#i think elwing was a better parent than earendil

[eri-pl]

The sad thing about Elrond

(no, not everyone sailing or going brr on him, the other one)

From all the people who like Elrond, who claim to be friends, even to love him maybe, very few see him as himself. His parents (sailed, effectively sailed + parents extended edition: dead, ???), his brother (brr), his wife (sailed), his kids (brr, ?, ?). Maybe a few others.

Others look at him and see someone else's face. Or at least they see Elrond as a symbol of this or that. Never as himself.

He just tends to remind everyone of someone or another.

Many of the old Noldor see him as The Last Feanorian (minus the kinslaying problem), many elves see him as Luthien 2.0, many humans see him as the blend of all the elves they ever heard of (at least the good ones) and/or as a stand-in for their legendary ancestor king Elros, even Bilbo sees him as Mister Related To All The Stories Which I'm Gonna Sing Anyway. And there are probably many other things worrying is seen as.

(yes, Arwen has this problem too, but she's not in the Silm, and I mostly think about the Silm)

I suppose even Elwing sometimes looked at her kids and saw Earendil's face in them. That's what parents do, especially when missing the other parent. But it was only moments.

And then she was chased and jumped.

I'm sure M&M initially saw the twins, at least subconsciously, as a replacement Ambarussar, and as their redemption for what happened to Dior's sons. But I think they (at least Maglor) got over it and learned to actually see them, and this was one of the things that made "and love grew" possible.

And then one died and the other disappeared.

What's most sad in this is that I don't treat Elrond better. All the reasons I like him (at least the vast majority) aren't really about him. Realizing that may be the reason why I count him on my fave list lower than Finrod. He's still 3rd on the list anyway. But I wish he was there more as himself and less than the symmetry axis of the Silmarillion and all the associations I have to him.

Tbh he probably wouldn't be this high. I imagine Elrond is actually thie same kind of well-mannered, polite and kind as was one of my friends in high school and while it was fully a good thing, it also somehow made her hard to approach or to relax around. Which... Is even more sad, I guess.

[meluiloth]

Elrond Week Day 2: Grief and Growth

Summary: Elrond ponders his relationship with Maglor Feanorian. 352 words

The first time Elrond called Maglor 'Atar', Elros scolded him fiercely.

Maglor was not their father, he rebuked. He would never replace their father. He was a monster.

Elrond knew this; he agreed. Maglor - with his heavy armor, sharp bloodstained sword, and haunted eyes - was nothing like the memories he had of his own father, which still brought comfort to him in the dark nights when fear overwhelmed him. He desperately yearned for his father's protective embrace, and his mother's gentle words.

But that was nothing new. Elrond was a sensitive child who feared the dark, and there had been many nights in Sirion when he became swept up in the loneliness of the night, and no one but his brother had been there to alleviate it. His father was on the other side of the Sea, and his mother was at the palace working, and neither could comfort Elrond.

Yet, strangely enough, every time Elrond had suffered a nightmare here in Himring, it was only moments later that Maglor was beside his bed, harp in hand; he sang songs in a language Elrond did not know, and his keen eyes seemed to burn in the dark, but his presence was so soothing and real that it made Elrond's panic dissipate like a morning fog.

Then Maglor's hands - rough and calloused like his father's, except they held a hungry sword rather than a ship's helm - would pull the blankets snug around Elrond, and Maglor would tell him everything would be all right.

"Goodnight, little star," he had said, standing up and beginning to move to the door.

"Goodnight, Atar," Elrond had murmured, too sleepy to realize what he had said. When he did realize, he did not feel ashamed of the words, which perhaps made him feel doubly ashamed later. He could feel Elros's eyes watching him with anger from his own bed across the room.

The worst part about it was that it was a clear night outside, and the cool light of the stars pooling in through the window seemed to shine accusingly on Elrond's face.

My entry for Day 2 of @elrondweek! This was a very interesting piece to write, because I found it a little difficult to balance Elrond's relationship with his parents and the Feanorians; I don't think he liked either better than the other, but I do think that Maglor being there whenever he needed him really became a deciding factor in why Elrond came to love the Feanorians. Earendil and Elwing loved their sons deeply, and it wasn't their fault that they couldn't always be there, but that is how it was.

[swanmaids]

coastin'

for @silmsmutweek day 2; for the prompts "pregnancy" "tender sex" and "canon couples". earendil and elwing make some time to make a baby.

From the comfort of her shared featherbed, Elwing idly registered the sounds of Sirion waking up. The Havens were always alive and never silent, but there was a certain flurry of activity that always marked the beginning of each day, and could be relied upon to rouse Elwing every morning like clockwork.

Outside, the many-accented shouts of children rang out over the top of the fishmarket vendors calling out the morning’s catch. Shoppers haggled, dogs barked, and above them all the gulls wailed as they surveyed the scene. Really, Elwing ought to be rising to greet the day too. There was much to be done - directing somebody to mend the hole in the town hall roof; organising the building and repairing of certain footpaths on the dunes; checking in on the most recent families to arrive in Sirion, making sure they were beginning to settle in -

But…

The warm solid lump curled up around her back made a stirring noise.

“Mmmghgh … E’win’…” she felt more than heard Eärendil murmur into her shoulder. She smiled to herself, and rolled over to face him, suddenly needing to see him properly. Sleeping alone the past three moon cycles, she had missed this.

“Morning, dearest,” she whispered, and was rewarded with Eärendil’s brilliant smile.

She looked at him in the pale light of morning. Eärendil- post voyage was a little leaner, his golden curls a little longer and stragglier. He was quite impressively sunburnt. Elwing still thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

He laid a rope-callused hand over the slight curve of her stomach, and she watched his eyes soften.

“Good morning, love,” he mumbled back. “Mmm. You smell nice…” he said, burying his head into her shoulder and breathing her in.

The sun was starting to stream through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the glow. Outside, Elwing could hear people squabbling and gossiping in as many languages as must be spoken in Beleriand. But as Eärendil began lazily trailing kisses up her neck, and she felt his smile against his skin, Elwing thought that the rest of the world could wait a little bit longer for them to join it.

“I missed you,” she told him, and he held her tighter. 

His voice was quiet. “I missed you too.” He said. “I thought about you all the time.”

Words were hard, at times, for both of them. Neither was ever likely to use ten when two would suffice. Elwing heard in Eärendil’s voice what he could not say, and kissed his mouth in reply. 

“Did you think about…” she started, but trailed off. She knew what she wanted to say, but it felt almost too fragile to give voice to. She wanted, so badly, for their thoughts to align in this. If they did not…

If they did not, then they would go on as they were, and they would be happy; but Elwing could not help but think that she would always feel as though something desperately wanted was missing. 

They had talked about a child more than once – they had been married five years, and so the topic had to emerge occasionally, like the migratory seabirds that came and went with the seasons. But they had been younger when they married, consumed with the departure of Eärendil’s own parents and their burgeoning responsibilities, and in the end they had decided it was better to wait. But now they were older, and Elwing had found herself thinking about it more and more. 

It was true that the last of the lines of Thingol and Fingolfin needed an heir; and that neither Elwing nor Eärendil knew how much time they may have to conceive. Or if it could even be done – they were the only two people like them that they knew in the Havens, and Elwing suspected that there were no others like them in the rest of the world. And if they could have a child – ought they to? The world was wild and uncertain, and never more so than now. But that same fear had not prevented the many families of the Havens – Edain and Eldar both. 

