divorced from their political and historical motivations and the devastating consequences of their actions on people's actual lives and are instead now just like: Thee Fashionable Aesthetic. fashion designers sticking an eight-pointed star on everything to show that they're EDGY and PROVOCATIVE and NOT LIKE OTHER ELVES. showing up to elf school with the star of feanor on your shirt is the equivalent of that one kid in high school who always wore a che guevara shirt to class and told your teacher that they didn't do the homework because They Aren't Gonna Be Part Of The System, Man,

[scalpelsister]

i think ive finally decided what my ren faire look is

[tacticalgrandma]

Online dnd group is talking about starting a new game and I am eager to make progress on my “play every subrace of elf pc” quest. The only issue is the ones I have left are eladrin, sea elf, and astral elf, and all three of those feel like big swings at the scope of whatever plot he’s setting up.

[camille-lachenille]

I was thinking about how, in fanfictions and in the fandom in general, Elrond is often depicted as a pure Noldorin lord, if not a die hard Fëanorian. And while I do enjoy Fëanorian!Elrond, the more I think about it the more I am convinced Elrond is not the fëanorian one of the twins. Elros is. Elros who adopted seven eight pointed stars as the heraldic device of his whole dynasty, a symbol still used 6000 years after his death. Elros who had Quenya be the official language of Númenor. Elros who decided to leave Arda for an unknown fate after his death; not Everlasting Darkness but not the rebirth in the bliss of Valinor either. He choose to go to a place Elves aren’t supposed to go, just like Fëanor and his sons went back to Beleriand. Elros, the mortal man, who decided to forge his own path in the world.

And I am not saying Elrond didn’t, because Eru knows how much strength, patience and stubbornness Elrond must have to become who he is in LotR. But when I first re-read LotR after reading the Silm, he did not strike me as Fëanorian at all (except for the no oath swearing rule that seems to apply in Rvendell). In fact, Elrond, and all three of his children, are defined by being half-Elven. Elrond is so much at the same time they had to creat a whole new category for him. He is described as kind as summer in The Hobbit, but also old and wise, and his friendly banter with Bilbo in FotR show he is also merry and full of humour. Elrond is both Elf and Man despite his immortality, and this is made quite clear in the text.

But. If I had to link him to an Elven clan, I’d say Elrond is more Sinda than Noldor, and even that is up to debate. Rivendell, this enchanting valley hidden from evil thanks to his power, is like a kinder version of Doriath. Yet, the name of Last Homely House and Elrond’s boundless hospitality make me think of Sirion: Rivendell is a place where lost souls can find s home, where multiple cultures live along each other in friendship and peace.

In FotR, Elrond introduces himself as the son of Eärendil and Elwing, claiming both his lineages instead of giving only his father’s name as is tradition amongst the Elves. It may be a political move, or it may be a genuine wish to claim his duality, his otherness, or even both at the same time. But from what is shown of Elrond in LotR, he seems to lean heavily in the symbols and heritage from the Sindar side of his family, rather than the Noldor one. I already gave the comparison with Doriath, but it seems history repeats itself as Arwen, said to be Lúthien reborn, chooses a mortal life. Yet Elrond doesn’t make the same mistake as Thingol by locking his daughter in a tower and sending her suitor to a deathly quest. Yes, he asks Aragorn to first reclaim the throne of Gondor before marrying Arwen, but this isn’t a whim on his part or an impossible challenge. Aragorn becoming king means that Middle-Earth is free from the shadow if Sauron and Arwen will live in peace and happiness. Which sounds like a reasonable wish for a parent to me.

Anyways, I went on a tangent, what strikes me with Elrond is his multiple identity. Elrond certainly has habits or traits coming from his upbringing amongst the Fëanorians, and he loved Maglor despite everything. The fact he is a skilled Minstrel shows he did learn and cultivate skills taught by a Fëanorion, that he is not rejecting them. There is a passage at the end of RotK, in the Grey Havens chapter, where Elrond is described carrying a silver harp. Is this a last relic from Maglor? Possible.

But while Elros choose the path of mortality and showed clear Noldorin influences in the kingdom he built, Elrond is happy in his undefined zone he lives in. He is an Elf, he is a Man, he is Sinda and Noldo and heir to half a dozen lost cultures and two crowns. He is the warrior and the healer, the only one of his kind in Middle-Earth. And that is why I will never tire of this character and I love so much fanworks depicting him as nuanced and multiple yet always recognisable as Elrond.

