#his brother Bëor is a story of his own | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

actual-bill-potts · 1 year ago

Text

The weeks Finrod stayed at the house of Eärwen in Alqualondë were both balm and ache. A balm, for any number of reasons: his only sister was in the room next to him, an arrangement Finrod had last enjoyed in the glory days of Doriath. Elrond Peredhel had arrived, and his conversation was everything Finrod could wish. Once, long ago, he had walked the shores of Númenor with Elros Peredhel, who had then been an old Man and borne strongly the stamp of the House of Bëor. It was a pleasure to at last meet the twin of his long-departed friend - and to hear news from one who had as strong an interest in mortal affairs as he himself did.

Then, too, there were the mortals. From Alqualondë, it was a simple matter to travel to Tol Eressëa and visit the Halflings’ - Hobbits’ - dwelling-place. Bilbo and Frodo were delightful company, a breath of fresh air he had last experienced talking to Tuor - and Tuor had grown mightily Elvish in the Age since his arrival. Their cooking was unlike anything he had tasted before, so thoroughly new an experience that he laughed from sheer surprise the first time he ate with them, and had to quite hastily soothe their offended feelings.

Both, too, were keen loremasters, and it was from Bilbo that he first heard the full story of Aragorn and Arwen: how Aragorn had met Arwen in the woods of Lothlórien - he thought with a pang of Galadriel’s grief - how both the lovers had labored for years to bring about a world in which they could be wed; and how Arwen had at last broken from her family and her people to cross the great chasm between Elves and Men. At the last, Finrod had felt a sharp pang of longing that he could not quite suppress; and both Hobbits had looked at him with sympathy.

“It has often struck me,” said Bilbo, “how very cruel is the division between mortal and immortal! Poor Elrond; poor Arwen! Both have attained so much of their hearts’ desire, but they must be sundered forever, and grieve forever - or Elrond must, at least. I don’t know about Arwen. I suppose I shall find out eventually,” he added thoughtfully.

Frodo said nothing; but his eyes looked out at Finrod from his curiously unlined face with such wisdom and sorrow that Finrod had to look away.

The sorrow of mortals: that was the ache underneath the balm, the bitter dregs in a honeyed cup. Arwen was gone, his sweet niece’s daughter. He had heard so much of her from Celebrían that he had felt quite as if he knew her; and though he rejoiced that she would not be sundered from the one she had chosen, he grieved her loss. How much greater was Elrond’s grief, who had lost brother and daughter; how much greater Celebrían’s, who had said goodbye to her daughter in the certainty of reunion and must now face the certainty of loss; how much greater Galadriel’s, who had watched Arwen grow up!

Their grief had a seat at every table, a necessary guest whose presence made all watch their tongues, and harried Celebrían and Elrond upstairs early in the evening. Finrod recognized its presence, but that knowledge did not enable him to reach through that shadowy figure which sat between him and Celebrían when they broke bread together. He wanted to help, but in truth knew not how.

With some difficulty, he cast his mind back to the terrible weeks after Balan had died, seeking some - word of comfort, or gesture, or gift, that would have brought relief. He could think of none. He had been drowning, his only desire to feel the dizzy lightness his mother’s people had said was felt in the instant before Ossë took one’s spirit; but it had not come. He had clung to his own body with grim determination, lost to despair - and then one day he had simply - he had seen -

There had been a small white flower, peeking up at him from the dirt as if to say aha! Found me, have you?, and he had reached down to brush the velvety-soft petals, and felt, for the first time, a glimmer of joy. As if Yavanna herself had reached out her hand to his; as if Balan was saying, from beneath the earth where he lay, do not weep forever, dearest heart.

And from then on things were - more bearable. Not easy; but laughter no longer felt as if it would crack his face in two, and Balan’s smile in his children’s faces became a blessing as well as pain. He wanted desperately to show Celebrían the path to that moment; but he hardly knew it himself.

Perhaps it was different for everyone.

For Elrond, it must have been, for Elrond sometimes came to him and tried, carefully, to speak of it. It happened after weeks of light conversations in which Finrod carefully only inquired about things which he thought would not hurt to remember. Too often they had run up against the stone wall that was Elrond’s loss - for his children were in so many stories! - but in these times Elrond’s face was set as clay in the firing kiln.

Once he asked, “Was Elros - was he happy? In his old age?”

Finrod was puzzled, for although he had known Elros well and visited often in his later years, Elrond had visited more often than he - it was by chance only that they had never met in Númenor - and of course he would know his twin better than anyone. He said as much.

Elrond laughed a little. “A - Man may hide many things from his brother, if he does not wish to cause grief. He might have confided in a figure of legend more willingly, in truth.”

Finrod did not need to consider his answer this time. “Your brother, I believe, was joyful until his last day. He never expressed regret; and I have no doubt that he danced as lightly out of his body as Lúthien once did in the glades of Doriath. In truth I envied him,” he added, very softly.

Elrond’s face darkened a little. “Arwen will not be happy,” he said, “at the end. I have seen it.”

“Old age can be - unpleasant,” Finrod offered carefully, “but she will - she will not be alone after -”

“No,” Elrond said abruptly. “No, I cannot - I am sorry.” He was breathing harshly through his nose.

“Do not apologize!” Finrod exclaimed. “Please - can I -”

“I must - outside. Alone,” Elrond said vaguely, and fled, leaving Finrod sitting helpless. Grief was an ever-present specter in the Undying Lands that not even the Valar could take away. What was his little wisdom in the face of such a loss?

But Elrond came back the next day, driven, it seemed, to scratch at what hurt the most. He said, “Arwen will grieve. I have seen it. When her husband leaves her. She will weep and find no comfort, wander the forests of her youth in the winter of her life; and at the last she will give up her spirit in the bitterness of grief.”

Finrod said, carefully, “Of course she will grieve when Aragorn dies. But she will not grieve forever.”

He did not say I envy her; of course he did not; but perhaps it showed on his face anyway. Elrond’s expression lightened, a little; then sorrow chased the light from his eyes.

“Death will be - bitter for her,” he said. “I have seen so many mortals die. They cling to life even as their spirit slips away. And their lives are short! How much harder will it be for my daughter, who has so much life to hold to!”

“Life,” said Finrod, praying he was not overstepping, “can also be bitter. Often without remission.”

Elrond looked at him with those grey eyes of Lúthien’s. “I hope she finds joy,” he said simply.

“She will,” said Finrod. “Surely she will,” for if there was no joy for mortals after their brief lives of pain then all the world was to no purpose.

Celebrían was also trying, in her own way, to find a path out of despair. She attempted to be merry at table, but her words were quiet and her laughter rang false. She would often disappear for an afternoon or evening, reappearing only when the stars were out with deeply shadowed eyes.

She could not seem to speak of her loss, fleeing before sorrow as the first elves had fled the hunt of Oromë. She grew paler and paler, a grey flame that flickered palely against the stars. Finrod saw Elrond cast occasional helpless glances at her; saw Galadriel once mouth Míriel to herself before her face spasmed in pain; and resolved that he would run the sorrow to ground if he could.

Thus it came to pass that one day Finrod took Celebrían by the hand, and led her to a high cliff overlooking the water, and said, “Please, my friend, is there a way I can bring you comfort?”

He did not say ease your grief, for the grief could not be eased in Arda Marred.

Celebrían shivered, looking out at the waters, at the waves crashing unforgiving upon the sea.

“My daughter is gone,” she said at last. “She will live in joy for a mortal span; then she will be gone and not even death will bring her back to me. There is no comfort.”

“Is there not?” said Finrod helplessly. “She will have her heart’s-desire, and not lose it. Surely -”

He cut himself off as Celebrían turned upon him a look of such blazing fury that not Galadriel herself could have surpassed. “You speak of heart’s desires, who has never had a child!”

Had she slapped him full across the face it could not have hurt more; but Finrod carefully suppressed his flinch and said only, “I am sorry.”

She did not respond, but moved away in silence; then suddenly she sank to her knees in the scrubby grass. Her head was bowed. Then she spoke, voice quiet as a drop of rain upon the water.

“If you could have made the choice of Lúthien - would you have?”

Finrod found his tongue suddenly cleaved to his mouth. What could he say? He did not know her grief. He never would.

Finally he said slowly, “To follow Balan to Mandos would have been to abandon my siblings to the Siege of Angband alone; to abandon my people who had chosen me as their King; to give up all hope of reunion with my mother and father across the Sea. My duty would have cried out, No! and my heart now, which has gathered so many of my beloved’s children unto itself, cries out its refusal likewise. But - at the time -” he paused. He had spent so much time carefully not thinking of this. He had not wished to sully the Lay of Leithian with his own petty jealousy; nor had he wanted to burden Elros with ancient grief. But now - with Celebrían kneeling stiff before him -

“At the time, I - yes. I would have made her choice. Selfish though it might have been in a time of war, Elbereth preserve me, I would have taken Balan’s hand and in doing so released all else.”

Celebrian might have been graven of stone. “Would you have regretted it, if you had?”

Finrod considered, striving for calm; Celebrian did not need anyone’s turbulent emotions but her own at present. “I - do not know.”

A silence, and Finrod continued, haltingly. He had never said this to anyone. He had not intended to. “I will tell you - Manwë forgive me, for this part of myself - I was there when Lúthien sang in the Halls. I was there when she was granted mortality, and left hand-in-hand with Beren. And I tell you that - that when I heard - for a moment I felt naught but envy burning its way down my throat. I coveted that fate more than I have coveted anything before or since. Had it been granted to me, I would have followed Lúthien out of the Gates of Mandos, broken as I still was; I would have returned to Sauron’s cursed tower, and bled out among the wolves and the filth and the darkness, if it would have released my spirit beyond Arda. I -” he broke off; could not continue. He covered his face briefly.

“I am sorry,” he said, “Your own grief is enough. I do not wish to add to it.”

The breath of a laugh. “Is it? Why does grief multiply so? My daughter’s wedding has come and gone and I did not help her with her hair, nor send a single gift. She will bear children who will never know me. I will not make a blanket for her first child, nor care for her last. In the end she will fade in sorrow, and I will not be there. I will not be there again.”

Finrod had nothing to say. It was true. Arwen was sundered from them. There could be no comfort for such a loss. Two Ages of faithfulness, and he was still frozen in the moment when Balan’s spirit had trembled in his hand like a baby bird in winter and then fled. Anyone looking at Elrond could see the shadow of his twin: as if Elros was waiting smiling in the doorway, backlit by the dawn. The second before reunion, extended agonizingly into eternity.

There could be no reconciliation. There was only - the bearing up.

He said, almost to himself, “Yet there was joy. There was!”

He lowered himself to the ground next to Celebrían. Together they watched the waves roll in from the Sundering Seas; and Celebrían said at last, “And if my Undómiel had had only a single day - a single hour - before her spirit fled, still I could not regret her.”

She lowered her head to his shoulder; and if in the press of Celebrían’s small fingers on his own Finrod felt the echo of a young Artanis; if, when Elrond came to find them later, his black hair was turned by the sun to a nut-brown shade that could have belonged to anyone in the House of Bëor; if the Sea under the stars, as they walked back to the dwelling of Eärwen, shone with the vividness of Lúthien’s eyes, who had said farewell to him in the Halls so long ago -

He had loved them, those who were gone.

He had loved them.

There was a large crowd by the quays of Tol Eressëa.

