#finrod/beor

[nynevefromthelake]

So Finrod and Balan(Bëor). I haven’t seen them as a romantic ship before but now I’m a bit obsessed. Like, this has so many layers and just beautiful

The painter’s honey moon by Frederic Leighton as reference because it’s just them.

I think I should tag @eilinelsghost you writing is so beautiful and inspiring

[welcomingdisaster]

can i interest you in a little snoozin' finrod/beor this saturday....

[elronds-library]

The Affirmations Of Elrond

by amyfortuna (elwinfortuna)

Part 2 of Finding Family, Finding Home Part 2 of Finrod Felagund, More Than Just A Friend Of Men

Savage Garden's 'Affirmation', as it relates to Elrond's long life and experiences.

Mature, No Archive Warnings

Words: 4,269

[maeofthenoldor]

Imagine, just imagine Finrod is bleeding out in the prison of Sauron, Beren trying to keep him awake but his eyes are starting to flicker and glaze over. Beren is shouting at him, trying to oull him back to reality but he knows he's slipping away. Finrod only smiles, manic, acceptance, but most surprisingly, relief. Beren tries to get him to stop speaking, to stop moving so he could stop the blood flow. Yet Finrod only laughs, that gurgles with the froth of gore at his mouth, and says the single word, “Beor.” 

Beren tries to tell him that he is not Beor, but Finrod only cups his chin and says once more; “Beor”

So he doesn't deny it. He holds onto Finrods hands until his grip loosens, and his ancestors name the last word on his friends lips.

[dalliansss]

do you know how long i've been waiting for you to ask that question?

- PapayeGod

the largesse of the sea maiden.

They did not part in good terms. The last time they saw each other was about a week before Finrod left Ladros, taking half of the Arafinwean host with him, to venture somewhere south. As with the days of their relationship before Fëanor's exile, they had devolved into fighting; heated words and raging tempers. It still amazes Maedhros how much rage Finrod was capable of suppressing inside himself, and how he hides such a terrible emotion behind a mask of seemingly perpetual cheer and endless kindness. But rage, oh, rage, Finrod was capable of. Still is.

They quarreled, as they were wont to do. Finrod wanted to disregard the distance Maedhros has put between them ever since the Great Council of the Noldor in Mithrim, this invisible wedge between them. Finrod thought that he was simply taking his time recovering from his torment in Angband, and while this was part true, there was so much more Maedhros could not admit to him.

Morgoth's filth.

Unlike their petulant, younger years, they did not part with a very physical fight. There were words, words thrown like barbs, and both sported deeper unseen wounds from those than any physical blow they might have traded. Yet Maedhros did not apologize; and he pushed Finrod away, and away Finrod went.

The years crawled by. They saw each other again during the hunt, yet they did not speak nor acknowledge each other, and it had almost driven Maglor mad, this cold indifference between them. Then Finrod left. The next thing Maedhros knows, Finrod has discovered the Secondborn, and successfully negotiated their entry into Beleriand. He took an Adan home with him to Nargothrond, one named Balan, and Maedhros viewed the news with a distant, dull ache -- for he would not let himself feel anything beyond that, because he was the one who pushed Finrod away.

And an eyeblink for the Elves, and he hears naught more of Finrod, until of course, one autumn morning and the tower guard reports seeing his banner coming up from the south. Of course, the drawbridge of Himring is let down for him. Always, Maedhros will never truly refuse him welcome here, not when he might be in need, not when...

And so they find each other in his Lord's Chambers, both clad in furs, a bottle of mulled wine emptied between them. Finrod is sitting across from him, wrapped in white and silver furs, gold hair spilling unbound around him like a cascade of honey. Maedhros, by contrast, is in dark scarlet and black furs, his crimson hair in a ponytail.

Amid the flame they regard each other.

Then Finrod extends a bare, pretty foot, and sets it on his knee. Maedhros's gold-and-mithril hand instinctively cups over the foot. A log crackles in the flames.

"Why are you here, Ingoldo?" Maedhros asks. "Have you need of me, or Himring?" "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to ask that question?" Finrod returns. "Because I will always have need of you. Always. No matter how much you push me away, you will never be rid of me. It amazes me, your gall. Where do you get the strength for it, to sit there and act as if I mattered to you not?"

Maedhros lowers his silver-gray eyes onto the foot he's holding.

"I took a lover," Finrod continues. It is akin to stabbing Maedhros in the chest with a knife, and then twisting the blade. He imagines himself bleeding. But he welcomes this death, this punishment, because he deserves it. "Balan was his name. Bëor, in his posthumous honors. Edain love fiercely and passionately, but perhaps because they are instinctively aware they do not have much time remaining in Arda. But he gave to me all his best years."

