I’d love to hear your thoughts on what Eldritch peredhel entail
-@@outofangband
Sorry this took so long @outofangband and thank you for asking this I am! Delighted! And am preemptively putting a read more down because I cannot shut up about they <3
alright I'm just gonna put stuff and headcanons down as they occur to me so expect low-moderate levels of coherency
shapeshifting is an obvious one (gets weaker down the generations) but because my brain is Like This I have caveats!
thanks to my whole peredhil things=gender allegory that my brain spit out without my permission I've long struggled against my inherent feeling that while they can shapeshift they don't like it
but because I'm now aware of my brain's reasoning I can say it's because of ✨fantasy dysphoria✨
that's oversimplifying, obviously, but peredhil already have so much issues with working through who and what they are and compromising between body and mind and spirit that actively choosing to change into/present as something/someone who They Are Not is. Not usually their cup of tea.
As a whole they tend to have specific forms that they prefer as being closer to themselves, and distinct enough that it doesn't feel like they're faking something they're not
(changing to look like a different person, or a edited version of themself is Very Very not fun unless either explicitly for disguise or shenanigans)
(the exception to this is that Luthien can make herself look almost perfectly human without any real issue. she doesn't do it often but especially as she ages she likes to catch glimpses of her reflection and get both excited and sappy. this is in contrast to making herself look almost perfectly like an elf which makes her feel like her skin is on fire.)
(Also I'm pretty sure all of them can flip their agab presentation while only feeling varying degrees of off, and even then it's a different feeling than the shapeshifting dysphoria. Dior and Elwing are the two who I think mind it the most)
They all have the (agonizing to write) trait of feeling very distinct relationships to their species in their body vs soul/mind vs spirit/fea and they all feel it very differently! This isn't exclusive to Luthien's line but the maia blood does make it worse.
Oh! This is a new headcanon of mine actually but!
They all have faces that are very very hard to capture in image. They are the bane of portrait artists (and, to a degree, sculptors) everywhere because the art never looks accurate to life
It's not blatantly off it's just. missing something? Or something was added? maybe it's a little too wide, or narrow, or long, or short, in one place or another
It's not unrecognizable but if you've ever seen the subject in real life you can just tell
It's especially bad with Luthien (and Daeron) and Dior (to a lesser extent) because everyone literally sees them differently, as in their features will be slightly different depending on what each person finds attractive/aesthetically appealing and beautiful
(not a lot, again, it's not unrecognizable, but there has never and will never be any accurate depiction of Luthien as she was as a person)
(as a concept, though, as the most beautiful creature to have ever existed in Arda, a little of her image exists in every portrait lovingly made of a beloved spouse, every child's drawing of their family, in biological sketches of songbirds and field mice, in a sculpture of a stranger's face. Daeron remembers his sister perfectly, but he collects these regardless)
(Arwen, Luthien come again, isn't described as such by her grandparents. Galadriel and Celeborn both knew Luthien, and while Arwen and her father both look as closely to her as genetically possible, to those who actually know them both it's nothing more than uncanny family resemblance. Luthien was to most a concept personified, Arwen is a person with concepts imposed on her.)
The list of people who have seen Luthien how she actually, physically, defaultly is, essentially consists of Melian, Daeron, Beren, and Dior
Beren doesn't see her as she is right away because he doesn't know her right away, but they learn about each other and she shows herself and he sees her and by the time she rescues him from Tol-im-Gaurhoth there are no echoes on her face
(He's always a little bit haunted that he nearly died without realizing he'd never quite seen the truth of her before)
Neither Thingol or Beren can quite see their own features on their children's faces. They clearly take after their mothers, after all!
(This leads to much affectionate eye-rolling on Melian and Luthien's part)
Hair stuff!
It's alive! kinda! it's definitely not normal hair!
It moves a lot on its own. Sometimes like a breeze is blowing where there isn't one. Sometimes more like tentacles. It depends on its mood.
They've got some very pretty traditional cosmic horror vibes swirling around on their heads. It's very sparkly and colorful but in a Forbidden Shrimp Colors that your brain is unable to comprehend way so it reads as iridescent black mostly, or holographic white, where applicable
Luthien's hair actually is a glimpse into space, Daeron's is a glance at a star
(Luthien's magic hair cloak survives, I think, into the 4th age and beyond, though if anyone/anything has found it they certainly don't know the origins of the beautifully intricate living star map. It has seen the reign of countless north stars, yet the lines always point to the same coordinates- where the ancient, sunken, ruined remains of what once was Tol-im-Gaurhoth lay)
Speed round!
