#noldor crafts

[thesummerestsolstice]

My Headcanon Crafts for the House of Feanor:

Nerdanel: a sculptor; about the best in all of Valinor. Many of her early sculptures were praised, but also seen as a bit strange because they looked so real, but no one could identify any model they'd been based off of. Later, it would be recognized that she'd sculpted several of her own children, long before they were born.

Maedhros: an actor. Back in Valinor, he often played romantic leads in comedies and tragedies alike. He was very dramatic back in the years of trees, but got more subdued in Middle-Earth for... obvious reasons. A few of the posters for plays he was in made their way to Middle-Earth and got passed around Himring like contraband.

Maglor: a bard. While he often composed his own songs, he was also one of those charged with memorizing the old oral history of the Quendi– the elven equivalent of like, being able to memorize and recite the Iliad. Much of this early Elvish history was almost lost by the end of the First Age, and Maglor attempted to preserve it by writing it down. Eventually, those books ended up saved in Rivendell's library.

Celegorm: a hunter in Orome's train. Was famous for his ability to hit quickly moving targets through the thick forests of Valinor, even when mounted. He also enjoyed making various things out of the pelts, teeth, claws, and antlers of his kills. He's made very nice fur coats for several of his siblings and cousins.

Caranthir: a fiber artist; mostly focusing on weaving and embroidery. He's not sure whether to feel flattered or vaguely worried by all the Miriel comparisons. He insisted on making most of his family's formal clothing because all of Feanor's kids can get at least a little craft-related hubris. As a treat.

Curufin: a smith. His father was most famous for his jewelry, but Curufin would come to be known mostly for his weapons. They were so reliable that many of them lasted until the Third Age. There are rumors he poured some of his soul into the weapons he made for his brothers. But those are only rumors.

Amras & Amrod: painters. They specialized in incredibly detailed landscape paintings. I say "they" because all their works were done together; Amrod would make the sketch and darker linework and Amras would add the colors and shading. Their work was often very nostalgic and peaceful, with bright watercolors and gentle shadows.

Bonus! Feanor saved a lot of his kids' work from when they were really young and just starting their crafts. It's all what you'd expect from a small child's art, but Feanor still acts like they're masterpieces. His kids all think it's super embarrassing but he's really proud of them.

Headcanons for Finwe and his Children, the House of Fingolfin, the House of Finarfin, and the rest of the House of Finwe. Thanks for asking about Finwe's grandkids @hyperlexia-1 :)

[airendis]

Happy New year, my friends!!!

I've made this little version of golden tree of Valinor - Laurelin. And also finished Finrod's portrait with my new pencils Caran d'ache Luminance.

Of course I remember of 3th january. Thank you for all. You know, I've always remember this date. I'm not yet to finished my new sketch. Hope, I will doing it this day at last.

"But there is another which is founded deeper. Estel we call it, that is "trust"...

[the-werewithal]

Silm fandom is a very dangerous place for someone with world builders disease.

[peasant-player]

Oh wow I was not expecting this from the pajamas post xD. But I love learning new things! I'm not a language nerd so I don't know much about other languages except for German.

I just know the practical stuff around sewing, Weaving and embroidery. One of my favorite things is how lace is made in the past.

I know a elderly lady who still does needle lacing and bobbin lace. (She also knits pullovers for me) It is a very beautiful craft and especially the bobbin lace,skilled women can make whole pictures with that. I don't have pics of her stuff but here are some pictures from a museum and so on :)

Bobbin lacing is also very fun to watch as you move the wooden part from one side to the other and so on. And you need so many pins.

Nothing for me I get mad when the treads tangle up

It is a craft that is dying out :(

As for the Tolkiens world.

Lace work is something that I always thought the elves would love to do!!

Think gold laces!!!

On another note do you know about the "viking knit"

That's a modern art of making knitted jewelry like armbands and so on.

The older term is "Trichinopoly" what a mouthful

But I strongly Hc that especially the noldor women are skilled at that!!

Here are some examples I swear they look better in rl

For reasons related to Miriel Þerinde, Vaire,

and the Norns (and maybe Ungoliant and/or Lúthien),

feel free to infodump me, if you will, with fun facts about historical textile arts, history of weaving and sewing, also your HCs about how those things look like in Aman (at any point of history). (You can assume some knowledge on my part of the related crafts, not necessary of history.)

Thank you!

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Thingol, Luthien, and Dior’s claim to the silmaril bugs the living daylights outta me and I’m gonna break down why. This goes a bit beyond ownership laws.

Starting with basics. What are the silmarils? Gems created by Fëanor that hold the light of the Two Trees. Who in Beleriand saw the light of the trees and no doubt misses it like a limb? Are here in part to avenge their destruction? The Noldor.

The Sindar never went to Valinor. They might find the gems beautiful but that’s it. There’s no cultural or emotional connection to them beyond ‘pretty stone, look how awesome our princess was.’ There’s no appreciation for what they hold. No understanding that this stone is one of the *last* things that holds the ancient light of the Trees.

The Noldor meanwhile not only saw the Light, they had entire festivals surrounding it. Grew their entire culture, their lives, under and around it. Now the trees are destroyed, their king killed defending these jewels. And this last beacon of hope, a piece of the home they can never return to, a piece of light that will never come back, is being kept by people who can’t even begin to understand the significance of what they keep.

Now imagine being the sons of the one who made this jewel from a culture of people who value craft above all else.