"Did he make you happy?" Maedhros asks, and in his mind's eye he sees the blade burrowing deeper into his chest. The blood he imagines to ooze from his wound is black, not red.

"If you call it happiness. There were more quarrels than peace."

Maedhros begins to knead Finrod's well-formed ankle. Then up his shapely calf.

"He is dead now. Never to return. Do you know how they die, Nelyo? They wither, if they do not succumb to the mysterious vapors in the air that seems to kill them twice as fast if they catch it. They shrivel up like prunes...and their strength leaves them so fast. One moment he is riding out at the Faroth with me; the next, blind, wrinkled, shrunken, his mind too broken by old age he can no longer recognize me."

Still, Maedhros says nothing.

"But he isn't you. I loved Balan, but he is not you. He will never be you." "Why do you insist on rekindling this, Ingoldo? Why?"

The foot is pulled from his grasp. Finrod stands, gilded in the copper and orange glow of the flames, and he grips Maedhros by the jaw with his right hand. He digs his nails in, and Maedhros bleeds red. He digs deeper, and the pain ripples down Maedhros's spine, down his thighs, straight to his groin. He gasps.

"I told you. Nobody whom I love gets to hurt and leave me. You're stuck with me forever, Nelyo. If you think yourself drowning in filth, then I will drown with you. A strange thing, the heart. Give that single thing, all else follows."

The world disappears in gold when Finrod kisses him. The furs are discarded. The flames dwindle down into embers that fade into ash. Outside Himring, a blizzard begins to blow from the north, engulfing the world in white.

[eilinelsghost]

I was sick this week, so I went ahead and projected a whole ton of wooziness into this fic to give you all some domestic fluff of Finrod and Bëor being a sweet old married couple.

It's not technically part of Atandil, but it's Atandil-adjacent. Basically this exists because @actual-bill-potts can have a lil' scene of Finrod and Balan as happy husbands, as a treat. You can also read it on AO3 here.

------

Balan swayed as he fastened the line of clasps along his sleeve. The tunic had been a gift from Nóm not long after they first arrived in Nargothrond, while Balan was still overwhelmed and near drowning in the unfamiliarity, the formality and ritual of court an endless mystery. Nóm had commissioned a full set of robes within those first weeks, delivering them with the giddiness and self-deprecation of one who knows the gift extravagant, but cannot help bestowing it nonetheless. Balan could see still the mixed riot of the other’s expressions passing over his face as he outlined the craftsmanship of each item, then how he dismissed them just as quickly; embarrassed at having called attention to the decadence in his eagerness to show how he had instructed them.

They were each designed after the traditional Atani style, yet wrought from the lavish fabrics that arrayed all in court which lent them a strange combination of familiar and otherworldly. Balan treasured them above all else he owned—the tangible mingling of his heart and Nóm’s, a tapestry of their combined histories. 

This that he wore now had ever been his favorite. It was a rich, red cloth, heavily woven but light in heft, and various iterations of a twelve-pointed sun were worked across its folds in gold thread. By Elven craftsmanship the embroidered patterns caught the light about them and threw it back, gleaming and dancing in the caverns’ torchlight. So that all might see thee as through my gaze, Anarinya, Nóm had said when Balan first wore it, and the sudden blaze in his eyes convinced Balan at last of the hope he dared not suspect.

He fumbled again with the clasps, then clutched at the wall as the room buckled beneath him. He breathed as Estreth taught him—a full breath in, air eased out slowly through pursed lips; another breath in, a careful exhale. He felt the nausea subside as he repeated the pattern and slowly released his grip on the wall, regaining a passable imitation of steadiness. The fever had come on a few hours past but he would not yet give way. Nóm had been frantic with concern the last time he fell ill and Balan could not countenance worrying him till the feast was past, not when the Doriathrim emissaries had only arrived that day. He forced himself to chew on another strip of willow bark. It pricked at his nausea, but if he could bring the fever down then surely it would subside as well. At least long enough till he could retire without raising interest.

He wrapped the sash about his waist and focused on the series of knots. Up, around, down and through, loop back under the first and hold till the second weaves through. Then down, around, up and…oh gods all, he was falling.

He caught the mantle this time and held fast. This was never going to work.

“Balan!” Nóm appeared in the doorway without warning and was beside him in an instant, slipping an arm beneath his and supporting him firmly as he wavered. “Ai, melmenya…” his voice was both affectionate and scolding and he rested his free hand over Balan’s forehead, slipping into Taliska. “You shut me out whenever you think I’ll worry. But you little fool, that serves only to tell me there is cause for concern. How long has this been?”

“The fever came on after the noontide meal. A few hours perhaps?”