Finrod did not, in principle, particularly enjoy seeing many of the Eldar gathered on the beach. It brought back too many memories: the curious milling about after the earth had swallowed the Númenoreans - what a stupid, thoughtless, evil waste of life - the departure of his father’s host for Middle-earth, taking with it everyone he had not yet lost, and of course the - first incident.

But today he was here among the crowd, and his father and mother, and his grandfather and grandmothers, and Angrod and Orodreth with Finduilas, and finally Celebrían. Still a small group, compared to the carefree days of his youth; but another place was about to be filled, for his sister was coming home.

Galadriel was coming home! He had missed her for so long that the thought of her was a river-tumbled stone in his heart, worn smooth by longing; but she would be here at last. When the news had come his mother had not stopped singing for days, and his father had stood taller, as if released from some great weight.

There were other important passengers on this ship, of course. Two mortals, for one - Finrod could not wait to meet them - and the famous Elrond, who was already twice-dear to him as Celebrían’s husband and a descendant of those whose loss could never be worn down in his heart. Celebrían’s small anxious face always brightened when she spoke of him; and Finrod had some hope that some of the great shackles of grief she still carried would be broken away by her spouse’s presence.

The crowd was not only Galadriel’s nearest and dearest, of course; there was Elwing the White, standing still and serious as she always was, waiting for her son; Idril and Tuor, hands clasped, awaiting their grandson; many of the Returned from Rivendell who wished to see Elrond again; and a large number of Elves who, Finrod was fairly sure, were merely curious about the mortals.

Though perhaps that was uncharitable. All on the ship - save perhaps the Halflings - had been dearly beloved by so many.

And now they were coming back. There was a collective breath from the crowd as the ship appeared on the horizon, sped by Ulmo. A beautiful sight, as Círdan’s craft always was; but Finrod hardly noticed, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of golden hair. Was that her? It must be, standing eagerly at the prow - so like his sister - he almost laughed for sheer joy. He was half-afraid to move, to blink, lest she disappear from his sight; but he blinked, twice, thrice, and there she still was.

Beside him, Celebrían murmured, "I see him," with a note in her voice that Finrod intimately recognized. He had said it often enough himself, when someone long since gone had returned from a hunting trip or a visit or simply a long walk. There had not been the desperation, the raw grief and longing, in his tone then that Celebrían’s voice carried now; but that unalloyed joy would not be his again. The one he loved had died indeed, and would not return.

He breathed through the grief and refocused his eyes, searching for a glimpse of dark hair - Celebrían had told him that much - curious to see Elrond. There, perhaps, under the sail, next to a small creature who must be one of the Halflings -

Finrod froze, and breathed in so sharply that Celebrían beside him looked at him, concerned.

"It is nothing," he said. "Merely - surprised."

Celebrían nodded absently and returned her gaze to the ship.

Elrond was the image of Lúthien, come again to the world. For a moment Finrod was lost in memories of Doriath, laughing with a pair of star-silver eyes that had looked into his just as Elrond’s had for a moment, both merry and grave.

She had been gone so long.

Beside him, Angrod leaned over and said, with all his customary tact, "Celebrían, you did not tell us your husband was Lúthien come again!"

Finrod winced - comparisons to Lúthien were always somewhat tricky - but Celebrían only laughed. "Wait until you see my daughter!" she said. "I believe my parents were a bit heartbroken. Three grandchildren, and they might as well all have been tiny duplicates of Elrond. For awhile, anyway," she added. "Elladan has my mother’s chin, and Elrohir my father’s very arched eyebrows." She was smiling more widely than Finrod had ever seen.

The ship drew ever closer. Galadriel’s eyes met his, and she winked; then she saw her daughter and an expression of such tenderness passed over her features that Finrod had to look away. There were so many Galadriels that he had never met: wife, mother, queen, grandmother.

But she was here now.

The instant the ship docked, Celebrían was running, a small silver flash. Elrond hastened to meet her, and for an instant silence fell as they crashed together like waves meeting the shoreline. Elrond spun her around and around, Lúthien’s face bright and alive once more; then they were kissing so passionately Finrod had to look away again.

Galadriel did not immediately come to meet her family, but Finrod did not begrudge her that; she was waiting for her daughter. That did not matter to Eärwen and Finarfin, who together were not three steps behind Celebrían, and who were weeping before they even reached Galadriel. "My daughter," Finrod heard Eärwen say, "My Nerwen. My daughter!" and then Galadriel was nearly obscured by her father and mother.

The joy in the air was tangible; Finrod nearly laughed aloud for no other reason than sheer happiness. Angrod was grinning beside him as Celebrían tore herself away from Elrond at last and flung herself at her mother, a small shining figure against Galadriel’s stately tall queenliness; then the whole troupe emerged fully onto shore and Finrod and Angrod, Orodreth and Finduilas, all hurled themselves at Galadriel in turn. They ended up in one laughing pile on the sand; though Finrod nearly extricated himself when he saw the Halflings emerge from the boat. They were so small, and so - so bright to his eyes. He had missed mortals, oh! How he had missed them! But then Olórin followed them out, and said in his booming voice, completely ignoring the undignified tangle that was the House of Arafinwë: "Our mortal friends are weary from their long journey, and seek rest; all who wish to may come visit later!" and although this was addressed to the crowd, his eyes were resting directly upon Finrod.

Well, Finrod could take a hint; he turned away and dumped a handful of sand down the back of Angrod’s shirt.

"Ow!" Angrod yelped. "What was that for?"

"For being irritating, no doubt," Galadriel said serenely; then she shrieked in turn as Angrod poured sand over her head. "Angrod! My hair!"

Elrond was standing a little aside, looking at his mother, who stood transfixed upon the shore. Finrod carefully did not look, not wanting to intrude upon a reunion that, like his own with Galadriel’s, had been two Ages in coming; but he could not help hearing Elwing’s murmured, "My son; my son! Forgive me! Have you come back at last?" and Elrond’s gentle, "There is nothing to forgive, Naneth," before he was distracted by Finduilas - the traitor! - tossing sand at him.

At last Finrod and his siblings righted themselves, brushing the beach from their hair. Finrod could not stop looking at Galadriel. How grown she was! How wise, how strong, how shining! She had been grown for a long time, of course; but she was a Queen now, as he had once been a King; and she had never abandoned her people.

Galadriel, of course, had so many people to look at that she could not hold his gaze for long. But when she did meet his eyes, the old familiar light filled them as it always had: a teasing gleam, as if laughing at a joke only they two knew.

At last Celebrían stepped forward into the throng, holding Elrond by the hand. Close up, Finrod could see that he did not only bear the mark of Lúthien. There were Beren’s stiff-set shoulders, his cleft chin; and if they were Beren’s they had once been -

"May I present Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell and my wedded spouse," Celebrían said. Her tone was formal; but her eyes were lit with such joy it seemed as if she bubbled out the words. Such joy! It was good to see her so happy.

Elrond bowed, and the House of Arafinwë bowed to him as Celebrían introduced them each in turn. "Haru Finarfin, and Haruni Eärwen; Ar-Haru Olwë and Ar-Haruni Falwen; my cousin Finduilas; and my naneth’s brothers Angrod, Orodreth, and Finrod Felagund."

Elrond came to a stop before Finrod, and bowed low. "My house and I," he said, "stand forever in your debt." His voice was deep, deeper than any Elf’s Finrod had yet heard: the voice of the House of Bëor.

"Not so," Finrod protested; and swept into the magnificent courtesy of the King of Nargothrond. "It is I rather, and all the peoples of Middle-earth, who owe a debt to you and your house. All that I lost," he added, seeing Elrond about to protest, "I gave gladly long ago, in the name of one whom I loved; and I counted it a joy to give it. Do not hold yourself in my debt, Descendant of Bëor!"

After a moment, Elrond nodded and stepped back. His face filled with wonder. "Then the tales were true?" he murmured. "Bëor the Elf-Friend was beloved in truth by the King of Nargothrond?"

"Beloved; deeply beloved; and the love he gave in return was -" Finrod’s throat closed off. Two Ages, and the loss was still there.

Elrond bowed his head. "Forgive me!" he said. "Perhaps -" but he stopped. "Later," he said, and again took Celebrían’s hand.

Then there was another round of merry greetings, for Eärwen wished to hear of the voyage, and Celebrían for news of her father, still in Lothlórien, and her children - "you must meet them, Haru, they sometimes look so Noldor that my father was appalled," she said laughing.

But as the party began to drift away from shore, towards the ferry that would take them to Alqualondë, Elrond grew grave. He drew Celebrían aside for a moment, and placed his hand on her shoulder, and said something too quietly for Elven-ears to hear; but Celebrían’s sudden stillness and pallor could not slip by unnoticed.

Finrod happened to glance round, as Elrond was speaking, and saw Celebrían’s face break as if she had been split down the middle, and he knew. He could not help but know.

He did not know, yet, that it was Arwen, she who was said to be Lúthien returned indeed, who had chosen the path of Elros; but that suffering, from which there could not be relief till the breaking of the world, he knew as intimately as he had once known the inside of Balan’s wrist.

The rest of the trip was quiet, though no one pried - all had lost too much - and when they arrived at the beautiful house Eärwen kept, Celebrían and Elrond took a little food, and then entered their chambers and closed the door very softly. The House of Arafinwë remained in the graceful entrance hall several minutes more, talking of nothing in particular; then Galadriel said that she would like to unpack her things, and went upstairs. All dispersed: Orodreth and Finduilas to see to their luggage as well, Angrod outside to "kick at tide-pools," as he termed it, Finarfin and Eärwen to the kitchen, and Finrod - was at loose ends. He stood in the hall for a moment more; then he went up to see Galadriel.

At his hesitant knock, she called, "Ah - come!" as if she had been expecting him. Perhaps she had been. His sister was wise, and knew him very well.

He opened the door and entered. Galadriel was unpinning the pearls in her hair, which she had doubtless worn to greet Olwë and Falwen - politicking was a hard habit to break! - and her luggage was strewn across half the bed. Finrod felt his lips quirk at the sight. Few would guess that Galadriel was not always tidy; but she had rarely been so.

"Help me with my hair?" she said, without preamble, and Finrod sat beside her and began undoing the complex plaits. It could have been any number of evenings, after a ball in Tirion or Doriath or Nargothrond: Finrod and Galadriel, the two vainest members of the family, unraveling each other’s carefully-wrought braids and laughing over some amusing happening or other.

They were not laughing now.

"What has happened?" Finrod asked after a moment.

Galadriel met his eyes in the mirror. "My granddaughter Arwen has -"

She stopped. Her nose crinkled in the way it always had when she was about to cry.

Finrod touched her shoulder. "You needn’t say it," he offered. "I know. I could not help but see."

"I have missed you, Ingoldo!" Galadriel said, laughing a little. "Most gracious and perceptive of brothers. I suppose you could not have helped it, at that."

"You know why," Finrod said softly. "You know why I could see."

Galadriel sobered. "I will not make you say it, either."

"You needn’t make me," said Finrod. "We are in Aman, land of memory and peace, and there are no Men here who can be harmed by the appearance of bias, nor a leaguer that must hold and trump all other considerations; nor even many who will laugh - not that I care! I loved Balan. I wedded him in heart and in law, and held his children to be my children, and I dwelt with him in joy until the day his - his spirit left the circles of the world." It was still hard to say. "And he and all his children will not return to me until the breaking of the world - save Elrond and Elwing only. My heart went forth in joy and returned in bitterness. Yet I do not regret him. I do not wish to forget."

