#feanor . in the middle of the night: maybe we could visit him

[thuringwedhil]

also I'm gonna be honest whenever i think about the fact that curufin was married to someone i just ??????? lies!!!! misinformation!!!! slander!!!!

[that-angry-noldo]

You Don't Know My Name - part three

[Fingolfin is in a process of adopting this unknown warrior who also happens to be his long-lost younger brother but he's not aware of it. It's okay, he's in denial.]

Part one - part two

It was early in the morning when Finarfin woke up, ready to face the new day. It is late in the night when he allows himself to collapse near his son's bed.

Near his son's bed. Nowhere near his house.

Gods, Eärwen must be so - they were supposed to be home by breakfast. By breakfast.

She must be worried. Holy hell, she's definitely worried. Was she looking for them? Eärwen knew how to track trails-

Finrod was pale and unnaturally still. Finarfin breathed out.

Finarfin swallowed a hysterical laugh. Not like it matters now. Tirion was miles and miles away from his house, from his land - gods, it was in another country. How the hell was he in another country? What had to glitch so hard in the fabric of the Universe to create such a - such a mess?? Was it intentional? Was it the divine intervention? What WAS IT?

He'll panic later.

What does he know? The Universe glitched, bringing him in the middle of a fight. In the middle of an orc attack (assasination?) on the Royal family of the Noldor. From what Nolofinwe had said, the king wanted to express his gratitude to him, which... could've meant literally anything, from a formal "thank you" to lordship, or knightship, or any other royal nonsense.

... Well, he didn't know what to expect from Ölwe either, when he was first called upon His Majesty's face. Perhaps, the best strategy was to be quiet and quick to learn. It carried him through Ölwe, it will carry him through... whatever this is.

Finarfin wasn't new to royalty and its traditions. He met Ölwe on several occasions - on battlefields, in ballrooms, hell, on his own goddamn wedding - and there was always a sense of mutual respect. However, Finwe wasn't Ölwe, and Finarfin didn't know what to expect.

Upon deciding so, Finarfin closed his eyes, too exhausted to keep the sleep away from his mind.

~

Fingolfin woke up with a ringing headache.

... Nolofinwe Fingolfin Arakano also had an antisocial warrior and his underage son under his care now.

Anaire wasn't beside him, which made sense - he collapsed in his private chambers the second Finarfin and his son were in healer's hands. His body was sore. Not that somebody cares, though. Nolofinwe Fingolfin Arakano was supposed to carry his duties no matter what.

Why.

...Gods, he missed Anairë and boys already, but reporting to his father would be at top priority list.

He groaned, throwing a blanket aside and getting up. Great. He somehow managed to get his armor off yesterday, but had no strength to change his clothes nor to take a bath. It was probably good he didn't make it to his and Anaire's rooms yesterday. She would definitely force him into changing and bathing and what else, and Fingolfin wouldn't Have Any Of That.

... on the other hand, he really didn't want to report to his father today.

It was absolutely not because he felt petty or - actually, you know what, he did feel petty. And hurt. And he's pretty damn sick of Finwe forgetting he has two sons. And two daughters.

... And Arafinwe, if he's going that deep. Even though father hadn't exactly forgotten about - well. Whatever.

It's not like Finwe actually needs to hear Fingolfin's report. He was there himself, for one. For two, he has Feanor's we're-the-best-we-fear-no-man we're-trained-to-eat-orcs-for-breakfast escort.

Finarfin, on the other hand, is in bigger need of someone who could explain what the hell had he gotten himself into, and he just happened to be under Fingolfin's care, so maybe the prince should pay him a visit.

(It is definitely not because Finarfin is painfully similar to -

Gods. Fingolfin really, really should stop projecting Arafinwe on anyone who has a slightest resemblance with his brother.)

~

Knock, knock, knock.

Weird. Finrod never knocked on their door. Did something ha-

For the love of Gods, what the hell was Nolofinwe doing in his house.

Wait.

Oh.

"Good morning?"