The other’s palm was cool upon Balan’s head and he leaned against him in relief, calmed by the fingers searching across his head, hovering upon his neck, moving down over his heart. It mystified him what the other learned from this ritual, but Nóm’s face eased as he completed it and he brushed the hair back from Balan’s eyes with the hint of a smile. “You’ll live.”

“And you’ll offend Thingol’s emissaries if you don’t hie hence.”

“They will wait,” Finrod said gently and lifted him lightly in his arms. Balan rested his face against the other’s neck, comforted despite himself, and made no protest as he was carried across the room and laid to rest upon his bed. A servant entered as Finrod was loosening the half-knotted sash. Nóm must have rung for him as he entered, Balan realized, though it all had the air of a dream—these uncanny creatures appearing and disappearing, moving soundlessly through the haze while he swam, no while he sank through this twilit cavern.

“Lord?”

“Bring word to Gildor that I have been unavoidably detained. You may tell him the cause, but let him speak as he sees fit to the others gathered. I am unlikely to join them till the morrow. Then send Celiel to me with what supplies she needs to treat a fever.”

“Yes, lord,” he said, and then was gone.

“This is foolish,” Balan mumbled as Finrod undid the clasps of his tunic. “Thou shouldst leave this to the healers and attend to thy duties of state.”

“Mm, perhaps.” He eased one arm loose from the heavy cloth and then turned Balan gently to free the other. “But am I not thy wedded lord? I am permitted some foolishness for thy sake.” Finrod set the ornate tunic aside and removed the undershirt that clung, heavy with sweat, against the other’s skin. Then he drew the bedclothes up to cover him and leaned down, kissing him once on each eyelid. “Sleep,” he said as he smoothed back the matted hair, “and I shall stay by thee till the morn.”

A quiet melody drifted from Finrod’s lips as he dipped the end of his own sash in the nearby basin and returned to sit on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from the other’s face until his breathing steadied and slowed at last into a fitful sleep. 

Balan dreamt of Thalos, all throughout the fevered hours; of the pines beneath the mountains, of the tumbling waters and the clear voice that rippled too through the night air, beckoning him out from his long slumber. And whenever he woke, he saw him waiting there—the king’s silhouette against the hearth, his beloved’s face glowing as he sang once again in the firelight.

[searchingforserendipity25]

hmmmm ship opinions..... how about finrod/beor

ohh they're canon. absolutely. thank you! @welcomingdisaster! they make me ill in a fun way.

i'm actually a lil bit convinced tolkien wrote it on purpose (delusional). the athrabeth becomes so much more layered through those lenses, and if it's not on purpose then i guess i can only hope to one day pull off such an unintended yet effective emotional beat.

also from the athrabeth, finrod's speech on pity makes me slightly insane. is this inescapable pity the mortal in a relationship with an elf is sure to face his own or those of the elves around beor? i have to think it is his own too, and this is one of those cases in tolkien where pity is not spoken of as life-saving or ethically redeeming, but a thing that is actively painful and harmful for both of them!

but also, pity here is a shorthand for grief, and finrod's own grief at that. pity not merely for beor's aging, but for the whole situation, and it is diminishing enough to be an outright cause to wish to rescind all the rest, because the rest is not worth it in comparison. a lot of self-pity as well in the mix! philosophically speaking, this is a lot to deconstruct just by itself.

his absolute certainty that a marriage between immortal and mortal will assuredly lead to grief even when both parties start out committed to the joy of it? he is NOT dealing well with his grief. he very much did not deal well with beor's aging, and what it meant to watch him age, especially in an elvish kingdom.

he plainly regrets their relationship! what do you even do with that. it was beor's only lifetime, and finrod believes that their relationship made it worse. what do you even do with that. what can he do, except keep his brother away from the same fate, and doom himself for the same hope?

which is interesting! i like that for him. beor died in despair holding the hand of his beloved and left him to a doom chosen out of love's best and worst aspects :) who else is doing it like them.

and by the way! i kind of want to know old beor's take on this. what was he thinking of, when he died? did he regret it too? finrod is very hopeless, and takes to the possibility of hope so strongly presumably its not something beor himself argued very convincingly for.

idk, but this at least as much about beor, too, and i'm curious about him. maybe he thought the grief he faced/caused was worth it for the uplifting of his line? maybe he thought finrod would get over it? maybe he thought it was worth it, grief and all, full-heartedly, with a very human approach to life, and finrod, who had to survive him, did not agree (not unusual in widowers). interesting!

they're lovely! i hope they meet again in the Second Song, but like. they'd have to invent new kinds of joint relationship & grief counseling, just saying. again, they're lovely: i think they can pull it off. in a very small and significant way, the possibility of a joyful connection between them is foundational to the promise of a perfect Music.