Galadriel’s nose crinkled again, a little; and her eyes were so bright with pain it hurt to look at them. "I have had many years - as mortals count them, anyway - knowing Arwen’s choice. Yet the moment of parting was not made easier. My only granddaughter! She danced and laughed in Lothlórien for many years, as Lúthien did in Doriath. You remember," she said, and Finrod nodded. "The most patient child - that was unlike Lúthien - and the kindest, and the most skilled of hand. That is like her atar; she meant to be a great healer, like him, when she grew up. And she was! A great healer and a great craftswoman both…" she trailed off.

Finrod had gently unraveled most of her crown of braids as she talked; now he took up her comb and began to run it through her hair. "Would it help to speak of - how it happened?" he asked.

Galadriel leaned back a little. "Not as yet," she responded, voice almost steady. "It is too - too close. But if you would - would talk to my daughter, when she is ready, I - there are not many who will understand."

"Of course," Finrod said. "Your daughter is a delight," he added. "Her company has brightened many a sad hour."

"So she has always been," Galadriel said fondly. "She is like you in many ways. I often thought of you - of all my brothers - when she was growing up. I thought how you would love her. I am glad to be proven right."

"I am sorry I was not there," offered Finrod, because he was.

Galadriel’s shoulders stiffened, just a bit. "I still have not forgiven you for the Lay," she said.

"The Lay? I quite like it, it’s a master-class in First Age composition - oh dear," said Finrod.

Galadriel was crying quite stormily. She turned to face him, so suddenly that he had to snatch the comb back or risk its entanglement.

"You," she said, "did not have to hear it sung throughout your kingdom for two Ages of the world. You did not have to hear how your brother died alone and in pain at every feast night, every festival, every musical celebration - you did not have to hear young bards attempting to bring out new sides of the story every century or so, as if your brother’s death was a light-prism or a tuning fork -" she paused for breath.

"I was not alone," Finrod pointed out, because after all he had not been.

"I should have been there!" Galadriel said. "Battling Sauron by your side as you dared to reach out your hand and attempt what none of the rest of us had even tried; or failing that, shouting down our foolish cousins; or at the least I should have been able to bury you! I did not hear that you had left Nargothrond until you were dead, dead and gone and lost to me, and you did not even have the decency to do it in such a way that would not follow me for two Ages! You fool! You utter, complete -" she broke off, burying her head in her hands. She was half-laughing; but the laughter was not merry.

Finrod reached out hesitantly; and she grasped his hand and pulled him close. "My brother," she said. "My brother who has returned!"

They sat like that, golden head upon golden shoulder, for a long time. Then Finrod took up the comb again, and they settled in front of the mirror. Queen and King, sister and brother, exiled and Returned: and for all their sorrow they could yet have been freshly come from the court of Menegroth, kicking off their dancing-shoes and laughing at the darkness.

#my writing #more coming soon feat more frodo cuz I cannot shut up lol #finrod #celebrian #elrond #loss #silm fic

317 notes · View notes

aguythatlikesstuff · 2 years ago

Text

Yes, there is a beautiful and bittersweet nature to the idea that after the Breaking of the World, all will reunite and work together in the Second Music. That after millennia of a slow defeat, the waning of magic and the slow decline of dwarves, everyone will at last be together after Morgoth’s ultimate defeat at Turin Turambar’s hands. Fëanor and his sons will be released and redeemed, Míriel will get to be with her son, Finrod will see Beör, Aegnor will see Andreth, Celebrimbor will work with Narvi, Elwing and Eärendil and Elrond will finally get to see Elros and meet all of his descendants, just imagine how large the family gatherings will be. And it is the fact that until then they are kept apart by the fates of their races and choices that makes that implied final union at the end of time so much more impactful and beautiful. It’s one of the reasons I love the deep thematic story structure of Tolkien’s worldbuilding.

HOWEVER-

The fact remains that - and I don’t care how many internal laws of the lore it breaks, I am well aware of them - I want to see little Eldarion meet all of his elf-ancestors. Cuz the fact is that he is descendant of pretty much all of the greatest elves to ever live.

Like, could you imagine almost an Alice In Wonderland-like situation? Little baby Eldarion stumbles upon a figurative rabbit-hole and falls into Valinor and meets this gang of elves with various degrees of crippling issues who can only stare at this random child, but they all decide to ignore the tension between them because as soon as they see the kid Elrond joyously screams that HOLY SHIT THAT’S HIS GRANDSON

None of them with the exception of Elrond have had children for literal thousands of years and are ecstatic to have one that’s descendant of them, even if it is - as Celegorm put it - a “dirt baby”, and they all begin to compete for the child’s attention.

Elwing is overjoyed to meet her great-grandchild, even moreso because of years of nothing but her own imagination and letters and stories from Elrond of her other son’s many descendants, she finally gets to meet a child from Elros’ line. Even after all these generations later, Elwing can see so many little mannerisms from Eldarion that she fondly remembered from when Elros was a small child. Though she cries when she holds the boy for the first time, they are tears of joy immeasurable.

Elrond is much the same, for one of his greatest pains when he left Arwen in Middle-Earth was that he would never get to meet the family she made for herself, but now he has little Eldarion on his laps and recounts him with tales of Arwen and Aragorn in their youth. And though Celebrian can never see Arwen again, meeting Eldarion and knowing just how happy her daughter is helps mend some wounds that not even the bliss of Valinor could have healed.

Out of the elves of Finarfin’s house, Galadriel’s joy is matched only by Finrod’s, who not only is fascinated by and adores human children in general, but is so happy to meet the boy who is descendant of his dear friend Bëor.

Fëanor - even though he never met one - had never thought highly of Men, and the child wasn’t even directly descendant from him, unlike Fingolfin and Finarfin, though he was surprisingly invested in winning the heart of the Eldarion. Probably at first because he sure wasn’t about to let another person prefer one of his brothers over him, but his smiles came to be more genuine.

Maedhros and Maglor feel similarly to Elwing, seeing Elros live on in some small way and not only in their hearts. However, there is still a LOT of shit they have to go through inside themselves, cuz let’s be honest, the relationship between them and the twins wasn’t always as romanticized and fluffy as a lot of people like to make it out, and they feel afraid and unworthy to even approach the child. But in spite of their attempts at subtle distancing, Eldarion finds them and latches on, and the brothers discover they have a hard time saying no to the boy.

There are probably a ton of other interactions that could come from this wildly world breaking scenario that I’m not smart enough to come up with, but this wildly un-canon idea makes me so happy.

All I’m saying is why can’t the House of Finwë just come back to life and get along while taking care of Aragorn and Arwen’s dirt baby?

#silmarillion #lotr #lord of the rings #eldarion #house of finwe #elwing #elros #elrond #finrod #feanor #maedhros #maglor #celebrian #tolkien #dagor dagorath #valinor #i want them to be happy so bad #let me dream

256 notes · View notes

imakemywings · 2 years ago

Photo

I even did a cute image and everything! This is TOLKIEN and MASS EFFECT. I’ve tried to break the Tolkien ones down by character affiliation but we all know that’s a losing battle. Enjoy! /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\ (Photo credit to Tom Tor on Unsplash)

Past rec lists

Mass Effect

A Recommendation by YourLocalPriestess - Ashley/f!Shepard - 629 - G - Ashley and Shepard haven't spoken more than a few words to each other since Ilos, and more importantly, since their kiss beforehand. But it had been over a week, and a recommendation leaves Ash with room to doubt what they have.

Between Us by Anneapocolypse ( @anneapocalypse ) - M - 2.1k - Shepard/Tali - While the war rages all around them, what was between Tali and Shepard remains.

Faithfully Faithless by Settiai - Ashley/Liara - 1.3k - T - War and faith didn't exactly go hand-in-hand.

Purple Shadows by Settiai - Ashley/Liara - T - 3k - T - Ashley hadn't even considered that the Shadow Broker would be the best person to help clear her name. She'd reacted on pure instinct. It probably said more than she'd like it to say, that her first thought when in trouble was that she needed to find Liara.

Worth It by Anonymous - Samantha/f!Shepard - 2k - G - In the midst of the reaper war, Shepard finds a pocket of normalcy for Sam.

Tolkien

Arafinweans

A Loss of Something I Ever Felt by Arriviste - G - 8.8k - Gen - Five people Finarfin did not expect, and one he did.

All Shall Fade by Cuarthol - G - 822 - Gen - Beor and Finrod say goodbye for the last time.

At the Fen of Serech by oxbridge - 1k - G - Gen - An oath is sworn: Finrod and Barahir at a moment of leave-taking.

In the Family by Arrivise and Elftrash - G - 1.6k - Celeborn/Galadriel - Celebrían’s parents were horribly in love, and difficult to divide on matters like bedtime and how far up a tree one should be allowed to climb. They had conversations with their eyes, and in their heads, their faces calm, and then they always gave her their answer together.

Lord and Vassal by ArlenianChronicles - G - 4.8k - Gen - A tale of Finrod and Bëor's friendship through the years, of time spent together, confidences shared, and thoughts dwelled on, as seen through Finrod's point of view.

Feanorians

A Song of Staying by crownlessliestheking - G - 4k - Gen - Celebrimbor, Maedhros, and Finrod talk in the Halls of Mandos.

Brother Dearest, I Need Some Clout So Pls Model for My Next Instagram Product Placement? by prostisvit and zuo_zuo - G - 15k - Gen - Maedhros, by the grace of the Valar and his own worry, is sent to find his long lost brother, who has not yet returned to the peace and safety of Valinor. His long lost brother meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

Easily Sever What Never Was One by Elftrash - T - 17.3k - Caranthir/Haleth - “And you have come to ask me,” Haleth said, still breathless with outrage at the idea, “to travel back into the north and fuck your cousin better?”

Elvish Letters by Lady_Gavroch - G - 3.8k - Gen - Since Finwë's descendants cannot be always together (for the sake of everyone else), they must keep in touch by writing to each other. It's all very serious, of course.

Greensleeves by bravelittlescrib - T - 5k - Feanor/Nerdanel - Snippets of Nerdanel's life. The ones she loved, the ones she left, and the ones she never stopped loving.

Hair Today... by Verecunda ( @verecunda )- G - 2.2k - Gen - When an accident in the workshop results in a dire embarrassment for Narvi, Celebrimbor has his own - eccentric, but sincere - way of standing by her.

Hearken Still Unsated by polutropos ( @polutrope ) - M - 15k - Daeron/Maglor - When the Noldor return to Middle-earth to make war on Morgoth, only rumours reach Menegroth of their reasons for coming, but Doriath's minstrel experiences their loss and longing through his connection to Music and the gift of his Queen. Years later, he is sent to the Feast of Reuniting and meets the Elf whose grief he felt. A story about the Eldar returning home, their connection to the land and to each other, and their relationship to Music and fate, love and free will.

The King and the Hunting Stag by Passion_Fruit_Headquarters ( @in-the-glow-of-a-silmaril ) - T - 1.6k - Celegorm/Dior - The hunter courts the grey king in Valinor reborn.

Little Tenderness by Batshape - E - 4.1k - Feanor/Nerdanel - Istarnië, she had said, and again and again. Istarnië, Istarnië. I can beg.

Loving Them for Their Uselessness, Not Wanting to be Saved by Dialux - T- 4.4k - Gen - Newly rescued from Thangorodrim, Maedhros is trying to assign kingdoms to his brothers. But they're just as invested as him in making his life as difficult as fucking possible.