As the closest thing the Havens of Sirion had to a queen, Elwing would greet each of Sirion's newly-born children with the blessings of the Silmaril, and lately every time she did, she would feel a tug in her chest, as if even her body was asking – when will it be my turn ? So as Eärendil had prepared to leave for his last voyage, the two of them had agreed that they would use the time apart to truly think on the question of children. And Elwing had thought, and she was certain that she knew. She wanted at least to try. 

“I did,” Eärendil said. “I think…I know you, and I know you want to try. I want to try too.” His voice rose in conviction. “We can make it work, we’re not lacking for people who’ll help us. And… I was happy, here, in my youth. Sirion – it may be less grand than lost Gondolin and Nargothrond, but there is beauty here, and kindness, that even Morgoth cannot touch yet.” 

Elwing surged forward, clasped his sailing-strong forearms, and kissed him on the mouth, hard. Something was rising within her, like a great bird taking flight. She thought it might be joy. 

“So,” he said, panting, “that’s a yes?” 

“They can be happy here,” Elwing said, “our child. We can give them that.”

“We can bring them down to the beach,” Eärendil said dreamily, “they can play in the surf…”

“Take them to Balar, once they’re big enough…”

“Show them Vingilot!”

Elwing rolled over until she was on top of him, her thighs straddling his waist. Experimentally, she ground her hips down. Eärendil looked up at her, grinning. “You want to start trying right now?” 

Well, why shouldn’t they? 

“Well, why shouldn’t we?” 

“Point taken,” Eärendil replied, and thrust his hips up, letting her feel his growing hardness. He sat up and pulled off the linen camisole that she slept in and tossed it into some unseen corner, and then pressed his face into her breasts. Elwing sucked in a breath, and took a handful of his curls, as he kissed and licked a line down her left breast, before he reached her nipple and circled his tongue around it. She gripped his hair harder as he sucked the nipple into his mouth, gently grazing it between his top teeth. Briefly, she wondered how her breasts might look when she was heavy with his child. Then he began to nose his way down her stomach and Elwing smiled to herself, knowing what it was that he wanted. 

“I don’t think that’s how you go about making a baby,” she teased. 

Eärendil rolled his eyes affectionately. “I’ve not heard any complaints from you about it before.”

“That’s true,” she said with a laugh – he was very skilled in this particular area – “but let me return the favour?” 

He nodded, and they rearranged themselves a little awkwardly on the bed, so that they were positioned face to face with each other’s sex. Elwing had wondered occasionally if it was strange to describe her husband’s cock as pretty , but she had decided not to question it – after all, his was the only one she had seen in such a context, and she really could not think of another suitable descriptor. Gently, she stroked the slight curve of the shaft and rubbed her thumb over the reddened head. At the same time, she felt Eärendil’s warm breath against her cunt.

Eärendil approached sex – and this act in particular –  the same way that he did almost everything in life. He was enthusiastic, and although Elwing had nobody else to compare him to, she was fairly certain that he excelled. Her thighs tightened around his head as he licked a stripe along the full length of her cunt, and she ducked her own head down and pressed a kiss to the head of his cock in response. Their bodies moved in tandem, the push and pull of their sex making Elwing feel as though they were truly connected in spirit as well as body. Eärendil circled her labia with his tongue, and moved to sucking at the swollen lips, and then pulled her down by the hips until she was effectively sitting on his face. Elwing thought vaguely that she might be embarrassed about the intimacy of the position, if Eärendil wasn’t so blatantly enjoying himself. She held onto his own thigh with one hand and took a little more of his cock into her mouth in response, rolling his balls in her other. 

Eärendil didn’t need much longer to make her come. He ate her sloppily, hungrily, his voyaging-stubble grazing at the softness of her inner thighs and his strong nose a solid bridge that she ground her clit against almost without thinking. When he moved his face upwards, and sucked at her clit, she heard herself whine, somewhat muffled around his cockhead, as she came, soaking his mouth and chin. Panting, she sat back so that she was no longer on top of him, and saw that he was sweating, his chest heaving from the exertion, but he was grinning like a cat who’d gotten the choicest cream at the dairy.

“Alright, no need to look quite so smug about it,” she said, but she laughed as she did, and bent back down to lick a stripe along his cock. 

“Ah, wait,” he said, a little breathlessly, “I don’t want to finish just yet.”

“That’s fair,” she agreed, pulling away and rolling onto her back, pushing herself backwards on her elbows so that Eärendil could straddle her thighs. He bent down to kiss her, and she tasted the warmth and salt of her own insides on his mouth. The room was warm in the morning of Sirion high summer, but she shivered at the realisation. When they broke apart, a thin string of saliva hung between their mouths for a moment, shimmering in the sunlight, before breaking. 

Eärendil’s calloused fingers brushed over the dark curls on her mound and parted her folds, gently drawing circles around her opening. As he slid the first finger inside her, they moved to kiss again, their noses bumping into each other and making them both laugh softly. It was enough to distract Elwing from the slight pain of penetration when Eärendil added a second finger. The sensation of his fingers brushing over the most sensitive place deep inside her made her buck her hips and moan, and by the time he pressed in the third and began to scissor them apart, the pain was forgotten. 

“Ready?” he asked her, one hand pressed into the featherbed keeping him bent over her and the other stroking his cock. 

“Yes,” she nodded, “do it.”

They both inhaled as she parted her thighs further and he finally entered her. Elwing felt a familiar ache inside of her where their bodies were joined, but it almost seemed to heighten the pleasure, as Eärendil used two fingers to gently massage her clit while he steadily thrust inside of her. In turn, she wrapped her legs around his waist as tightly as she could manage and clasped her arms around his neck, feeling his sticky salt-sweat and the rippling of his muscled chest beneath her thighs as he moved. 

Entangled like this, they were as close as two people could get. They would never be able to hear one another’s thoughts in the way that two wedded elves might, but Elwing felt that it truly did not matter. She could feel his hope, his joy, and how much he had missed her – it was there in how he touched her and the softness of his gaze as their eyes met. Please let this work , she found herself thinking, to any Vala that might be listening. Please just let us have this . 

Eärendil moved slightly to the side, and suddenly every stroke of Eärendil’s cock was grazing against that most sensitive place within her, and the sensation coupled with his fingertips rubbing against her clit was enough to bring her to a gasping orgasm. She dropped her shaky legs onto the bed and lay back, panting, as she came down from her high. Eärendil’s own thrusts were turning rough and losing their rhythm, so she thought his own peak must be approaching, brought on by her pleasure. 

Sure enough, a few more strokes and her husband was coming inside her with a groan. Eärendil dropped his head into Elwing’s shoulder and rested there, breathing heavily, for a few moments. Then he grabbed a spare pillow and pushed it under the small of  Elwing’s back, raising her hips – to keep his seed inside of her, she realised, and reddened. 

She was not sure of how long they lay together, coming down from their shared high; but at some point they must have slept, for the next thing she was aware of was opening her eyelids to see that the room was bright with the glow of the noon sunshine. The sounds of the outside told her that the organised chaos of the morning fish market had given way to the calls of women to one another between the houses as they worked. Elwing still felt somewhat sticky from the mingled sweat of her and Eärendil’s lovemaking, but she could not bring herself to feel disgusted by it. By her side she felt the heat of Eärendil’s body, and sure enough, she turned to see him still sleeping soundly on his stomach. She could not blame him – he had worked hard, after all, she thought with a smile. Instead, being careful not to rouse him, she carded one hand gently through his sun-bleached curls and laid the other on her own stomach. Would their son or daughter inherit her husband’s wild curls, or her own pin-straight locks? She had no time to dwell on it, for the gentle hand of sleep was once again pulling her under.

ao3 link.