[alqualonde-s]

Finrod and Balan (Beör-to-be) on their weekly spring picnic.

Finrod’s hobby is creepily watching Men (one Man in particular) sleep.

[solmarillion]

Tolkien Secret Santa NSFW Advent Calendar Day 2: Massage

a life freely given, a favor returned

Summary: Finrod and Bëor stop for a while on the road to Nargothrond to rest. The bodies of the Secondborn often grow weary, and Finrod laments, massaging Bëor's back and renewing his beloved's vigor with the work of his hands. But Finrod has other burdens of his own, Bëor soon discovers, returning Finrod's favor in the best way he knows how.

Inspired by There in the Fragrant Pines by Maggie_Honeybite.

Thank you to @elablackcat, @daegred-winsterhand and @jadebrace-art for looking over my work.

Words: 3831 Rating: Explicit

Relaxing by the bank of the river Sirion, surrounded by the silent woods and willow trees of the vale of Nan-tathren, Finrod and Bëor found themselves yet again ‘lost’ on the way to Nargothrond. It had been Finrod’s decision to stop here, though, so it was more akin to an intentional detour, one of many little pauses along the journey that they treasured. Finrod had noticed Bëor struggling to match his pace, for Bëor’s breath was heavy, his back hunched only slightly. No matter how often Bëor insisted there was strength in him yet, Finrod could not help but worry for his beloved, afraid of losing him too soon. Though it was impossible for Finrod to change the fate of Bëor’s kindred, he wished to at least ease whatever afflictions he could.

And so it was, that Bëor came to rest in Finrod’s arms, the elvenking’s golden curls dangling over his shoulders, their hue reflecting the warmth of summer, all to remind him just how fortunate he was to have met such a beautiful, wise, kindhearted spirit as Finrod.

“Is there anything at all I can do, my Bëor, to wash away the pains of our long journey?” asked Finrod, gently rubbing circles over his mortal lover’s back as if by instinct, before kissing Bëor behind his ear. “I know I worry unceasingly–”

“Actually, Nóm,” said Bëor, “what you’re doing now, with your hands, it’s most pleasant. I would have you give more of it. Figure I could use your help, getting out a few sore spots.”

“Ah– really?” Finrod found himself becoming flustered. “You wish for me to knead your back for you?”

“If there’s any touch that can soothe me,” Bëor insisted, “it’s yours.”

“You give me too much credit,” said Finrod, his tone lighthearted, “but I shall not disappoint you.”

Finrod soon went right back to work, taking in the warmth of Bëor’s skin and the contours of his muscles through the light fabric of his shirt, searching for tense areas; it did not take long for him to find them. Bëor leaned over just enough for Finrod to get the perfect angle, with Finrod circling his fingers deep into Bëor’s upper back. As Finrod worked through the knots, melancholy came to him. The lives of the Secondborn were so fragile, Finrod was reminded, their bodies so easily prone to weariness. Though Finrod did not notice it, his sorrow, his fear of finality, his need to hold onto Bëor for as long as he could– all of it was being channeled into his touch, bringing Bëor into his world.

Read on Ao3

[mandhos]

[wanderer-clarisse]

... and he was eager moreover to discover all that he could concerning Mankind. He it was that first met Men in Beleriand and befriended them; and for this reason he was often called by the Eldar Edennil, 'the Friend of Men'. (Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth)

(partially inspired by this)

[nynevefromthelake]

Just some cosy hairbrushing

Also I got a bit got carried away with anatomical study so there is a version with a less amount of clothes

[elronds-library]

Some brief yet hopefully instructive notes on sexual differentiation between the Eldar and the Atani, by Finrod Felagund

by arriviste (@arrivisting)

As one of the few in Aman who has engaged in long term study of the Atani (including a period in which I lived among them quite as one of their own), I feel that a few observations from me on this subject might prove helpful. Alas, my original notes were forever sundered from me as an unfortunate consequence of my death by werewolf. Eru Ilúvatar preserves the soul, but the hröa must be made anew: and like the flesh, research notes can only cross what was once the Sundering Sea by ship. I suppose they are now at the bottom of said Sea, if they were not previously destroyed in the ruin of Nargothrond. It is fortunate that I have a perfectly crystalline memory, and can therefore make good the loss.

General, No Archive Warnings

Words; 4,033

[welcomingdisaster]

i heard from the edain in ossiriand that lord balan is having a mid-life crisis and dating some blond floozy who looks young enough to be his kid. in unrelated news elves in nargothrond tell me that finrod felagund is cradle robbing some human guy like 1/10th his age :/

[solmarillion]

late but @jee-eun actually came up with "balanom" a while ago. "balan" and "nom", the names by which they first addressed each other. this is the ship name i use

Let’s settle this!!