Not only is it light, it’s the result of years of toil and experimentation of your father, the one who managed to do what no one had ever even thought of. Fëanor’s sons would have been the first to see these jewels, probably saw him make prototypes, work equations whilst they worked on their own crafts. Provided what relief they could to his ever working mind and inadvertently gave him ideas that helped solve problems he encountered along the way. Suddenly it’s not only a key part of their culture, it’s something core to their family.

Then Fëanor is killed and in many ways it’s the most important thing they have left of their father. Now it’s a source of memory too, for someone doomed to the Halls for eternity. Who they’ll likely never see again unless they’re killed.

Now from what I’ve heard, Tolkien says the Fëanorions lost their right to the Silmarils when they killed for them. Which makes no sense considering the Silmarils were *created* by Fëanor. Yes the light was created by the Valar, but what, you’re gonna say ‘I created electricity so that lightbulb you made is actually mine.’ That’s not how it works. Fëanor made the casing for the stones and figured out how to hold the light, without aid from the Valar. It doesn’t matter what actions they take, the right to the Silmarils remain theirs and theirs alone. The jewels hold no power of their own, they’re literally objects. Healing objects at most. Morals do not dictate their ownership, hallowed or not.

Tolkien going on to say the right of Doriath’s Silmaril actually goes to Beren and Luthien for taking it from Morgoth gives me frankly coloniser vibes.

‘Oh this thing I stole was originally stolen from you? Too bad. I took it so it’s mine now. Don’t care how important it is to you, your entire culture, and your people.’

Get where I’m coming from?

All in all the whole situation gives me Bad Vibes and I really don’t like the attitude the Sindar have to the Silmaril. In terms of Elwing, I can partly forgive her purely based on trauma response. Fine. Doesn’t make it right, but I understand. But that never would’ve been a problem if her father, grandmother, or great grandfather had the sense to acknowledge the silmaril was never theirs to keep. Don’t like the Fëanorions, (too bad) at least give it back to the Noldor.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Lauriel

When Lauriel is growing up, she knows her older sister is a better singer than her. This is not because she's heard her sister singing all that much; her sister is fully grown and moved halfway across Aman before Lauriel is even thought of. But it is a thing people tell her of, a little awkwardly, a little gently, whenever she mentions her ambition to be a bard. Her sister is a better singer than her, and her sister is a potter. Ergo . . .

Lauriel takes up the flute. Her sister did not play the flute as a child and her rare letters don't mention it now; her sister cannot be better than her at the flute.

Her mother tells her flatly that this does not mean her sister wouldn't have been better at it, had she ever tried.

"It takes a lot of dedication to your craft to be a bard," her father says, a little more gently. "It's a very competitive field."

Left unsaid, but very much heard, is that Lauriel, of course, is far too flighty to have that sort of dedication.

It is not the first time they have had this conversation.

It is the last, because Lauriel vows to all the Valar that she won't set foot on the farm again until she's the greatest bard the Noldor have ever seen.

It does not take her long at the university in Alqualonde to learn that she is almost certainly never going to be so much as one of the best ten bards the Noldor have ever seen. This does not, however, stop people from still enjoying her music - or, for that matter, from enjoying her dancing, her conversation, her skill at the competitions that are all the rage at parties, and so she never lacks invitations to just about any event in town.

She's friends with everyone, and she hasn't written a single letter back to the farm, and she tells herself she doesn't care that none have come from there for her.

She doesn't talk to any of her friends about that.

She does talk to the woman with the tense, tight shoulders at the current party, swooping in to rescue her from the circle of jabbing fools around her; she's not sure why the other woman needs rescuing from the discussion of the night's musical entertainment, but it doesn't matter; she doesn't need to understand to recruit her to make up the numbers at Lauriel's table for cards.

Aranel is laughing when Prince Makalaure, of all people, comes by their table, which is how Lauriel learns that the woman she rescued is Prince Makalaure's wife.

He sees her flute in its case beside her and asks to hear her play.

He compliments her when she's done. Invites her to another party the next week.

Lauriel, of course, says yes.

She's never political. She's never really bothered about any of it.

But she starts to fall into his circle; their music is so passionate, so innovative, and she likes the way they circle around each other. They're dedicated to each other in a way the endless sea of her other friends aren't.

So when she hears someone being rude about his father, of course she speaks up; for all she knows Prince Feanaro is crazy, but that doesn't give anyone the right to be cruel about it.

She gets offered a job at the university in Tirion, and she thinks Makalaure recommended her for it; she finds out later he praised her skill with people as well as her music when asked for his opinion on the posting.

She finds other people start assuming she's political, even though she still doesn't much care whether they're allowed to sail back to Beleriand or not. She does care, though, about people being rude to her friends, and apparently that is political now, so political she is.

One of her friends is shocked that she's gone this long without hearing Prince Feanaro speak, so even though she still doesn't really care, she laughs and lets them drag her along to his next one.

She gets it now.

Why half of Tirion follows him and why half of Tirion thinks he's crazy.

She still doesn't really care. Even after the Incident - well, that was wrong, of course, but she doesn't see why people have to be rude to Makalaure and Aranel about it.

When the darkness comes, she goes with Feanaro's camp, of course. Almost all of Makalaure's circle does.

Partially because at least Prince Feanaro has a plan. Partially because everyone else is doing it.

Mostly because she hears Makalaure swear the Oath, and -

And her oath is not so burdensome a thing. She cannot go back to the farm; she has accepted she will never be able to go back to the farm. But she could still see her parents if they would come to her, if they would meet her elsewhere, if either she or they would ever just send a letter.