[disorganisedautodidact]

A take on Elwing that I'd really like to see is one where she goes through several periods in Valinor where she assesses her own past behaviour completely differently. Realising her own mistakes? Wishing fervently she had just given the Feanorians the stupid rock? Going “no, actually, fuck this, I was barely more than a kid and nobody should judge me”? Wishing she’d given up the Silmaril again, this time with an awareness that that would have meant no going to Valinor and no saving the world, but fuck everyone, she should have gotten to raise her own children? Having all the time and resources in the world to further develop her healing craft* and often wishing she’d known this or had that when she was at the Havens of Sirion and refugees arrived malnourished and exhausted, or one of her people came home injured after an encounter with orcs or poisoned from drinking from a stream Morgoth had corrupted... Wondering why it didn’t occur to her to throw the Silmaril in the sea and get on a boat with Elrond and Elros and a couple of trusted followers and disappear somewhere far away to the south? Realizing her responsibilities to her people were important too and she shouldn’t have had to choose between those and her own and her children’s safety? Learning just how powerful oaths are and how little choice the Feanorians had left by the end and feeling bad for them for a while? Then going “actually, fuck them, they still swore an oath that can explicitly turn them against elves, i don’t care what they intended, it’s still their fault and i’ll always hate them”? Being angry at Idril and Tuor for sailing and at Galadriel and Celeborn for going off to the East and at Earendil for being away at sea so much and at Gil-galad and Círdan for not being closer and even her parents for being dead because “i was SO YOUNG and i needed HELP dammit”? No longer even being really angry at anyone but just becoming indifferent to the Noldor in general and the Feanorians in particular? Comingto the opinion that no choice she could reasonably have known to make would have really been better than the choices she made back at Sirion? Becoming close to Celebrían and hearing her stories about Elrond and his refusal to avoid or condemn Maglor with a mix of hurt and anger and pride? Also hearing Celebrían’s stories about her grandchildren and being just proud? All of these in some sort of order please. Bonus points if she has someone to support her in all this and tell her all of her feelings are valid, even when they don’t align with how people expect her to feel.

These don't have to be in a specific logical sequence moving in a particular direction, I just think over a couple thousand years, your opinion of choices you made in your twenties under impossible circumstances would change a lot. It’d probably eventually gravitate towards acceptance and self-compassion, but not necessarily towards forgiving the sons of Feanor. Just ... Elwing is so young when her canon story happens, and I think she would go through a lot of growth and healing after that.

*I’ve decided Elrond and Elros got that talent from their mother. The text states (Elrond) and implies (Elros, because “hands of the king are the hands of a healer”) that both of them had it, why not imagine it ran in the family.

[stilltrails]

People think Elwing, Earendil, Maglor, and Maedhros wouldn’t get along in Valinor, but I actually think they would because they learn to be cordial to one another for Elrond’s sake, and because they’re all healed in Valinor. 

They’re different people who’ve all paid for things that happened to them, and isn’t the point of Valinor to be healed and let go of burdens. I genuinely think they would all become close friends, and eventually family. 

To the point where Maglor goes on Voyages with Earendil and Maedhros and Elwing stay shoreside alone, with no fear coming from her. Like Elrond, she likes hearing tales and stories of old, and who better to tell her than Maedhros. 

I really like the idea of them all just getting along, and Elrond being the happiest he could ever be because all of his parents like each other. 

[runawaymun]

Elwing and Eärendil? I have Thoughts about them and now I wonder what yours are

Oh boy you got me 😔

I know this is a really uh…controversial take, but I don’t ship them. Everything about them smacks of imprisonment. Like get a divorce already.

I think they got married way too young way too fast and that actually neither of them enjoyed being married, and Eärendil didn’t enjoy being a father and Elwing didn’t enjoy being a mother. Eärendil is constantly gone (????) and wanted to make the choice of Men, but Elwing talked him into making the choice to be counted amount the Eldar (entrapment) which then leads to him having his heroic big moment against the dragon only to be essentially imprisoned for the rest of his life as a star (entrapment). Like not to discount how cool they were for sailing to Valinor & petitioning for aid, and Elwing’s sacrifice to jump into the ocean with the Silmaril — but they both read as sort of an antithesis to Beren and Lúthien for me. Beren and Lúthien chose their destinies and went to them gladly. Eärendil seems to rage against his for his entire life only to be trapped by it in the end, and Elwing is a tragic victim of her birthright as heir to Doriath, a child monarch who is crowned before she’s old enough to understand what that kind of responsibility even means who “dies” well before her time, just as Dior did. These two are drenched in tragedy.

But like, not in a fun way IMO? I think Eärendil really resented Elwing for the Choice they both made and it really feels like he never wanted to be around at all, for the amount that he’s just not present in the narrative of Sirion — in theory he ought to be father and king consort — and also ought to be a ruler in his own right over the refugees from Gondolin. He’s heir to Gondolin after all. And he has two heirs of his own to raise. Instead he’s Eärendil the mariner and it feels to me like he just shirks all that responsibility because he craves freedom. He’s the classic runaway price archetype who does the Big Hero Things…but at what cost? Tolkien makes it clear in characters like Eowyn that the Big Damn Hero Thing is not really the ideal which he lauds. Better to live a quiet life than to yearn for a vainglorious death (again…Earendil’s fight against the dragon feels almost…suicidal to me? On the one hand it’s cool. On the other hand it resulted in the drowning of beleriand. It’s like Eärendil wanted to be the subject of songs and tales, always wanted to burn out fast and bright. Etc etc. and then he’s left in stasis with the Silmaril in the sky…)

I’m rambling oh my god, in any case I dislike both of them and I especially dislike them together. They feel to me like those couples who were really cute in high school but then got married before their brains were done developing, had kids too early, and now Dad is Always Working and Mom has postpartum depression and a wine problem and you just wish they’d get a divorce already but they won’t because they’re both too unpleasant and stubborn to do so. I don’t think either of them were ready or equipped to be parents and while I am grateful that they got married & had kids so then we get Elrond and Elros, I don’t think it was good for them and they would have been way better off apart.

[imakemywings]

Elwing Thingol Turgon 🫶🏻

Elwing

ELWING SWEETHEART. Come here and take this cup of cider while I grab some bricks. This fandom is SO MEAN to Elwing for NO good reason (the reason is basically always to make the Feanorians look better by comparison). The amount of victim-blaming surrounding takes on her character is honestly sickening. Literally she gets blamed for the Feanorians being mass murdering war criminals, for her own suicide, for her children being kidnapped...it's insane! That there are actually people out there sincerely arguing that Maedhros and Maglor--two people who literally slaughtered the Doriathrim to extinction--are better parents for Elrond and Elros than Earendil and Elwing, who loved them and did their best in an extremely difficult situation is fucking whack.

I talked last week about being indifferent to stuff in fandom and growing to hate it because of its ubiquity--I think I've had the opposite response with Elwing. I didn't think about her that much originally but after seeing so many rancid takes I feel I have to counter them by loving her. She deserves all the good things and I hope she has a fab time tending her seaside garden at Tol Eressea and taking rides on Vingilot with Earendil while they wait for Elrond to join them.

Also she has dark hair end of story.

Thingol

Another one who gets it harsh from the fandom though at least for actual reasons, unlike Elwing. I've said it before I'll say it again: While Thingol's choices were not necessarily the best, I don't think any of them were patently unreasonable, save sending Beren on the Silmaril quest (although again, I don't think he ever thought Beren would actually try it). Thingol makes a convenient villain for anyone cheering for Beren and Luthien to get together, so I guess it shouldn't be totally surprising he gets turned into the King Trident of Silm (which ignores the fact he did come around to Luthien's marriage and in fact shows great concern for Beren's safety after his return to Doriath).

