#fuck feanor

[lamemaster]

Feanor's Wife

Request: @lamemaster Hiiiii I literally love you so much 🤌🏻can we please get a Nerdanel fic? Pleaseeeeee

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Nerdanel x gn Reader

AN: I sort of need this every few months

Summary: "You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

"You have lost your mind," Indis exclaims, throwing her fan at you. "You truly have!" She frantically downs her wine in one swift motion, her composure fraying.

You look out the open window, your gaze falling on the shimmering city of Tirion below. The beauty of it offers no solace, only amplifying the storm inside you.

Getting up with a sharp rustle of fabric, Indis strides across the room to close the window with an audible snap. She turns to you, gripping your face in her hands, her voice low and urgent.

"You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

Her words pierce you deeply. Yes, a friend. That is what you are meant to be. A comforting presence, a steady shoulder. That is what Nerdanel needs.

"I know," you whisper, your voice cracking as you bite into the torn skin of a cuticle, further tearing the skin. An unconscious act of anxious fidgeting.

Indis sighs heavily, the weight of your grief reflected in her troubled eyes. Without another word, she wraps her arms around you. "I'm sorry," Your elder sister sighs her heart troubled by your grief.

But that wasn’t what you had planned. Not what you imagined at all.

Your thoughts spiral as your lips are suddenly captured by hers. Nerdanel’s kiss. Desperate, fiery, and unstoppable. It shatters everything.

It is a mess. Broken shards of glass at her feet. Tear-streaked cheeks. Panicked breaths, trembling and raw in her chest. No, this wasn’t how you imagined it.

By the Valar, Indis was going to kill you.

But your sanity, the prudent voices in your mind, all fall silent against the overwhelming reality: Nerdanel is kissing you. Illúvatar above she is kissing you.

She pushes you against the kitchen cabinet, her hands tangled in your hair, tugging with a familiarity you never thought she’d dare share with you. She kissed like she did everything else with passion, fervor, and the ease of mastery you had yet to learn.

Your breath hitches as your eye catches the glass shards next to her feet. With effort, you switch places, reversing your positions and carefully keeping her away from the danger. One arm wraps around her back, sparing her the hard edge of the counter, while your other hand lifts to cup her tear-damp cheek.

Her eyes blink open, and for a moment, she looks at you. Truly sees you.

You brace yourself for the realization to dawn on her. For the grief to surge back, for her to remember that you are not him.

You are not Fëanor.

Despite the silvery-gray eyes you share with him, your hair is golden, your presence so unlike his. She would see it, surely she would.

But you are robbed of the moment. Nerdanel leans into you, burying her face into your shoulder. Her body falls limp in your arms, not out of collapse, but surrender.

Perturbed, you lift a hand to check her pulse, only for her to swat it away with the faintest annoyance. “I’m not dead,” she mutters, her voice hoarse but steady.

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment, you had been perched on the counter, calmly deshelling peas as Nerdanel wiped the kitchen surfaces in her quiet, methodical way. The next, she was on the floor, a glass carafe shattered around her, the fragments sparkling like stars against the cold stone.

And then, it had come unleashed.

Sorrow, dense and suffocating, like storm clouds heavy with thunder.

You crouched beside her instinctively, your hands gentle as you pulled her into your arms. She didn’t resist. She clung to you, her grief spilling out in broken sobs that shook her frame.

What memory had the carafe unearthed? What thread of her past had snapped to pull her under? You could not know, and you would not ask. Some things were too fragile to touch.

So you held her.

You held her the way you had held others in the past, Indis in her quiet mourning, Anairë in her despair, Arafinwë in his rare moments of doubt. Even Amras once, though that had been a strange, fleeting encounter.

Your hands moved instinctively, running through her auburn hair, soothing her as best you could. You were already planning how to move her to her bed, imagining the quiet reassurance you would offer as she drifted into another restless sleep.

But then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Nerdanel’s lips found yours.

It was not tentative. It was not careful. It was full of urgency, of need, of raw, unfiltered emotion.

And you? You complied. Without hesitation, without resistance, you kissed her back.

Your arms tightened around her, your response wordless but clear: yes.

So much for being a friend.

You were meant to be her steady rock, her comforting presence, her platonic solace. But Nerdanel had torn through those boundaries, and you could not deny her. Never.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Indis’ voice echoes like a warning: You cannot love Fëanor’s wife.

But here, in Nerdanel’s arms, her lips on yours, those words feel a world away. And for the first time, you wonder if you even care.

Because this is Nerdanel, who is not just Feanor's wife.

You hold her as you always do, murmuring soft reassurances, your hands threading through her hair with careful precision. You are steady. Solid. Everything she is not.

And it is too much.

You’re not him.

Even now, in the haze of her emotions, she knows it. She doesn’t need the physical reminders. The golden hair instead of black, the softer touch where his hands were calloused. She knows you’re not Fëanor because she has grieved him, and continues to do so. 

Nerdanel hadn’t planned on this.