Yeah. Right. Good morning. That's how people great each other, sure, holy - okay, okay, just say it back -

Oh wait. Is that food?

"I've supposed you haven't got the chance to get yourself something to eat, so-"

Finarfin didn't realize he was starving, even though it wasn't surprising - he didn't eat a thing yesterday.

He casted a quick look at Finrod. The boy was still asleep, but he was looking better.

He muttered a quick "thank you" and grabbed his bowl. Hell, he was hungry.

He felt like Nolofinwe resonated with his statement - the prince sat by the opposite wall, eating his own food in silence.

"I don't think I asked for your son's name yet."

Finarfin snapped his eyes on him, instantly tensing. He opened his mouth, closed it, struggling to form a response.

Nolofinwe smiled, drifting his gaze to the sleeping boy.

"I think he's the same age as my youngest," he said quietly. "He's not older than fourteen, is he?.."

"Thirteen," Finarfin finally whispered. "He's thirteen."

"Oh. Turgon turned thirteen few weeks ago. Where are you from?"

"I'm- north Telerin kingdom."

Nolofinwe frowned.

"That's... a long way from here. Are you a traveler?"

You certainly weren't packed like one, hanged in the air. Finarfin locked his eyes on the plate.

"No. I'm not."

"What brought you to these lands, then?"

Heck if I knew, Finarfin wanted to laugh, but he pressed the hysteria down.

"I- don't know. Teleportation magic. Not on my will."

"Ah," Nolofinwe didn't look as shocked as he should've been. "Yes, you tend to do that." It took Finarfin longer than usual to remember that he did, in fact, teleport right after the battle. "In that case, we'll figure out how to get you and your son back. That's the least we can do." Nolofinwe smiled, but then sighed. "Not the last, though. The King wants to speak to you."

Oh. Yeah, that was expected.

"I'll try to arrange the audition after your son wakes up. I suspect you'd want to stay with him here for the time being? Right."

Nolofinwe stayed a bit longer, talking about other mandatory things. Finarfin tried his best to listen. He did. He regretted not having something on him to write it down, though.

Nolofinwe left after.

Finarfin couldn't shake off the feeling of familiarity and fondness whenever he thought about the prince, so he turned his attention to Finrod.

Somehow, he was sure Nolofinwe loved making paper ships and letting them swim down the stream.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Implausible Character Interpretation: Fingon the Cowardly Lion

The fun thing about the Silmarillion is that with so little information about most of the characters, characterization is largely up to the fanfic author. Usually, though, there’s one or two characteristics that really aren’t all that arguable. Fingon, for instance, pretty much has to be valiant. 

Doesn’t he?

As a fan of the Ciaphas Cain books, I knew it was possible for someone to have an impressive reputation, an impressive title, a genuine and impressive list of accomplishments . . . and still rather be absolutely anywhere other than the front lines where everyone keeps insisting on putting them. 

So I decided to write this.

(If Fingon is your favorite character, please don’t take this as a genuine attack on his courage. Given the evidence, I agree that “valiant” probably is one of his main character traits. This was just done for the fun of seeing how far I could twist canon before it breaks.)

Fingon was six years old and visiting his cousins when he first heard stories about the monsters across the sea. He spent all night huddled up in his bed and watching the door with terrified eyes.

There was an uproar of some sort at breakfast - Ada and Uncle Feanor were fighting about something, he was too tired to really catch what - so Maedhros was the first one to notice the shadows under his eyes and come sit beside him. This meant Maedhros was now between him and the door that led down to the yawning maw of the cellar, so Fingon relaxed enough for the whole thing to come spilling out as soon as his older cousin asked.

He was a bit afraid Maedhros would laugh at him, but he didn’t. He just talked about how wide the ocean was separating them from the monsters, and how the elves had only gotten across it with the Valar’s help.

“And they certainly won’t help monsters cross it, will they?” Maedhros asked reasonably.

Fingon shook his head hesitantly.

“So you’ll probably never even see a monster,” Maedhros concluded. “But even if one did somehow get here, you wouldn’t have to worry about it. I’d never let it get you.”