[dhampling]

one fem!reader, 2k

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?”

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

-

astarion is a newly-minted girldad. that's it. that's the plot.

word count: 2,028

an: fluff, fluff n more fluff. no smut this time. soon. promise. parts ONE and TWO linked respectively but can be read alone.

-

“She’s asleep, Astarion!” 

You are wide eyed, furious; speaking in a whispered shout at your husband.

His pale hands flit across the ties of your shirt, frisking every which way they turn. You slap them off like flies on fruit.

“Even more reason to take advantage of the situation, if you ask me.” He murmurs hungrily in your ear, hands now circling down to your waist to tug on your waistband.

“It’s a fine job I didn’t ask you then!” Gritted teeth. Eyes aflame. Cornered against the dresser.

The crib beside your bed holds your infant daughter - skittish and fresh to a world wholly unknown in every sense of the word. She rests rarely and wails often for company in these early months of being alive with you both. Pallid and red-eyed yet beautiful beyond comparison and entirely yours. 

Seeing you together brings him joy unparalleled. 

He has, genuinely; never been prouder of anything of his doing - saving the Sword Coast is a drop in the ocean that is completely and utterly awash with love for your youngling. The mistaken mess of his own bastard elven vampiric genetics now born unto another. This time it would be right. The hunger, the rot; the abuse and neglect, they were hundreds of miles away.

He would make it right. 

But it was already so. She was here, and you all cried together in that dark, sweaty birth chamber. His great guttural sob at her birth, wracked with emotion he never knew he could possibly be permitted to feel on this immortal coil. Your genuinely feral howls of pain turned weeping with pure joy.

Two full days of agony unlike any you’ve ever endured and she had arrived, breathing; wailing; skin of a changeling in birthing viscera and lungs keen to rival any bellow of the Gods.

Astarion weakly clinging to you both; tears salting your lips and wetting her tiny head for hours on end. 

The great weight of another being on your shoulders. His sincere - yet cliche - fervently whispered oath to her just moments after being placed in his arms.

She is home. She is loved beyond any unit of measure. She will want for nothing, and she will never know anguish like that of her parents and their complex lives. No matter who she is or what she becomes, she has two people who are in her corner. She will be fierce if she so desires. Cunning. Witty. Roguish. Barbaric. Horrid. 

It didn’t matter. It never would. 

She was yours, and his; and she would always have a choice.

He had spoken with her for hours, the nurse whispered to inform you once you had awoken from the deepest slumber of your life. Even then when you looked he was hanging over her small form in her cot, running his lithe fingers over her tiny hands and feet in a repetitive soothing pattern. 

When you queried the topic of conversation he simply looked at you with a grin so lovesick it would flip your stomach completely. Butterflies.

-

“We deserve a bit of fun though, darling. Mummy and Daddy’s evening off? No?” 

Astarion pouts, wrapping his arms around you - still pinned against the dresser - and inhaling your scent deeply. 

You return the gesture and cough reactively.

“You stink of Noblestalk. I know your tricks.”

You playfully shove him away and tiptoe from your room to the landing, the pale elf hot on your heels.

“I have never stunk in my life, thank you.” He sulks. 

You pointedly stop to look at him, before picking up a basket of waiting laundry and descending the stairs. He follows.

“I’m trying to fuck you, dear. Don’t make it weird.” He rolls his eyes and huffs. 

You hum. 

“Corpses tend to smell awful.” 

“Warning.”

“You started it.”

“Touché.”

A beat of silence.

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?” 

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

“You’re getting rusty.”

He captures you in a kiss as you reach the bottom of the stairs, slow and patient. Holding your free arm to keep you close. 

“Look at me. I’m the epitome of the fatherly jester!’

Waggles his free hand.

‘I have been blessed with brains and humour anew by the birth of our daughter, clearly.’

He grimaces.

‘Not necessarily superior versions of either, but I - am - changed.” 

From the moment of her conception you’d felt it. An old wives’ tale. The night you’d agreed to mother a brood alongside him, you knew she was there. That she was her. That she was brewing as something brilliant deep inside you and nothing would be as it was ever again. 