She feels it, though. Always, she feels it.

She wishes she had told him. She hadn't, ever; she hadn't known how to look at the actual greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced and admit to her adolescent ambition. But if she had swallowed her pride and told him - if he'd been warned -

She follows him.

(It is four ages later that she tells him at last; when he asks her, as they prepare to sail with Elrond, what she thinks of at last returning home.

"Oh, home's not really a place," she says in surprise. Home has been people for the past four ages of the world, and she has no intention of leaving those people now. "I suppose I'll have to wait and see if my parents choose to visit; I can't go to them unless they've moved."

This catches his attention. "Whyever not?"

"Well," she says, studiously not looking at him. "I swore an oath.")

(It is midnight when Elrond finds a furious Maglor correcting a beleaguered Lauriel's pitch in the garden.

"Are you planning on making our plea to the Valar for your brothers in the form of a concert?" he asks in bemusement. There is precedent, he supposes, with Luthien, but he would have thought Lauriel would have had more patience with the fevered practice if it were the case.

"It is no true teacher who cannot guide a student to surpassing himself," Maglor says grimly. "And it is no true prince who does not return loyalty. Lauriel will be the greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced."

"I don't want to be," she says in some desperation. "I really don't. I don't care if I can't go back to the farm."

"You should have the option," Maglor says firmly. "Now try again.")

[mahtariel-of-himring]

In the early ages of Valinor there was a festival celebrated by the Noldor. It was very secretive and secluded ceremony so that not many outsiders knew a lot about it.

It was called the starlight festival, a ceremony in celebration of their first guides. The stars.

The first elves were born underneath starlight and lived under it for many years, the stars were their guiding light for long, before they came to Valinor.

The tradition was started by Queen Míriel, who loved the stars most of all her people, for her own hair shone like them and made her feel a special connection to the lights in the night sky.

Traditionally the Noldor wore pure white gowns with detailed silver embroidery which where very light and easy to move in to make it easier to the dance.

The embroidery was personalized for every single elf, making every piece uniquely fitted and decorated to represent said elf.

It showed whatever represented them most and was often connected to their craft.

A mariner or fisher would wear some type of waves, a weaver string and needle, a smith, depending on his specialty, gems, jewelry or whatnot. Those who took to other physical labor would often wear their tools, modeled after the real thing.

Additional to the white robes a flower crown made of pure white flowers was worn atop the head or, if someone wished, braided into the hair.

The flowers used to make them were unique and shone like the light of the stars themselves. Of great beauty and with soft, silky petals. They came in all sizes so it wasn’t uncommon for someone to have dainty small ones and another large ones that came down into their face.

The festival happened under the first clear night of the year, all light would be put out so the stars could be seen particularly well and the Noldor would dance beneath the sky that first welcomed them into the world.

After Queen Míriel died the tradition was largely abandoned due to King Finwë being unable to handle the grief of being reminded of his late wife.

Years later during Fëanor‘s exile to Formenos he brought the starlight festival back to life, teaching his son‘s and wife the traditional dances, helping them design their robes and make their flower crowns.

After the flight of the Noldor the tradition was lost a second time. Thought the son‘s of Fëanor carried on with it the war made it as good as impossible.

As battle and bloodshed slowly took over Beleriand they took to making flower crowns out of paper if they could or had the time for it, if not they simply thought of it, remembering the peace and quiet of the near sacred night their people used to celebrate and longed for the flowing robes and soft crowns.

When Elrond and Elros were kidnapped from Sirion Maedhros made an effort of making sure they knew of this tradition, in fear that if Maglor and he died no one would remember it any longer, and their grandmother’s legacy would fade.

After Maedhros died and Maglor disappeared the world seemed to have forgotten about the starlight festival, the great joy of Queen Míriel of the Noldor, who‘s hair shone like the light of the sky and who loved the nightly glow above all others.

But if you visited Lindon in the second age, and were around at the right time, looking out your window at the correct moment, you might saw a figure, dancing on the rooftops of the elves city, dressed in white, with flowers atop their head and gaze turned towards the stars.

[leucisticpuffin]

On a summer evening in Rivendell, Elrond's little family are busy designing a sensory-play room for the twins. (If Elrond ends up hiding in there too after stressful councils, no one's going to say anything.)

For Day 5 of @elrondweek (a little late because of absent-mindedness...) Please click on it to see all the details!!

A lot of research went into this painting (and a lot of thought about how you'd crease a multisensory environment in a fantasy world with no electricity for pretty lights and bubble lamps) so here are some notes and headcanons:

Lighting: A number of elves who studied under Feanor later lived in Middle-earth (especially Eregion) and continued making crystal lamps and light-altering gemstones. The crystals in the small jar are a kind which glows for several hours after being “charged” with sunlight. They are used for decoration and in situations where a flame would be impractical or dangerous, e.g. a child-safe nightlight. 

Light projection jars: Glass jars decorated with colours and patterns. When a light crystal is placed in the jar, the colours are projected across the floor or wall. (Elladan and Elrohir are still a little young to be trusted with heavy glass jars, so for now these will be kept in a locked chest and used with adult supervision). 

Fabrics: Samples of cloth with lots of interesting colours and textures for the kids to choose from. Some (like the star cloth Elrohir is admiring) will be draped from the walls or ceiling of the sensory room to create a dark, cosy environment, and others made into blankets, cushions, etc. 