Fangs and talons and horns oh my! Are they tooth and keratin and bone, or are they petrified wood and gem and stone? Yes!
They all smell a little like ozone and a lot like petrichor, flowers, and Green. If you've smelled green you know what I'm talking about. Also, unfortunately, like bird. Birds don't smell great, especially wet bird.
Weird Foresight Powers++
(Most of them don't have actual foresight, but all of them are more in-tune with the Song than is natural for an incarnate)
Their eyes glow, most notably in the dark, unless the irises turn black as they sometimes do. They are also all unnaturally bright versions of the less-spooky parent's- Dior's are gold, Elwing's are blue-green like a tropical sea (Elured and Elurin split the color between them- ultramarine and emerald), Elrond and Elros have pale star-gold, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen all have silver.
(Daeron and Luthien being the exception again, because I decided they have Melian's eyes before I decided this, and I don't know what color eyes Thingol has. Watsonianly: Melian's spooky genes overwrite a lot. Luthien's genotype is probably much closer to his than her magically overwritten phenotype)
Their sclerae turn black and their pupils white, on occasion, usually when using powers
They don't bleed right. It's a little too red for an elf, a little too light for a human, and it shines strange as it beads like quicksilver on the skin
They have very shiny, cool skin. Luthien looked like her's was silver plate under a stretched stocking, the rest toned it down from there but it's still noticeable.
The Song is. Attached to them. They are all very much Main Characters. Their lives have a clear story arc with symbolism and narrative parallels. They are all subconsciously aware that their lives are a fairytale, whether tragic or no, and yes this has many Implications and affects. They are not the only ones like this, but they are the only ones who, to some level, know they are in a story.
This is the fundamental separation between them and everyone else.
The difference in how they perceive themselves between heart soul and spirit is very difficult to explain and understand, but not impossible to someone who knows them and is willing to put in the work.
The life-long knowledge that they are Important to the Song and their every choice and event they experience and their mere existence serves a greater purpose in a way that most other people simply do not- that's very, very isolating.
No one else can understand how they see the world. Very very few people are willing to try, and even fewer in a way that's not frustrating. There is a reason most of them find only one person to latch on to outside of their family, and a reason they hold on through hell and high water.
(This is about being neurodivergent)
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wrote this instead of doing any of my actual tasks <3 tw for brief mention of animal death (by hunting)
Yusuf has been dreading this since the moment they left for Akkala. He had made as many excuses as he could to stay in Goron City for as long as he could, but every one had run out in the end, and he could no longer put off the inevitable.
The first time he had walked this road, his father had accompanied him with a platoon of guards, still cautious, still reeling from the attack that had taken Yusuf's mother. The second time there had been fewer, but still many.
In the years after that, the number of people sent with him had decreased even further until it was only two or three guards, enough to keep him safe. His father stopped accompanying him on these journeys after he turned fourteen and there had been no sign of their worth.
Now, only Nicolò.
He follows, keeping a respectful distance away from Yusuf, but closer than he had walked before they had gone to meet Nile, to ask for her help. He doesn't ever ask to stop, or to slow down, letting Yusuf set the pace. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword and does not speak.
What is there to be said? Nicolò knows what lies at the end of this road, even if he does not know what it will mean for Yusuf.
Yusuf can feel Nicolò's eyes on his back. It is bad enough that the whole kingdom knows he is a failure: he does not need Nicolò to watch him fail and say nothing.
The sun is low, casting the landscape in burnt orange. It would be beautiful were it not so horribly familiar. There is a cabin nearby, and not far from it, the Spring. They will stay in the cabin tonight; they will leave for the Spring in the morning and spend three days there, then return to Goron City and after that, the castle.
Yusuf thinks about returning, about his father's inevitable disappointment, and feels sick.
“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, sounding uncertain. He is not yet used to calling Yusuf by his name. “We are not far, yes?”
Yusuf had forgotten that Nicolò does not know every cursed inch of this road the way Yusuf does. “No, not far. In a moment you'll see the cabin.”
Nicolò says nothing. Yusuf glances back just long enough to meet his eyes before looking away.
What is Nicolò thinking? Yusuf can never tell.
Yusuf catches sight of the cabin a moment later. Dread sits like a stone in his stomach.
When they get closer, Nicolò takes hold of his elbow, gentle. It startles Yusuf all the same - he hadn't realised Nicolò was that close to him.
“Let me go first,” Nicolò says. “To check. But stay close.”