He’d called it ridiculous, gestured wildly and rolled his eyes to the deepest hells, but a hazardous hope never left them until you’d far missed your bleed and it was confirmed to be true.

From that moment onwards, something shifted even further in Astarion. 

The domestic tether to your townhouse in the city - no longer just a convenience to remain a steady base for you both, but a fundamental part of his scene setting, to plant roots and grow together. Two centuries of rot and abuse, and his reward was finally nearing completion.

His nesting phase began far earlier than yours and with greater intensity than you could’ve matched even without the issue of your later-heaving belly. Entire pinboards tacked with decadent fabric swatches for every occasion - be it swaddling or nursery curtains. Tailor’s tape around his neck each morning and notebook in hand to note your measurements and take inventory of your wardrobe; ensuring you never looked awry or felt anything less than wholly comfortable. 

Because gods forbid ill-fitted clothing stand in the way of you and your brutal vomiting spells, obviously. A pointed click of his tongue as he fixes your sleeve.

In the middle months of your gestation, the typically discerning clientele who visited you and Astarion in your tailor’s store at the dead of night were the first to become privy to the news. Rounder by the week, flushed; brimming with a deep fatigue and yet somehow absolutely aglow.

Children to be fitted for yet another presentation evening placed sleepy hands on your belly with a saccharine softness. Their parents jostle you - sometimes in congratulations, sometimes to whisper in sheer curiosity. Dhampir are a notoriously rare breed, and you’re certain there were rumours of a third party involvement in the process.

‘No, no. We just tried really, really hard.’ You’d smile, as if in a blissful stupor from just the recollection. He’d turn to you with his ridiculously brilliant hearing; needle between teeth, brow raised; lips upturned in a slight quirk. Devilishly handsome, never anything less.

-

You drop the laundry basket in the kitchen corner. A stuffed bear falls from it. Clive.

A pause.

“You never asked what I did with that shirt, you know.”

It takes you a moment to recall which shirt he’s referring to. He sits at the table and watches you lazily.

“Which? The one for Mr. Chugley? I didn’t think it needed much by way of adjustment, at least?”

A stale piece of burnt toast sits on the counter untouched. You bite and chew and bite and chew like a woman who has never once tasted a morsel so divine; so untainted by the evils of hot butter and a filling bronze crunch.

“Oh - Bunt? Gods, no.’

He sips his stone-cold tea. A fresh film wobbles on top.

‘Bunt Chugley.”

A snort of laughter sends it straight back through his nose and out onto the table. You begin to choke on your toast.

“Bunt Chugley.” You giggle, crumbs spilling from your mouth.

Astarion stands to wipe himself down, creasing over with an escalating laughter.

“Bunt Chugley.”

He waggles his hands, eyes heavy lidded with lack of rest. 

He looks purely maniacal.

“That’s- that’s what we should-’

You stop for breath, cackling now; hands over knees for a brief moment.

‘We should call the next one Bunt Chugley.”

He launches into a wheezing fit.

“How- How would that even work, darling? Like Bunt Chugley Ancunín, or- or-”

“No! No, no. Just that. Bunt Chugley.”

You hold both hands to your eye as if framing a canvas, looking through the gap at the ludicrous proposition in front of you. 

He takes a moment to still. Smiles at you dopily.

Crosses the floor and brings both hands down to your waist with a gentle grasp.

“I am so sorry, my love.” He grins and holds his forehead against yours.

You look at him, dazed.

“Hmm?’

He simply looks up. 

A profoundly gut-wrenching wail becomes apparent to you from above. Your face falls.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Astarion.”

-

He’s up the stairs before you can comment further, swiftly darting back into your chambers and grinning with an unbridled joy - though, you note, with lack of rest that grin is beginning to look more insane by the hour.

“Sweetheart! My darling girl. Shush now. You’re sounding something absolutely wicked.”

You watch on from the doorway, arms folded; stale toast in hand and jaws meeting in a firm chew.

He’s far too good with her. 

It somewhat surprised you at first just how innately fatherhood came to him, but as he picks her up and cradles her intently it’s as if there are fractures of his own childhood coming back. How he was loved, how he was held. 

A piece of him, now alive and breathing again after all these years of death.  

He coos at her, bouncing her small frame gently in his arms and hushing her with each wail. It takes very little for soft mewls to take their place as she reaches aimlessly in his direction. 