Star cloth: Cloth embroidered with tiny, faintly-glowing gems, resembling the night sky. First created in Valinor by a member of the textiles guild, it was popular among older elves who wanted to remember the skies of Middle-earth. It was expensive and difficult to make, and fell out of fashion when the Noldor left Valinor. The craft was revived in second-age Eregion, and easier methods of making it were developed. 

Toys: Elladan is playing with a painted wooden rain-shaker. Other sensory toys pictured include a colourful spinning top and a set of tactile wooden balls. They’re gathering a collection to keep in the boys’ toy-chest. Elrohir prefers the tactile objects, while Elladan likes any toy that makes a noise.

Room decor: Inspired by Art Nouveau aesthetics. The rug is based on an antique Donegal carpet, and the wallpaper on Arts and Crafts designs. 

Clothing: Inspired by paintings and antique garments: the twins and Celebrian are (loosely) based on paintings by John Singer Sargent and Henry Arnould Olivier, while Elrond’s robes are based on a 1905 House of Worth tea gown.

There are a number of flowers and plants in this painting; their meanings in flower language are as such: 

Bonsai pear tree: comfort

Irises (in the stained-glass window): wisdom

A vase of white lilacs: joy of youth, youthful innocence

Traveller’s joy (in the patterned wallpaper): safety

Primroses (Elladan’s hairpin and the embroidery on the twins’ dresses): early youth

Daisies (Elrohir’s shoes): innocence

Forget-me-nots (Celebrian’s dress): true love

Lily-of-the-valley (Elrond’s hairpin): sweetness, return of happiness

[shrikeseams]

Not going to lie, I find it weird and off-putting when people characterize Feanor (& sons) desire to reclaim the silmarils as 'greed'. Like.

Is it greedy to want your own shit back? Like is it outrageous to try to reclaim your own property that has been stolen AT MINIMUM once, and in one case twice, and in the ultimate end stolen and then subsequently taken as war booty by a neglegent if not outright hostile force? Is 'greed' the word you really want to use? Is that a word you would use you you translated the situation into something of your own? If someone stole your bike, or your wallet, or a piece of art that you made, and you expected it to be returned to you... would you want to be called 'greedy' for that?

idk there's just something weird about wanting to reclaim objects that are both a) important representations of calaquendi noldor culture and craft and b) a literal embodiment of the divine light that recalls better being described as excessive and unreasonable that rubs me the wrong way.

Just to be clear: I am not endorsing acts of violence to meet the above goals! But 'greed' does not denote excessive force or unjust means! It denotes unjust desire. Characterizing Feanor's drive to reclaim the silmarils as greed means that the desire itself is unjustifiable or unreasonable.

[snakegentleman]

Who decided the hottest new fashion in Valinor for all time was linen robes? I know the Fëanor and Nolofinwë were beading the shit out of everything just to prove their dedication to craft. They'd be inspecting each other's court outfits like those really serious reenactment festivals that inspect stitch count and shit.

Noldorin maximalism...

[emyn-arnens]

Angrod and Aegnor Headcanons

↳ for @arafinwean-week Day 3: Angrod and Aegnor

Angrod was intent on justice as a child, and as he grew older, he developed an affinity for debate.

He was given the epessë "Iron-handed" not only because of his strength of hands and his talent in sparring, but because he was known to rule with an iron fist and place justice above mercy. Aegnor tempered him, as did Edhellos.

Those who did not know them well thought that Aegnor was the angrier of the two, but his anger burned out quickly and he could be made to see reason even in the midst of his anger. Angrod was slower to rouse to anger, but fiercer and more terrible in his wrath, and his ire did not easily cool.

During their youth, it was often Aegnor who dragged Angrod away from fights with the sons of Fëanor, reminding him of the chastisement they would receive not only from their parents (Finarfin was loath to incur any new reason for discord with his brother's family), but from Finrod and Galadriel as well, who believed it was wisest to keep well away from Fëanor and his sons.

(But if Aegnor ever got into a fight with their cousins, Angrod would swiftly end it. This was when he began to be called "Iron-handed.")

Aegnor was a poet and writer in Aman, known for his verses on nature and his whimsical poetry about the lands that lay over the Sea, inspired his mother's cradle songs. It was said that he left the craft behind him after he travelled over the Ice. Andreth could rarely persuade him to share with her the verses he had written.

Angrod was one of very few who knew of Aegnor's relationship with Andreth and was in Aegnor's confidences well before Finrod ever learned of what had grown between Aegnor and Andreth.

After Aegnor left Andreth, it was said that a terrible anger began to build within him, fury against the Enemy who had long ago dealt to Men the injury of death, and he became single-minded in his purpose to deal out to Morgoth the same injury he had dealt to Men.

Aegnor grew wrathful with the complacency of the Noldor and how easily they placed their trust in the Siege. The greater part of his wrath was held for the sons of Fëanor and their disinclination to act, but he grew angry with Fingon for not heeding Fingolfin's counsel, and it was during the Siege of Angband that the friendship of their youth was at last ended.

It was said amongst the Eldar that after Aegnor's death it became common to name those inflamed with the lust of battle as "consumed with fell fire, like Aegnor of old" and to say that their eyes "gleamed with the same fell fire" that consumed Aegnor, lord of Dorthonion, at the hour of his death.

[thesummerestsolstice]

My Headcanon Crafts for Finwe and his Children

Finwe: a woodcarver, he likes really intricate geometric patterns. Carved most of the furniture in his house. Occasionally experiments with larger statue work. One of his favorites is a large bear; which he made for Orome's halls. He also carved cribs for each of his kids.