Yusuf nods, and lingers barely a handspan from Nicolò's back while he surveys first the outside, then the inside, of the cabin. Once he's satisfied, he gestures for Yusuf to enter.
“You should rest,” he says, and he is being so gentle with Yusuf it almost hurts. Perhaps Andromache has told him what this will mean for him: she has accompanied him before.
Yusuf shakes his head, because sleep means dreams, and dreams will be worse. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to find something for dinner,” Nicolò says.
“Let me come with you,” Yusuf says. Anything is better than sitting in this cabin alone with his thoughts.
Nicolò looks at him for a long moment. Perhaps he takes pity on Yusuf, or perhaps he thinks that it will be easier to keep Yusuf safe if he stays with Nicolò. Either way, he nods. “All right.”
----------
Finding something for dinner means that Nicolò leads Yusuf a little way into the woods, far enough that the foliage and the dying sunlight makes it difficult to see, and bids him hide beneath a tree, in a space formed by the roots, while Nicolò crouches beside him with his bow, nocking an arrow in one smooth, seamless motion. From his vantage point, Yusuf can see a small clearing with a few fallen trees.
“Do not move,” Nicolò instructs him in a whisper, “and do not make a sound.”
Yusuf rests his head against the tree and watches the leaves move in the breeze. It is quiet enough that all he can hear is their rustling, the sounds of birds and animals calling to each other, the rushing of the stream nearby. After a moment, and with nothing else to watch, Yusuf begins to watch Nicolò.
He has gone as still and as quiet as the trees around them, barely breathing, his shoulders rising and falling only slightly, like he has become a part of the forest. Faron Woods is much further south from here, but Yusuf supposes that this forest must be somewhat similar to where Nicolò grew up. He wonders who taught him to hunt; who taught him to be so comfortable in this place. Why he left it behind to travel to the castle and work for the king.
There are a lot of things Yusuf wonders about him. He cannot tell if Nicolò is aware of Yusuf’s watching; he must be. Still, Yusuf cannot help but watch.
It happens faster than Yusuf can track. Nicolò goes entirely still, and draws his bow swiftly, silently. Yusuf holds his breath and so does the forest.
Nicolò lets the arrow fly.
Yusuf doesn’t see whether it finds its mark, but Nicolò looks for a moment and then stands. “Wait here,” he says to Yusuf, and then heads for the clearing. When he returns he’s carrying something behind his back, the arrow in his other hand. Blood drips onto the grass.
“You can wait inside while I prepare it, if you prefer,” Nicolò says haltingly. Yusuf shakes his head, and so he sits on a log outside while Nicolò skins the rabbit, arms wrapped around his knees and chin drawn up to his chest. Nicolò keeps his back to Yusuf, shielding most of it from view.
Who taught him this? Yusuf wonders. It is a part of Nicolò he has never seen before.
When it is done, he takes it back inside to cook over the fire, and they eat it alongside the bread and cheese they brought from Goron City, across from each other at the cabin’s little table.
“When do you want to leave, tomorrow?” Nicolò asks softly.
“I don’t,” Yusuf says before he can stop himself, and then adds, “I don’t know. Early, probably.” The thought bursts the little bubble he’s been in since they arrived. He doesn’t want to leave, could stay here for the three days they’ve been allocated and return to his father without even having tried and it would change nothing.
“Just after sunrise, then,” Nicolò says. “It is not far, you said?”
Yusuf shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not far.”
----------
The water is freezing.
It has always been freezing. But Yusuf knows well enough that if he stands in it for long enough, it will start to warm. It reaches to around halfway up his thigh; when he was younger, it felt deeper.
The stone in front of him offers nothing. No sign, no indication that anything is listening to him except for the water and Nicolò, who has been standing at the gate of the Spring for however long he has been in here. Has he been listening? Has he heard Yusuf pleading for something, anything, dreading the moment he returns to the castle and his father looks down at his left hand and sees nothing there?
What does Nicolò think of him now? If he did not see a failure before, does he see one now?
His legs may be going numb. They tremble beneath him, struggling to hold his weight. How long has he been standing here?
“Tell me what I am doing wrong,” he begs the stone. His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else. “I know I am not the one you wanted, but I am trying. I am trying. I have given everything. I do not know how much more I have left.”
The stone says nothing.
Nicolò says, “Yusuf.”
Yusuf hears him without listening, falls to his knees in the water and does not even feel the chill.
“Please,” he pleads. “I cannot return – I cannot give anymore.”
There is a splash behind him, and then there is Nicolò, pulling him to his feet, pulling him from the water. Yusuf tries to hold fast - he cannot leave now or it will have been three days in the Spring with nothing to show for it.