He leans towards her grasping fingers and allows her to take one of his ringlets from the front of his head as he kisses her tummy. She’s enthralled by him; recognises him. She wants to know more of him. 

As he lifts his head her grasp remains firm.

“We have some work to do on your sleight of hand, I think. Not to worry.” 

Ever so gently, he unpicks her fascinated fingers and kisses them all in tow. Her face looks almost ready to crumple before he reaches for one final kiss on the very top of her head.

“There, now. All better. Back to sleep?’

A gurgle. A puzzled blink.

‘Absolutely. Mummy does look particularly radiant today, doesn’t she? I’ll be sure to send your regards.”

He catches the smile on your face. Winks your way.

“You’re getting the baby to flirt on your behalf now?” You tease.

“That’s the lady of the house to you. She was simply passing on her praises.” He whispers as he places her back into her crib and steps back fondly. Sidles over to you as you finish the last bite of toast and pulls you in for a soft kiss.

“Stop playing coy. I know you feel the same way I do.’

He whispers down at you.

‘You want another one, don’t you?’

A kiss on the very top of your head.

“You’re projecting.” You smile.

You can’t deny him for long, he knows this. You don’t particularly want to. 

Since becoming a mother you’ve taken to parenthood almost as naturally as he has; and when the topic has come up since you’ve struggled to say no and mean it.

“Think, though. The sooner we try again, the sooner we can begin building our little mercenary force.” He looks at you with the face of a man who thinks he’s just had a really good idea.

“Oh! Yes! You’ve sold me!’

You pull him into a long kiss, the kind that still makes you swoon after all this time together. He tastes like cold tea and smells so clinical you can’t help but laugh heartily as you pull away.

‘That Noblestalk is getting to me. Have a bath and try again with a little less?”

He scowls before narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It just might, my darling dearest.” 

You wink this time.

The bath starts running before you’ve fully made it back down the stairs.

[serene-faerie]

Thinking about the gradual corruption of the Lay of Leithian in late-age Númenor.

The King's Men tell the story of a Beren who is "bewitched" by Lúthien's dancing. He is enamoured not by Lúthien's singing, but by her Elven beauty. They speak of a Beren who rescues Lúthien from her treehouse, stealing her away from Doriath. To the King's Men, Lúthien is a damsel in distress, oppressed by the ways of the evil Elves, and Beren is just a mortal man who "liberates" her. The King's Men erase Beren's genuine love and respect for Lúthien. They get rid of Beren's oath to Thingol. And most of all, they erase Lúthien's agency in the tale; they erase her own brave deeds like fighting Sauron and singing Morgoth to sleep. Instead, they give the credit to Beren alone. At this period, Elves aren't yet completely hated, but they are exoticized and fetishized by the King's Men. And they exoticize Lúthien so much until she is just a submissive Elven princess who is nothing more than a prize for Beren to "win".

The King's Men erase the sacrifice of Finrod Felagund and the ten brave Elves of Nargothrond. They ignore the hunting of Carcharoth, Beren protecting Thingol at the cost of his own life, and Lúthien's pleading song to Námo. To the King's Men, the Quest for the Silmaril ends when Beren takes the Silmaril from Morgoth, then brings it to Thingol and Melian. To the King's Men, Lúthien's immortality was stripped from her by her cruel parents, and she was banished from Doriath for daring to love a mortal man. They erase Lúthien's own choice, they ignore how Thingol and Melian accepted Beren in the end. And fundamentally, the King's Men misunderstand the lesson of the Leithian, that Lúthien chose mortality of her own free will for love.

Under the King's Men, the Lay of Leithian is stripped of everything that made it so beautiful and poignant. It's no longer a story of love and hope, but a story about a submissive Elven princess who runs away with a strong mortal man to escape the tyranny of the Eldar.

But thankfully, the true Lay of Leithian was well-preserved by the Faithful Númenóreans.

[feanoryen]

Something I noticed about the Feanorians…

A&A seem to take mostly after Nerdanel, specifically in the later drafts

Amrod clearly had very different ideas from Feanor at Losgar, wishing to leave & get back to his mother who initially pleaded with him to stay. Or if he wasn’t on the ships to go back, he at least seemed to expect the ships would be sent back to his uncle’s host.

