#love this feanor

[astral-aromance]

I feel like 99% of the Silmarillion fans forget that Fëanor was actually a very likeable guy for most of his life.

That is literally a significant part of why people followed him. A lot of people loved and admired him. He wasn't mean to random people, and definitely not "a toxic husband/father." The whole point of his story is that he was universally beloved, which is what made his fall so impactful.

[psstwantsomecheese]

*voice of son who had no idea where feanor was going with the oath* uh hey dad what was that last bit about the everlasting darkness

[eerieechos]

‘Curufin got burns on his arms from holding onto Fëanor as he fucking exploded’ is a revolutionary god tier idea that I am subscribing to for the rest of my life

[thesummerestsolstice]

Things that run in the House of Finwe:

Good hair

Being dramatic

Fits of craft-related madness

A love of jewelry

Choosing violence

Impressively good hair, even by elvish standards

The willingness to fight a Vala

Stubbornness

Heroic deaths

Being infuriatingly good at things

Hair that is suspiciously perfect even after crossing the Helcaraxe, hanging from Thangorodrim for thirty years, thousands of years of being a beach hermit, etc.

Unexplained, vaguely mystical powers

Autism

[chechula]

More, more dramatic Silmarillion art ♥ (+ my coworker lent me some fancy watercolors :3 )

[sun-snatcher]

Elrond has a conch shell.

Not one of the prettier ones you would imagine, with the spikes and spots— No, this is a weathered and lumpy one; Sandy coloured and boring, for lack of a better word, only offset by the fact there’s a weird star-shaped hole you can peek through.

He brings it everywhere he travels.

Theory goes that it’s a magical trumpet gifted to him. Or, that he keeps secret messages in it for safekeeping. And his favourite: that he’s bound to the shell by oath, and if he steps a mere pace away from it, Ulmo would transform him into foam like a cursed sea-nymph. (You can imagine that one was debunked quite easily.)

No matter; the most important thing the Elves have come to learn about its peculiar existence is that above all: You do not touch it. (One of the younger elven recruits of a party learns this the hard way mid-travel, when he’d— bless him— grabbed the shell and suggested the idea to cast it aside, in exchange for more space to fit a spare skin of water.

It’s the first they’d ever seen Elrond snap like a whip.

Nobody dares question it since.)

That is, until young Estel had found it.

They can hardly blame the little child. Idle hands and curious trinkets never mix well, after all, much less with that of a 6-year-old who’s come to learn his bright-eyes and daisy-face lent him the ability to get away with almost anything.

“Look, Atya!” He’s skipped his way up to one of the open galleries of Imladris, hefting the coveted conch over his head as he peers at the night sky. “I can see the Evening Star through this hole!”

The Elves pale. They wait for the tongue-lashing, but the storm never comes.

“Not like that, Estel,” corrects Elrond patiently, bending to lower the child’s arms. “Put it to your ear, and close your eyes. Yes, now tell me, what do you hear?”

“…The sea!” he exclaims, after a focused minute. Then Estel lights up, and so Elrond lights up, and suddenly there’s a laughter in the air akin to a musical ring of bells, so high and sunny it dispels the witnessing Elves’ tension from the air.

“But how? We’re too far from the shores, and I can’t hear as well as you. Do you hear it too? Listen, Atya, listen!”

“Yes, yes,” Elrond laughs, and holds his hand over his son’s to bring the shell to his ears. And yes, indeed, if he closes his eyes, he could almost see it: The great rushing shores of Sirion, the pitter patter of Elros’ feet splashing at the rolling tides, the salt-winds carrying Maglor’s distant singing and Maedhros’ disgruntlement over grains of sand in his hair.

Elros had had a Conch of his own. His was bright and ivory-coloured, long since laid to rest alongside him in Númenor. When they were younger, they used to believe they could communicate with each other through the shells no matter their space apart— some imaginary fancy planted by Maedhros (“You two are twins. That’s a magic no force nor distance in the world can unmake.”) which was inevitably nurtured by their child-like wonder.

Years after Númenor had sunken, Celebrían caught Elrond once or twice, speaking to the old conch, and bringing it up to his ear in hopes of a reply.

“What do you hear, Atya?”

“My brother,” he says. “Amidst the heart of the sea.”

[swordhound]

✸ stray dog devotion ✸

details + an itty bitty thumbnail draft ⬇️⬇️⬇️

[inthehouseoffinwe]

AU where even after death our favourite Finwëions are being stubborn as ever so a new solution is found. Finarfin just wanted to help his grandson in law.

