#house of mahtan

[tabukomi]

“Happy is the man who doesn’t know the bitterness of loss.”

While I try to understand Amras, I draw other members of Feanor family.

[astral-aromance]

The name "Russandol" is often attributed to Fingon in the stories told in the later ages, but it was actually given by Mahtan.

Specifically, when Maedhros, at the tender age of 3, got his first copper circlet from his grandfather to wear on his first official appearance at one of Finwë's grand feasts. His first grandson, so proud to be wearing "a crown like grandpa!" walking around with his head held high. His little copper-top.

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

If the character didn’t have black hair, grey eyes, and pale skin Tolkien was too ashamed to tell us what they looked like.

[art-of-firefly]

It took me two years to draw all of them, but i finally did it!

It's finally done ! I created a chara-design for every member of the line of Finwë along with all their significant other (+Mahtan & Ingwë). It was a big passion project of mine, and I can't believe i manage to do it. It's only flat colors of course but it's still a big accomplishment and I'm proud of myself

You can find all of them here House of Finwë

I'm not ready to stop yet, the Teleri Royalty is already half-way done with Earwen and Elwing lines so i'll do them next !

I would love to do the Edain too once i'm done with the elves

But from now on, all my new chara-designs and art posts will be on @firefly-artwork !

[valardynasty]

House of Fëanor

Mahtan est le père de Nerdanel, l'épouse de Fëanor. Ensemble ils eurent sept enfants, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin et les jumeaux Amrod et Amras.

Curufin eut pour descendent Celebrimbor.

[welcomingdisaster]

Fëanor tells all of his kids how much they look like Miriel.

They do not.

Maybe there's a touch of her in Maedhros's calm grey eyes -- but Miriel's, all say, had been sparkling as the leaves of Telperion, her gaze constantly flitting from one thing to the next, as though in search for someone who was not there. No, Maedhros has his mother's level gaze, her manner of holding eye contact a moment too long.

Maybe there's something of her in the delicately carved features of Maglor's face -- he resembles her in the way all beautiful people resemble each other, in a certain sharpness and cohesiveness of features. There might be something of her curls in his loose waves. but no single feature can be said to have come from her -- not his lips nor his nose, nor even his long, arrow-straight eyelashes.

Celegorm finally gives Fëanor something. His hair is silver, only a shade darker than his grandmother's had been. When he is young the softness in his features almost passes for likeness; but he grows broad-shouldered and heavyset, where his grandmother had been petite and light; his hands are quick but huge, his fingers thick. If he resembles anyone, he resembles Mahtan. His brothers tease him about growing a beard. Fëanor quietly mourns that might have been.

Caranthir looks like his mother. That is inarguable; all who see him comment on it. It is the dark brown hair, a trace of red visible yet under bright treelight, the square face, the rounded nose. Fëanor loves sees Nerdanel in him and loves her. But his eyebrows, he says, his eyebrows are just as Miriel's had been -- if you ignore the shape of the arch and the particular set over the eyes.

Curufin looks just like his father. Proud, tall Fëanor-- Fëanor who looks so much like Finwë. When he grows older he will have Miriel's height, and nothing else. Not her chin, not her jaw -- not her eyes or her nose or her lips. He joins Fëanor in the workshop. He has no patience for fabric craft.

Fëanor holds his twins in his arms, looking over their sleeping faces with horrible desperation. He sees her in their curls, he thinks, in the constellations of freckles over their noses. But no-- no. Those are Nerdanel's freckles. His father's curls, just as obvious in the descendants of Indis as in his own family. Even here, she has left him.

There are stories of those who had died in the old world, before any of the elves had come to Aman, born again. They come back to their families in spirit, people say, as babes newborn upon this fair land, but their parents know them and rejoice.

The house is full of children's laughter. Nerdanel, more precious to him than any other, is tired. He cannot have more children only to sate his grief, only to look for a silver-headed, quick-eyed girl who shall not come.

Telufinwë, he names his youngest, and thinks of him as his last abandonment.

[firefly-artwork]

My chara-designs for the House of Finwë : Part 2

Fëanor, Nerdanel & Mahtan

[swanmaids]

Feanor x Nerdanel + 9,kiss prompt?

9. in public

Mahtan's daughter is no great beauty.

That's alright. She has other things to be getting on with.

Nerdanel is going to be a master of her craft. This is something she has known for a very long time - almost as far back as she can remember. The need to create is an ache that burns from somewhere deep within her. It's the force that pushes her out of bed in the middle of the night to recreate the images from her dreams, the gift that lets her give shape to a thought, an idea, an emotion.

What does a fair face matter? Nerdanel is a artist.

So Nerdanel never grows tall, and her body becomes stocky and compact from carrying stone and clay, cushioned with a layer of fat that never quite melts away. So she keeps her hair cut to chin length, all the better for keeping it out of her face when she works. So her hands and arms are scattered with nicks and burns, and her palms are raw or callused, depending on the day. So her hair and clothes are coated in a fine layer of dust, more often than not. It's all fine. Nerdanel wrings all the beauty she needs from her hands.

The only slight problem is him. Fëanáro.

Because Fëanáro is a great beauty - the greatest, perhaps, and not just according to Nerdanel. The first time she sees him in person, come to learn from her father, she thinks - I have to sculpt him.