Feanor: a smith. One of the things that makes him special is that he's one of a few elvish smiths who can actually make gemstones. For all that later generations will remember him for his swords and Silmarils, most of his work was in fine jewelry and more modest Feanorian gemstone lamps.

Findis: a writer, and a very good one, but most of her work remains unpublished. She can be just as possessive of her secrets as Feanor, and for elves, words absolutely have power. There's a mountain of paper in her home, and she doesn't really know what to do with it.

Fingolfin: a glass worker, who specializes in stained-glass windows. The things he creates are beautiful, especially with the light filtering through them, but they're also fragile. Some of his favorite works are Feanorian lamp gemstones he surrounded with a mosaic of colored glass. (They're some of Feanor's favorites too, but both of them would rather die than admit it)

Lalwen: a cartographer. She traveled almost every inch of Beleriand, and her maps are still some of the best remnants of the sunken continent in the Third Age. Always drew sea monsters on her maps as a matter of principle.

Finarfin: a baker. It's very nontraditional for a Noldor craft– it's more typical of the Vanyar, but he insists that food can be art as much as anything else. He measures everything out by feel, and it tastes great every time. His kids all have fond memories of baking crepes with him.

Headcanon Crafts for the House of Feanor, the House of Fingolfin, the House of Finarfin, and the rest of the House of Finwe.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Galadriel in Season 1-2 of “Rings of Power”: Valiant, Prideful and the Darkness Within

Galadriel was born during the Years of the Trees, on Valinor, the only daughter of High King of the Noldor, Finarfin, sister to three brothers. She was named “Artanis” by her father, and “Galadriel” (Sindarin for “Maiden crowned with gleaming hair”) is the name she took after marrying prince Celebron, in Doriath (Middle-earth).

In her youth, Galadriel was known for her proud, strong and self-willed temperament, and for the unmatched beauty of her hair. She had the golden hair of her kin, but hers was particularly striking, shot with silver, and beautiful. And so much so that Fëanor was inspired by how the light of the Two Trees of Valinor caught her hair to craft the Silmarils. Three times he asked her for a few strands of it, and three times Galadriel refuse him. Galadriel couldn’t stand Fëanor and saw the growing darkness in him; most likely because it was the same as within herself.

Tolkien describes Galadriel as “of Amazon disposition”, “strong of body, mind and will, a match for both the loremasters and the athletes of the Eldar in the days of their youth”, and she would “bound up her hair as a crown when taking part in athletic feats”. Her mother called her Nerwen, “man-maiden”.

Departure from Valinor

Galadriel is adventurous, ambitious “and like her brother Finrod, of all her kindred the nearest to her in heart, she had dreams of far lands and dominions that might be her own to order as she would without tutelage [from the Valar]”.

Galadriel, the only woman of the Noldor to stand that day tall and valiant among the contending princes, was eager to be gone [from Valinor]. No oaths she swore, but the words of Fëanor concerning Middle-earth had kindled her heart, and she yearned to see the wide untrodden lands and to rule there a realm at her own will. For the youngest of the House of Finwë she came into the world west of the Sea, and knew yet nought of the unguarded lands. Morgoth’s Ring

In Unfinished Tales, Tolkien tells us Galadriel wanted to leave Valinor and travel to Middle-earth to exercise her talents; being brilliant in mind and swift in action she had early absorbed all of what she was capable of the teaching which the Valar thought fit to give the Eldar’, and she felt confined in the tutelage of Aman. In Valinor, Galadriel had been a pupil of both Aulë and Yavanna, and felt the Valar had already taught her everything they were allowed to.

This can look like a level of arrogance of the likes of Fëanor, however, this is not how Tolkien sees it. Galadriel is presented like a character full of potential, spirit and talent. And even Manwë, the King of the Valar himself, has heard of her desire to leave for Middle-earth and didn’t oppose.

Refusing the Valar pardon

At the end of the First Age she [Galadriel] proudly refused forgiveness or permission to return. Tolkien Letter 320

And this is the Galadriel we meet in the first episode of “Rings of Power”. The audience can immediately perceive she’s strong-willed, proud and rebellious, acting against orders of the High-king of the Noldor, Gil-galad, in her endless hunt for Sauron, Morgoth’s sucessor and the responsible for her brother’s death.

Galadriel is also the only Elf in Middle-earth who believes that Sauron is still out there, and means to find and destroy him, at any cost. “More and more of our kind began to believe that Sauron was but a memory. And the threat, at last, was ended. I wish I could be one of them.”

It was not your company who defied you out there, but rather you who defied the High King, by refusing to heed any limit placed upon you. In an act of magnanimity, he has chosen to honor your accomplishments… Rather than dwell upon your insolence. Test him again and you may find him less receptive than you might have hoped. Elrond warns Galadriel, 1x01

Gil-galad “honors” Galadriel by granting her passage to return to Valinor, and rest in glory. But she’s set on refusing, not because she’s certain Sauron will return, and wants to find him, but due to her belief she won’t find inner peace, until she accomplishes that, as she tells Elrond in the same episode:

Elrond: Do you truly believe seeking him out will satisfy you? That one more Orc upon the point of your blade will bring you peace? […] If you are wrong, will you lead more Elves to die in far-off lands? To convince yourself you have done enough, how many more statues would you add to this path? No one in history has ever refused the call. Do so now, it may never come again. Do so now, it may never come again. You will linger here, an outcast, poisoned in dark whispers and dreams. Galadriel: And in the West, do you think my fate would be better? Where song would mock the cries of battle in my ears? You say I have won victory over all the horrors of Middle-earth. Yet you would leave them alive in me? To take with me? Undying, unchanging, unbreaking, into the land of winter less spring? Elrond: Only in the Blessed Realm can that which is broken in you be healed. Go there. Go, and I promise you… If but a whisper of a rumor of the threat you perceive proves true, I will not rest until it is put right. You have fought long enough, Galadriel. Put up your sword.