Fingon had seen Maedhros practice with his sword, and his older cousin was already impossibly tall and might, he’d overheard, grow even more. Maedhros, he was quite sure, could protect him from just about anything. 

Much cheered, he turned to his breakfast, but he made sure to stick close to Maedhros for the next few days. 

Just in case.

When the light of the Trees went dark, Fingon froze.

Later, when someone else managed to get torches going and it was noticed that he, unlike most everyone else, wasn’t covered in scrapes and bruises from running around and bumping into things in the dark, he was commended on his bravery and sense.

Fingon smiled and deflected the compliments and got to work doing what needed to be done.

Sense, he told himself firmly. It had been sensible. Everyone said so.

He didn’t remember deciding to be sensible, though. He just remembered the choking terror as the illusion of safety was ripped away, and he realized that anything, absolutely anything, could be hiding in the dark.

When they got to Alqualonde, the first thing he saw was the fire.

There was a great mass of fighting on the docks, and Fingon had no idea what was going on - Was Melkor not the only one who had been hiding a monstrous face behind a fair shape? Were their Teleri kin monsters too?

He didn’t know. It was hard to know anything in a world lit only by nightmarish flames, but he saw the bright red flags of his cousins, and he could hear Maedhros calling to rally his soldiers, and if Maedhros was in the middle of it, that’s where he should be too.

It was like the stories, he told himself. Just charge into glorious battle, and victory and heroism would follow. Maybe that would wash away the memory of terror.

He charged forward. His men followed after him and then -

And then -

His sword was dripping red. His arm was dripping red too. That was probably significant.

All he could really focus on was that he’d just thrown up in an alley mostly ignored by the larger battle, and that it was only the way his hand was braced against the stone wall that was keeping him standing.

And Maedhros was there, holding his hair back from his neck, keeping a wary eye out for anyone who might try to take advantage.

“You’re alright,” he said soothingly. “It’ll be alright.”

Fingon stared down at the mess he had made and faced the terrible truth. “I’m a coward.” 

“You are not,” Maedhros said firmly. “There is no shame in - We’re fighting our kin, Fingon. There is no shame in feeling the horror of that.”

Yet Maedhros had not been the one to lurch away from the battle to do this.

He couldn’t tell Maedhros that, though. He had no interest in trying to convince Maedhros he was wrong. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone looking at him and knowing about the terrible choking terror that hadn’t left him since the lights went out and knowing him for what he was.

Easier to face a battle than to face that.

He forced himself to pick his sword up from where he’d dropped it like a fool and to push himself away from the wall. “I’m ready,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s do this.”

Maedhros clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay close,” he said. “We’ll watch each other’s backs.”

You mean you’ll watch to make sure I don’t start throwing up on the enemy instead of stabbing them, Fingon thought, but his relief at the idea was far too great to argue with him.

The Valar told them to turn back. The Doom they laid was heavy, and with every word, more of Fingon’s tentative hope that this would get better was stripped away.

There was no point in going. No hope for victory. Just death and more death, and no way out.

Uncle Feanor gave a rousing speech, and it seemed to ignite everyone else.

Everyone but Uncle Finarfin and some of his people, and Fingon badly wanted to turn to his father and say, “Look, they’re leaving, it’s not too late, we can turn back too.”

But his father came up to him and thanked him for everything he’d been doing to help on the journey with weary, grieving eyes, and all Fingon’s courage fled.

“Of course,” he said and got back to work.

Fingon stared across the sea at the distant flames. Beside him, his father said Uncle Feanor’s name like a curse. “He’s abandoned us.”

Abandoned - ?

Everyone else’s angry murmurs clicked together in his head. 

He had seen the flames and assumed whatever horrors awaited had burned them, but if everyone else thought it was more likely Uncle Feanor had, Fingon couldn’t argue with them. It did seem rather in character.

Uncle Feanor had burned the ships.

Shameful relief swept through him. They couldn’t possibly cross the ocean now. No one would blame them for not following.

At that moment, he could have happily hugged Uncle Feanor.