She does just that, though not immediately. It takes many more such visits of Fëanáro to her father's house, followed by journeys across the nearby lands together, and hushed conversations in the pale early hours; just the two of them. It takes a recognition of the same burning desire to leave the world a more beautiful place than they found it that lives in them both before she can truly draw his likeness out of the stone.

She shows it to Fëanáro when she is certain that it's right, and he gazes upon his own likeness for several long minutes, and retreats to his forge.

When he emerges, it's with a ring.

So Nerdanel doesn't doubt that Fëanáro loves her. She is not somebody especially given to self-doubt, after all. Still, it would be nice not to have to hear the whispers about Fëanáro's dreadfully plain bethrothed. They're not especially quiet whispers, after all.

Even those whispers aren't so terrible, though, when Fëanáro kisses her in full view of his fellow Aulendili, at the dinner parties of the Lambengolmor, on the steps of his father's great palace in Tirion. Fëanáro doesn't think they are ill-matched - he knows, as she knows, that they are moulded out of the same earth.

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Tradition - Caranthir x Reader (Pt. 1)

The fourth son of Fëanor, more often than not, retired early on the Day of the Lamps, and didn't even stay to watch the lanterns set out. Caranthir never cared much for the holidays. You, on the other hand, have missed celebrating dearly since you left your home in Alqualondë, and that might just be enough to change Caranthir's mind.

Caranthir at first couldn’t say whether he was glad or dismayed when he found out your visit to Tirion from Alqualonde was going to be permanent. You were not staying a great distance away from the Fëanorion estate, after all, and he wasn’t sure how having an outsider such as yourself so close to his family would turn out. His parents weren’t known to warm so easily to someone. To his surprise, they were both taken with quickly. Nerdanel had taken an instant liking to you - almost as if you were a daughter that she never had. To everyone’s surprise, Fëanor himself had as well - the temperamental, standoffish crown prince of the Noldor had, in fact, warmed up to the Telerin visitor. Caranthir had to admit, he had more than taken a liking to you, too. The faeish beauty you sported was undeniable, what with your flowing gowns and buoyant smile and starry eyes. Your kind nature only amplified it. It would be a lie to say that Caranthir Fëanorion hadn’t been smitten with you upon your very first meeting. 

This reached far beyond your very first meeting, of course. In fact, the more time you spent around the Feanorian estate, the stronger his feelings grew. 

Nerdanel was the first to notice. Yule-tide gifts from her sons had been few and far between, coming only from her eldest two and her very youngest, who was so thoughtful as to write his twin’s name on the wrapping paper and tell his mother that it was from them both; she was not so naive. Gifts from Caranthir were unheard of; and had Nerdanel not had her harsh bringing up in the house of Mahtan and her marriage to Fëanor to callous her from disquiet over who smiles at who and the likes she would have been hurt, what that her beloved freckled-faced son was giving gifts to someone but not to her, his mother. She pried as subtly as she could, and though Caranthir seemed to have caught on to her intentions after the fourth, ‘That gift must be for someone very important,’ she had already had an inkling for what was going on. 

The rest of the family followed soon after, and Caranthir finally came to terms with it after the incessant teasing of his brothers. Not to mention, he had a sneaky suspicion that Maglor had told everyone about it when he finally admitted it to the minstrel. They would have known anyways - with his yearning expressions and whatnot. It was quite obvious that Caranthir deliberately went out of his way to see you. His want was apparent. He might as well have written it on his forehead.

One could even go so far as to say Caranthir loved you. 

It was something he begrudged, and the unbearable bitter-sweet yearning for you only grew stronger with each click his boots made against the stone floor on the way to his brother's room. He knew you cared for him, that much was evident. You were kind, and carried yourself with charm and poise, but there was something about the prominent blush that plastered your cheeks that told Caranthir there was something else hidden behind the veil of your dreamy eyes - something warmly inviting yet utterly untouchable. Maybe, thought Caranthir, after battling his reluctance to ask for anyone’s help that had festered in him for two days now, Celegorm would know what to do. 

He slowed as he got closer to Celegorm’s room, but his steps were no less deliberate. When he finally reached his destination, he didn’t even need to knock before Celegorm knew he was there.

“‘S open!” 

Caranthir pushed the door open a bit too harshly and stepped inside. He said nothing.

“Well?” said Celegorm with raised eyebrows, “What?”

“What do you know about the day of the lamps?”

Celegorm scoffed, “No more than you do. We celebrate it every year.”

“No,” said Caranthir, “How we do it.”

“Yeah. How we do it - we put the lamps in the baskets, and set them off to fly.”

Caranthir huffed, “Yes, that’s how we do it. How do the Teleri do it?”

Celegorm paused before he stood up with a wolfish grin, “So that’s what this is about?”

“Answer the question.”

“I am beginning to wonder if I should warn her of the dangers of being your little muse. Should I tell her that Caranthir the Dark lurking awaits her here in our fathers house?” 

Caranthir crossed his arms, regretting his decision to come here for help but unable to make himself leave, “She is not my muse, and there is no danger for her. Answer the question.”

“I don’t really know,” said Celegorm, “She said they do pretty much the same thing, but they set theirs out on the sea.” 

“I know that,” replied Caranthir bitterly, “but what do they put them out with? It’s some kind of plant.”

“I don’t kn-” 

“Where does it- where can I find it?”