On Survival by batshape - T - 3.4 - Gen - Following the deaths of their youngest brothers, there is an attempt by Maedhros and Maglor to keep from unraveling.

Post Mortem by mochimilku ( @lesbianhaleth ) - M - 1.2k - Gen - A survivor of the Second Kinslaying conducts an examination on four Fëanorian corpses and makes some interesting discoveries.

sandbox ambivalence never dies by Samarqand - T - 1.1k - Gen - Celegorm visits Maglor one early morning in what might be Eldamar.

To My Father’s House by batshape - T - 17.4k - Gen - “Foresight,” enunciated Finrod, and he sounded now both drunk and displeased. “Is neither exact nor certain.” Caranthir and his cousin, until death.

Things They Don’t Talk About by eris_of_imladris - G - 5.6k - Gen - There are things Findis doesn’t talk about with her half-brother. But not all rules are set in stone.

Through the Smoke I See You by Dragonstorm - T - 2.6k - Gen - Maglor knows his brother blames him for Thangorodrim, but that just means he'll have to try all the harder to make him proud with his defense of the Gap. (Maglor doesn't know quite as much as he thinks he does.)

Wintering in Thargelion by Lady_Gavroche - G - 4.2k - Gen - Celebrimbor hates the winters in Himlad. Luckily, Uncle Caranthir is there to provide him with an escape plan.

You Throw Away Your Sadness, But You Are Still Left with Your Hands by Mornen and TranslucentRaiment - M - 8.1k - Gen - Maglor and the last of his sins, in the hours before and the days after the end of the first age.

Nolofinweans

I’ll Hold the Pieces Together with My Hands by Dialux and zuo_zuo - T - 6.4k - Gen - Maedhros and Fingolfin, from peaceful Aman to fell Beleriand: two courtiers to the same king, kin to one another, foes when their duties called them to it, and friends, sometimes, if one ignores everything else of their history.

Keeper of Kings by batshape - T - 4k - Gen - “You are running out of kings,” says the spectre of Fingon which kneels across from her. “Turgon is unlikely to take your counsel.” Lalwen in mourning.

What Only Stars See by FactorialRabbits - T - 13.9k - Gen - Sci-fi AU in which ex-military pilot Maedhros and aspiring archaeologist Fingon manage to crash their shuttle, backpack through a forest, and explore some ruins.

Sindar

A Breath of Memory by polutropos ( @polutrope ) - G - 1.6k - Gen - Daeron sails to Eressëa and meets Pengolodh.

A Gift by serenityabin - G - 1.9 - Bilbo/Thranduil (one-sided) - Slight rewrite of the scene where Bilbo gives Thranduil the necklace

A King is He That Can Hold His Own by iddump - E - Ongoing/15k - Maedhros/Thingol - Maedhros needs to relax and learn a bit about being a leader. Thingol is here to help.

An Unending Stream of Swords by Notonly - G - 1.9k - Gen - Elrond and Elros—the great-grandsons of Thingol, the rightful heirs to all Beleriand, the last, greatest hope of the Sindar—had lately come to join their alliance against Morgoth.

An Untold Tale by Kaz - T - 13.3k - Gen - Injured, afraid, and freezing in the forests of Doriath, Elurín manages to tap into an inheritance from Melian he never realized was there. In his desperation, he uses it, and he and his brother vanish from history. Three thousand years later, a patrol of Imladris finds two strange boys in the woods.

All That's Best of Dark and Bright by Clothono - G - 1.8k - Melian/Thingol - What is happening, said the being that was in the wood with Thingol.

But Daeron in his heart's delight/Now lived and played by starlit night by am_fae ( @meadowlarkx ) - E - 1.6k - Daeron/Thingol - Thingol, enamored with the artistry of his talented court musician, takes it upon himself to reward Daeron in a more physical manner.

The Fathers of Fools by Carlandrea - G - 1.2k - Gen - Gloín, on the way home to the Mountain, tells the Elvenking what has happened to his son.

Guidance by iddump - E - 820 - Maedhros/Thingol - Maedhros works through his diplomatic correspondence while Thingol edges him.

Of Roots and Where They Lie by humancorn - T - 5.8k - Gen - Thranduil catches the eye of Melian during his youth in Doriath and she takes him on as one of her apprentices. Over time, he learns both how to control his innate magical potential and the cost of protecting those you care about.

So Summer Comes by potatoesanddreams - G - 2.6k - Gen - Nana is so tired. Elrond can see it in her stillness, in the slump of her shoulders, in the languorous blinking of her reflection’s eyes.

The One with All the Birds by Clothono - 46k - G - Gen - Elwing and Nerdanel in Valinor in the Fourth Age; a story about children coming home.

To Live and Be Wise by Elftrash - G - 2k - Gen - Celebrian brings up the topic of her marriage at the breakfast table.

Men

Emerië by the_artifice_of_eternity - G - 1.2k - Gen - Weeks before her ascension to the throne, Ancalimë sees her mother for the last time.

Hobbits

Light Words about Nothing, and Other Rare Pleasures of Life by Margo_Kim - G - 5.9k - Belladonna Took & Dis - Dis meets an unexpected companion as she waits in Rivendell.

The Other Things We Never Knew About Frodo’s Soulmate by Tozette - T - 7.5k - Frodo/Sauron - When Frodo is born, no one knows quite what to make of the strange script that forms his soulmate mark.

Some Other End by Lexin - T - 39k - Faramir/Frodo - In an alternate universe, Boromir survived Amon Hen, Denethor was not driven insane by the palantír and Frodo is offered an unexpected reward.

Valar

Better A Holy Discord by Clothono - G - 8.3k - Gen -

"I still don't understand why we can't just go to war," said Tulkas. "I'm great at going to war."

"Someone explain it in small words," said Manwë. "Not you, Námo."

Villains

All That is Gold by Verecunda - G - 742 - Melkor/Sauron - The loss of mere beauty cannot shake Mairon's love for his master. Nor Melkor's for his lieutenant.

#fanfic recs #tolkien tag #mass effect #the silmarillion #lotr #I think I will not tag all present characters and ships #that seems like a lot

22 notes · View notes

verecunda · 2 years ago

Text

@irisseireth, this got a bit long to put in a reply, and I didn’t think it was fair to hijack the op any further, so:

#I'm always ready to jump on the 'Finrod is a dick on the Athrabeth' train but #he is being callous to her even if he means well#he does treat her dismissively #and doesn't quite understand her existential horror because things are quite clear cut for him #but yeah how i wish we got Aegnor's perspective on the whole thing #i very much doubt Finrod was telling the entire truth to either of them#and that bit on LaCE that explicitly contradicts him...

I’d hesitate to call Finrod a dick in the Athrabeth, because he is genuinely trying to get his head round Andreth’s position, and what she says about the Old Hope does start him off with his theory of Arda Healed, so there is some genuine give and take happening. But he is, as she calls him, “lordly”, and one of the purposes of the whole story seems to show that despite the friendships and romances that can blossom between them, there are several fundamental places where Elves and Men just do not get each other.

His position re: Elven/human romances is interesting because I don’t think the Athrabeth is something any reader of Tolkien would come across without already being familiar with the story of Beren and Lúthien, and Finrod’s role in it; so from the very first, we know that while his arguments may be strong, he’s not infallible.

I can believe that he may have brought his big brother/head of the family in exile/overlord clout to bear on Aegnor when it came to his relationship. (I don’t have the book to hand, but isn’t there something in LACE where it mentions that generally, marrying without the knowledge/approval of the family is considered an insult? I think someone as duty-conscious as Aegnor seems to be would definitely take that into account.) And I agree that Finrod is very capable of lying by omission - we see that in the Silm, after all, when he and Galadriel are staying with Thingol. So yeah, it seems in character for him to tell Andreth that it isn’t Elvish custom to marry in wartime, while omitting to mention that there are some who do all you need is to make vows and find a decently stable surface. ;)

But to be fair to him, I think his view is coloured by his own experiences with loss. He’s been a friend of the House of Bëor since the beginning, and has therefore seen a whole succession of his friends grow old and die. (That’s how the Athrabeth opens, after all.) So even though he doesn’t get Andreth’s dread of mortality, he does have experience of grief.

And there’s also his own parting from Amarië. Although he has a presentiment of his own death (”An oath I too shall swear...”), he also knows he’s under the Doom of Mandos, the wording of which really doesn’t encourage the idea that any Noldor who die in Middle-earth can expect to be reborn any time soon. And I doubt he expects the special favour of reincarnation that is granted to him in the end. So, essentially, from where he’s standing, he and Amarië have suffered a parting that will last beyond the end of Arda. And now his brother and his friend are facing the same. So I can’t blame him for wanting to spare them that, even if I think he was in the wrong.

#The Silmarillion #Athrabeth #Finrod #also #otp: candle and moth

18 notes · View notes

riding-with-the-wild-hunt · 2 years ago

Note

In your Caranthir headcanons you mentioned Finrod and his exploitation of the dwarves and humans. What are your headcanons surrounding that and Finrod in general?

finrod, i think, is a fundamentally self-contradicting character. he's good-aligned to his bones; he's a fair, smart, and compassionate ruler; he's a good friend and son and brother; he loves liberally and often--and he's also manipulative, condescending, arrogant, and a little too fond of playing the savior god.

finrod the shepherd

i want to emphasize that he truly, genuinely loves humans. he would be the first to admit that his relationships with bëor, andreth, barahir, and beren changed him for the better as a person and as a leader. but he never really, at least not until his death, acknowledged humanity as a whole being equal to elves. for most of his life, he regarded humans more like pets: sweet ingenues to be cherished and looked after and encouraged and protected from harm, but not intellectual or cultural peers. he considered himself their steward and advocate, a sort of paternalistic park ranger or teacher with them as his beloved charges. before knowing bëor and andreth, i don't think he ever considered things from a human perspective.

finrod the scientist

he thought of them like babies with highly developed motor skills. their cultures, religious beliefs, art forms, communities, and languages were all just interesting scientific phenomena to be recorded and observed. though he loved bëor, he still thought of the house as a sort of lab experiment he was doing--breeding and cultivating stock, tracking traits and influencing the gene pool. he would teach other elves about them; he would trot out his docile little human and show how eventually, they could be civilized! look at him, he speaks a proper language and bows and sits at the table just like we do! see the progress that can be made with a little gentleness and kindness! and in time, i think he did change a lot and got to the point where he at least began to recognize, if not that stuff he did was outright unethical/exploitative, that he wasn't just a fairy godfather for the humans and didn't have the right to move them around like dolls whenever he felt like it, even when he thought it was for their own good.

finrod the...killer?

slightly tangential sidenote: one of the most upsetting episodes in the silm for me was reading about the establishment of nargothrond and the persecution of the petty-dwarves. up until then, i was a die-hard, no-bones-about-it finrod fan. and then he....exterminated an entire group of people and then set up shop in their house. it made me sick (especially as someone in a minority group) because it was so reminiscent of things that have happened, and continue to happen, to indigenous groups in our world. i found it really weird that someone like finrod (notable for being a general good egg) would perpetrate such a horrific action, which is what started me really thinking about his character and arc in the story.