I would also like to point out Elrond foreshadowing Galadriel’s banishment in this scene. And this is very much in line with what Tolkien wrote:

[Galadriel] had no peace within. Pride still moved her when, at the end of the Elder Days after the final overthrow of Morgoth, she refused the pardon of the Valar for all who had fought against him, and remained in Middle-earth. It was not until two long ages more had passed, when at last all she had desired in her youth came to her hand, the Ring of Power and the dominion of Middle-earth of which she had dreamed, that her wisdom was full grown and she rejected it, and passing the last test departed from Middle-earth forever. The Peoples of Middle-earth

The Darkness Within

“Rings of Power” presents some explanations to Galadriel refusing the Valar’s pardon and staying in Middle-earth. At the surface, it’s because she wants to hunt down Sauron, defeat him, and for Halbrand to be “The Lost King” who could ride [her] to victory, like Elrond says, in 2x02.

It’s because of her pride, or her desire for vengeance. However, in 1x05, and in a moment of vulnerability with Halbrand aka Repentant Mairon, she reveals the true reason behind her restless pursuit of Sauron:

Galadriel sees her endless pursue for Sauron as the means to earn her inner peace after everything she saw, did and endured on Middle-earth. It’s connected to her pride, yes, but also to her greatest and deepest desire of healing. And this is why she can’t stop her pursuit, even when we, the audience, watch Galadriel endanger her companions’ lives in 1x01. She believes only when she destroys Sauron, will she destroy the darkness within herself.

Indeed he does, because Sauron wants to heal Middle-earth from Morgoth’s corruption, at this point in his own character arc. But the “darkness within” has been present in Galadriel’s character ever since the prologue of “Rings of Power”, and this is also in line with Tolkien legendarium, as Galadriel recognizes the darkness in others as a mirror to her own, and how she refuses to talk about her time in Valinor with Melian.

And in Season 1, we see Galadriel employing some questionable tactics; in Númenor she acts behind Halbrand’s back with Queen regent Míriel to get herself an army (the army she claims to Adar Sauron promised her, in 2x06), and travel to the Southlands and defeat Sauron. There, she vows to genocide the Orcs and killing some of them in a gruesome manner (bringing them into the sunlight) just for Adar to reveal Sauron’s whereabouts, even though he already told her the truth (as he knows it): he killed Sauron.

It would seem I'm not the only Elf alive who has been transformed by darkness. Perhaps your search for Morgoth's successor should have ended in your own mirror. Adar taunts Galadriel, 1x06

And Adar will not be the only character to mention the pull to the darkness in Galadriel, in “Rings of Power”:

The light of Valinor shone upon your very face, Galadriel, and you turned your back on it. Was it truly to fight the darkness or was the darkness calling to you? Elrond, 2x01

This is more noticeable with Repentant Mairon aka Halbrand, when she acts the “Morgoth” to his “Sauron”, by tempting him with power while he’s on a quest for redemption. By then, we already have some pieces of foreshadowing on this. We have Gil-galad’s prophecy in 1x01: “We foresaw that if it had, she [Galadriel] might have inadvertently kept alive the very evil she sought to defeat [Sauron]. For the same wind that seeks to blow out a fire may also cause its spread.”

And we also see Galadriel in connection with the Fall of Númenor visions, in Season 1:

And Mairon himself confirms this in 1x08. And that explains his “are they not the seeds you planted?” in Season 2. Because she’s the one who tempted him with power, and with the pouch of the King of the Southlands (Morgoth), when he wanted to remain in Númenor in servitude, and to prove his good faith to the Valar, and redeem himself from his crimes under Morgoth.

However, not only Galadriel established a connection with him, but also said “I’ve felt it too” when he expressed his wish to bind himself to her (“Fighting at your side, I... I felt... If I could just hold on to that feeling, keep it with me always, bind it to my very being, then I...”). She gave him the validation he wanted, and made him believe she would offer him forgiveness, and he would earn the redemption he so desperately wanted. But she didn’t, she cast him out. And he wouldn’t let it slide that easily, as we’ve been in Season 2.

Growing in Wisdom

In Season 2, we saw some glimpses of Galadriel letting go of her arrogance and “galloping”, and seeing the “bigger picture” in some occasions. This is foreshadowing for her future character arc, as the wise and compassionate, yet fierce and valiant, leader we know her to be on the Third Age. From Tolkien lore, we know that as she grows in wisdom and power (“elf magic” as Sam calls it), Galadriel will leave her pride behind.

Arondir. There is a dearth of Elven heroes this night. It would be a pity to lose another. Galadriel advises Arondir not to attack Adar, 2x07

But perhaps her last scene with Adar, in 2x08, was the most emblematic of this. She has been to the Orc camp, and witnessed the funeral rites, and how the Orcs live, and realized that, maybe, they aren’t the scourged slaves she believed them to be, back in Season 1. Each one of them has a personality. Like Adar told her, in 1x06: “We are creations of The One, Master of the Secret Fire, the same as you. As worthy of the breath of life, and just as worthy of a home.”