Celegorm’s eyes inflated in irritation and he stood, “I don’t know what kind of plant it is. Ask Finrod. His mother’s Telerin.”

Caranthir let out a sharp breath in frustration. It was annoying enough to have to ask Celegorm, he didn’t want to ask his cousin. The longer he contemplated, the more he liked the idea of abandoning the gesture he’d had planned all-together. It probably wouldn’t do him any good, anyways. 

“You want me to ask him for you,” said Celegorm, “Fine. That’s fine.” 

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve about had it with your constant pining,” huffed Celegorm, “I’l just do it my dams se-”

“Pining?” said Caranthir, “The hell do you mean pining?”

“Don’t stand there and pretend you don’t know damn well what I mean - and now look, you can’t even ask Finrod about one simple thing! How the hell are you gonna-”

“Whatever,” cut in Caranthir, pivoting on his heel. Though Caranthir loved his family like his mother always instructed him, he wasn’t particularly fond of Finrod. The last time he had seen Finrod was at the Mereth Nuin Giliath - standing next to you with a wine glass in hand, blushes covering both of your faces and your lips stained faintly red. Caranthir was supposed to be the one laughing and blushing and drinking with you, not Finrod, no matter how pretty he was. 

Caranthir shook those thoughts from his head and picked up the pace as he made his way to the dining hall, frustration still evident. The day of the lamps was in eight days, and he still had no idea how to set his plan into action. He supposed, you were coming for dinner tonight, he could ask you yourself. He quickly shut that idea down. If he was going to do this, it needed to be a surprise. 

Upon exiting the residential hall of the Feanorian estate, Caranthir’s ears picked up loud rustling and whispered curses. They had just hired a new gardener, a stout fellow with strong arms but no sense between his ears. Caranthir supposed it was just the old goon making the ruckus, until he remembered it was dinner time already and the whispers began to sound more and more familiar.

The noise grew panicked as Caranthir made his way over to the source. When he was close enough, he pulled the foliage of the shrubs away to reveal none other than his silver-haired brother.

“Celegorm,” he said, “What are you doing?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

Caranthir looked down to the satchel in Celegorm’s arms, “You’ve been stealing wetsto-”

“Shh,” exclaimed Celegorm in a sorry excuse for a whisper, “Someone will he-.”

“Yeah someone’s gonna hear! You shouldn’t be taking those. Didn’t you get caught doing it before?”

“Look, I just really needed them, and the shops were all closed. Just don’t tell anyone, and I’ll pay for them tomorrow. Please, just keep this a secret. I’ll do anything.”

Caranthir raised his eyebrows, and Celegorm knew exactly what he wanted. 

“Fine.” 

The third and middle-most sons of Feanor made their way towards the dining hall, Moryo the Dark’s shoulders straightened a bit more than they had been before he was owed a favor from his older brother. The smell of broiled quail in Nerdanel’s sweet lemon sauce wafted through the air. A mixture of voices - yours and Maglor’s - echoed a sweet tune about the estate. The two shared a glance before entering. 

You stood in the kitchen with Nerdanel offering help, but she denied it. It was no lie that you couldn’t cook, but it was something you didn’t really resent and accepted with good humor. You stopped when the door opened. The blush that spread across your cheeks was too prominent to miss, and Caranthir couldn’t stop the pride that swelled up in his chest. Everyone knew you were blushing because of him.

There was no denying that you thought he was a good-looking man. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders, and those gray eyes of his never failed to make your heart stutter. It came as a surprise to everyone who knew the both of you that you, being so friendly and lively and charismatic, were attracted to the stoic prince of the Noldor. 

Deep down, your liking to Caranthir was one of the driving forces that had you moving to Tirion in the first place.

“Hello, Celegorm,” you said, and a new star seemed to shine in your eyes when you turned to his brother, “Caranthir.”

“It’s good to see you,” he said, before embracing his mother and taking a seat.

You blushed even deeper and smiled in his direction. You missed the amused look shared between Nerdanel and her eldest son.

“I’m glad you’ve joined us, osellë,” said Maedhros warmly.

“I’m glad too,” you replied, “I have been so busy lately: I have received so many letters all at once from Alqualonde. They are asking if I am visiting for the Day of the Lamps.”

Caranthir’s breath hitched. If you went home for the holiday, his plan would never come to life. The silence that lingered in the air before his eldest brother spoke again seemed like an eternity.

“Are you?”

“No,” you replied, rather abruptly, “All my close family has gone back to Beleriand with the Sindar, and the few of my family remaining in Valinor are distant. I do not know them well. I was hoping I could celebrate it with you all like I did last year.”

Caranthir’s heart leaped.

“Of course,” said Nerdanel, “You are welcome here anytime. You should know that well enough by now.”

You smiled.

“That reminds me,” said Celegorm, “What are the flowers that you used to set out each year at Alqualonde? Finrod told me about them once, but I can’t remember.” 

“We use a mixture of things - hydrangeas, and lots of morning glories.”

Celegorm’s eyes lit up with recognition, “Oh, we’ve lots of morning glories, but I have searched far and wide for hydrangeas, and I cannot find them anywhere but the shores of Alqualonde.”

“Really?” you said, “Not even the shores directly east?”

Celegorm shook his head. 

“We made wreaths with them and put them around our lamps and set them out to sea. I did miss it; perhaps this year I will celebrate it in the bathtub!”