“We’ll have to cross the Ice,” his father said grimly.

His momentary shameful exultation fled and was replaced by sinking dread.

Of course. That was the courageous thing to do. They would cross the Ice.

Fingon flung himself into logistics, into supplies, into mediating disputes, into doing anything, anything at all, that meant he wouldn’t have to think.

The Grinding Ice was a slow slog of constant frozen terror kept manageable only by its monotony.

It’ll be better when we get there, Fingon told himself, told everyone who flagged or wept or looked nearly ready to give in. It’ll be better then.

What he kept to himself was the frantic thought that, It has to be.

The sun rose when they arrived, and with it came back some of Fingon’s hope. The light had come back. Surely now things really would get better.

Then Ada marched furiously into the Feanorians’ camp, and Fingon tagged along, blood tinged memories of Alqualonde playing on constant repeat. It couldn’t happen again. Not with such close kin.

Could it?

It was Maglor that came out to meet them, which surprised Fingon a bit, but maybe it shouldn’t have. Everyone knew Maglor had a gilded tongue. He was probably a good choice.

Apparently his father disagreed. “Where is Feanor?” he demanded. “I hadn’t thought he would hide behind his sons.”

Maglor’s eyes flashed. “He did not,” he agreed. “He never once hid. But the enemy’s forces did.”

Fingon’s eyes went wide as the implication hit. His father actually stumbled back a half-step. 

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Fingon had no idea how long it had been, but even now, it was plain it wasn’t easy for Maglor to say.

And suddenly it seemed significant that Feanor’s eldest son was also gone. “Where’s Maedhros?” he asked, the cold pit of fear that was always in his stomach now growing larger.

“Taken,” Maglor said with equal grief. “We sent out patrol after patrol to try to take him back. None of them ever - We had to stop.”

There was more to the meeting after that, Fingon knew. There must have been because he knew it ended with shouting and his father stalking off. 

He didn’t hear much of it, though.

The monsters had taken Maedhros. And if they could take him, than they could take anyone, anyone at all.

He’d wanted . . . He didn’t know what he’d wanted. Some air. To feel less like he was choking on the anger still boiling in the camp. To forget.

By the time it occurred to him that he’d gone too far, he’d gotten turned around, the sun was going down, and he could hear noises that didn’t sound at all friendly coming in behind him.

Run. He had to run. Even if the only direction free to was straight towards the greatest danger of all.

He ran and ran and ran, till his sides were heaving and his breath was coming in sobbing pants.

The sun was coming up by now. The noises were gone. He could turn around. Go back.

Assuming he could find his way free from this nightmare labyrinth of cliffs.

He sang as he walked. It was stupid, he knew, but the distraction of the music was the only thing keeping him from panicking.

He paused to take a breath, and he heard a faint voice singing back in reply.

Another elf! He hurried towards it eagerly. It sounded familiar, almost like - 

Maedhros.

He broke into a run.

He nearly wept when he saw his cousin hung up on the cliff. “I’ll get you out,” he promised. He’d free his cousin and then - well, surely then things would somehow turn out alright.

He went to see Maedhros in the healers’ tent as often as he could. His recovery was swifter than anyone had dared to hope.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said abruptly one day. “I know I haven’t said it before, and I should have. I wasn’t . . . in my right mind then. Thank you.”

On the cliff, he meant. When he’d asked Fingon to kill him.

“Of course you weren’t,” Fingon said in relief. “No one could have been.” Hearing Maedhros say that on the cliff had scared him in a way nothing else had, but this made it better. Of course Maedhros hadn’t meant it. “I’m glad you’re doing better now.”

Maedhros gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but that would come in time, Fingon was sure. 

“You realize this proves me right,” Maedhros said. 

“About what?”

“What I said at Alqualonde.” They both flinched a little at the memory, but Maedhros pressed on. “You’re not a coward, Fingon. You never were. You walked up to Angband. Alone. You’re a hero.”

His cousin’s eyes were glowing with pride and faith, and Fingon couldn’t admit the truth now. He couldn’t.