personally, i think that early in his middle earth days, he was a lot more "ends justify the means" than he was, say, during the beren-at-nargothrond episode. he was newly a king with responsibility for a weakened and traumatized group of people in a strange country, and his priority was to protect them first. everything else came after. his people needed a safe place, and if some obviously primitive (errghhhh cleanse that word from my fingers please) people had to be the casualty of that, well, so be it. it wasn't like they were even making use of nargothrond anyways! they were practically animals! even the other dwarves thought so! they would find a new home. these are the kinds of things i think finrod fed himself to feel okay about driving them out, and by and large, i don't think he questioned these thoughts very much. he regarded it as a hard situation in which he had to make a difficult call for the sake of his people.

finrod the friend

outside of the petty-dwarves though, i think he actually really respected and admired dwarves and dwarven culture. he still held prejudiced beliefs about them, and could often be condescending, but unlike humans, the dwarves he met hadn't been generationally taught to be grateful to finrod and were much more forthright about calling him out when he said and did stuff he shouldn't. he considered dwarves his teachers and thought of them as having certain innate wisdom that elves didn't. at a basic level, he also just needed their help: they knew middle earth much better than he did and had been evading angband's forces for centuries. he recognized that without their support and advice, he wouldn't be able to maintain nargothrond as a safe haven (given that he didn't have a goddess for a wife, he had to make do with what was available). but i think overall he also just considered dwarves much closer to, if not exactly, the intellectual and cultural peers of elves (though he never listened when dwarves tried to explain that maybe he should take a step back from direct tampering with human affairs). he considered receiving a dwarven name one of the greatest honors of his life (i also headcanon that in order to get a community epithet he had to be adopted formally by a dwarf family. he very much loved his dwarven "parents").

anyways, this guy is so complex that i feel like this barely scratched the surface, but i hope it answered your questions okay!! <333

#brought to you by me #frens #finrod #the professor's world #call and response #the silmarillion

13 notes · View notes

arofili · 3 years ago

Photo

three houses of the edain ❂ house of hador ❂ headcanon disclaimer

Húrin was the son of Galdor, and the third and final Lord of Dor-lómin. In his youth, he and his brother Huor were rescued from an orc ambush by the Eagles of Manwë and taken to the hidden kingdom of Gondolin, where they befriended King Turukáno. Only by swearing an oath of utter secrecy were the young men permitted to return to their homeland, keeping the knowledge of Gondolin safe from the Enemy. Not long after Galdor’s death and his subsequent inheritance, Húrin wed Morwen Eledhwen of the House of Bëor, who had fled her home of Ladros amidst the Sudden Flame. Together they had two children: a son, Túrin, and a daughter, Urwen. For a time the family was happy and the children played and laughed as children ought, and Urwen even earned the nickname Lalaith for her sunny disposition and her delight in splashing about in the waters of Nen Lalaith, a river nearby her home. But soon a dark shadow would descend upon the children of Húrin, never to be lifted. Morgoth sent down a plague from his lair in the North, unleashing sickness upon the Edain, and among the victims of this Evil Breath was little Lalaith. She perished at only three years of age, her death bringing great sorrow to her parents and especially to her older brother Túrin. Now robbed of his playmate, Túrin grew into a serious child whose only friend was Sador Labadal, an injured servant who told him stories and gave him little gifts carved out of wood by his own hand. When Túrin was only eight years old, his father and uncle led the House of Hador to war under the banner of High King Fingon, brother of King Turukáno. This Fifth Battle ended in disaster: Fingon was slain by a Balrog, and though Húrin and Huor were reunited with Turukáno upon the battlefield, many Men of Hador’s House were slain defending the retreat of the Gondolindrim, including Huor himself. Húrin remained steadfast in the face of his people’s slaughter, crying out Aurë entuluva! for each foe he slew with his axe until he was buried under the bodies of his enemies. For this great feat of valiance he earned the name Thalion, the Steadfast. But Húrin did not die: he was dragged into Angband, where Morgoth himself interrogated him for the secret of Gondolin’s location. Húrin held firm, refusing to betray Turukáno his friend, and in his rage Morgoth cursed him and all his kin, chaining Húrin to a chair high on the slopes of Thangorodrim and using sorcery to force him to watch the tragic downfall of his family even from leagues away. In the wake of Morgoth’s victory, Dor-lómin was overrun by Easterlings, but even the fiercest Incomers feared the supposed witchcraft of Morwen, Lady of Dor-lómin. She protected her household as best she could, including her cousin and law-sister Rían, who like Morwen herself was heavy with child. When the Easterling Brodda became bold, claiming Dor-lómin for his own and taking to wife Aerin the kinswoman of Húrin, Morwen feared for her son’s safety and sent him with two aged servants to the land of Doriath, hoping that King Thingol would have mercy upon young Túrin. Remembering his ill-treatment of Beren, Thingol softened his heart and took Túrin as his own son. He invited Morwen to the relative safety of Doriath as well, but she had recently delivered her daughter Niënor and was too weak for travel. Even as Niënor grew older and stronger, Morwen’s pride would not allow her to leave her husband’s halls. Instead she sent the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin to Túrin, an heirloom of his House and a reminder of his heritage. In Doriath as in Dor-lómin, Túrin was a solitary child, though he learned many skills from the elves and grew into a young man of great valour. Soon he desired to return to the lands of his birth and fight against the Enemy, but Thingol would not permit his departure, only allowing him to join the marchwardens in defending Doriath’s borders. There he grew close to Beleg Cúthalion, an ancient elf who was equally enamoured of him, and earned great renown slaying orcs while wearing the Dragon-helm. Túrin could not remain in the marches at all times, and on a visit to Menegroth he had an altercation with Saeros, one of Thingol’s counsellors. Saeros insulted and provoked him, going so far as to ambush him in the woods, and in response Túrin stripped him of his clothes and chased him through the forest. Saeros ran blindly through the trees and tumbled into a river gorge, killing himself, and believing himself guilty of murder Túrin panicked and fled into the wild. Yet the event was witnessed by Túrin’s childhood friend, the elvenmaid Nellas, and once her story was told in full Thingol was sorrowful and declared Túrin pardoned. Then Beleg took up the black sword Anglachel from the king’s treasury and set out to find Túrin and return him home. But for Túrin, Doriath was home no longer, if it ever had been. In the wilds he encountered a band of outlaws and swiftly rose to become their leader, going by the name Neithan, the Wronged. He stopped their practice of raiding the homes of Men, leading them in hunts against only orcs, and established a hideout upon the hill of Amon Rûdh, where he took captive its original inhabitant, Mîm the dwarf. After a harrowing search, Beleg at last discovered his friend, but upon their reunion Túrin refused to return to Doriath. In sorrow, Beleg left, but that winter he trekked back to Amon Rûdh, this time to stay. As Beleg and Túrin grew ever closer, their military accomplishments grew, and the land about their hideout became known as Dor-Cúarthol, the Land of the Bow and Helm. Túrin took the name Gorthol, the Dread Helm, and many warriors enlisted under his command, and western Beleriand was freed from evil while the union of Beleg and Túrin endured. But Mîm the dwarf harbored resentment in his heart against Túrin and his soldiers, and when one day he was seized by orcs, he traded his life for those of his captors. In the ensuing battle, Túrin was taken captive and all of his warriors were killed—except for Beleg, who set out once more to rescue his dearest love. In this he succeeded, but fell himself when Túrin, delirious from his torment, attacked him as an enemy with his own cursed blade. Thus fell Beleg, truest of friends, to the hands of the soul he loved most of all. Yet Túrin still lived, and with the aid of the escaped thrall Gwindor he found his way to the elven kingdom of Nargothrond, carrying the blade that had slain his very heart. In Nargothrond he rose to greatness beyond that he had before known, taking the names Agarwaen, the Bloodstained, and Adanedhel, Elf-Man, and Mormegil, the Black Sword. In Nargothrond, Finduilas, daughter of King Orodreth, grew to love him, though his heart did not turn her way. Túrin’s friendship with Gwindor waned, for in years past he had been betrothed to Finduilas, but his influence in the cavern-city only increased. He oversaw the construction of a great bridge and urged Orodreth to make open war upon the Enemy, and for a time the Black Sword was feared and admired throughout the land. Amid this brief respite, Morwen and Niënor, now full grown, fled at last to Doriath. There they learned that Túrin had long since departed, and heard news that the Black Sword of Nargothrond was none other than Húrin’s son. Unmoved by Thingol’s pleading she remain in safety, Morwen set out to find her son, escorted by the marchwarden Mablung. Niënor was commanded to stay behind, but she disguised herself and followed them in secret. When at last she was discovered, Mablung insisted the women remain upon the hill of Amon Ethir while he scouted out the land surrounding Nargothrond. But disaster had struck, for in his hubris Túrin’s bridge had brought about the fall of Nargothrond. A great army of orcs attacked the kingdom, and in that battle fell Gwindor and Orodreth, and only a few survived to flee to the Falas. Leading Morgoth’s army was the dragon Glaurung, whose likeness gave the Dragon-helm its name, and as the orcs carried off prisoners from Nargothrond—including Finduilas—Glaurung hypnotized Túrin and spoke lies to him that his mother and sister were in danger in Dor-lómin. Crazed, Túrin fled northward, heeding not the desperate cries of Finduilas, who perished near the borders of Brethil and was buried in the mound of Haudh-en-Elleth. Thus Morwen, Niënor, and Mablung arrived upon a scene of devastation. From the mist emerged the victorious Glaurung, whose malice and magic ensnared Túrin’s kin as they had himself. Morwen was lost amid the fog, and Niënor was rendered all but mindless in her madness. Túrin’s flight to Hithlum proved fruitless, for his old home was empty, and the halls of his father plundered by Brodda. Furious at the ruin of his House, Túrin slew Orlin, his mother’s kinsman, when he attempted to halt his advance. Then Aerin, his father’s kinswoman and Brodda’s unwilling wife, recognized him as the son of Húrin and told him of his family’s departure. Full of rage, Túrin slew Brodda and fled, while Aerin burnt herself and her husband’s men alive in the great hall. Next Túrin attempted to track Finduilas, only to find her grave. He collapsed upon the Haudh-en-Elleth in grief, and was carried to Brethil by the huntsmen of Haleth’s House. In time, he took up his life once more, calling himself Turambar, Master of Fate, as he believed his curse to be ended, for how could his life get worse? Indeed, when he discovered a young woman naked upon the mound of Finduilas, he thought himself blessed with the opportunity to aid her, and along with Chief Brandir of the Haladin he nursed her back to health. The woman had lost all her memories of her past and of language, and as she recovered Túrin gave her the name Níniel. Brandir loved Níniel, but her heart was turned instead to Turambar. Though Brandir’s heart misgave him and he convinced Níniel to wait before rushing into a relationship, in time she and Turambar were wed, and soon were expecting a child. But their happiness was not to last, for soon rumors of Glaurung’s approach reached Brethil, and Túrin knew he must end this foe before he lost his new family to the monsters of his past. Accompanied by faithful Hunthor and cowardly Dorlas, Turambar set out with his black sword to slay the dragon. Even as he dealt the dragon a mortal blow, Glaurung cast a spell upon him, and he fell into a swoon. Níniel had begged Turambar not to leave on this dangerous quest, and fearing for his life she had rushed after him. She arrived to see Turambar in a swoon upon the ground, and, believing him dead, began to weep. At that moment Glaurung stirred and spoke his last treacherous words, revealing that Níniel was none other than Niënor, daughter of Húrin, who had lost her memory after fleeing Nargothrond. Horrified that she had married her own brother, Niënor Níniel cast herself into the gorge of Cabed-en-Aras, and was seen no more. But Turambar was not dead, and now he woke only to learn from Brandir, who had been unable to prevent Níniel’s fall, that she had been his sister. Enraged and grieving, Túrin slew Brandir, believing him to be a liar; but soon Mablung arrived, having tracked Niënor to Brethil at long last, and corroborated Brandir’s tale. In utter misery, Túrin cast himself upon his sword, dying by the same blade that had killed Beleg his most-beloved. Túrin Turambar was buried by the Haladin near the Haudh-en-Elleth, and upon his tombstone was written TÚRIN TURAMBAR DAGNIR GLAURUNGA, and beneath his name were the names NIËNOR NÍNIEL, though her body could not be found. It was at this mournful place that Túrin and Niënor’s parents at last reunited after many long years of separation, for upon witnessing the utter ruin of his children, Húrin had been released from his torment. After finding nothing left of his former life in Dor-lómin, he and a few faithful companions sought for the kingdom of Gondolin, but King Turukáno denied his once-friend entry. Cursing Turukáno, Húrin revealed the general location of the hidden city to the spies of Morgoth, and when the King of Gondolin changed his mind and sought to bring Húrin within the city’s walls it was too late, for he had left. Húrin abandoned his companions and traveled alone to the forest of Brethil where his children had died. There he found Morwen, and after one last night in each other’s arms, she died as had their children. Húrin buried his wife by the Stone of the Hapless, engraving her name upon it beside her childrens’, and it is said that this mound survived the drowning of the Beleriand as the island of Tol Morwen. Húrin was then taken by the marchwardens of Brethil to the settlement of Ephel Brandir, where amid his grief and anger he turned the Haladin against one another, leading to the destruction of the last of the Three Houses of the Edain. From Brethil Húrin wandered to the ruins of Nargothrond, where Mîm the petty-dwarf had claimed its treasure for his own. In revenge for betraying Túrin and his warriors, Húrin slew Mîm and took with him the Nauglamír, once the dazzling necklace of King Finrod Felagund, the first friend of Men. This he delivered to Thingol in Menegroth, cursing him for failing to aid and protect his family, and in that moment Queen Melian pierced through the shadow of Morgoth that lay upon him and revealed to him all the wickedness he had done. Húrin departed Doriath in shame, bereft of all purpose and desire, and made his way to the Great Sea. Seeing no path forward in life, he cast himself into the waters and drowned as had his daughter, joining her and the rest of his kin in death.