Amras was brave enough to speak against Feanor after losing his brother, something the others did not do, & then minded his own business in ME instead of causing trouble besides his involvement in the Kinslayings, which may be inherited wisdom from Nerdanel as she also stayed out of conflict.

3C almost take exclusively after Feanor

Celegorm is Feanor with a greater fall from greatness

I think Celegorm started out as a better person than Feanor. Maybe it was due to lacking the trauma & grief that plagued Feanor since birth, but he seemed to have held no ill will towards even those his beloved father held in contempt. He was once someone who befriended so many of his half cousins with little reason to have an ulterior motive for doing it, and was a valued companion of Orome, being the most famous elven hunter in the Legendarium.

He doesn’t sound like someone rotten from the start, yet he became someone more infamous & hated than Feanor had ever been.

Caranthir is Feanor who changed for the better

The dark one, the angry harsh one, the loner. You’d think this would be the son of Feanor who turned out the worst & most hated right, rather than his fair & social brother who was once favored by a Vala?

Caranthir’s descriptions do not paint him pleasantly. He inherited a temper from Feanor & he was undoubtedly being a little cruel, like his father was capable of being, in that scene with Angrod. Yet unlike Feanor, he changed. He never became a perfect person, but he learned to keep his emotions in check & became a better person. He went from a haughty a-hole who fought with everyone he was displeased by to a guy who helped others, made alliances, & saved people.

Coming to Middle Earth improved him as much as it worsened Celegorm. Had it not been for the oath & kinslayings, I think he could have been fulfilled to his greatest potential as much as Finrod & Turgon were.

Curufin is Feanor without an identity

I have less to say on him than I do the other 2 Cs because we already know how Curufin is like Feanor. He’s Curufinwe, but he’s not Feanaro.

He has the face & body, but not the soul. The spirit of fire, an essential component to who Feanor is.

Feanor was revered as much as he was hated, Curufin is just hated. Feanor was everything Curufin is, yet Curufin is nothing close to what Feanor was.

M&M have both so much of Feanor & so much of Nerdanel in them at once, yet in different ways

Maglor's temperament is canonically his mother's. He has her gentleness & rationality. But though he is kind, he has a brutally unforgiving side to him, which likely comes from Feanor. He's an artist like both his parents, but like Feanor, he's a prodigy.

Maedhros's most famous feature, his hair, is Nerdanel's. His kindness, wisdom, & morality are his mother's.

Everything except for his father's craft, Maedhros's shares with Feanor. His fury, his pride, his fierce unshakable love, his loyalty, his bravery, his soul, are all his father's.

[arathir-starsong]

Vesper DeVir - Dark Elf Paladin - Oath of Redemption - Chaotic Good

Art by the wonderful n8dl3!

Vesper here is one of the focal NPCs of a game I've been running for a few months! My group talked about being followers of a "main character" NPC they have to support & protect, and Vesper came about as a result. More under the cut!

Knight Initiate Vesper DeVir is a knight-in-training of the Order of the Rose, a knightly order in the cosmopolitan city of Revelmoore. She is a Szarkai; an albino drow whose births are heralded as blessings in traditional dark elven society.

Once an ordained priestess of the malevolent spider goddess of the drow, Lolth, Vesper fled her people and fought for her own survival as a member of the crime syndicate known as the Black Network.

However, ties were severed after her chapter of the network fell apart, and she resorted to living as a hermit in the vast dungeon known as the Undermountain. She would eventually run into a pair of adventurers named Contrast and Makoto, and by traveling with them she came to terms with her past and awakened to a new faith in the goddess Desna.

Now a chosen of Desna and a knight in training, Vesper hopes to save her people from Lolth's oppression one soul at a time. Even as she is hounded by the eternally enraged revenant form of her former lover, Urstul Floxin, she maintains a calm and positive demeanor that carries her through her difficult trials; while still maintaining a cynical wit.

[havenotwillnotreadthebooks]

Its a funny thought to wonder how a Finwion Custody Battle over Gil-Galad would go, but consider; everyday elves keep trying to make Gil-Galad king again.

Gil-Galad is dodging various crowns left and right. The die-hard feanorians see that the king who reluctantly took them in after mae&mags died is back and immediately try to swear allegiance anew while Feanor and his sons are on probation (to Elrond’s delight, the little shit). Gil-Galad makes an inspirational speech about the inherent danger of Oaths (think; TedTalk). Unfortunately, that only makes him look more kingly and they might as well have sweared anyway.