But Tolkien also tells us Thingol was a wise and beloved king (neither of which means he made the right choice every time), and I'm so fascinated with his relationship with Melian, theirs being the only example of an Ainu in a relationship with one of the Children. There is so much to explore there.

Also his aesthetic fucks so hard hell yeah forest king let's rock

Turgon

Sending me all the unpopular favs, huh Heather? Turgon I think doesn't get it nearly as bad as the other two, but fanon also tends to portray him as a stodgy kind of asshole with a stick up his butt, which I don't think there's necessarily evidence for. Turgon, like Thingol, is another ruler who made what seemed like reasonable choices at the time, which turned out to be not great choices in the long run. Yeah, ignoring Ulmo was a bad move. But you can see how Turgon was reluctant to leave Gondolin after all the work they had put into it--but also because it seems a little crazy! Leave the walled city that's kept them protected for hundreds of years? And go where? Where is safer than Gondolin? At the time Gondolin falls, it's one of the last safe places in Middle-earth!

I'm also so so attached to his friendship with Finrod, and his relationships with Idril, Aredhel, and Maeglin. I do not at all truck with fanon that says they had a cold or antagonistic relationship; everything we get from Maeglin's chapter of Silm tells us that Turgon loved and respected Maeglin and Maeglin betrayed him anyway and that is so fascinating to me. I want to know what they talked about in Mandos. Aredhel, Maeglin, Elenwe and Turgon are going to sit around and have the most awkward family brunches. Eol is not invited.

[starspray]

Could you do a director’s commentary on In After Days?

Certainly, thank you for the ask!

I wrote In After Days for one of the SWG's challenges--Manwe's Mailbag, in this case, where volunteers designed postcards, and wrote little messages to go with them, that were sent out digitally to participants, and could also be Actually Mailed if you wanted. I got a physical card, but unfortunately seemed to have put it in a safe place and cannot now remember where it is. BUT, I did post the prompt with the fic on the SWG.

I didn't use the text prompt, but the image is positively gorgeous, and definitely features heavily in the opening scene. I figured out as I was writing it that Earendil was the POV character and that I wanted the fic itself to be about Tuor and Idril arriving in Valinor--but then I got stuck for a very long time after Elwing flew off. I think I wrote the reunion about ten different times before I settled on the final version, because I didn't know how much about their lost time I wanted to include--or figure out, since I didn't know anything more than Earendil did (I have a vague idea of enchanted sleep somewhere in the enchanted isles, but I don't think I'll ever write it out).

In the end I decided to include none of it, because none of the conversations I'd written felt right, more like they were bogging the fic down, and also it feels more right to leave it be and focus on the initial reunion itself. That's also why I went with Earendil as the POV character; I usually go with Elwing, and I could have done this fic from her POV as a partial outsider (I do like a good outsider POV), but in the end I wanted to center Earendil and his feelings on the scene, because it was at least partially to find his parents that he set sail from Sirion in the first place. And of course they're as surprised to see Earendil and Elwing as they are to see them--and everyone is shocked that Tuor is there, Tuor not least of all.

I believe in one draft I had Ulmo there to greet Earrame, but I changed it to Uinen because I've given her that role before, and I like the imagery of her a little better--she isn't so Great and Awe Inspiring, and I feel she's more of a welcoming sort of character. The eagle of course comes to circle the ship as a sign of welcome and approval from Manwe; combined with Uinen calling Tuor Ulmondil, there is hopefully no room for questioning whether or not the Valar are fully approving of Tuor's coming to Valinor.

[ladyofthestarlight]

my personal view on the heroes of beleriand, earendil and elwing

[leandrafalconwing]

Fandom tends to portray Elwing as a single mother in over her head with parenting and leading the Havens of Sirion without any real support network (with or without a dose of jewel-sickness) but I was having Thoughts about Sirion today and let’s be real, she probably did have a support system. Do you really think the people who carried baby Elwing from the sack of Menegroth would just shrug and say “Eh, she’s apparently an adult now, she’s got this, we can leave her alone”? Would the Gondolindrim who doted on baby Earendil stand back and not have any interest in his sons? Elves treasure children, and so do a lot of humans.

Consider these possibilities instead: Elwing really needs to be at this meeting, but fortunately there’s a whole pack of honorary aunts and uncles absolutely delighted at the possibility of carrying little Elrond and Elros off to play with them for a couple of hours. Elwing needs to get back home to put the kids to bed? Well, it just happens to be the perfect time for a break, right everyone? They can pick the meeting back up when she gets back. Elwing is down at the beach helping her sons build sand castles but you really need to talk to her about something? Better be prepared to play in the sand too while you bring up your issue to her! Elwing didn’t get much sleep because the boys were trading off who had nightmares and she spent most of the night comforting them? Go take a nap, Elwing, we’ve got your kids and someone will handle the day’s duties.

In short, Elrond and Elros were the darlings of the Havens and everyone was willing to step in where needed, both in raising them and in supporting Elwing when her husband is away. We have so little detail in canon, it’s not like I can prove any of this, but it feels pretty plausible to me, and more plausible than Elwing being left to flounder despite being surrounded by people who love her and love her family. This means, of course, that when the Third Kinslaying occurred, Elrond and Elros didn’t just lose their mother; they lost playmates and [honorary] aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

[fantasychica37]

Today in Middle-earth! 9/29/(30)21, (almost) the end.

Bilbo Baggins, who started it all, is sad to leave the land of his birth, but he’s getting old and he’s had a full life and is quite ready for another adventure. And this time, he and Frodo get to go together. (He’ll learn, properly, what has happened to Frodo on his own adventure once they get into the strengthening airs of Valinor, and he’ll get a chance to be the supportive parent he wanted to be.)

Elrond E- Elrond M- Elrond Half-elven, child of the Elves of Middle-earth and the descendants of Valinor, and survivor of the stories of the Elder Days, is  enduring perhaps his most grievous parting - two children and another homeland lost to him, forever - but it is also his final parting, and on the other side of the sea waits the first reunion of his life. (He’ll have hordes of ancestors and aunts and uncles and cousins waiting for him on the other side of the sea, who have nursed his wife back to health (chief among those of course being his grandmother and her aunt Melian), and when he is ready they’ll open their homes to him and urge him to call them Grandfather and Grandmother by some lineage or other. Two unexpected guests will meet him on the shore along with Celebrian, and ask his forgiveness for being the first to leave him.)

Frodo Baggins, saddled with a Princedom of the West he doesn’t really want, has said good-bye in his own way to the friends and family he still counts as dear - and Freddy and Folco know more or less what he has been through, beside - but Merry and Pippin show up with Gandalf, the delightful old meddler, to wish him good-bye in person! Frodo holds Merry, Pippin, and Sam in his arms one last time, then, steps away from his family on the shore, the land he was born in and could not enjoy anymore but bequeaths to everyone he loves, to the children of the future (it’s Children’s Day, in our world), and towards his family on the ship, onto a new home where he can find healing and joy in fullness. (Once they get to Valinor, Finrod will have scarcely disentangled himself from his sister’s arms before he assaults the hobbits with a barrage of greetings and eager questions and words of comfort; he’ll have friends aplenty.)

Artanis Nerwen Galadriel Arafinwiel, youngest of the great Elf-houses, older than the Moon and Sun, and last greatest survivor of the journey forth from Valinor, who has each of her names in a different tongue, has had her adventure, loved and lost, experienced tragedy after tragedy, humbled herself and sacrificed everything (and in thus doing became the character to experience the most growth in all of Tolkien’s stories), defeated her foe, and returns home in triumph alone of Fingolfin’s host. (The king and queen of the Vanyar, Teleri, and especially the Noldorin king, queen, and queen mother have prepared a hero’s welcome for her - for all of them, really, but mostly for her, and although it will only be them, Finrod, Celebrian, Melian, Eonwe, Earendil and Elwing at the docks, all Alqualonde prepares to celebrate.)