Celegorm’s eyebrow twitched - See? I gave you what you wanted. - as he peaked up at Caranthir. Caranthir did not look up from his plate, only pursed his lips and took another bite. Celegorm knew another word would not be said from his younger brother - that look was one of contemplation, and it would not soon be worn off once Caranthir was fixated.

“That is an odd way to reminisce about the past,” said Nerdanel, and you laughed.

The rest of dinner went much this way. Small talk floated about the Fëanorian dining room with the occasional brotherly dispute. Though most of the company fellowshipped late into the night, Caranthir, much to your dismay, retired to bed rather early in. He was preparing for an early start the next day. The trip to Alqualonde wouldn’t make itself, and eight days was hardly enough time to make it there and back to Tirion.

[dalliansss]

DRAMATIC & PROTECTIVE RELATIONSHIP PROMPTS

*Listen to me! I know what I'm doing! (Feanoro/Nerdanel) (He probably doesn't, really.)

DRAMATIC & PROTECTIVE RELATIONSHIP PROMPTS

Fëanáro put the bottle of mulled wine loudly upon the long table. Loud enough to call the attention of all of his sons and brother-sons and four apprentices and his wife, Nerdanel -- but not strong enough to break the bottle and waste the excellent vintage. Dishes upon dishes of excellent food (cooked for tonight courtesy of Findekáno and Turukáno) littered the long table, but dinner was already well under way and so the table itself was already half-chaotic.

Rose dusts Fëanáro's cheek. He is tipsy. That perfect, balanced state of being cheerful enough he can indulge near everyone for near everything, if they knew how to ask nicely. If Nolofinwë was present and was also in a similarly tipsy state, a miracle could have been achieved at that very moment: their reconciliation. But as it is, the chance will pass, simply because only Findekáno and Turukáno are here, and their Atar far away back in Tirion.

"Who's up for story telling?" Fëanáro demands, looking at everybody there by the long table. "Come on. I'm feeling generous tonight."

Findaráto, ever the opportunist in these occassions, is quick to pipe up: "Tell us about how you caught Aunt Nerdanel's attention! Love story!"

Curufinwë, only six years old and currently sitting on Findaráto's lap (the two often shared meals on the same plate. Care of Curufinwë was actually left to Turukáno and Findaráto, but for some inexplicable reason, Curufinwë preferred Findaráto more and could not stand Turukáno!), is quick to take up the chant: "Love story! Love story! Love story!"

"Ai! No!" Nerdanel whines, hiding behind her strong hands.

Maitimo quickly stands, picks up his fork, and hits his glass, and soon all of their sons and brother-sons were taking up the great cry: "Love story! Love story! Love story!"

Even Turko hammers his hands on the table. "Love story!!!"

Fëanáro stands, sways, and takes a mighty swig from the bottle of mulled wine. "When I was first taken in by your Grandfather Mahtan!" He declares, his powerful orator's voice sweeping over everybody there present, such that they saw the events as they had transpired, in their mind's eyes. "I was every inch a Noldorin Prince! Attended hand and foot by servants! Bahhh! I had carriage! A team of horses! A nursemaid who brushed my hair, and a groom who dressed me! A prince, damn it!

"Now! My law-father Mahtan-- he believed in practical education! A great craftsman, who was then commissioned for his works by the Valar themselves! Why, he was even as rich as my Atar Finwë! But he had no servants! No attendants! Chores--" Here, a hiccup, but Fëanáro brushes that aside by taking another big swig of the mulled wine. "--Chores were! Done! By his daughters! And sons! And! Apprentices!"

"To the apprentices, who help run the household!" Findaráto declares, and everybody toasts the apprentices, and even Carnistir claps and wolf-whistles.

Nerdanel now takes a big gulp of her own wine from her goblet.

"Your Amil! Amillllll! Your Amil was the only child of Mahtan's to eye me in distaste! And! I overheard her! Complaining! To her sisters-- that my servants crowded their house, and--- can you imagine this-- she questioned my worth as an Elf because I could not cook my own food! Ai! Nerdanel!!!!"

Nerdanel hides once more behind her hands, just as her sons and brother-sons all echoed a long and loud 'oooooooooooooooooohhhhh!'

Fëanáro juts out his lower lip in a pout and jabs at his own chest with a thumb. "But! I am Fëanáro! Curufinwë Fëanáro, at that! Shall I quail before the challenge of the elleth?"

"No!" His sons and nephews all cheer. "Never!"

"That's right! Never!" Fëanáro echoes. "So I dismissed my attendants and servants! And I rolled up my sleeves, damn it, and the next thing your beautiful Aunt knows, I am hounding her in the kitchen, asking her to teach me how to cook! Ha! I pestered her! I did! I did! Nerdanel, for the benefit of everybody here present-- what did you say to me?"

Nerdanel murmurs something that sounded like: you don't know what you're doing.

"Bahhhh!" Fëanáro collapses back down onto his chair. "And I told her-- I said-- I said-- listen to me! I know what I'm doing!"

"What were you trying to cook, Uncle?" Findekáno asks, grinning.

"Pie!" Fëanáro points to his brother-son. "Apple pie! I was not going to let this beautiful elleth insult me and get away with it! I will learn chores, and I will make her teach me! Excellent modus, you see, always works," here, he winks at the table at large, to the howling laughter of his sons and nephews. Even little Curufinwë laughed.