It was an accident. I rescued you by accident, and I’m too afraid to tell you so.

“Fingon the Valiant,” Maedhros said with a smile. It reached his eyes this time. “That was the name you used to use when we played as children, wasn’t it? It’s even more fitting now.”

“Fingon the Valiant and Maedhros the Clever,” Fingon managed to say. “No monster too great.”

Of course, those monsters hadn’t been real.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. Maedhros was back now. Maedhros was overcoming the worst Morgoth could throw at him. If that wasn’t proof they could get through this, what was?

Everything was terrifying and awful, but it was a pretty consistent level of terrifying and awful with the brief exception of the dragon, so Fingon almost got used to it.

Then nightmarish fire erupted again, and his father wanted to go riding out to the very source. 

No, Fingon tried to tell him. No, you can’t do this to us. You don’t get to go riding out to certain death and leave us alone.

Or at least, If you go, I’m going with you.

But he couldn’t argue with his father. Not even now. The Sons of Feanor were not alone in that.

His father did not come back, as Fingon had known he wouldn’t, and that meant - 

That meant that Fingon was king.

Maedhros came as soon as he could, and Fingon’s first thought was, Oh, thank goodness, he’s come to contest the crown.

Fingon couldn’t possibly be in charge of this mess. He couldn’t even convince himself they weren’t all doomed; how was he supposed to convince everyone else?

Instead, Maedhros swore loyalty. Fingon accepted it glumly.

“I’m so sorry,” Maedhros told him later in private. “I remember - When Ada died, it felt like the end of the world.”

That was exactly the feeling.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Maedhros admitted wryly. “It’s probably why I got caught.” He hesitated. 

“If this is your cautious way of leading up to a suggestion of what I should do, I assure you, I’m more than happy to hear it,” Fingon said.

“Not yet,” Maedhros said. “Not yet. But . . . maybe soon. I’ve an idea brewing.”

“Good,” Fingon said in considerable relief. “You’re the clever one, remember. It’s your job to come up with these things.”

If anyone could get them out of this, Maedhros could.

Fighting a a concentrated battle against Morgoth was . . . not Fingon’s idea of a reassuring plan, exactly.

“If we unite everyone together, we’ve got a chance,” Maedhros said as he laid out page after page of facts and figures. “And then this could finally be over.”

Over. Fingon let himself imagine the bliss of that for one precious moment. No more terror. No more monsters. Over.

Surely he could be brave just this once if it meant a chance of achieving over.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

[daywillcomeagain]

galadriel

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. this is the first, but you’ll be able to read the rest here once i’ve posted more. they’re from discord chats, so they’re in a very casual style.

2.9K words under the cut!

galadriel is born in valinor, in the undying lands, in the west. death is unheard of. only one person has ever died in the history of the entire universe, and it was because she wanted to die. the streets are paved in diamonds; emeralds and rubies and sapphires are scattered on the beaches as a gift. galadriel is the youngest child of the youngest child of the king; she's a princess, yes, but she's fifteenth in line, eighteenth if the noldor get over their sexism by the time the king dies. and she's smart. she's absurdly smart. she goes to the valar and begs them to teach her everything. they agree to teach her as much as they are willing to. she learns mathematics and astronomy and biology and botany and anatomy and poetry and physics and chemistry. and she runs out of things to learn that the gods will teach her.

she starts dreaming of going to middle-earth. ruling her own kingdom. she's in paradise and she knows everything there is to know and nothing she does matters, not really, she could have learned it all or she could have been the best archer and runner and swimmer in the land or she could have sat at home and done nothing and it wouldn't have mattered because she's already in paradise. and she's still not taken seriously here, she has all the knowledge of the gods but in the eyes of everyone else that still doesn't make her anything more than a young girl. she is valued most not for her knowledge but for her hair, so beautiful and golden, the most beautiful anyone has ever seen. from strangers it is flattering. from those who know her, it is nothing but an insult. and she doesn't fit in anywhere, not exactly, half-lindar quarter-vanyar quarter-noldor, with blonde hair and a telerin accent that speaks so confidently of her own knowledge.