(Idly, Galadriel realizes that she finally gets to cross an ocean by boat as she was promised an entire era ago. This is also the moment when she realizes that  once she is back in Valinor she will probably let her tongue slip between her teeth as her father’s and mother’s people do, every now and again. It’s been Ages, and there isn’t a reason not to anymore.)

Olórin who is and forever shall be Gandalf, wisest of all Maiar, has never been so grateful to be given an assignment he did not want. He returns home alone, but he returns home anything but empty-handed. He grieves his new home but looks forward to his old one, and he even gets to bring some of his friends. He is going to his home, to his kin, to be whole. (Aule will meet him and reassure him that it is not his fault. Manwe and Varda will meet him and realize that he has some bits of wisdom that they do not. Nienna will meet him and when he tells her that he wore his grey robes across Middle-earth as Eonwe carried Manwe’s standard in the great battles of old, she will tell him that she has never been prouder of anyone and hold him as he finally lets himself weep.)

He has packed a year’s supply of pipe-weed.)

And the friends and family left behind, all across Middle-earth turn away from the West, towards their home that they have freed from great evil. There now remains no great power threatening Middle-earth, and they think, the world is ours to heal, to shape, to explore, to enjoy! So let’s stop scrolling mindlessly through Tumblr and get to it!

I, for one, am full of nostalgia at this thing I barely did at points - I could have been posting every day in winter 2019, and I missed all of 2020, etc. - being almost over, but I did do stuff with it and I did have fun, and I am happy, and now I am going to get back to my (very interesting, really, the only downside is it’s due tomorrow) homework that will allow me to get a job I want making the world a better place. Thanks for taking this ride with me, everyone. I love you all!

[diversetolkien]

What are your thoughts about Catharsis of Bad Treatment? I made that term up, but I use it to describe a situation where bad things happen in a narrative (ableism, homophobia, etc) but you derive some emotional healing from it? It’s hard to articulate, but sometimes I like to see a character suffer because it mirrors my suffering? I guess an example for me would be Miriel. I relate A Lot to her depression, the way society doesn’t/can’t give her what she needs - to the point where I’m not sure I would want to change that narrative. It makes me feel Seen? But I also understand that others don’t enjoy that, which is why I like transformative work - ten scenarios can be explored with equal value... thoughts? Do you ever relate to Catharsis or Bad Treatment? (I also know that ppl use media to feel Peace/avoid seeing depictions of their trauma, which is where I’m at right now, tbh, I’m not in the headspace for Dark Media)

I relate to this anon, and I think this is a really good way to sum this up! I've spooen about how my feelings towards Elwing and Earendil partly stem from my own history of child abandonment, and in this I relate heavily to Elrond and Elros. First by being abandoned by a parent, while also learning to find figures in people you wouldn't have expected-both positive and negative.

Having a parent leave you is incredibly gut wrenching. It effects how you grow up, how you navigate with the world. And you trust.

And like Elrond and Elros, my parent is very much alive and until recently made a conscious choice to stay out of my life while chasing other things.

There's something about having to realize other things are better to your parent than you are, and while I'm grateful one parent stayed with me, the onslaught of trauma that followed afterwards REALLY makes me relate to Elrond and Elros more, and has informed a lot of my research on different forms of child abuse.

Would I want to change the narrative 🤔 sometimes yes, but because I dont, I can relate to it a lot. I really grew onto Elrond due to our shared history. And because I dont think fandom considers the situation from his perspective, I feel very protective of it XD

you should really make a whole post about this term you've cultivated and tag me! You deserve the credit for this.

[avantegarda]

Wonderful 1000: Family Reunion

@romanaisalive I have no excuses for why this took so long (other than spring break and a global pandemic) but you requested some Elrond and Maglor whatnot and I present it to you now!

--

Elrond had always known, essentially from the moment he was old enough to be aware of such things, that he had a strange family. Several strange families, in fact.

There were his blood relations, to begin with. His grandparents and great-grandparents, a strange mixture of Elven royalty and human adventurers; his great-great-grandmother, a Maia; his parents with their odd ancestry and thrilling adventures...right down to Elros and himself, identical twins who were so very different. 

Then, to make matters even more complicated, there was his adopted family.

Was “adopted” the right word, really? It was a frequent debate between Elrond and Elros as their time in the Feanorian household went on. Elrond, who frequently made up words, suggested “kidnapdopted” as the correct term, while Elros simply said they’d been “acquired.” Whatever the proper description, though, the fact remained that Earendil and Elwing had vanished, to be replaced by two of the continent’s most infamous characters.

Maglor and Maedhros were, it should be noted, never cruel to them. Maedhros was distant and often unintentionally frightening, but he was hardly unkind, and Maglor’s treatment of the twins was nothing but gently. That did not make the situation any less odd.

“What should we call you?” Elrond asked at one point. It didn’t seem polite to call an adult simply by their name, particularly when the adult in question was technically royal, but considering the circumstances…

Maglor had frowned, reflecting upon this, and then simply shrugged. “Call me whatever you like. Simply my name will do, if nothing else.”

Thus, for the next year, their guardians were simply referred to as Maedhros and Maglor, or occasionally, in whispered tones, them.

Until the nightmare.

Neither Elrond nor Elros was a stranger to bad dreams—and who could be surprised, after what they’d experienced in their short lives? And yet what seven-year-old Elrond experienced that winter night was different from any prior bad dreams. For what seemed like ages he was back there, at Sirion, watching the battle rage around him...and his mother was falling, and there was nothing he could do…

He woke up screaming. Screaming, and shaking, and sobbing, and all of Elros’ efforts to soothe him were useless. So as little as the younger twin enjoyed asking either of their guardians for help (after all, had they not been the ones who caused the nightmares in the first place?), he hesitantly woke Maglor and begged him to calm Elrond down.

Maglor uncomplainingly spent the rest of the night sitting with Elrond, singing to him in that magical voice of his, slowly lulling him back to sleep—and, at the same time, unwittingly planting the seed in Elrond’s mind that his guardian was Someone To Be Trusted. 

The next morning, Elrond had come down to breakfast, thrown his arms around Maglor’s waist, and declared “Good morning, Father!”

And the rest, as they say, was history.

--

As an adult, Elrond rarely discussed his upbringing with those around him, save for a few very trusted friends. How was he to explain, really, that two people who had caused so much chaos and destruction had raised him—indeed, that he’d loved them? Hardly the thing one talked about in polite company.

He didn’t have much of a choice in telling Celebrian, though. Partially because, even after only knowing her for three weeks he was already falling in love with her. And partially because she’d seen the painting in his private study.

Elrond had painted the portrait himself, not long after settling in Imladris, in a moment of panic that he was beginning to forget what Maedhros and Maglor had looked like. So he’d set to work, capturing their images just as he remembered them: Maedhros, tall and scarred and imposing, and Maglor, thin and pale, his dark curls unruly as they had always been. Elrond was proud of it, certainly, but always hesitant for others to see it—there couldn’t be any doubt, looking at this painting, that he thought of its subjects as family. 

“That’s a lovely painting,” Celebrian said upon sighting it. “Did you do it?” At his nod, she beamed approvingly. “It’s lovely. Beautifully done. But the subjects...they look familiar. Not my mother’s cousins, by any chance?”

“Yes,” said Elrond. And then, hesitantly: “My fathers.”

Celebrian’s brow creased just slightly in confusion. “Your fathers?”