"What happened to the pie?" Angamaitë now asks. "Did it get baked?"

"Of course not!" Fëanáro says, standing again, eyes widening in outrage. "What happened, Angamaitë -- was that I blew up my master's kitchen, covered me and your aunt in soot, and sent her mother chasing me with an axe!"

Laughter. Only laughter could be heard, and Nerdanel is soon on her feet, and pulling the bottle of wine from her husband's reaching hands and fingers.

"Nooooooo!" Fëanáro weeps. "Why is the wine always gone!?"

"That is enough Fëanáro! Enough! Maitimo! Makalaurë -- help your father-- take him to our suites-- now!"

"I'm not drunk! Nerdanel! How dare you send me away from my own damn supper table--"

"Alright, Atar, let's go, that's enough wine," Maitimo stands once more, and he and Makalaurë team up and drag Fëanáro upstairs to the safety of his suites.

"But I'm not drunk," Fëanáro sniffles, leaning on Makalaurë's shoulder. "I'm not, right, son?"

"Yes you are, Atar," Makalaurë patiently explains. "Now come on-- nap that off and you'll perhaps wake up in time for the evening coffee. Off we go."

@antares0606

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Favourite Female Tolkien Character Poll - Round 1, Match 1

Character information behind the cut! Add your own advocacy for your fave in reblogs!

Míriel Therindë

The greatest fabric artist and innovator among the Noldor, and the mother of Fëanor. Her death from overwhelming weariness shortly after Fëanor’s birth leaves her husband Finwë distraught. When she chooses to never return from the Halls, Finwë remarries - much to Fëanor’s discontent, as it means Míriel’s decision not to return will be irrevocable. After Finwë’s death and her reunion with him in the Halls of Mandos, she wishes to return to life, and Finwë chooses to remain dead to allow her to do so. She is grieved by what has passed since her death, and rather than return among the Noldor, she enters the house of Vairë the Weaver, and weaves tapestries of all the history of the Noldor.

She was a Noldorin Elda of slender and graceful form, and of gentle disposition, though as was later discovered in matters far more grave, she could show an ultimate obstinacy that counsel or command would only make more obdurate. She had a beautiful voice and a delicate and clear enunciation, though she spoke swiftly and took pride in this skill. Her chief talent, however, was a marvellous dexterity of hand. This she employed in embroidery, which though achieved in what even the Eldar thought a speed of haste was finer and more intricate than any that had before been seen. She was therefore called ‘Therindë’ (Needlewoman).

[After her return from the Halls of Mandos.] Míriel was accepted by Vairë and became her chief handmaid; and all tidings of the Noldor down the years from their beginning were brought to her, and she wove them in webs historical, so fair and skilled that they seemed to live, imperishable, shining with a light of many hues fairer than are known in Middle-earth.

Nerdanel

A great sculptor, and the wife of Fëanor and mother of seven sons. She is known as Nerdanel the Wise, and is the only person whose counsel Fëanor ever took, but later in his life during the Unrest of the Noldor his deeds grieve her and they become estranged; she does not go with him when he is exiled from Tirion, nor when he leaves Valinor, and instead lives with Indis, whom she is friends with. During the Flight of the Noldor she pleads with him to leave at least some of their sons in Valinor, but he rebuffs her.

While still in early youth Fëanor wedded Nerdanel, a maiden of the Noldor; at which many wondered, for she was not among the fairest of her people. But she was strong, and free of mind, and filled with the desire of knowledge. In her youth she loved to wander far from the dwellings of the Noldor, either beside the long shores of the Sea or in the hills; and this she and Fëanor had met and were companions in many journeys.

Her father, Mahtan, was a great smith, and among those of the Noldor most dear to the heart of Aulë. Of Mahtan Nerdanel learned much of crafts that women of the Noldor seldom used: the making of things of metal and stone. She made images, some of the Valar in their forms visible, and others of men and women of the Eldar, and these were so like that their friends, if they knew not her art, would speak to them; but many things she wrought also of her own thought in shapes strong and strange but beautiful.

[shiroandblack]

I actually really wonder how Fingolfin and Anairë got together. Because we get details about Fëanor and Nerdanel, and to me it's a little easier to imagine how Finarfin and Eärwen met.

But Fingolfin and Anairë was just a blind spot for me and I didn't really come up with anything until now.

So basically my headcanon now is that they were competitive debate rivals.

It all starts one day during the finals of a debating competition (because looking at the Noldor, debating seems like something they would enjoy. Also, picking on people's arguments and tearing it down like their hopes and dreams is a craft in itself). I think Fingolfin would prefer being the Opposition, because while his actions are motivated by his own ambition a lot of his actions are also reactions to Fëanor's actions. Opposition of course, have their own arguments to bring it but they also rebuke the Government's arguments (the Government being the team who is arguing for whatever motion is presented).

So Fingolfin feels like he's doing great, he's the first speaker of the Opposition (whereas Anairë is the second speaker of the Government) and he is absolutely ready to tear apart her partner's arguments. So he does what he's good at, destroying people's opinions of something into itty bitty pieces and razing his opponent's confidence until it is just ashes (like Fëanor's corpse when he died).