93 notes · View notes

jengajives · 4 years ago

Text

So I know canonically Barahir and Finrod probably never met again after the Bragollach but I just WANT THEM TO

(My personal hc for Barahir and Emeldir is that they’re Gay Besties and her sweetheart died years ago and he never found the man for him but they both really wanted a child so they had Beren and raised him together as friends, and all the people of Dorthonion totally knew what was up but played along anyway.)

Also excuse my Sindarin, i am awful at languages

“My lord.”

The voice seemed deafening in the chamber of Finrod- the quiet space he sulked in when all of Nargothrond’s riches seemed empty and lifeless to him. When the company of his brother, his niece, and all his people just wasn’t enough.

He turned from his tapestry slowly, almost unwilling. If Celegorm and Curufin wanted another counsel, he had run out of excuses to deny them. All he wanted to do was stand around looking at the tapestry of Tirion he kept on the wall to substitute for a proper window.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, unable even to muster the energy for a proper hello. The attendant bowed anyway.

“It’s the border wardens, your Highness. They’ve apprehended a trespasser on the eastern marches- a Man. He carries your ring, sir. He’s requested an audience.”

It seemed as if everything went utterly still and for several long moments Finrod could not speak.

He had to rub his eyes to ensure he was awake and hearing correctly. This wasn’t just the dream that had haunted him more years now than he could count.

“By all means,” Finrod said in a strangled voice, “bring him before me.”

It isn’t. It can’t be. He’s dead.

The attendant bowed again, all low and respectful. “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the city, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Finrod wasn’t paying attention properly anymore; he was suddenly very worried about what he was wearing, how he looked. The way he dressed around Nargothrond was very different than his war attire, and it was very concerning when he worried whether Barahir would even be able to recognize him.

No, no. Barahir was dead five winters now. It didn’t matter whether he looked familiar or not, he was dead.

Still, though. There was a chance.

Finrod threw open his wardrobe with something akin to panic.

The woods of Dorthonion were dense and dark, with occasional beams of golden sunlight filtering through the high pine trees and turning the bed of needles to luminous white. There wasn’t too much undergrowth, which made it easy to ride through, and Finrod did so with as much speed as his mare could manage, flying over falling trees and secret glens that few among the Elves had ever looked on, thundering across rushing mountain creeks with all the speed of the Valar. He held his arms out to the wind and let his golden braids flow loose behind him.

When he at last came to the little green valley he’d been directed to, he slowed his mare to a stop and stood there a moment on the ridge. The people of Bëor lived in small homesteads spotted over the highlands, and here a number of them gathered together alongside a cool, fresh creek to graze their animals on its fair grasses. The largest of the wooden homes was nestled just beneath the rolling, forested hills, sheltered by the river’s curve and somewhat apart from the others. It was here Finrod rode, galloping eagerly across the meadows of the basin.

A handful of sturdy horses grazed on the green pasture in front of the house, along with a pair of cows and one freshly-sheared sheep. Finrod rode along the tree-lined lane until he came to the house itself.

It was single-storied, made of finely hewn logs painted with red and gold, and a thatched ceiling that looked freshly lain. On one side stood a small barn for the animals, and on the other a woodshed that had seen better days. Finrod dismounted took a moment to take it all in. A warm smile crossed his face.

At once, the worn blue door opened, and a Man came hurrying out. He was dressed in simple work trousers and a maroon shirt that wasn’t tied all the way and showed off the warm brown hair of his chest, but he was hastily throwing a fur coat over the top of it all as he stumbled down his stairs.

“King Felagund!” he choked, obviously out of breath. Finrod noticed a gleam of gold on his middle finger. “We- I- This is most unexpected!”

“I must apologize for the intrusion, Barahir,” he said with pity. “I was riding back from Hithlum and I became… sidetracked.” Then he smiled again. “I hope it’s not too much trouble?”

“Trouble!” Barahir shook his head a little too energetically. “No trouble at all! It’s just… “ He motioned helplessly to the house behind him. “t’s not much. Certainly nothing like a prince like yourself would-“

“Barahir,” Finrod said, bold enough now to take the Man’s hand in his own. “Your home is beautiful.”

Barahir visibly relaxed. His face went soft.

“It is… very good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

“To you, it’s Finrod.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “You have more than earned that right.”

Barahir’s tawny cheeks went red.

Finrod thought he would have kissed him then, if it had been for the little voice that interrupted them.

“Papa!”

Immediately Finrod straightened up and looked over Barahir’s shoulder to the doorway.

A small, brown face peeked out from inside. Just a beam of light caught on dark curls and turned them shining auburn.

Finrod’s expression went slack for only a moment before the corners of his mouth began to peak upward.

“Who’s this?” he asked eagerly. The child stuck his head out further to show two gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you one of the Valar?” he called, somewhat shyly.

Finrod smiled.

“No, child. Why do you think so?”

The little one gave a sheepish shrug. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” Finrod looked down. His tunic was indeed embroidered with gold and there were jewels in his hair. The thought of this innocent child mistaking him for a Vala was a very fond one, though.

“Beren,” Barahir called. “This is King Felagund. He’s a very powerful and noble Elf. Come over here and give a him a nice bow.”

Beren slowly moved onto the steps and made his way over, still cautious. He was wearing a green shirt that was too big for him and clutched a stuffed hound in one hand. Immediately Finrod saw the likeness with Barahir; other than the boy’s darker shade of hair, the two were nearly identical.

Finrod glanced at Barahir as the child approached.

“Yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

When Beren reached his father’s side, he shut his eyes tight and performed a bow so deep he nearly toppled. “At your service, King Felagund, sir!”

Finrod laughed and dropped to one knee so he could look the boy in the eyes. “An honor, Beren, prince of Dorthonion. I could not ask for more steadfast a Man!”

Beren cracked one eye, then the other. He gave a cursory glance to his father, then pointed at the great palomino mare waiting patiently on the lane.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

Barahir clicked his tongue. “Beren, be polite.” Finrod chose to ignore him.

“She is Glânhen, Brighteyes,” he said to Beren, as if he were sharing a secret. “She very much likes to eat. I think she might let you ride her if you find space for her in your pasture.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can do that, sir!” He squinted up at the horse. “Where’s her bridle?”

“She’ll follow you,” Finrod said. He told the horse something in Quenya and she nickered, and then he straightened to let the bouncing little boy hurry past, motioning to the mare eagerly.

“Follow me, Glânhen! I’ll find you the best grass we’ve got!”

The pair of them trotted off together- the massive steed of Valinor, and the little woodsman’s boy leading her like an obedient pup. Finrod got distracted a moment just smiling at the sight, until Barahir chuckled behind him.

“Well, I… I didn’t know you were fond of children.” He paused, obviously bashful, before he slipped out the name like he thought it might bite him. “Finrod.”

“Very fond. He’s a wonderful boy, Barahir. How old?”

“Five this spring.”

“My.” A wistful smile crossed Finrod’s face. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A silence passed, but it was broken when Barahir reached out and took his hand. “Will you come in?”

Finrod turned and the joy he felt looking at that gentle face was unlike anything he’d felt for countless years.

“I would love to.”

Felagund paced his throne room, back and forth, an anxious rhythm like the thudding of his own heartbeat. The tapestries and jewels felt suddenly profane. Would Barahir know him here? Surrounded by wealth and finery and all the glory of the princes of the Noldor?

Of course he would. Barahir would know him anywhere.

But it wasn’t going to be Barahir who walked through his doors. Dead five years at least, cut down in the highlands of Dorthonion all alone and friendless.

Finrod’s fault. He had tried to send help, tried to send forces through to reinforce the outlaws or bring them back, but no one had been able to brave the Haunted Wood. No one could get through. And Barahir had died alone in the mud, because Finrod’s strength had failed.

No. It could be him. He could have escaped. None of the Eldar were there to see him fall. It could be a mistake.

The golden doors swung open.

Finrod turned, suddenly frozen, as a company of his march wardens stepped inside with a Man held between them like some lesser prisoner. He was so thoroughly surrounded that Finrod couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Leave him,” he called, irritation wearing his voice thin. “He is no trespasser here if what I am told is true.”

The wardens bowed, and moved aside, and there in the center of the room stood Barahir son of Bregor with the cares of many lifetimes etched across his face.

The air left Felagund’s lungs.

He looked just as he had the very last time they had seen each other.

Tears blurred his vision, and when he wiped them away, he saw through new eyes, and the Man he saw was not the one he had dreamed of.

The curls were too dark. The build too tall. The face alike in almost every way, but there was something there now that made it painfully obvious Felagund had been mistaken. He deflated at once and collapsed back into his throne, face in his hands, floundering just a moment in defeat.

“King Felagund, sir,” called the Man. “I thank you for your hospitality. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, but I need-“ Abruptly, the trembling voice broke on a sob and trailed into tearfulness. “I- I need your help. Please.”

Finrod looked up again and his eyes softened, recognizing the sensitivity behind those eyes. He rose and stepped slowly down until he stood before the Man with pity in his heart and tears running down his face.

He put a hand on the rough-clothed shoulder.

“Beren,” he said softly, as fervent as he could manage. “I will do anything within my power to help you, no matter the cost.”