It was supposed to be simple cooking, cleaning, filling the silence of her life with manageable distractions. She was supposed to find comfort in your presence, not complicate it.

But when she looked up from the shattered carafe and saw the way you knelt beside her, she felt something shift.

For years, she had carried her grief like a second skin, folding it neatly into the corners of her life where no one could touch it. With you, it all came undone.

She doesn’t know what prompted her to kiss you. Perhaps it was the way your hands soothed her hair without hesitation, or the warmth of your arms when she felt herself drowning. Or maybe it was the unbearable thought of losing someone else, someone who looked at her as though she still mattered.

But now, her mind churns with guilt. She doesn’t know how to take it back, how to undo the kiss without shattering everything.

Her hands tremble as she pulls away completely, stepping back from the kitchen counter. Her breath is uneven, her voice barely a whisper. “I—”

You reach for her, your touch light but grounding. “Nerdanel,” you say, softly but firmly, and her name on your lips feels like both a comfort and a wound.

For a moment, she considers apologizing. She considers stepping back into the role she was meant to play the grieving widow, the dutiful friend. But the thought of pretending again makes her chest ache.

“I can’t,” she says finally, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep doing this.” She gestures vaguely to the kitchen, the shattered glass, herself. “I don’t know how to carry it anymore.”

You don’t respond right away, but your expression is steady, patient. It’s the quiet reassurance she has always taken for granted.

When you step forward, gently cupping her face with your hand, she lets herself lean into the touch.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say simply.

[explorerrowan]

Okay, so Tolkien conspiracy time.

I know the Arkenstone isn't a Silmaril. I know it. But it was literally the heart of the Lonely Mountain, one of the few treasures in Smaug's hoard that wasn't plundered from Moria or other dwarven holdings in Rhovanion. It was actually from the Lonely Mountain. And the Lonely Mountain is, almost by definition, all by itself. It's not on any kind of fault line or anything. Which makes me think that it's a hotspot in the planet's crust, like Yellowstone or Hawai'i, a place where the convective forces of the Earth's mantle basically vent heat. And at the end of the War of Wrath, Maedhros jumped into a volcanic pit with his Silmaril rather than let anyone else have it. Could underground currents of magma during the Second Age have forced Maedhros's Silmaril back to the surface in the form of the Arkenstone at the heart of the Lonely Mountain, where it was found in the Third Age by the dwarves?

The Silmarils were enchanted so that they could not be held by unclean hands. That's why Maedhros threw himself into the fiery pit, because the stone literally burned his hands for his greed, and if he couldn't hold it, then no one could. And the Arkenstone abandoned King Thror and refused to let itself be found when he hid in his treasury out of greed and cowardice instead of fighting off Smaug with his people. It was later stolen by Bilbo, of course, but Bilbo was only using it as a bargaining chip to get Thorin to not be a dick to the men of Dale. And then Thorin died in the Battle of Five Armies, and they buried him with the stone, so it's not like anyone else had the opportunity to get greedy over it.

Feanor's descendants would be so mad if that were the case, which is probably why I like this idea.

[nailsinmywall]

sons of finwë during the years of the trees

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Maedhros’ abdication is so funny because every feanorian was probably salivating over his return like oOOooOoh Nelyo’s back, oh yeah we got our King now you see what he’ll do to you Nolofinwe he’ll really put you in your place huh buddy, good old Nelyo’s not gonna stand for this disrespect he’ll show you the crown belongs with us. And then

[red-raven-reading]

[tolkien-povs]

I am a firm believer that despite all the crimes Caranthir has done (kinslaying, fraud, etc), he will only be arrested for tax evasion when he gets re-embodied.

[elvinye]

already inflicted this on the discord server and decided to make everyone suffer here too

assigning silmarillion elves bad driving habits

feanor: speeds, unless you tailgate, in which case he will slow down until you back off. if he has to stop in the middle of the high way, that's your fault for entering a battle of wills with feanor

fingolfin: tailgates

finarfin: does 5 below the speed limit in the outside lane

maedhros: chronic backseat driver

fingon: incapable of using turn signal unless he has explicitly been reminded by maedhros in the past 15 minutes

maglor: plays music so loudly he cannot hear sirens if an emergency vehicle needs to pass

celegorm: explicitly ignores those special speed limits around schools (either they learn or they die)

curufin: has modified the shit out of his car so the engines are super loud because he thinks it makes him look cool

caranthir: knows the location of every speed and red light camera in tirion. abuses this knowledge.

celebrimbor: on his phone

nerdanel: thinks stop signs are a suggestion (see also: red flags)

finrod: incapable of recognizing when he is too drunk to drive. very insistent he gives his drunk friends a drive home because they're to drunk to drive and he wants them to be SAFE

turgon: tells everyone to get an electric car while not actually having one himself

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother further. No, Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[the-hobbits-to-isengard]

Fingon: So... what's goin' on?

Maedhros: You want the long version or the short version?