That is until it's Anairë's turn to speak. And Anairë basically drags his argument through the mud. She destroys the philosophy behind his argument, completely dismissing his stance, and moreover she proves to the jury that Fingolfin's burden of proof is basically 0.

And Fingolfin is just seething. But because he's the king of restraint, he sits there with an amicable expression and hopes that one of Fëanor's inventions will malfunction and blow up in Anairë's face somehow.

He embarrassingly, gets second place.

And it is a fucking embarrassment because Fëanor airs out his loss during the family dinner that week and Fingolfin becomes ever determined to crush Anairë so badly she can never rise from the ashes of her defeat.

So Fingolfin is practicing so hard, he's going through different kinds of motions, different ways to frame his argument better, and ways to ensure his arguments are without any exploitable loopholes.

Enter Fëanor, who is like "I am going to help you because you embarrassed us as a family, the House of Finwë does not ever get second place". Basically, he's trying to help his brother because Nerdanel put him up to it (but she didn't even need to push hard at all) and because he also genuinely believes that whatever mongrel Indis is, his father is the superior creature and Fingolfin being Finwë's son means that he is an extension of that superior creature and must act accordingly.

So Fingolfin and Fëanor plot and practice. Fingolfin actually has a really good time, and Fëanor does too but he'd rather die than admit it.

So the day comes, and Fingolfin's feeling confident.

Only to lose once again.

This time it's Fëanor who's fucking livid, and he tells Fingolfin that during the next competition he will be Fingolfin's partner because obviously Fingolfin's teammate is shit if despite everything Fingolfin couldn't beat Anairë.

So again, the two boys practice. While their practicing, Fëanor decides to do a little background check on Anairë via his friends at Mahtan because she shouldn't be that good. She must be doing some kind of sorcery.

But nope. Anairë comes from a pretty well-off family, she's not common born like Nerdanel but she's also not high nobility. She's somewhere in the middle, with her family being of high enough social status to have access to private galas and balls but not high enough to meet Finwë on the regular. Oh, and her father made a fortune from breeding sheep. In fact, Míriel used to source the raw materials for her yarn from Anairë's family and that Anairë has a pet rabbit called Ball-Snow.

Fingolfin doesn't want to know how Fëanor found out about all that. It's pretty creepy honestly, but he does say yes to finding out how Anairë builds up her cases. And during this time, he starts noticing details about Anairë. Like how her dark hair shines silver under Telperion and how she has dimples when she smiles.

One day the two brothers basically stalk Anairë at the library, and act like fantastic creeps in general. These two are not subtle at all, so Anairë catches them quite early on. Turns out she's with a friend, who is to be her partner for the next competition. Eärwen of Alqualondë. Naturally, Fingolfin and Fëanor can't continue to be creeps around a princess because that would be a diplomatic crisis.

So their stalking amounts to nothing.

Come the debate competition. Fingolfin and Fëanor actually win. Fëanor is pleased, so whatever truce between the two is now broken.

Fingolfin is high on victory when he overhears Anairë talking to Eärwen, and she basically says that she lost on purpose because she could see how it was driving Fingolfin crazy to keep losing and she felt bad. So it was basically condescending pity.

Fingolfin bursts into the conversation. Eärwen, sensing this is gonna be a shitty argument sees Finarfin and is like "Let's climb over a wall" and Finarfin, because his longtime crush is talking to him is like "Sure!".

They argue. For a very long time. Fingolfin says shit like "I don't need your pity" and how he could take Anairë any day, any time. Anairë is like "yeah, you do" because Fingolfin has basically not been sleeping or functioning like a normal elf because he's just so obsessed with beating Anairë.

The argument continues and Fingolfin basically outs himself. He's like "I can't focus because of your stupid smile while I'm presenting my argument" or some cheesy shit like that and Anairë's like "great, because I can't focus whenever I look at your shitty face. I feel like I'm gonna falter"

So the two are left with a dilemma. Hmm.

Naturally, Fingolfin tries to talk to his dad about his crush on his rival and Finwë is just like "I don't know, I just knew that we were meant to be". And Fingolfin is kinda like, what kind of ass-tastic bullshit is that?

So he goes to talk to Fëanor, the only other guy he knows that is married. And Fëanor proves to be equally unhelpful because "Nerdanel was the one who started making moves and I liked it".

So Fingolfin starts sending Anairë gifts out of spite. It's her begetting day? She gets a full collection of Master Rúmil's dissertation on the inherent prey vs predator nature of every living creature. She won another round of debate? She gets a nice bracelet.

Eventually, Anairë sits the dumb guy down and asks if he's seriously considering courting her and lists all the reasons why courting her is the best option possible for someone like him. She basically presents it like it's her thesis defence.

Some years later, there's a wedding and Fëanor is unhappy because Fingolfin married his mortal enemy.

So the moral of the story is this kids: if you can't beat your enemies, marry 'em!

[lamemaster]

Call Me Mommy (Nerdanel x Reader)

Pairing: Nerdanel x Reader

AN: I love her and I write this with my heart. I am a proud and shameless Nerdanel simp.

"What are YOU doing here?" Makalaure now known as Maglor asks you.

"Hmm let me think," you dramatically tap a finger on your head as you don a brooding pose. "Wait a second what are you and your brothers doing here? Last I heard you left for the noble quest of avenging your grandfather."