When Beren at last looked up to meet his eye, it was the same face of the shy woodsman’s son he had met all those years ago, and Finrod decided then that he would go gladly to his death if it would bring Barahir’s son to the fulfillment of his errand.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #silmarillion #finrod x barahir #finrod #finrod felagund #barahir #beren #emeldir #lay of leithian #the valar #nargothrond #dorthonion #I just want them to be happy is that too much to ask

70 notes · View notes

absynthe--minded · 5 years ago

Text

because @actuallyfeanor made a post joking about how Lúthien/Maedhros is “the Silm as written by Christopher Paolini”, I wound up talking with @thefifthbattle and we discovered that it is in fact possible to hammer out what that story would look like.

so, without further ado, The Silmarillion: An Epic in Four Parts by Christopher Paolini

Maedhros is the eldest son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, and the only one of his brothers to share his mother’s red hair. She died giving birth to her youngest twin children.

Feanor is the king of a small mining kingdom in an isolated mountain valley, and is massively abusive, and controlling. when his prized Silmarils are stolen by the evil emperor Morgoth, he and his seven sons and their armies set out to defeat Morgoth and retrieve the gems

Feanor dies thanks to fire magic cast by Morgoth’s sorcerers, and Maedhros fails to save him and is captured himself. He is tortured by Morgoth, and at last left to hang by one wrist from the outer walls of Thangorodrim.

He’s rescued by Lúthien Tinúviel, a beautiful Sindarin princess, and her bonded eagle companion Sorontar. She’s been having visions of him for months, and snuck away from her hidden kingdom to rescue him. He goes to Doriath with her, and is nursed back to health, and learns to fight one-handed and learns about their culture.

They are in an alliance with the dwarves, three houses of Men, and the elven-king Nolofinwë, who rules the hidden city of Gondolin, to overthrow Morgoth, who rules Beleriand with an iron fist. Maedhros learns the politics of this resistance movement and he and Lúthien fall deeply in love.

All Sindarin elves have the ability to bond with the great eagles; it’s preserved in their bloodline since they’re descended from a goddess. Maedhros discovers that he has the ability to bond with one of them, and doesn’t know what this means, until he sees a portrait of a long-lost Sindarin prince who looks exactly like him

Nolofinwë reveals that Gondolin is under siege and calls for aid, and Maedhros and Lúthien and their eagles fly ahead of Doriathrin reinforcements to aid in the fight. Nolofinwë is killed fighting Sauron, and then Maedhros kills Sauron by using a magic he doesn’t fully understand.

Part two is mostly Maedhros trying to find out the secrets of his past, with asides to his brothers, who think he’s dead but are befriended by a mysterious elf who knows everything about their family and pushes them further and further toward single-minded obsession with the Silmarils.

Maedhros finds out that his father is a Sindarin prince who committed suicide when his mother Nerdanel was forced to break off their love affair and marry Feanor, who her parents preferred as a husband. This is why he can bond with eagles.

Nerdanel was the true genius behind the Silmarils; she crafted them to send to her lover, but they didn’t reach him because Feanor took them. This caused him to assume he was unloved and slay himself in grief.

Maedhros goes to reveal to his brothers that he’s alive and that he’s only their half-brother, and they turn against him when they find out he’s no longer interested in retrieving the gems.

There’s a lot of political drama between elves and men and dwarves that is technically really important but isn’t treated with the same seriousness as the main plot/romance

The mysterious elf is revealed to be a secret eighth son of Feanor, the product of a Morgan-and-Arthur-esque tryst with Sauron in a female form. He was sent as a sleeper agent for Morgoth. He kills himself, but reveals to Maedhros that the mysterious Sindarin magic he used to kill Sauron can be used to defeat Morgoth if he properly activates his powers by chanting a spell and holding the Silmarils.

Lúthien and Maedhros and their eagles work together to steal the Silmarils whole a massive battle is going on outside, led by Nolofinwë’s heir Turukáno, who hates everyone not from Gondolin and who has been a major political pain but who will fight Morgoth to free his people. They’re successful, and Maedhros is on his eagle chanting the spell when his brothers attack.

They’ve enchanted six eagles of their own using Maglor’s music, and they do battle with Lúthien and the eagles for the gems while Maedhros goes after Morgoth

There’s a final somewhat anticlimactic confrontation between Maedhros and Morgoth, ending with the Dark Lord being defeated

Maedhros sees the body of Sorontar as well as several other eagles and assumes Lúthien has been slain, and almost casts himself into a fiery chasm that was torn open by the battle out of grief, but then she appears with the Silmarils on the back of his own eagle, bearing the news that his brothers have been stripped of their magic. They kiss.

Lúthien becomes queen of Doriath, Hador Haleth and Bëor rule all the Men, Azaghâl takes over the Dwarvish throne, and the elves of Gondolin bury a dead Turgon and then are left with no leader.

Maedhros realizes he must be responsible, and he cannot abandon his people for love; he takes the Gondolindrim back to his father’s mining kingdom, and vows to rule them well and never love another.

End of saga.

#i hate that this is how it would be

178 notes · View notes

melestasflight · 11 months ago

Text

10 lines from my last 10 fics.

tagged by @sallysavestheday @polutrope and @thelordofgifs. Thanks for sharing your own friends, a great inspiration for starting stories!

1. as a naked flame - An Edain story from the far East, as woven by the wise-women of the House of Marach, recorded in Sindarin by Andreth daughter of Boromir of the House of Bëor, F.A. 394.

2. Scion of Kings - Finduilas stands in the Great Hall of Kings, the gem-lined marble heart of Nargothrond.

3. Darkness and Light - Maeglin comes to understand his father, at times.

4. Against His Wisdom - Fëanáro begins the bloodshed at Alqualondë but it is Findekáno who ends it.

5. Heat - Fingon avoids traveling to Himring during the vast majority of the year.

6. To Find a Home in the Twilight - Aredhel runs the tip of her finger along the intricate carving on the table in Celegorm’s chamber.

7. And He Was Loved by the King - Hador loved the Prince of Hithlum since the first time he laid eyes on him.

8. Red - On the rare occasions when Fingon allows himself to think of Beleriand, one image takes shape in his mind’s eye above all others. The last moments of sunset spilling down the prairies of Ard-galen.

9. Mothers - At times, Nerdanel longs for the feeling of carrying a child.

10. Thus our hearts burn, oh brother mine - Oh brother, you were always ice, a howling wind that sharpens the peaks of Taniquetil high in the skies where even the bells of Valmar fade.

no pressure tagging @ettelene @searchingforserendipity25 @imakemywings

#tag games #writing #first lines #silmarillion #fic

32 notes · View notes

cinaed · 4 years ago

Note

1, 2, 3, 6, 9, 38, 54 Writing meme

Tell us about your WIP! I currently have two ongoing WIP and one that I'm hopefully going to write in late April/early May.

The first is Carolina the Teenage Witch, which I started in November 2018 and am one episode away from the midseason finale of season 4 of 6. It's a fusion fic that has the Red vs Blue cast in the Sabrina the Teenage Witch universe, in which Carolina is a half-mortal witch who gets taken from her parents and sent to live with Grey and Kimball as her guardians as she learns to be a witch. I've been having a blast having pretty much every character in Red vs Blue show up at some point.

The second is we didn't even kiss til issue 26, which is a superheroes AU for Red vs Blue in which Simmons is a brand-new hero who's come to Blood Gulch to join their superhero team and help save the day, and immediately runs into complications. Today is actually its two-year anniversary, and I'm about 3/4ths of the way finished with the main story line with some short side stories planned.

The last one I haven't started yet but have begun to plan is a nsfw one-shot for Dungeons and Daddies, a first time ot3 sequel to my long Terry Sr/Samantha/Ron AU.

Where is your favorite place to write? In my condo, it's now on my bed with my laptop on a small table, with my cats snoozing either in my lap or on the cat tree next to me.

What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? Favorite part is figuring out how all the pieces fit together, especially with long fic, planting some foreshadowing when I can and sometimes accidentally creating foreshadowing. Least favorite is starting and ending scenes/stories. It's hard!!

Favorite character you’ve written? Oh, that's impossible. I've been writing fic for over 20 years now, I can't choose a favorite out of the 361 fics I've written.... I think some of my favorites to get into the headspace of were probably Ron Stampler, Simmons, Javert, Radek Zelenka, and Bëor.

Favorite/least favorite tropes? Favorites are probably slow burn (big surprise there), friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, food as a metaphor for love, touch starvation. Least favorite are noncon, incest, character death, infidelity, just not the kind of tropes I prefer to read personally!

How do you nail voice in your books? Whether I'm writing for a book canon/visual media canon, I reread or relisten to important scenes where that particular character has a lot of dialogue, trying to figure out their quirks. Do they stumble over their own words? Do they have trains of thought that seem reasonable to them but impossible to follow for people around them?

Favorite first line/opening you’ve written?

I think Where Sister and Brother and God-Kin Know Us, a Scar gen fic I wrote for FMA: Brotherhood, is always going to be one of my favorites.

It is said that in the beginning, there were no deserts. Rather, there were oceans and land with all manner of greenery, so that the land itself was an ocean of trees. It came to pass that Ishvala stood upon his world to look at what he had created. His holiness scorched the earth, burned the trees and plants away until there was only sand instead, warm and golden. There, in that great expanse of desert, he created the first people, gave them skin the color of sand and taught them language and the knowledge of how to survive in this holiest of places. They called themselves Ishvalans after their creator, and were content.

#anoddreindeer

1 note · View note

adanedhel · 5 years ago

Note

Tell me SO much more about Finrod/Beor

hoo. okay.

I adore the two of them together.... so much. they aren’t like a lot of ships in the silm that are heavily supported by the text of anything but i simply do not care. i’m not here to argue about this one being canon or not it is honestly just such a cute feel good ship.

the absolute Devotion?? that finrod has for bëor’s house and descendants. because that is his family. they are as much his children and grandchildren as they were to bëor.

The fact that Finrod names him Bëor on its own is... touching. The faithful. He, who left his people to stay at Finrod’s side. He, who would stay by him to love and to guide him no matter what. Bëor, who will be faithful to his last breath and who even then will wait for him on the other side of time, until the world is broken and remade so that they can see each other again.

amarië did not leave her people and her home to be with finrod. but bëor did. im sure that meant something big to finrod.

and of course i cried while reading athrabeth because we know finrod can be stubborn, that once he has an idea it sticks with him it is stuck, but i think a lot of that interaction can be read as almost desperation, from finrod.

he talks about Hope, and Estel, as two different things. Estel is hope that one has no choice but to hold onto, even if they cannot believe it, because without it what else do they have?

If finrod does not cling to that hope that at the end of time he WILL see bëor again, what does he have? eternity without love? a heart that will ache with longing until one day it is swallowed by the void? this conversations hold such a wildly different context if you look at it through the lens of finrod having Loved and Lost a mortal. The pity for andreth and his brother, because he knows the pain of not being able to be with the person you love. he knows the pain of getting too close and getting burned.

i could talk a whole lot about this conversation but specifically looking at it from this angle comes with a lot of its own pain...

i dont want this to go on forever but long story short they are truly happy together and its nice to have a tragic romance in a context thats like... tender and not because of the war or whatever. like they GOT to be together its only tragic because they had to part when they loved each other so much

#ask #this is a whole lot of words and not a single coherent thought i know #Anonymous

12 notes · View notes

silmarillionwritersguild · 6 years ago

Text

Hidden Figures Challenge Stories List

Our Hidden Figures challenge ended on April 10. There have been 22 exciting contributions, and we hope you’ll find the time to take a look at some (or all) of them if you haven’t already! The links in this round-up post go to the respective Table of Contents, where you can view more information about the story. If you enjoy an author's work, please consider dropping them a comment to let them know!