Fingon, hesitantly: The short one, I guess?

Maedhros: Shit's fucked.

Fingon: Oh. Well, yeah, that's definitely not an optimal situation.

[draftsandchains]

the silmarillion as vines

[sauronism]

new footage of celebrimbor and annatar ( source : x )

[lamemaster]

Here's an excerpt I wrote long ago. What can I say I love Nerdanel and I would marry her at any given moment. Oh to be Maedhros' step-mommy ~~(forgive me I am on my period and this gives me joy)

He walked ignoring swords pointed at his throat to the sobbing elleth in the corner. With a graceful moment that defied his internal nerves he knelt before her. He then gently took her hands in his hands. Hands that he admired too much. Long calloused fingers that one may confuse for that of a swordsman. Taking his time, he gently caressed each knuckle. Finally, Nerdanel looked up to meet his gaze that seemed intent on her palms now. The room was quiet as if the air had been sucked out of the very existence. Very slowly Sanwe opened his mouth trying to articulate his thoughts. “What do you want melda?” he finally looked into her eyes. “You name it, and it shall be done” he gently wiped the lingering tears on her cheek. With a calm smile, he continued “For years you have yearned to be with your sons, and I would not be a hindrance to this. So, tell me what it is that you desire?”. Searching for an answer in her eyes he knew that he will not get an answer from her. Not today, no one surpasses her stubbornness when it came to such matters. With his heart filled with painful fondness, he stood up. Nerdanel followed the movement with a sudden restlessness. He reluctantly retracted his hands from hers while facing others in the room. “It looks like it is quite difficult to come to a conclusion tonight Melda…I’ll wait for your verdict with all my heart.” Looking at disheveled and enraged Feanorians he added, “However, it seems you might run out of rooms in this case. So, I’ll stay at the healer’s ward for now. I’ll await your word.”. He smiled despite the situation, the misery, and the pain, how could he not when looking at her. “Name it and it’ll all be a summer night’s fever dream.” He whispered looking back into her wide-eyed gaze. With a slight bow, he left the room off to the bleak healer’s dorm.

[electroniccollectiondonut]

Thinking of Feanor being reembodied and finding that Formenos, his home, has spent so many thousands of years stewing in Feanorian Fanaticism that he can no longer recognize this place he built.

psst ask me about my Feanorian Culture headcanons

[victorie552]

Kind of a weird AU but hear me out:

Finwe marries Indis, right? Most controversial thing Finwe ever done and that includes leading elves from their ancestral home to a new continent to live with gods. Silmarillion says that it happened because he fell in love and I believe it BUT what Silmarillion doesn't tell you is WHEN Finwe marries Indis. I saw posts that say the canon is inconclusive and Tolkien probably changed his mind a lot, and half of what of what Tolkien wrote is thrown from the window by fandom, so.

Anyway, one of the versions said Feanor was at least a teenager when Finwe/Indis happens (I think). What Silmarillion states is that Feanor married VERY young by elven standards, and that Nerdanel was below his station (classism? in elven society? apparently!).

Last thing before I get to the main point: Fingolfin marries Anaire, a Noldo lady, who I saw often enough written as a noble or a court lady, perfectly fine that, no idea if that's canon. And Finarfin very much marries Teleri princess.

...I don't know guys, it feels very convienient. For princes to fall in love with exactly the kind of women who would be approved by royal court and strenghten political ties with other elven factions. If it was anything else than silm, I would call political marriages.

Time for crack: based on what I wrote above I propose an AU where it was FEANOR who was supposed to marry Indis. For politics! Vanyar are the most important faction in Aman! Let's marry into that!

But the MOMENT Feanor became an adult and they could process with courting without making it creppier than it already is, Feanor runs off to elope with his coworker and there's nothing they can do. Well, that's what Finwe tells Ingwe when Ingwe rages about it to him.

Finwe loves Feanor, he wants him to marry for love, and that's exactly what happens. But, uh, all Vanyar are pissed that there's no political marriage when they were promised one (they mad cause they look stupid now), and, well. Finwe decides to bite the bullet. For his son.

It's not true of course. But imagine family dinners after that.

[psstwantsomecheese]

Silmarillion as stuff I have on my phone part 2

[fingolfinwiththesteelchair]

Hark! Ill tidings, the first blood has been spilled in Valinor! Finwë, first king of the Ñoldor, who led his people to Aman, has been murdered! Melkor has slain Lord Finwë and stolen the Silmarils of the House of Fëanor!

There has been unrest in Valinor as of late, and now this! Fëanor, first son of Finwë has given a rousing, blood-stirring speech, and made a vow to destroy Morgoth, avenging his father and retrieving his Silmarils. With the silmarils, the Eldar may hold the light of the trees themselves and reside in peace, without the oversight of the Valar who failed to prevent it. Valinor is no longer safe, says he, and the Valar not fit to rule over the Eldar. He invites all who so desire to follow him into the East, to middle-earth, to seek freedom and safety, and to destroy Morgoth.