Maglor glares at you with whatever meager rage is leftover after all the ages worth of suffering. "How long have you been here?" In this situation 'here' is the very spacious and 'constructed optimally to capture the best sunlight throughout the day' house that Nerdanel owns.

Despite the confrontational tone, you cannot bring yourself to be mad at the princeling in front of you. "I have been here for four ages," you ease back into your chair trying to ease the pain in your back, age certainly was catching up with you. Despite being immortal it was creeping into your bones. "Someone had to be here," you try not to remember the earlier days of your presence in this house.

It had been a ruin. A house decaying with its owner, who was none other than your friend, Nerdanel. Someone you grew up with. The one you shared your days of prime with. Your partner in stealing peaches from a guarded orchard and your companion in getting caught running away with the fruit.

"Are you trying to take my father's place now that he has been doomed from the world? Trying to woo my mother in her vulnerable state?" Your breath hitches at the accusations. You turn around trying to sense another presence besides yours and Maglor. There is none but relief is short-lived.

Maybe you should have expected this but then again expectations have always failed you...most of them have. "I expected nothing Prince Maglor. I stopped doing that long ago."

It had stopped when your friend gushed to you about the Noldor prince who came to study at Mahtan's. You had smiled with her and laughed with her, you celebrated her love for another with her. You could not fail her as her friend. Your heart would not allow that.

"I have been here nothing more than a friend." You try to ease the agitated elf next to you. It wasn't surprising that Maglor had caught on to your secret. He was smarter than his brothers, sharper with his mind and his notes. "And trust me, I got the hint when she had seven of you with your father." You try not to remember the vivid letter that Nerdanel sent you announcing each one of her pregnancies.

"I will believe what I want," Noldo announces with arrogance lacing his words. Irmo's healers were too good at their job. From the crazed seaside elf to this...they should have worked a little less on his pride.

You stand up from your chair. Straightening your gown you prepare to leave before Maglor can further stall you. "Well then I guess you can call me mommy," you barely restrain your laugh at Maglor's half disgusted, half shook expression.

Maglor sits next to his mother on a chair so high that his legs barely touch the ground. But he does not care, he is sure his mother will catch him at the slightest falter.

His mother sits on her desk which is sprawling with designs for sculptures and other commissions. However, today a section of the brimming desk is meticulously cleared to spread out a series of letters.

Maglor listens carefully as his mother reads to him every single letter. The letters speak of his grandpa Mahtan's town. They are vivid and written in painstaking detail.

They seem to delight his mother. And Maglor giggles with his mother. He mirrors her smile and laughter.

However, in moments when his mother is caught in reading the words Maglor's smile crumbles. Despite the jolly words and colorful scenes painted by the writer of the letters, Maglor can't help but sense the lingering desire for something unsaid.

Late at night when Maglor lies in his bed he cannot help but imagine a solitary writer putting all those words into a piece of paper just for his mother. A writer who does that with a hidden motive.

[waitingforsecretsouls]

I'll always maintain that (Crown Prince!) Fëanáro gave his sons names befitting Princes and future Kings of the Ñoldor, as (King!) Finwë himself did for his sons. They're basically dynastic names and given how his sons are Princes and it's the schema he and his half-brothers were named for as well, it's difficult for me to see anything wrong with that. These people are royalty afterall, which means they're figures of public and to a certain extent political life by matter of birth.

It always seemed to me that father-names are the official names used for the political sphere (honestly something like titles almost), at least among the Finwëans (not least because their fathers tend to be the members of the royal family while their mothers marry in). Something I feel supported by the announcement of it in an official ceremony (Essecarmë), and which makes the contrast between the Fëanorians general tendency to prefer their mother-name and their half-brothers/cousins general preference for father-names very interesting (Obviously you can argue that it's simple personal preference or speculate about parental relationships (such as is canonically the case in at the least Fëanáro's case, though it's also still partly a political statement in its own right), but the point of this post is to go a little more political).

The Fëanorians are heirs to Finwë as the Elder House, but alone out of their wider family they're not primarily or even tangentially associated with one of the royal residencies. Rather, they spend their time travelling Aman to its outermost edges, and when not busy with exploration, are guests in Aulë or Oromë's Halls. They do not seem to have been involved in "politics" at all, prior to the Unrest, much less established in Tirion. In light of the abovementioned hypothesis regarding father-names political associations, the primary use of their mother-names serves to contribute to this air of an already rather casual conduct and presentation (see also Maitimo's comparatively 'casual' epessë (compared to eg. Artanis' or Gil-Galad's) in use specifically among close family, or the Ambarussa's nicknames (Given how they're not described as epessë) of 'First- and Second-Russa', which is not even mentioning the Fëanorians shortened father-names which could be considered potential 'nicknames' as well and even if not certainly imply a certain disregard for formality).

I'd argue that their unique status as not only descendants from someone confirmed to be neither royalty nor nobility nor associated with Tirion in any particular way in Nerdanel (which is not to claim that all Ñoldor of Tirion were career-politicians as a matter of course), but also the general fact of a less official and courtly daily environment and social contacts, e.g. seen in both Fëanáro's and Maitimo's notably close relationship to Nerdanels father Mahtan, both via kinship but moreso shared close relations with Aulë (with whom the Sons of Fëanáro additionally likely would have had closer contact growing up than Finwë, given aforementioned shared close association with Aulë and his halls yet Fëanáro explicitly not associated with Tirion as residency and noted to be living apart from the Finwë and Indis family unit even prior to founding his own family-branch) would have played an additional role in the development of their more informal manner (not that I see them as incapable of courtly manners, mind you (+ given Fëanáro's 'let them sa-si' comment were weaned on linguistic discourse at the very least, so no slouches in the academic department as well (Carnistir becoming economist prime in Beleriand as just one of the more concrete examples)) , they just canonically are very frank and to the point. Something I can see working favourable in the establishment of their many cross-cultural alliances in Beleriand).