“Yusuf,” Nicolò says again. His grip is gentle but unrelenting, and he is warm. Yusuf, shivering as he is, can’t help but lean into it. “You are exhausted. You are going to freeze. Come with me.”
“I can’t,” Yusuf says, even as he lets Nicolò take his weight, lets him guide Yusuf out of the Spring. “I can’t.”
There is a small paved area where their camp is set up. Nicolò has kept the fire going, or restarted it, while Yusuf was in there, and he half-carries Yusuf over to it now. Yusuf’s legs buckle under him the moment Nicolò lets him go, and he sinks onto something soft laid over the paving stones. He blinks, and there is a bowl in his hands, warming even if he does not really taste it.
“It was never supposed to be me,” Yusuf says without really meaning to.
From across the fire, Nicolò watches him.
“It was supposed to be my mother,” Yusuf whispers. The only sound between them is the crackling of the fire. Yusuf is so, so tired. He has never said this to anybody else, not even Andromache, but he cannot keep the words from rushing out of him now.
“It came to her when she was nineteen,” he says, “and that’s how they knew it would happen in her lifetime. So she trained, and she mastered it, and we were ready. And then she was killed, and because I was the oldest, it came to me.”
He does not like thinking about this. He has not thought about this in years. They do not speak of it anymore.
Nicolò is still watching him.
“I was asleep when it happened,” Yusuf continues. “I dreamt it as it happened, but I didn’t know until later. The moment she died, I woke up screaming. They told me afterwards that I was– I was glowing, bright enough that nobody could look at me for long or get close enough to see what was happening to me. They just had to wait until I came out of it. It felt like I was burning.” If he closes his eyes, he is there again, twelve years old and terrified.
“That’s how we know it should be me,” he says after a moment. “Who can do it. Because I did, once, but never again, despite all of this.” He waves at the Spring, the water, the stone.
Exhaustion tugs at him. His eyes will not stay open, but he cannot let himself fall asleep, not yet.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he tells Nicolò. “There’s still time.” It cannot be late yet; the sun has gone down, but it is not quite dark. “Don’t let me.”
“You have to rest,” Nicolò says. It is the first thing he has said to Yusuf since he pulled him from the Spring, and Yusuf cannot tell what he is thinking.
“I can’t fall asleep,” Yusuf insists.
“At least let yourself warm up first,” Nicolò says. There is a pile of dry clothes in his hands - where did he get them?
Nicolò convinces him to change and to sit back down, to rest a little while longer. This time he steers Yusuf to sit down on his bedroll instead, and Yusuf’s grip on his arm goes tight.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he says again.
“You cannot go on like this,” Nicolò says. “Sleep, and I will wake you in a few hours’ time.”
Yes, a few hours. That, Yusuf can afford. “Promise me,” Yusuf says, but his eyes are already closing unbidden.
Nicolò says nothing.
----------
When Yusuf wakes, it is still dark outside, and there is a cloak that is not his own draped over him. Nicolò is crouched over the fire only a short distance away. He catches Yusuf’s eye, but doesn’t say a word.
It all comes crashing back at once: the water, the stone, Nicolò. Yusuf sits up.
“You didn’t wake me,” he says.
Nicolò watches him for a long moment. “You needed the rest,” he says finally.
Suddenly his consideration stings. “That wasn’t your decision to make. What time is it?”
Nicolò glances at the sky. “It will be sunrise soon.”
Yusuf’s heart sinks. Sunrise means return, means return to the castle and his father with nothing. He gets up, pushes Nicolò’s cloak aside. “You should have woken me.”
Unexpectedly, Nicolò pushes back. “You would have only made yourself ill. You were barely conscious. I would not have done it if–”
“That was not your decision to make,” Yusuf snaps. “I am not a child, Nicolò. I am capable of handling myself. I have lost hours.”
Nicolò does not say anything. Yusuf almost wishes he would keep pushing, but he does not. He simply folds himself back into the same blank expression he always carries, and again, Yusuf cannot read him.
“If the sun will rise soon, there is not much use in staying here for much longer,” Nicolò says eventually, quiet. He doesn’t meet Yusuf’s eyes. Guilt twists his stomach.
Did Nicolò know? Did Andromache warn him? Or was he just worried?
Yusuf nods.
They pack up their camp in silence, side by side. By the time they set off on the road back towards Goron City, the sun has risen, and the early light turns the world around them to gold.
Yusuf walks, and Nicolò follows behind him, as always.
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