--- Character of the Month Biography: Hareth by Oshun. As we honor rare characters and textual ghosts this month, we consider Hareth of the House of Haladin, on the surface yet another woman defined primarily by her [male] relations but who, with a closer look at the details of the text, begins to come to life and ask for a story of her own. Lullaby by grey_gazania. A brief interlude between Fingon and his wife. Diplomacy by Fernstrike. Elendur awakes one morning as the Alliance prepares to march for Mordor. Fate & Faith by Grundy. A glimpse of Tar-Elendil's daughter Silmariën at two key moments in her life. Comeuppance by Tilperiel. If you're going to upset the lords of Gondolin and get caught, you should probably expect some retribution. Especially if your name is Salgant. A Wax-sealed Letter by Independence1776. Veryë, wife of Arahad I, receives the invitation for Elrond's council about the orcs in the Misty Mountains. Wrestling by hennethgalad. Scenes from the life of Glóredhel, eldest child of Hador Lórindol and Gildis, married to Haldir son of Hamdir, of the Haladin. Hathaldir at Tarn Aeluin by Himring. Hathaldir the Young, one of the followers of Barahir: Tolkien called him the Young and spoke of his death in the same breath. Part of the collection "Atanatari: Of the Three Houses of the Edain". Sisters in law, sisters in expatriation by Himring. Hareth and Gloredhel married each other's brothers in a double wedding; both went to live with their new husband's people. Part of the collection "Atanatari: Of the Three Houses of the Edain". Harts and Minds by Tilperiel. A small vignette between Galdor and Egalmoth as they leave to meet the Noldor in Nevrast for the first time. Out of the Great Sea by Lyra. Vëandis, formerly Lady of Andúnië, has been shipwrecked in Middle-earth. Now she and the other survivors of the Downfall must find the strength to carry on. O72 by eris_of_imladris. Glorfindel’s mother muses on the dangers of having a child destined for greatness. Part of the collection "B2MeM 2019 Double Drabbles". B12 by eris_of_imladris. Bëor’s mother laments his choice to leave. Part of the collection "B2MeM 2019 Double Drabbles". N44 by eris_of_imladris. The eldest child of Aragorn and Arwen considers her role in history. Part of the collection "B2MeM 2019 Double Drabbles". N45 by eris_of_imladris. Ulfang’s wife reflects after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Part of the collection "B2MeM 2019 Double Drabbles". N32 by eris_of_imladris. Círdan’s mother pushes her desires aside for her people. Part of the collection "B2MeM 2019 Double Drabbles". A Poison Smile by StarSpray. Lady Tanith is well known for her gardens and her potions. The Battle of Fornost by hennethgalad. Bilbo asks Glorfindel about the Battle of Fornost, Glorfindel tells him of Eärnur, the last king of Gondor. Exit, Pursued by Lyra. Annoyed by her suitors, Ancalimë needs Zamîn's help. Part of the collection "Most Bright". Familiar Stranger by StarSpray. Curufin returns from Mandos. Telpaltië isn't sure she wants to see him. Tempestuous Waters by Raiyana. The First Kinslaying as seen by a young Telerin maiden. Eavesdropping by hennethgalad. Aradan overhears the truth from his beloved... Alone by SilverTrails. Makar sees one of Thranduil's sons near Oromë's forest.

--- Thank you for taking part in this challenge! We’re looking forward to seeing you around for the next challenge, which will start in just a few days' time. See you then!

#swg challenge #recommendations #tolkien fanfic #textual ghosts #rare characters

19 notes · View notes

ncfan-1 · 6 years ago

Text

The Walls That Hem You In

Under what conditions was testing the boundaries of your world considered admirable, rather than foolhardy, or being regarded as blasphemy against the powers that ruled unseen over this world? [Written for the April 23, 2018 picture prompt, ‘닿지 않았다고 합니다’ by _.zoo._.]

[Also on AO3 | Dreamwidth | Pillowfort]

--------------------

Under what conditions was testing the boundaries of your world considered admirable, rather than foolhardy, or being regarded as blasphemy against the powers that ruled unseen over this world? The mariners were regarded as admirable; oh, those brave men who explored the high seas at such great risk to themselves, those brave men who sought greater communion with sacred water than could be found on land.

This was what was admirable, and thus far, Lindissë had found no other way to press at the boundaries of her world that would be regarded any more kindly than folly. And her way, that which she held most dear to her heart, profane blasphemy.

One of Lindissë’s earliest memories involved one of the outer courtyard walls of her family’s estate, and a tree that grew beside it. She wanted so badly to see over that wall; her world felt so small and mean when she was forced to let it shrink to the confines of these high stone walls. But there was an orange tree that grew close to the wall, its trunk just a short distance away. It was an old, tall tree, with rambling branches that dipped low enough for a small child to climb on, especially when the tree was as heavy with oranges as it had been then. Lindissë was too small to even consider trying to climb the wall, but she had climbed up into the tree with aplomb.

The fragrance of oranges hung thick in the air as Lindissë climbed higher and higher. She managed to dislodge some of them; they fell to the ground with solid, slightly wet thumps. Finally, Lindissë had climbed as high as she could in the tree, and she drank in the sight of the surrounding countryside greedily.

It had rained the previous day, and the sky still swam with angry gray clouds shot through with shafts of white light that flickered and sparkled like spears of ice. The rolling hills were partitioned into square of gleaming gold and vivid green by dusty roads and low walls of white stone. A stream flowing crosswise through the hills glittered as a trail of liquid sapphire.

Lindissë had eyes for the countryside, of course, but her eyes were traveling further yet, to white mountains, and beyond that, if she strained, a strip of glittering blue—

And then, her father had come, and demanded she come down out of the tree. Little girls should not climb so high in trees. Little girls should not venture outside alone.

Lindissë was not an academic. She had tried to be, once. Cousin Meneldur had welcomed someone who showed the slightest sign of sharing his interests, and the soon-to-be-king Elendil was always happy to tell the children of his house stories of days gone by. But Lindissë was not an academic, and after a certain point, the stories that could be told of days gone by, of Elros and Beren and Lúthien and Bëor, served naught but to frustrate her.

It was difficult, even as an adult, to find ways to be alone. Her parents had washed their hands of her—couldn’t relate, couldn’t communicate, couldn’t be bothered to try any longer—and her brothers had long ago lost interest, but Lindissë was still a woman of the House of Elros, and she could not be allowed to live on her own, and go where she would at her own will. She must always have a household—must always live under supervision, was implied, if not stated. She was rarely alone, and thus rarely out from under scrutiny. Couldn’t be alone with her thoughts and her dreams and ideas, no matter what she did.

“The Powers made Númenórë for us,” Silmariën told her, as she adjusted the arrangement of the vase of cloth flowers before her. They had recently completed construction on her palace in the Andustar, and Silmariën was still occupied—preoccupied—with the best means of decorating her new home. Lindissë had spent the last several days watching her change her mind over and over again about the placement of tapestries, vases, pedestals and sculptures, paintings and rugs. “We were given this land to call our own. Why would we ever wish for anything more?”

How Silmariën could make that argument was beyond Lindissë, given the particulars of Silmariën’s life. “Númenórë is not the whole of the world,” she argued. “Just because it was made for us doesn’t mean that we should restrict ourselves to it forever.”

The cloth roses were positioned in the middle of the vase, with a cloth poppy off to the right, the two tulips off to the left, ivy trailing down the front, and a spray of bluebells out the back. Lindissë thought the arrangement was a little crowded, but then, she knew very little about flower arrangement. A distraction, while Silmariën formulated a reply; Silmariën was good at that.

“I believe in the will of the Valar,” Silmariën said at last, “and the will of the Valar was for us to be the stewards of this land.” She looked east darkly. “I believe it was a mistake for our mariners to go seeking Endóre. That is not our land to influence any longer; it’s time that those who were left to live there be allowed Endóre as truly their own. I believe our influence there would drive things from their natural course.”

A frown stole over Lindissë’s mouth. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what do you—“ Silmariën’s hands abruptly stilled as comprehension dawned on her. “West.” And her voice was very faint. “You meant ‘west.’”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Lindissë resisted the urge to grind her teeth, set her jaw instead. “Why shouldn’t I wish to go west?”

Silmariën’s hands went to grip the pedestal on which the vase stood, very tightly. “Because the West is expressly forbidden to us, and if we ever decide otherwise, we will fall to ruin. It’s not complicated, Lindissë.”

“And why is it forbidden to us? Why should we accept that?”

“Because the Undying Lands were not made for us.” And now she was reciting by rote, words that were spoken in no great hall, no temple, but that they both knew, nonetheless. “Because we were never meant to know the bliss of the Elves, or look upon the faces of the Valar. Because we are rude flesh, and our presence on the soil of Aman would only pollute it. You know that, Lindissë.”

“Do I know that?” She had hoped she would be able to have this conversation without her hackles rising, but she was bristling, regardless of her wishes. “Do you? For we have not the Valar’s word to go on, there, just the Elves’. I do not believe it. And I don’t think you do, either.” Silmariën turned away from her, but Lindissë only leaned closer, her frown deepening. “Do you believe it, Silmariën? Or does your heart yearn for more than just what you were so graciously given?”

Silmariën jerked as if slapped, and Lindissë felt a spike of guilt pierce her stomach. She expected Silmariën to round on her and snap. She almost wanted to be snapped at. But when Silmariën turned to face her, it was with the same gracious smile she reserved for especially unruly courtiers. “I am perfectly content.” And where being snapped at would have almost felt good, this calm, smooth tone made bile rise in Lindissë’s throat. “I do not understand why anyone blessed with the chance to live on this isle would not be.”

Why, indeed.

It was somewhat easier to sneak past the guards who watched over Silmariën’s home at night than it was while the sun hung in the sky overhead. The full detachment had yet to arrive, and Lindissë, quiet and light of foot, could become as a shadow with relative ease. Silmariën had insisted on her palace being built close to Andúnië, the better to interact more closely with the Andustari. Lindissë had quickly divined the quickest path to the shore that did not involve walking through the city, and it had carried her to the water’s edge as surely tonight as it had every other night she had taken it.

The smell of brine rose up from the water that lapped at Lindissë’s feet. It clung to everything it touched, leaving what once was smooth rough, leaving the rough a little rougher. The water did not call to Lindissë as it did to certain others, but she made the trip down to the edge of the sea as often as she could.

The keen-eyed among the Númenóreans could spy the isle of Tol Eressëa from the furthest reaches of the Andustar. At night, Lindissë could come down to the beach and stare out across the water, and spy faint, twinkling lights on the distant horizon. A beacon that was not meant to signal anything to her, but had caught her eye nonetheless.

There was everything she was denied.

Lindissë glared at the white-capped black waters of the night-dark sea. Here was the wall that separated her from it, and no tree to aid her in climbing up and over. Yet.

#Tolkien #The Silmarillion #Fanfic #Legendarium Ladies April #LLA 2019 #Lindisse #Silmarien #Lindisse being one in a long proud tradition of people looking at the No Humans Allowed policy regarding Valinor #and asking... why?

3 notes · View notes