And Galadriel is becoming more attuned to every race in Middle-earth, and the Orcs were only the beginning. And she was willingly to make an alliance with Adar, at the end. They shared an agreement (until Sauron showed up and put an end to that). But more importantly, Adar forgives Galadriel for her hatred and her killing of the Orcs. And, as I’ve talked about on my post on Repentant Mairon (aka Halbrand), forgiveness is a major theme in Tolkien legendarium, and it���s not only earned, but given as well. And by forgiving Galadriel and returning Nenya to her, Adar redeems himself (just like Gollum; which is a theme I talked about here).

Banishment from Valinor

In Letter 353, Tolkien confirms that “Galadriel was 'unstained': she had committed no evil deeds”, concerning the Oath of Fëanor. She took no part in any of that; because “she was an enemy of Fëanor”. In the same letter, Tolkien tells us Galadriel reached Middle-earth independently, and not alongside the other Noldor. And her desires were legitimate, but “she became involved in the desperate measures of Manwë, and the ban on all emigrations”.

Many (Christopher Tolkien included) think this contradicts Galadriel’s banishment from returning to Valinor. But this is an idea (“the banishment of Galadriel”) Tolkien has in place in several sources of his work. And it wouldn’t be the first time Christopher Tolkien misinterpreted his father work, either, with the Dagor Dagorath being a prime example, when he thinks Tolkien abandoned the concept when he didn’t (Christopher later corrected this, though).

And it has been noticed by many Tolkien scholars how Christopher Tolkien has “tone down” his father’s female characters on his notes and editions, too. With Galadriel being a prime example of this. Tolkien tells us on several occasions that Galadriel had aspirations of power and dominion, she wanted a kingdom of her own, to rule as she saw fit, and that’s why she remained on Middle-earth, and refused the Valar’s pardon. However, Christopher decided to strip Galadriel of her agency, and even attempted to whitewash her character by claiming she wanted to stay on Middle-earth due to her love for Celeborn, when this has nothing to do with what Tolkien himself wrote. So, excuse me, for talking his interpretation with a grain of salt.

And, since Galadriel is married to Celeborn, of course, he’s included on her plans of having a kingdom of her own (to be otherwise wouldn’t make sense), with them both ruling it, but Galadriel wants to be the one “calling the shots”. And this dynamic is what will happen in Lothlórien: Celeborn is lord, but Galadriel is *the* Lady, without her husband overstep or overshining her. I’m not seeing any contradiction here. Maybe a case of “overthinking”, because Letter 353 appears to be about Galadriel not taking the Oath of Fëanor (and that’s not the reason for her banishment).

I owe much of this character to Christian and Catholic teachings and imagination of Mary, but actually Galadriel was a penitent, in her youth, a leader in the rebellion against the Valar (the angelic guardians). At the end of the First Age she proudly refused forgiveness or permission to return. She was pardoned because of her resistance to the final and overwhelming temptation to take the [One] Ring for herself. Tolkien Letter 320

I already theorized about Galadriel connection to the Virgin Mary (she’s not “the Virgin Mary”, but a “devotee of the Virgin Mary” in Tolkien lore) but I think Tolkien is being very clear with his words here. He considers Galadriel a “repentant sinner”, and he doesn’t contradict himself at all. Because a desire for power and dominion are not positive traits on his legendarium. And the confirmation that she was pardoned by the Valar when she resists the One Ring, clearly indicates there was something more at work, and is connected with her return to Valinor.

In “Fellowship of the Ring” book, this is also clear: “I pass the test,” she says, “I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.” Her “passing the test” and resisting the One Ring is connected with her returning to Valinor.

We know, from Tolkien lore, Galadriel develops “sea longing” on the Third Age, and has a deep desire to return to Valinor, to the point of depression (she sings laments about it). One can argue she stays out of duty, but then why is she “pardoned” by the Valar after rejecting the One Ring and can now go to Valinor? The only explanation is that Galadriel was, indeed, banished, and her resisting the One Ring is her final test. She passes the test, the Valar pardon her, her banishment is lifted, and she returns to Valinor at the end of “The Return of the King”. No contradictions there.

On Christopher’s defense, he probably thought Galadriel “desiring power and dominion” weren’t good enough reasons for her to be banished from Valinor, and that’s a plot hole “Rings of Power” is trying to answer, with her connection with Sauron, and the temptations he offers her. He is, after all, the one who introduces the “desire for power and dominion�� to her character arc in the show; by offering her temptations and promises of endless power (his power). Which means, Galadriel’s desire for dominion and power from Tolkien lore is personified by Sauron in the show. And the reason for her banishment, will be, also, connected to him, somehow, for Sauron has already offered her the same temptation as the One ring, thousands of years into the future:

And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair! She lifted up her hand and from the ring that she wore there issued a great light that illumined her alone and left all else dark. She stood before Frodo seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. Fellowship of the Ring

In Tolkien legendarium, it’s not Galadriel adventurous or valiant nature that gets her into trouble with the Valar, but her rebellious spirit, and her pride, above of all, that lead her defy their authority, and wanting to claim a kingdom of her own where she can make her own rules. In “Rings of Power” the disapproval of the Valar are personified in the characters of Gil-galad and Elrond.