“Yes, that’s how I grew to think of them. I’m under no illusions about their behavior, of course. Believe me, I am entirely aware that they did terrible things. And yet…” Elrond looked up at the portrait, unable to suppress a fond smile. “And yet my brother and I were alone in the world, and they raised us as though we were their own. They never pretended to be anything they were not, while still doing their best to make sure that we would never follow in their footsteps. Maedhros and Maglor may have been bad, Celebrian, but in their way they were good, too. I firmly believe that.”

Celebrian nodded, slowly, carefully. “I believe you. Mother, you know, doesn’t talk about her cousins much, but when she does it’s with more pity than anger. And...well, they raised you, didn’t they? And you seem to have turned out just fine. More than fine, in fact.”

Elrond had known from the minute he’d met Celebrian that he would be perfectly happy marrying her. Still, it was encouraging to have his first impressions of her character so soundly confirmed.

--

Centuries passed once again, bringing with them the usual upheaval: the horrors of war, the loss of loved ones. Yet in the midst of all the struggles, Elrond discovered two bright spots, that made all the loss nearly worth it: Imladris, and Celebrian.

It was Celebrian, really, who kept him sane during those difficult years. She’d waited for him patiently, never letting him doubt her love and dedication, always there to assist with what needed to be done. When their wedding day finally arrived, there was only one thing to dampen Elrond’s joy. One guest who was absent.

He’d held out hope, until the very end of the festivities, that his erstwhile foster-father might make an appearance at the wedding. Wasn’t that what family was supposed to do? Show up at important events, embarrass their young relations, and feast themselves into a stupor? But if Maglor was among the many visitors crowding the valley that week, he did not make his presence known. 

And so, with a heavy heart, Elrond decided to give up. If Maglor was unwilling to come to Elrond’s wedding, then he was clearly not coming back. 

Ever.

--

In keeping with the trajectory of Elrond’s life thus far, it was exactly when he had finally come to terms with his foster-father’s disappearance that Maglor came back—both unexpectedly and unwillingly. Specifically, he arrived via being dragged into the house by guards, who had evidently captured him on the edge of the forest.

“He doesn’t look too dangerous, but he’s refusing to let on who he is,” one of the guards explained with amusement. “So I thought you might want to have a chat with him, milord. Make sure everything’s as it should be...I say, sir, are you all right?”

Elrond was not all right. Quite the opposite of it, in fact. The minute Maglor had stumbled through his door, looking considerably worse for wear, Elrond had experienced more emotions in thirty seconds than he had in twenty years. Relief, fury, nostalgia...to name but a few. 

And love, of course. Strange, familiar, complicated love.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.

“Being taken prisoner, apparently,” Maglor said dryly. “Can’t say I’m enjoying it. Usually when something like this happens I’m on the other side of it.”

There was that famous Feanorian wit again. It was annoying, Elrond thought, how much he’d missed it. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your diligence, but this prisoner is an...acquaintance of mine,” he informed the guards. “It will be perfectly safe for you to place him in my care.”

The guards nodded and departed, leaving Elrond alone with his foster father for the first time in...Valar, what had it been? Three millenia? Something like that.

“I didn’t mean to come into your house, I hope you know that,” Maglor said suddenly. “I would never want to burden you like that. My only intention was to check in from afar, make sure you were all right…”

Elrond frowned, bewildered. “Burden me? Father, it’s not a burden to have you here. Far from it. How could you possibly think so? I’ve spent centuries thinking you were dead, or worse, and I’ve missed you, blast it all.” Tears were welling up in his eyes, and he blinked them away, desperately trying to stay calm. “I just...I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you could possibly stay away for this long.”

“You don’t? Well, perhaps I should remind you,” said Maglor evenly. “Stealing the Silmarils. Countless deaths. The family curse. All of which is to say that you are much, much better off without me in your life.”

“Father…”

“Stop calling me that!” Maglor roared, causing Elrond to step back in shock. “How many times do I have to tell you that I am not your father? Your father, your real father, was a good man. A hero. Not me.”

“But you were…”

“I was what? Your guardian? Your captor, more like. Do you think Maedhros and I kept you out of parental kindness?”

“Don’t patronize me, Maglor,” Elrond replied coldly. “I’m not a child anymore, even if you insist on treating me like one. I know you and Maedhros kept us for political reasons, at least at first, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t become a family. It doesn’t mean that we are not still a family, you and I. Unless you plan to tell me that you no longer care about me.”

Maglor’s mouth dropped open in an almost comical expression of horror. “If I...how can you even suggest such a thing? You know—or at least I should hope you do—that I love you as much as, or more than, I could possibly love a child of my own blood. That is not the point here.”

  “It is the point. I can’t think of another one. You raised me, Maglor. For better or worse, you were my father. Our father.” Elrond sat down and put a hand on Maglor’s arm, making the other man flinch...though surprisingly, he didn’t pull away. “Believe me, I know Earendil is my blood. And I am proud of him, and admire everything he has done. But I have not seen him since I was six years old. I don’t know him. Everything I am, everything Elros and I became, is essentially because of three people: Gil-Galad, Maedhros, and you.”

“I don’t…” Maglor’s usually smooth, melodious voice cracked, and he shook his head. “I don’t deserve someone like you as a son.”

“Perhaps not,” Elrond said gently. “Perhaps no parent deserves the children they have. But I see no reason why that should change things.”

Maglor’s eyes lit up—with that extraordinary light that could only come from someone who had seen the Trees—and rewarded Elrond with a rare, wonderful smile.

He said nothing. Because really, what more was there to say? Instead, he simply held out his arms. And Elrond, of course, responded by giving his foster-father the tightest hug he was capable of.

Finally, Elrond cleared his throat. “Listen, Father, I know you won’t want to go about meeting everyone in the house. But would you care to meet your daughter-in-law?” 

--

The poise Celebrian had inherited from her mother faltered only a little upon entering her husband’s study and being introduced to his father, a well-known disgraced prince. She bowed, of course, and greeted him politely, but her expression was distinctly apprehensive.

“You must be Celebrian,” Maglor said—despite his shabbiness, the manners he’d been raised with were not entirely gone. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look very much like your mother. How is Artanis these days?”

Celebrian visibly relaxed, and treated Maglor to one of her glorious smiles that always made Elrond weak at the knees. “Mother is very well, though she would be terribly annoyed to discover someone still refers to her as Artanis. She’s got very strong opinions about her name.”

“She always was a stubborn young creature,” Maglor said fondly. “And yet it seems that out of the lot of us, she has done the best for herself. I’d ask you to give her my love, but…” He grimaced. “Anyway. It is very good to meet you at last. And I hope you don’t mind, but there is a question I wanted to ask you.”

“Of course.”

 “You lived in Ost-in-Edhil for a time during the last age, did you not?” At Celebrian’s nod, Maglor took a deep breath, as though bracing himself for pain. “Did you...by any chance, did you ever see my nephew?”

“Celebrimbor?” Celebrian said gently. “Yes. I was very young, you understand, and so I’m afraid we never spent as much time together as I would have liked. But he was always kind to me, I remember that clearly. I could tell you a bit about him, if you like.”

“I would be...extremely grateful,” said Maglor. “What a first-rate young woman you’ve married, Elrond. I expected nothing less.”

This time, the tears that sprung up in Elrond’s eyes were from the pure joy of having what little family he had reunited—and this time, he did absolutely nothing to suppress them.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Songs for the Dead

Maglor writes more elegies for his father than is entirely sensible or perhaps even sane.

The first isn’t really a proper one at all. It’s just noise, almost a wail, all his anguish pouring out as his father goes up in smoke.