Fëanor and Fingolfin are being stubborn as ever

It’s been three ages, their wounds are healed, they’ve made up and understood most of their deeds

But they cannot for the life of them get along, and everyone, from Mandos to their children and people, know that if they’re released in their current state, things will go right back to how they were

Even if their people are kept in line by their kids, it’s a very explosive situation

And in all honesty, Námo feels like they’ve put poor Finarfin through enough without this addition

He can’t keep them here forever. The halls aren’t meant to be a permanent residence unless it’s by choice, and they’ve started causing chaos in here too

…but speaking of the sons of Finwë

Finarfin himself isn’t doing particularly well right now. He feels great guilt for his inaction over the last two Ages, especially as Tyelpë and Ereinion turned up with their own tales

Then of course little Celebrian

(Doesn’t matter how much everyone tells him they’d genuinely be lost without him and his actions. The Noldor especially would’ve been outcast and alone. They needed a stable ruler, not another revolutionary. And the work he’s done is more impactful than either of his brothers ever managed)

Not to mention he’s still furious at his brothers despite what he’s convinced himself of

…and misses them greatly.

Truth be told, the Valar owe him a lot.

So they offer him a choice.

Ereinion’s skilled with managing all kinds of people and people don’t have a problem with the kid, so for a time he’ll be the High King

Finarfin is overjoyed at the chance to help his granddaughter’s family. Elrond is dear to many across all factions, and his children too.

…He’s less overjoyed at the news his brothers will be joining him if he agrees.

Nevertheless desire to be of use for once wins out and he accepts.

He gets a week or so to say his goodbyes and prepare for the journey. Asking around, particularly asking the third age elves who’ve recently arrived and Celebrian most of all, gets him the clothes and supplies he needs to somewhat blend in.

They’re still his colours (though he has none) and his symbol is carefully hidden under the cloak.

And he heads to the Hall’s Opening.

“For what it’s worth, Arafinwë, I’m sorry for the additional baggage. We’ve asked much of you, but hopefully this at least will benefit us all.”

Námo is kind when he stands and opens the gates.

“I know you’ve missed them too.”

The soft whisper dissipates into the wind with the Vala and now two figures are walking out. Tall. Broad shouldered. Eyes shining with light.

Clad in their usual blue and red, weapons strapped to their backs and hips.

Fëanaro and Nolofinwë have returned at last.

Before he can say anything there’s a whirl of light and the three elves are swept away.

Aragorn did not sign up for this

A bright flash of light all but blinds him, leaving three figures in its wake.

Three very tall. Very Elven. Figures.

And if that’s not enough, they look strangely familiar. Like he should know them from somewhere.

“That damn Vala! He couldn’t have warned us!”

And now they’re speaking Quenya.

“He did. It’s not his fault you don’t listen to anyone but yourself,” the one clad in blue says viciously.

The third elf, the only one with blond hair, groaned and glared at the two others. Aragorn winced at the look, thankful he wasn’t under it, though neither of the others so much as flinched.

“You’ve been back how long?” He scoffed. “And here I thought I missed you.”

To his credit the one in blue showed some regret and bowed his head. Beside him, the red one huffed, but it was much less heated, and his hands clenched into the leaves around him.

“Forgive me, Arafinwë,” the blue one said.

Aragorn’s hand found his blade. It couldn’t be…

“Depends what you want forgiveness for, Nolo,” was the cold reply, tinged with hurt.

No way.

But it was there. The uncanny resemblance to the portraits he’d seen in his books as a young boy learning his history. This was no doubt Fingolfin, and beside him Finarfin. Which only left-

“My feud with Fëanaro has long tainted our relationship, little brother,” the blue elf- *Fingolfin* replied bitterly, glaring at the third elf. “I’d like to start again.”

“Well I’d like you two to shove your issues aside for once and try and get along!” Finarfin hissed back, and his older brother’s eyes widened. “How long will you keep fighting?! How long will you divide your people, your children! How long will you make them suffer for your egos?!”

Aragorn expected Fëanor to scowl, angrily proclaim his youngest half brother had no right to speak that way, but the elf only glared into the floor. Fingolfin stared into the trees and Finarfin turned away, eyes clouding with pain.

Only to stare right at Aragorn.

“Fëanaro, Nolo. Swords up.”

To their credit the elves immediately stood and followed Finarfin’s gaze to Aragorn. The Ranger carefully stepped into the light as the three sons of Finwë stared him down.

“It is not polite to lurk, stranger.” Fingolfin said in the common tongue and Aragorn vaguely wondered if he’d been taught it in the halls. He put his hands up, free of weapons, and lowered his hood.

“Forgive me, my lord Fingolfin. But I had to identify if you were friend of foe. You appeared in a strange manner wearing faces of old, and the enemy is skilled in his deceit.”

“You dare accuse us of being Sauron’s creations?” Fëanor’s eyes lit with a fell fire and Aragorn would have shuddered was he not accustomed to seeing much worse from his own father. Elrond could be… rather terrifying when he decided he’d had enough of his son’s’ shenanigans.

“He was being cautious,” Finarfin retorted. “Something you could learn from considering how your life ended.”

“I didn’t know what Balrogs were!”