and then the king dies.

feanor gives his speech, full of fire and rebellion, and his sons jump to his side to swear an oath, and she can't tell if her shivers are terrified or excited. (maybe it's both.) he says: say farewell to the gilded cage of paradise. let us go to middle-earth. let us pursue evil, let us destroy it, we will never turn back, and we will win, and all shall bow to our glory.

galadriel has always hated feanor, but it surprises nobody that his speech wakes something up inside her. her brothers, her father, her mother, they all council calmness, of cool heads, of softness. galadriel wants to go. she is described as "the only woman of the Noldor to stand that day tall and valiant among the contending princes."

they have, of course, no boats. perhaps you have already heard this story. but let me tell it again, as she would have seen it:

it is dark. galadriel has never seen night before, not truly; she grew up in a world where the hours were marked by whether the light was the sharp gold of laurelin or the gentle silver of telperien. at least there is starlight now--it is not the pitch black of void that came with the darkness at first. but still, it is so very dark. her sight is better than humans, but it is not perfect, and she has never before lived in dark.

she is at the front of finarfin's host, which is to say that she is still at the back. it chafes, of course, because it all does, because every second in valinor aches and all she wants is to be gone.

and she arrives to see her uncles fighting her aunts, she arrives to see blood and death, she arrives at the end of a long line of people who are in sword battles with her mom.

the noldor--her dad's people--are smiths and hunters. they work with iron and diamonds. morgoth taught them how to make swords and armor and then how to point them at people. the lindar--her mom's people--are singers and fishers. they work with wood and rope, building boats and tying knots and harmonizing with the sound of crashing waves.

the outcome was, of course, inevitable.

what did galadriel do? well, that depends on which version of the story you heard. some say she fought with the lindar, used her swords and armor in a desperate attempt at defence. some say she just stood aside in shock, because everything is dark and full of blood and metal and screams and nobody has ever died before. i suppose it's your choice, in the end, because nobody could ever get up the nerve to ask her. how could they walk up to the great Lady of Lothlórien and ask her, did you kill your uncles, or did you stand aside and let your mom be murdered?

either way, it doesn't matter, in the end. the lindar are killed. the boats are taken.

this is, of course, when the valar choose to speak up. mandos lays upon them a doom that is maybe a curse and maybe a prophecy, and says that everyone who leaves now is exiled forever, and that they shall be killed, "by weapon and by torment and by grief", and that the valar do not care. he declares that every good deed they do shall end in evil, that anyone who survives shall come to see their own existence exhausting, that they shall fade and diminish and become shadows of themselves.

galadriel knows, now, that fëanor started the fight. she hates him more than ever. but she cannot help but think again of his speech, decrying the valar, decrying paradise. for she did nothing, and now they are punishing her for her half-uncle.

her father turns back, to stay with her mother. her mother whose people have been killed. it's a good decision.

but--she's been dreaming for so long, and her people are still going on, and she knows that if she stays she will never forgive herself for losing her only chance.

it is a day (or it would be, if it was not still endless night, a black sky with so very many stars) before they realize.

there aren't enough boats.

fingolfin doesn't trust fëanor. fëanor doesn't trust fingolfin. the house of finarfin doesn't trust either of them. they argue and argue and argue, who will go first, how will they do this. feanor's people took the worst losses--feanor's people started the fight--fingolfin's people trusted them and followed them and they wouldn't have if they had known--but they still trusted them, and the people of finarfin were the only ones who knew the other side--

--in the end, none of the argument matters. fëanor takes the boats when they are all asleep. sails across an ocean. waits for everyone to wake up before he sets them on fire.

this is the alternative: the helcaraxë, an arctic wasteland of freezing cold and mountains. they had already deemed it impassable. if it had not been, the first kinslaying would never have happened. by all rights, they should be trapped there, in valinor. making that walk would kill countless people. it would be suicide as surely as it would be suicide to hike across antarctica in the winter, or trying to cross siberia during a night that lasts forever.