All the lords of Gondolin are either trying to remain in Retirement or don’t have enough reputation points. Turgon is distracted with his reembodied wife and rebuilding Gondolin anew. So the Gondolindrim elves keep trying to make Gil-Galad their representative in Finarfin’s high court since he’s obviously of Nolofinwion heritage. Gil-Galad dodges that Kingly Position only because he makes a petition for Egalmoth to become the new head advisor and official representative of Gondolin in Valinor in Turgon’s stead.

The Doriathrim have their own king back (all hail Thingol and his weird tree wife). But they still wanna give back to the king that took them in as refugees. So the Doriathrim try to elect and sell Gil-Galad’s reputation to Thingol. Gil-Galad almost becomes a part of Thingol’s court as a highly-respected advisor and steward. He doesn’t only becomes he throws Elrond to the wolves and books It before the Doriathrim aren’t distracted by their strange, distant prince suddenly appearing.

Even the Avari get in on it as some point. They try to elect Gil-Galad their Noldoran representative in Valinor for all the tribes because he always treated them fairly in Middle-Earth, he doesn’t treat them as second-class citizens, and he doesn’t treat them like savage idiots. Unfortunately, that’s basically being High King of The Avari. Gil-Galad escapes this crown by honorably (panickingly) saying that an elven race should have their own leader from their own people. He encourages the Avari to represent themselves and face discrimination with their heads held high. Gil-Galad doesn’t become king but the Avari see him as a king in his own right nonetheless (which he pretends to not notice).

Anyway, the entire premise is that the universe keeps trying to make Gil-Galad a king or king-adjustant. but Gil keeps dodging every crown and sleeping in Elrond's guestroom (or the couch, during the Doriath Incident)

The end result is that every elven race ends up seeing him as a king anyway, even without people actively, publicly following him.

(Of course, the Feanorians follow him discreetly, but Gil-Galad won’t make a fuss as long as they are quiet about it.)

He thinks the Feanorians will abandon him when Feanor & Co’s probation ends. He is wrong, and Gil-Galad becomes an ambassador for the Feanorian Faction, to Elrond’s delight (little shit).

[ardafanonarch]

maybe a silly one: thoughts on crablor?

Crab-Lore

For those who have yet to encounter him, “Crablor” is a portmanteau of “Crab” and “Maglor”, i.e., the crab Maglor became after his many ages of wandering the shores in pain and regret. Crablor is fanon. It was born here.

As @faustandfurious wrote in that very post there is no canon about Maglor’s eventual fate. (You can read about the various ways Maglor ended, or didn’t, here).

But the idea of Elven crabification in general does have some basis in canon!

In his writings on Elven fading in Morgoth’s Ring, Tolkien talks about the fëa (spirit) consuming the hröa (body):

As ages passed the dominance of their fëar ever increased, 'consuming' their bodies (as has been noted). The end of this process is their 'fading', as Men have called it; for the body becomes at last, as it were, a mere memory held by the fëa; and that end has already been achieved in many regions of Middle-earth, so that the Elves are indeed deathless and may not be destroyed or changed. The History of Middle-earth Vol. 10: Morgoth’s Ring, The Later Quenta Silmarillion, ‘Laws B’ (p. 219)

This was not, however, Tolkien’s last thought on the matter. In a marginal note on the entry for hröa published in the linguistic journal Parmasan Eldalamberon (Vol. 12), Tolkien revisits the metaphysical implications of Elven fading:

What of a hröa that resists fading? It is not then consumed by the fëa, but compressed by the process of containing it; by which it will in time be overcome, though at great expense to the strength of the fëa, for this at last takes possession of the changed hröa as its ‘casement’.

What?

This note Tolkien clearly did not intend to be seen or interpreted by anyone but himself, and its meaning is rather opaque. What he seems to be describing, however, is a slow process of shrinking and shapeshifting, from body to “casement”, in cases where a hröa resists fading.

Casement as in… shell? As in… exoskeleton? Elves who resist fading become crabs?

Okay, so that probably wasn’t what Tolkien meant, but I can find nothing to contradict it. Let us assume, for our amusement, that the hröa - casement transformation is, or can be, into a crab.