“The great Fëanaro admitting to not knowing something, have the end of days come at last?”

“Some would say his presence here is an indicator of that,” Fingolfin muttered as Fëanor scowled at the blond. The scowl turned to him and he met it squarely. “I said what I said.”

The situation was fast unravelling and Aragorn had Nazgul on his tail. For all his training in Elrond’s house, nothing had prepared him for dealing with three Princes - Kings??? - of the Noldor at each others throats. Sending a prayer that this wouldn’t get him skewered, he whistled sharply and the three elves spun his way. He raised his hands in apology.

“Orcs and other fell beasts roam these lands, my lords. I’d advise a quieter argument?” He grimaced at the two stunned faces, wondering when it would turn to explosive anger that ended the line of Elros once and for all.

But Finarfin tilted his head, a small smile playing about his lips.

“It takes great courage to step between the arguments of the House of Finwë. What’s your name, stranger.”

The Ranger bowed his head.

“The trees have ears, my lord, I’d take you to an Elven safehaven before telling you that. But for now, you can call me Strider.”

[storkofyore]

Trigger warning: blood

“This love it is a burning sun // Shining light on the things that we’ve done.”

I’ve been working on these pieces for a few days, and I tried to include as much slight symbolism as I could.

I’m rather pleased with the end result of these drawings, frankly.

[talibri]

Sometime I come back into the silm fandom and drop some bullshit

[exercise-of-trust]

i've been sitting on this piece for @tolkienrsb for so long and it's great to finally get to post it! dialogue courtesy of @sweetteaanddragons, who has been a delight to swap headcanons with all summer — they took this art prompt in so many fun directions, and i can't wait to read the finished product :)

this year's collection opens on september 6th, so expect a link to the fic itself in the very near future!

[violecov]

-> AU <- Feanor in Gondor//One last stand?

Every time I read in lotr Denethor 's burning death while Theoden rides, I can't help but to remember Feanor's while Fingolfin crosses the Helcaraxe.

So for @fall-for-tolkien, I did a drawing in which Denethor is Feanor reincarnation. If he was to remember, would he actually die again or not?

Like, do you guys enjoy the parallelism?? Because i do XDd

[lidoshka]

@feanorianweek #4 Caranthir - dyeing

With cooperation come new handcrafting tecniques, and Caranthir doesn't know which one is his favourite: learning or teaching.

+

@feanorianweek #4 Caranthir - tinturas

Junto con la cooperación vienen nuevas técnicas manuales, y Caranthir no sabe cual de las dos pociones aprecia mas: si aprender o enseñar.

[thesummerestsolstice]

Currently working on an AU where Finwe, Miriel, and Indis were all together before Feanor was born, so even though Miriel still dies after childbirth, Feanor always views Indis as his other mother and doesn't have any problems with his siblings.

And at first, I was a little worried, because how am I going to start the plot if Feanor isn't being paranoid about his brother trying to usurp him?

Anyway then I realized that a Feanor and Fingolfin who got along would cause far more problems. For everyone else, that is. They're no longer keeping each other busy by arguing, they've combined forces... Mad scientist older brother and politically savvy younger brother. I feel like this might actually be worse for the Valar. It's definitely worse for Morgoth.

Don't get me started on what happens when this verse's Galadriel decides that Feanor is a great role model and starts asking him for advice.

[youareunbearable]

Tonight is a great night to think fondly on Haleth and Caranthir. I think they would make such a funny couple.

Imagine??? The Big Tall Broody Scowling Kinslayer Who Is Also The One Reason The Economy Is Functioning At All Between The Different Races/Elvish Factions Who Probably Is Dying To Tell King Thingol/His Cousins To Fuck Off At Any Given Moment and hes looming over this short human lady??

This short human lady that Can, Will, and Already Has told him to pull the stick out of his ass and bullies him into doing normal townsfolk chores??? Lord Carathir, Master Economist and a Weaver with the skill to rival his grandmother, sitting there and darning socks cause his tiny mortal wife told him too. His reward will be a kiss on the cheek but she'll scold him while he does it because he said a mean thing about his Cousin Finrod in his last letter to her while he KNEW Finrod was visiting her.

Only three things in the world keep Caranthir in check: His Eldest Brother, The Lord Himring, The Current Head of the Feanorian Faction of Noldor, and Former High King; the idea that if he didn't complete his brothers' tax paperwork and run the Trade Routes then the Nolofinweans and Arafinweans would become more economincally important And We Cant Have That; and his 4'11 wife he met bloodied and wrathful on a battlefield screaming at an orc over the corpse of her brother-- it was love at first sight

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Eönwë: Sir! Balrogs killed Fëanor and then his son got captured! Manwë: I see the Noldor are in a terrible plight. We must help them. Eönwë: Oh, thank Eru! Sir, what will we do? Manwë: We’ll make a massive fucking lantern Eönwë: Manwë: And a smaller one too.