with no light, there were no years. but later, timekeepers would calculate. it is 37 years of the sun later when galadriel steps foot, shivering, on middle-earth. and with that footstep, the moon rises for the first time.

the war is, of course, exactly as hopeless as they were told. fëanor is dead; maedhros is being tortured, publicly, visibly. they are not winning; they are only in stalemate because the enemy is not, currently, doing anything. galadriel is no longer the young princess who did not know death. she has learned something about herself, on the ice: she does not want to fight a hopeless war, no matter how beautiful the songs they sing about her death. she wants to live to tell this story.

she moves in with her great-uncle from her mother's side, instead. elu thingol. his people call themselves thindar, not lindar, but they look the same. not like the ñoldor. it's welcome. their realm is warm, and full of flowers, and safe. his wife, melian, is a wizard. galadriel has changed a lot, but this has not changed: she goes to melian and says, teach me everything you know.

and so she does.

they learn from her about the silmarils, about the oath. they do not learn from her about their dead family; she is too coward for that, still. but they do learn. when thingol learns, he makes his decree, bans quenya. she has to change her name. artanis she is no longer. she chooses her own name, in this new language. galadriel.

she gives speeches, writers letters, begging her people and her family. please, abandon this war, stop using your forces to fight morgoth and start using them to defend your people, it cannot be won, your job is not to win it, your job is to mitigate the damage. she petitions thingol and melian to take in refugees, to save as many people as can be saved.

they don't listen. nobody listens. every battle is a new casualty. her cousin, her brothers, her uncle.

(she falls in love. his name is celeborn and he has and if her hair is laurelin then his is telperion and he does not compliment her hair. he meets her after a speech, compliments her way with words, proposes meeting and teaching the men and dark wood-elves to the east. she had always thought that it was silly, when people spoke of love at first sight, but as soon as she hears that, she knows she will marry him.)

she visits the one brother who is still alive. he has collected names for himself--once findaráto, now finrod, felagund, nómin. he has made a beautiful city in the caves, where thindar and noldor and dwarves mingle. he has named himself king. he has sworn an oath.

meanwhile-- a human comes to doriath. he watches the daughter of thingol and melian--the princess lúthien--as she dances, as she sings. he calls out her name and she looks back at him and in the songs they will sing thousands of years later it is that moment that they will point to as the moment she is doomed. she brings her love to her father. her father laughs, says "he can marry you when he holds a silmaril in his hand." beren does not take this as a no. beren looks thingol in the eye and says "you're on".

finrod’s oath is to beren. galadriel’s half-cousins are still sworn to get the silmarils back at any cost. she weeps when she hears the news.

in the end, there is not yet another kinslaying. this is mostly because sauron kills her brother surely enough that her cousins do not have to bother.

(beren gets the silmaril. they get married. everyone in doriath is full of joy and hope. everyone but one.)

more die. once, she was eighteenth in line for king of the ñoldor. more have been born since, but counting herself, only two of those original eighteen walk on middle-earth. there are scarcely enough ñoldor to justify having a king. the silmaril still burns in doriath.

thingol dies in a fight over who owns the silmaril. nobody's quite clear if it's his fault or the fault of the dwarves. it doesn't really matter. melian goes into mourning, goes back to valinor. takes her protection with her. for the first time in a very long time, doriath is vulnerable. (the sons of fëanor send messengers, reminding: neither thingol nor the dwarves own the silmaril. it is theirs by birthright. and, they add carefully, they swore an oath. they do not have to say what they will do for it, because everyone knows.)

more cousins fall. if she wanted to claim High Queen of the Ñoldor, she could, probably. or maybe the kingship orodreth's, or idril's. she finds to her surprise that she doesn't really want to. she has learned at the knee of dozens of ainur, and she knows nothing that will help win the war. she wants to rule, yes--but not like this.

she still gives speeches. she doesn't really expect them to mean anything.

the sons of fëanor come. she has known them since she was a child, grew up with them. she has memories of riding and laughing and going to classes and learning how to work in the forge and being babysat when her own brothers were busy.

they kill everyone. even the children. they do not get the silmaril.

the survivors flow into a refugee camp that her cousin's daughter leads. they had crossed the ice together when galadriel was an adult and she was still a child. it is strange, to take orders from someone when you were there at their birth. but they are both old now. she does not bother to give speeches.