The next question is: Might Maglor have resisted fading?

If one imagines his fate in the published Silmarillion as self-punitive (a reading supported by the alternate versions in which he does in fact commit suicide like Maedhros), it would makes sense that he might resist fading as a sort of release from his punishment. Or perhaps the metaphysics of the Oath had some interference in his ability to fade in the usual fashion.

In which case, Maglor may very well have been one of the Elves who became a crab. Or something like it.

ETA: Happy April Fool's.

[eilinelsghost]

One thing I can't escape in wrangling with Finrod's complex relationship with the Edain (especially as it is worked out in Atandil, but also generally in the text of the Silmarillion) is how the heart of Tolkien's vision for Elves and the relationship between the First and Secondborn Children can be traced throughout his story, specifically as relates to the First House of the Edain.

Tolkien outlines his general thoughts behind the Elves and their place in Arda in his letter to Milton Waldman where he says:

“The doom of the Elves is to be immortal, to love the beauty of the world, to bring it to full flower with their gifts of delicacy and perfection, to last while it lasts, never leaving it even when ‘slain’, but returning – and yet, when the Followers come, to teach them, and make way for them, to ‘fade’ as the Followers grow and absorb the life from which both proceed.”

Letter 131 to Milton Waldman

The "purpose" of the Elves, then, is to love and lift up the Secondborn and then to hand the world on to them.

In Finrod, we see this from the moment he meets Men in Ossiriand. We are told that he sees them and at once "love for them stir[s] in his heart." He loves them exactly as he finds them, before any interaction with or influence over them. They—the new, the stranger, the unknown other—are lovely and beloved in their difference, fellow Eruhíni in the darkness of Arda Marred.

And from that point onward, he works consistently as a mediator to establish peace and friendship between the various Elven peoples and Men.

He teaches them, yes—in Ossiriand and presumably after as they begin to integrate with Elven settlements—but he is also eager to learn from them as well. We are told this in the intro to the Athrabeth, but more importantly we are shown this throughout the text of that same chapter. He enters the conversation with one mindset and understanding, then leaves the conversation having changed his entire understanding of Arda and its future based solely on what Andreth has taught him of humans' philosophy of their own embodiment. Together they wrangle through the pitfalls of each's position and it is their combined knowledge and understanding which brings about the hope at the end of their conversation.

Finrod embraces this mutual work and discovery and holds to the new-found hope at once. "Await us there," he says in closing, both asserting that he has changed his understanding based on Andreth's words and also placing himself in a position of dependency. It is humans whose nature could bring about this hope of Arda Remade and he does not hesitate a moment in embracing that they, the Followers, would then be "the lordly ones." And he does this with joy and eager anticipation.

The clearest example of how he embodies this vision is also the broadest: his relationship with the Edain begins with Balan—Bëor, the Vassal—and culminates with his oath to Barahir and his sacrifice and death on behalf of Barahir's son. He marks this oath with the crest of his own house, which then shifts from the Ring of Felagund to the Ring of Barahir, by which name it is known for the duration of Middle-earth's history.

Within the brief 155 years that Finrod operated in relationship with Men, the First House of the Edain moves from wanderers to Vassals to Heirs.

And thus Finrod is embodying that very purpose which Tolkien outlined as the doom of the Elves: he prepares the way for the Followers, he willingly fades before them, and he passes the world (his life, his own crest/birthright) freely to their keeping.

[bi-pandoras-box]

Alright folks, What if I put the MXTX bois and their husbands into a DND campaign fic. Oh but not just any DND campaign. We are doing Curse of Strahd! It will be dark, it will be bloody, there will be an NPC who'll probably die a horrible and tragic death.

But I'm going to build all six of these mfs and there will be canonical D20 rolls and classes to boot! They will not be spared! I am a mad god who will invoke her wrath! But hey at least Hua Cheng will be on hell of a sexy dampire. >:]

Sneak peek of classes

Hua Cheng: Dampire War Cleric

Xie Lian: Variant Human Monk Way of the Open Hand

Lan Wanji: Human Fighter/Bard multiclass

Wei Wuxian: Human Necromancer/Bard multiclass

Shen Qingqiu: Elven Ranger, Beast master

Luo Binghe: Tiefling Paladin, Oath of Devotion

This fanfic bought to get lit!