A few hours later, he thinks, in a shocked sort of way, that he’ll have to write a proper one. Something to sing for their people. He actually manages to start on one, which he later counts as a sort of proof that he could write music in his sleep because at the time he had about that much brain function.

He isn’t even halfway through with it when they lose Maedhros, and he crumples it up and throws the whole thing on the fire. He writes instead a song for Maedhros which without him quite intending it turns into the furious scratching of you idiot, you idiot, you absolute idiot, how could you do this and leave us alone, YOU IDIOT - set to music that runs across his ears like a screech. 

Caranthir finds that one and shouts at him a lot. He shouts back, and the thing ends up getting ripped to shreds.

He writes another one later. One for both Maedhros and his father, that is powerful and moving and entirely political. 

Everyone loves it but Curufin, who has always read that sort of thing far too well.

. . .

When Maedhros returns to them, not dead after all, Maglor writes a song for that, of course. Maedhros asks him, later, if Maglor had written a song for his death.

He makes the mistake of asking the night after yielding the crown to their uncle, and Maglor, blank faced, sings him the version that repeatedly calls him an idiot.

Maedhros laughs for the first time since Angband, even if it is a bit hysterical.

. . .

That should probably be the end of it, but it isn’t. Not even close.

Maedhros’s return and the rise of the sun bring a new ache to his father’s death. Maedhros has returned and the whole world seems to have been made new, but his father is still gone.

He doesn’t mean to share the song with anyone, but Celegorm hears him. He doesn’t say anything about it, just sinks to his knees beside his brother with the very same pain in his eyes.

. . .

When Thingol bans Quenya and Fingolfin decrees that they’d better go along with it at least in public, Maglor spends months translating his old songs.

HIs father wouldn’t have stood for it, he thinks. His father, who had loved language, who had fought an entire linguistic shift for the sake of his mother’s name, had been happy to learn the new language, but he never would have surrendered to it.

His old laments sound odd in Sindarin, so he writes a new one in this new tongue.

Then he secretly writes another in Quenya, wrapped in the conceit that the language itself mourns the man who had loved it so fiercely.

. . .

It becomes a habit to write laments for his father whenever something happens. They become conversations: letters to his father that are never answered, save in his mind’s twisting dreams.

They approach something that is almost peace while he guards the Gap.

Then the Long Peace goes up in flames, and his songs become desperate beacons for his people as they frantically retreat.

When his lungs become too choked with smoke with that and his mind hazes, his memory drifts to his father’s fire, and the song becomes a quietly choked plea.

. . .

He sings lots of laments after the Nirnaeth. None of them directly address his father, but he writes them all with his father’s Tengwar, and whenever he closes his eyes, he still sees flames.

After Doriath, he writes another, fast and choppy and filled with despairing rage.

He rips it apart himself and throws it into the fire.

It turns to ash quickly.

Alqualonde. Doriath.

He already knows it will happen again, that it must happen again, and he wants desperately to be able to lay it all at his father’s feet, when Feanor had raised his sword in the air and shouted his Oath and expected his sons to follow.

It would be easier.

He dreams of his father that night, his father weeping silently as Maglor screams his ashen accusations into the wind, and when he wakes up, Maglor is weeping too.

He writes another song that reads more like a confession and a plea, all rolled into one.

I wish you were here.

If you were here, you would know what to do.

. . .

He writes other songs after Doriath.

Songs for Celegorm. Songs for Curufin. Songs for Caranthir. Songs for all their fallen people.

He writes a song for the sake of fallen Doriath too.

. . .

He writes songs for Amrod and Amras after the Havens.

He writes songs for Elwing and Earendil too, but he is careful not to make them laments.

Elrond writes one of those later when Elros convinces him they’re dead. Maglor hopes - fruitlessly, he knows - that it’s the only one Elrond ever has need to write.

He doesn’t write songs for his father now, but he thinks of him often as he struggles to -

Not to raise the twins, surely that’s the wrong term, but he can’t think of any term that isn’t worse.

He dreams of Tirion and of his father singing him to sleep after Maglor had nightmares of monsters hiding in the dark.

Elrond and Elros also dream of monsters, though admittedly for rather different reasons.

. . .

He thinks of writing a song when they at last have to send them away, but that thought is too close to singing their laments, and Maglor shies away from the slightest hint of that.

. . .

He doesn’t write a song for Maedhros. Not for a long, long time.

He sings to his father instead, a wordless wail for his lost parents, his lost brothers, his lost home.

For the Music he had clung to for one brief shining moment before he’d flung its shining light into the sea.

He thinks he will still be singing to his father when he is nothing but a voice on the wind.

Their deeds would be a matter of song till the end of days, his father had said, and this promise, at least, he can keep.

. . .

(That’s all very well, Elrond says when he finds him, but Maglor can do that just as well from Rivendell, and while Maglor is free to disagree with that, Elrond is free to follow him around singing a song that his children claim never ends until Maglor changes his mind.

It does not take Maglor long to change his mind.)

[daywillcomeagain]

elwing

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. you can read the others here.

2K words under the cut!

elwing is three years old when it happens.

she grows like a human, already toddling around, and so when it happens her parents give her the silmaril and tell her go with Brithiel, do whatever she tells you to, alright? and she is too young to understand the situation at the time but old enough to hear the fear in her parents' voices and nod without argument.

she may grow like a human, but she has the memory of an elf. for years later she will remember that day. the screams, the clash of metal on metal. the gurgling sounds of those whose lungs are too full of blood to scream.

she didn't hear the screams of her big brothers, so she clung to the idea that they were out there as tightly as she clung to the silmaril in her hand. that they'd come save her just like they did when they told her bedtime stories.

when she hears her father scream, she realizes that her big brothers are not coming to save her. it is only years later, long after she arrives at the Havens, that she realizes they are dead. she wonders if they were gurgling, or if they were just too far away. she doesn't dare ask. she knows that, if they had screamed, she would have known.

she throws tantrums on the road to the Havens of Sirion, at first. it doesn't take long for her to get tired of the novelty of adventure. she can't keep up with the adults, so she is held the whole way. they get worse and more frequent as the food supply shrinks. mostly the tantrums aren't about that, though, or the food or the songs or not being allowed to run around and explore. they're the same. i miss ada, i miss emë, i miss eluréd and elurín, and she fights against whoever is carrying her, as though she plans to run all the way back to menegroth, as though if she does so they will be there again. they just hold her tighter.

eventually they arrive. the Havens of Sirion. they are less impressive than she imagined. she had been imagining--well, she had been imagining home.

home is a palace. home is walls and tall buildings and soft pillows and servants and poetry and song bouncing off the walls.

this is--a refugee camp, trying very hard to pretend it is not. the silmaril that hangs down from elwing's neck is easily the nicest thing to be seen for miles; heads swivel to look at it. flags and scarves are everywhere, colored with bright dyes, but it is clear when you look at them what plants they come from: berries that are just that shade of purple, pinks reminiscent of the flowers that grow on the banks of the river, a flag flying in the wind that perfectly matches the color of the grass. people here have what they have carried, and no more. there is song on top of the cries of a baby being rocked to sleep, but there is no poetry being recited.

she should be excited, that she can finally run around without supervision, that she can explore and hear new voices and run as far as she wants and sing as loud as she wants. and she is. but she's--not sure if she's three or four, really, she tried to count days on the journey but she lost track quickly--and she can't help but feel a little disappointed.

they find her a house, of course. people deliver her meals, for the first few years, until she's old enough that she can be trusted to get her own.