(they come. they kill. they do not get the silmaril. they do keep two children--twins--hostages, not dead, and she has fallen far enough to be grateful for that.)

seven years after the third kinslaying, five hundred ninety three years since fëanor’s speech, the valar arrive in beleriand. the war is horrific, but at last, at last, it is not hopeless.

galadriel fights. it is a grueling war, decades long, ainur against ainur. chunks of land break off, crumble into the sea. doriath is lost. arvernien is lost. dor-lomin is lost, hithlum is lost, nevrast is lost, all of it lost to the sea.

but they are winning.

she loses her last two cousins. they were murderers--she shouldn't care--she still cares, a little.

they win. the valar declare: you are pardoned. we forgive you. you can return to valinor, if you wish.

she almost laughs in their face. she has done nothing wrong to be pardoned for. she rejects it a thousand times over. they should be begging her pardon. they trapped her in paradise. they came six hundred years too late to save her family. and then they act as though it is such an act of mercy and graciousness, to forgive her for the terrible crime of being related to kinslayers.

she learns that another of her relations--gil-galad--has taken up the kingship of the noldor. she and her husband build a city within the land he has claimed as his kingdom, for the sindar who chafe at noldorin rule. she moves, after a while, to eregion; her half-cousin once-removed rules, there. grandson of fëanor, son of curufin. he does not call himself that, though she has seen the star he puts on his work. he introduces himself instead as a craftsman. celebrimbor of eregion, and that is all.

she is happy enough, for a while, but she is restless. her husband says that he has connections on the other side of the mountains. they speak a language there--silvan--that is not quite telerin and not quite sindarin; she learns it quickly enough. she agrees to move, and they do, passing through khazad-dum at the height of its glory.

it is not long after that they learn that sauron is still around. celebrimbor sends her a ring.

this, too, is a song you have heard. gil-galad was an elven king, of him the harpers sadly sing. they wave celebrimbor’s corpse as a banner.

and then--then, it is just her. they are all dead.

she becomes a queen, but not of the noldor. laurelindórenan, the native silvan elves call it. they are a peaceful people who know as much of battle as the lindar did. it breaks her heart to change that, but she knows it is a choice between that and death. she takes over, crowning herself queen in all but name. she establishes borders. she helps them to fight. galadriel and celeborn become lady and lord of lothlórien.

she has a daughter. celebrían's hair is as silver as her husband's.

she marries elrond. she is so, so happy.

celebrían is on her way to visit galadriel and celeborn when she is captured and tortured by orcs. elrond heals her, physically, but she never recovers. she leaves for valinor, for real. and again galadriel is alone.

all the while, she wears the ring. because she knows that mandos spoke true when he gave his doom so many thousands of years ago, and she knows that she has rejected his pardon. here in middle-earth, she will fade, she will diminish. she has seen it happen: elves whose bodies just give out, becoming thin and transparent and then just a voice on the breeze and then nothing at all.

but as long as she wears the ring, that does not happen in lothlórien. as long as her ring still has power.

--you know the rest of the story. frodo comes. he is the temptation. she declines the Ruling Ring. she has seen too much of what her family will do, given power. in valinor, she dreamed of coming to middle-earth for a kingdom.

she knows he plans to destroy it. she knows that her ring will lose its power, should the One be destroyed. she also knows that it is the right thing to do.

and so she has two choices. she can stay, and fade, slowly but surely. or she can go again to the west, a returned exile penitent for crimes she did not do, walk again in paradise, useless and heartbroken.

(at least her father will be there. he had stayed, so very long ago, and she had left.)

out of all the peoples of the world, it was only the lindar who could make swan-ships. thousands of years ago, they were all burned, the wealth of the lindar gone in a single fire.

when galadriel sails back to valinor, it is in a swan-ship.