I also think Nerdanel's lack of royal status might have played a role in keeping the mother-names she gave comparatively simple for the most part, making reference to their appearance and disposition (or, in Makalaurë's and the Ambarussa's case, prophetic insight, but even in the latter only because Fëanáro insisted on giving them separate names rather than just 'Ambarussa') in a less pompous or high-brow manner (compared to the mother-names given by noble-born Indis or of equally royal lineage Eärwen to their eldest in particular, Obviously this is more of a general tendecy, as we e.g. also get a prophetic name in Aikanáro, but I stand by Nerdanel keeping it notably simple by comparison).

The Ñolofinwëans in contrast are associated primarily with Tirion via Ñolofinwë, who, unlike Arafinwë, isn't mentioned to have had close contacts and frequent visits to Alqualondë, or primarily travel like Fëanáro and sons. Lack of additional crafts also leaves his later political plotting as only point of reference we get on his potential activities prior, making him a likely career-politician (which coheres with his better PR-management choices in the eventual feud and his kingly ambitions). Ñolofinwë married Anairë, who is most likely a Ñoldor of Tirion, given the lack of additional information on her (that mostly tends to get reserved for noteworthy deviations from "the norm", see also descriptions of hair-colour, where only deviations from the standart dark brown get explicit descriptions, or even regarding Finwëan wives, e.g. Indis, aside from the circumstances of her marriage, most noted for being a Vanyar and Eärwen a Falmari, Nerdanel for falling outside the beauty norms expected of the wife of a prince). Given that we do not get her children's mother-names, it's impossible to tell whether she added similarly ambitious/declaratory touches into them as Indis seemingly did for her sons.

The only child of Ñolofinwë singled out of the bunch during life in pre-Unchaining of Melkor Valinor is their daughter Írissë, for often going hunting in the forests with the sons of Fëanáro (to the point the narration sees fit to clarify that no romance was involved). While undoubtedly a free and adventurous spirit, the likely fact that she lived life in Aman primarily in Tirion would also add a neat layer to her readiness to accompany Turukáno (and eventually return) to Gondolin, the Tirion replica par exellence. While less overtly ambitious than her brothers or father I still propose that she was more comfortable in or at the very least used to the more formal environment of politics and appearances than often credited to her. Leaving its history of development aside, the fact that her father-name has a sindarized form (Íreth) which does not correspond to her Sindarin name actual in use (Aredhel) the argument can be made that her father-name wouldn't have been her preferred Quenya name, but rather her afaik unknown mother-name.

Given that we get no additional information on their whereabouts, it therefore also seems likely her brothers would have primarily been active in Tirion, and indeed later emerge as some of their fathers chief political supporters, Findecáno as primary Ñolofinwëan leader in the first half of the exile, and in Turukano's case commanding an eventual large following in his own right (thus fitting the pattern of favouring their more politically loaded names due to primary involvement in said social sphere).

The Arafinwëans are interesting, due to echoing Ñolo- and Arafinwë, descending from two royal lines, in their case both Nõldor (Arafinwë) and Falmari (Eärwen), yet firmly self-identifying as Ñoldor. Which I'd argue their deliberate use of father-name over mother-name signifies or at the least in effect serves to enhance, in addition to general royal gravitas. Given Melkor's warning to Ñolo- and Arafinwë that:

"Beware! Small love has the proud son of Míriel ever had for the children of Indis. Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand. It will not be long before he drives you forth from Túna!"

, it also seems like, despite his distance from the family feud and marriage into the Falmari of Alqualondë, in whose company he often shared ("[...]he often sought peace among the Teleri, whose language he learned"), Arafinwë and his family still primarily resided in Tirion rather than Alqualondë. We later also see that at least Findaráto and Artanis out of their siblings harbour grand political ambitions such as ruling their own realms in Middle-Earth (mentioned as their motive for participating in the exile), while of Artanis we furthermore get told of a steep and ambitious participation in Ñoldorin academia (As for Arafinwë, given how Eärwen gave his own mother-name (Ingoldo) to their son Findaráto, it feels safe to say it wasn't the one her husband was primarily using. But in his case I'd even argue that his mother-name was the more explicit political statement, so there was no escaping the drama. As eventually happens, with ruling over the remnants of the Ñoldor-in-Aman. Though, funnily enough, it's Arafinwë rather than Findaráto for whom one can argue for a prophetic rather than strictly political nature of said name, even if I myself do not consider it as such).

Basically, I think that keeping in mind the more official nature of the Finwëan father-names adds fun potential additional layers to the world-building and characters in question.

[art-of-firefly]

Ingwë - And with that i'm finally done with the House of Finwë (& Mahtan and Ingwë) chara-designs !

From now one, all my new drawing and chara-designs will be posted on @firefly-artwork