she holds on to the silmaril, always. it's her last memory of her parents, of her ada pressing it into her hand before--before she doesn't see him anymore--before she hears him screaming--

it is about this age that she learns that the silmaril is why they died. she wears it tighter around her neck, after that, tight enough to leave pink marks when she takes it off to sleep. some days, she doesn't even take it off to sleep, just loosen the necklace.

when she is eight, more people come, a stream of them. the havens are crowded. people remark about measures to help with that, at least for the humans, who can get sick. the food is stretched thinner and thinner at first, but as the new people settle in they have more hunters and farmers and it evens back out. the rulers of the newcomers--idril and tuor--take it upon themselves to organize the Havens, giving orders, making buildings of stone. (stone will not actually stand up better than cloth if morgoth or the kinslayers decide to come, but it's nice to pretend that it would, so they all let themselves believe.)

when elwing is a teenager as the Men reckon it, she becomes obsessed with Grandmother Lúthien.

lúthien, who won the silmaril. who killed orcs and vampires, who defeated sauron and even morgoth himself. lúthien, who was shot at by the kinslayers and was not hurt, who won their dog over to her simply by being a better person than them. flowers grew where she walked; she could sing down buildings; she could sing the dead back to life.

elwing sings as loud as she can. the dead do not come back to life.

she hears that idril and tuor have a son, only off in age by her by a few months. idril is eleven--tuor is human--

she goes to find their son.

months later, they whisper long into the night, looking up at the stars:

"i was seven."

"i was three."

"it's stupid, but--i still flinch from campfires, sometimes--"

"i hate the sound of coughing."

their hands brush. it was inevitable, really.

they get married when they are twenty-two. he has nobody to ask for her hand. she has nobody to walk her down the aisle. but sirion watches them, cheering, the people she has grown up with, and it is almost as good. her heart is light, and the silmaril around her neck shines.

later that year, idril and tuor announce that they are leaving. for valinor, they say. earendil is excited for them.

elwing--bites her lip. no ship that has gone to valinor has ever returned. there are two explanations for that, she does not say, because everyone knows it. instead, she says: and then we will rule the havens.

yes, eärendil says, i suppose we will.

they leave. elwing and eärendil rule, as best as they can. eärendil starts sailing, longer and longer, as though he hopes that if he sails far enough he will catch a glimpse of his parents.

the first messenger comes, from the kinslayers. give us the silmaril and we will leave you alone. she wonders if they sent that to her parents. she remembers the noises, of people choking on their own blood, of not knowing if those people were her brothers. they had seemed so old to her at the time, six whole years old, but now she thinks of them as the children they were.

she wonders if the messenger was the one that killed them before she sends him away.

they have two children. twins. elrond and elros. she sings, and recites poetry, long lays of sindarin, as she cradles them to her breast. when they are older, she teaches them the certhas, not the tengwar, first.

more messengers come. eärendil is gone more and more. he has finally admitted he is searching for valinor. they fight and reconcile and cry. she spends so much of her time crying now, before wiping her eyes and splashing her face with water and giving a speech to her people. everybody is too busy looking at the light that glows on her chest to notice. she stays up all night, watching the horizon for messengers or worse. her face is a mess of red skin and dark circles. she is thirty-five, though she looks younger, and she is unbearably tired. she would have given up long ago, were it not for her people, and then her sons came around, and she could no longer think of giving up.

she is the first one to see the banners. she runs first, not to the alarm bells, but to the room of her children. "hide," she hisses. "run. now."

they do, wide-eyed. they are older than she was. they are six: the exact age her older brothers had been. they were twins too. she knows the kinslayers will show no mercy. she has heard by now that her brothers starved to death in a forest, that they were not there that day. images flash through her mind: her sons, spluttering and aspirating blood. her sons, skewered like hogs. shot like deer. starving to death, slowly, so gaunt you can count their ribs--

--she does not do what her dad did and give them the silmaril. she keeps it herself, wears it bright. hopefully they will target her and pass them by. she does not wish to pass this life on to her children. the kinslayings over the silmaril will end with her, one way or another.

she is cornered on a cliff, swords cutting off any escape, and as her eyes flicker over them she wonders: which of you killed my mother? which of you killed my father? which of you drove my brothers in the forest to starve to death? which of you are going to kill my sons?

she knows that she is going to die. she knows that they will get exactly what they want, if she dies. she knows she will scream, on the point of their sword, and she does not know if her sons are far enough away not to hear. she knows that it has been many, many years since she cared about her own life here.

she jumps to her doom silently.

before she hits the water, she is flying, wings spread wide.

she flies and flies, west, west, as fast as she can, until she sees his ship.

she does not land; she falls in a tumble. she is so very, very tired. she sees his look of shock and recognition, and then she falls asleep.

she wakes up and she is herself again. it would seem a dream to her were she not aboard his ship. "here," she says weakly, unclasping the silmaril from around her neck, and putting it in his hand, "take it. i don't want it anymore."

they sail to valinor. she would be surprised when they dock in the sea leading to beaches scattered with gemstones, but stranger things have happened to her now. he tells her not to come--they are not supposed to be here, and nobody who leaves for valinor ever returns, and there are two explanations for that--and she jumps into the white foam beside him and takes his hand.

they go to valinor, and he begs. he begs pity for the noldor. he speaks of his mother, who walked for a decade as a child over icy wastes. he speaks of how gondolin fell around him when he was seven years old and how he still cannot look at fire without his stomach turning. he speaks of his grandfather's stories from the nirnaeth, of mountains of bodies. he says, if they could only have sent their children to be free of the ban and live safe here, you would have received boatfulls of babies, do not tell me now that this was a just punishment.

and, miraculously, they listen.

they give eärendil and elwing a choice: to be mortal or immortal, elf or man.

earendil says: i am weary of this world, but i never wish to be parted from you.

and elwing, who had such a short time ago been exhausted, thinks of luthien. she thinks of how the silmaril was said to have aged her, quickly even by mortal standards. she thinks of her exhaustion, her hopeless dive off a cliff, ready for death.

she imagines what it would be to spend an eternity unafraid next to the man that she loves, an eternity bathed in the radiant light of a silmaril, the entirety of forever stretching before them and the knowledge that they do not have to use a second of it watching for enemies. she has lost two homes now. she imagines what it would be like to live somewhere and know that it was permanent.

they call Valinor the Undying Lands. she realizes then that it is the proximity to death that she is weary of, not life. it was just that, before she stepped foot on valinor, those were the same thing.

she makes her choice.

eärendil’s ship flies through the sky at night. she watches it, and an ocean away, elrond and elros watch too.

[stilltrails]

I also noticed that Earendil made the choice for both Elwing and him to not retrieve their sons. Even when knowing they were alive, Earendil was so disappointed with Middle Earth that he decided that returning, even for his sons, wasn’t worth it. 

And not that it’s a bad thing. I do wonder why they both figured that their sons would be safe with the Feanorians despite everything, especially if they could get them. 

Earendil knew of the Feanorians growing up in Gondolin. 

Were they grateful that they spared them? There had to be at least some sort of positive thought from Earendil and Elwing in terms of the feanorians watching Elrond and Elros when they could have retrieved them. 

Did they think they were better off with the Feanorians? 

I feel considerably better about Maglor and Elrond and Elros knowing their parents made the decision to leave them in their care. I just want to know what made Elwing at least okay with that? And maybe she wasn’t, and that’s why Earendil allowed her to choose whether they remained immortal or human. 

I might be a minority but I like to think that in Valinor, all 4 of them are on cordial terms. Because as much as I want to think that Earendil chose for Elwing regarding the fate of their sons, I don’t think “I’d rather die than give the Silmaril to the people who destroyed Doriath” would let her husband make a choice like that for her.