Indeed, her disregard for the Valar laws is visible on several occasions in lore. Not only she “proudly refused” their pardon to return to Valinor, at the dawn of the Second Age, but Tolkien tells us, in Unfinished Tales: Celeborn was the lover of Galadriel, who she later wedded. In Letter 43, Tolkien defines what he means by “a lover” (in general): “engaging and blending all his affections and powers of mind and body in a complex emotion powerfully coloured and energized by sex”.

This seems to imply, Galadriel didn’t wait to be “officially” married (ceremony, feast) to Celeborn before consummating their union. For the Eldar, “sex = marriage”, indeed, but the way Tolkien phrases this seems to indicate Galadriel doesn’t concern herself with the Eldar ways, and took Celeborn as her lover before any thought of actual marriage. Because language is extremely important in Tolkien, and we already know “sex = marriage” for the Eldar, so him writing this about Galadriel’s character means there’s something more to it.

Interestingly enough, these two themes are present in Tolkien last letter concerning Galadriel, in 1973 (the year of his passing). Without context, however, it’s unclear if the two are related or not, so read this with a whole saltshaker:

I meant right away to deal with Galadriel, and with the question of Elvish child-bearing.

[thyras]

→ of the moon & stars

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 7.6k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → 18+ mdni - smut (nothing too explicit but just airing on the side of caution), weddings, sauron gets a slight redemption arc (though it will be very short lived)

SUMMARY → you and mairon finally complete your weaving and share in the most sacred ceremonies with your people. unknowing of the darkness that now stirs.

AUTHORS NOTE → okay so i wanna premise that sauron gets a sweet taste of redemption for a moment, like mans sees the light but it is only with reader. like he still has darkness in him and his true nature is there, but melkor will come for him he is not just going to let sauron cower away from him. also I am trying to stick close to canon as possible, these parts are set before the silmarils are crafted and melkor is just rising after his chaining. i have most of this story already written so I'm going to edit it and keep posting it every day (crossing fingers as my masters classes start up again next week)

PARTS → masterlist

Word spread quickly through the city, the tale of your betrothal entwined with whispers of Calandil’s fiery outburst. It seemed to ripple like a stone cast into a still pond, reaching every corner of the streets and markets. Soon, figures began to arrive at the forge, hesitant yet eager, bearing words of apology on their lips. Their expressions were a curious mix of awe and unease, their glances darting between Mairon and the gleaming works that adorned his walls.

The forge itself seemed to glow brighter under their reverent gazes, for Mairon was no mere smith to these people. He was a craftsman whose hands shaped wonders that rivaled the artistry of the great Noldor. Every piece he forged—from delicate filigree to commanding works of grandeur—elevated the city’s renown, drawing envy and admiration alike from far and wide. To them, he was their most exquisite jewel, a master whose presence set their city apart, casting it in a light that even Aman’s stars could envy.

You stood nearby, watching the procession of visitors as they offered their apologies for Calandil’s behavior. Some wrung their hands nervously, their voices quick and deferential, while others were more measured, their eyes lingering on Mairon as though they feared displeasing him. You knew their motives well. They could not bear the thought of upsetting the man who had raised their stature through his craft, his creations a testament to a brilliance they could scarcely comprehend.

Mairon, for his part, accepted their words with calm detachment, his gaze as sharp and assessing as the blades he shaped. But you could see the faint flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, the subtle way his hands moved with precision even under their watchful stares. He remained silent for the most part, letting their words pass over him like a gentle breeze, his confidence unshaken.

To them, he was the embodiment of perfection, a being who had gifted their city a place among the greats. And to you, he was something more—a man whose fire and tenderness had entwined with your own, his presence a melody that played in harmony with your very soul.

So it was no surprise when one of the city’s officials sought you out one late afternoon, just as you had finished tidying up from your lesson with the children. The room still held the soft echoes of their laughter, and you were carefully arranging the books and materials for tomorrow’s lesson, your heart quietly anticipating Mairon’s arrival. As always, he would come to walk you home, a routine that had grown as familiar and comforting as the rhythm of your days.

The official’s presence startled you at first, his figure framed in the doorway. You hadn’t caught his name, but his demeanor exuded formality, and the reverence with which he addressed you was striking. Though you had come to expect some deference as Mairon’s betrothed, the magnitude of his respect took you aback.

“My lady,” he began, bowing his head slightly, his tone warm and measured.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” you asked, moving to retrieve your satchel as you tilted your head curiously at him.

“The city wishes to honor both you and Master Mairon,” he said, his words deliberate, as though carefully chosen. “We would like to hold a wedding ceremony in your honor. I understand that Master Mairon is a private man, and we can keep the event small and intimate if that is your wish, but we would also like to host a feast to celebrate you both. It would be a way to show our gratitude—for the work you do with the children, and for the unparalleled artistry Master Mairon has brought to our city.”

His sincerity was evident, his posture respectful as he awaited your response. The weight of his words settled on you, not heavy but warm, as though the city itself had embraced the bond you shared with Mairon and sought to honor it in a way that matched the reverence they held for him.

“I will speak it over with my lord and let you know his answer,” you said with a polite nod. The official returned your words with a warm, courteous smile, bowing respectfully before taking his leave. Just as he disappeared from view, you felt it—a familiar presence drawing near. The gentle shimmer of your ring and the subtle pull of the bond between you announced his arrival before your eyes could catch him.

You stepped outside to meet him, a playful smile gracing your lips as Mairon’s emerald eyes locked onto yours. His expression was one of curiosity, as though he were trying to unravel the reason for your pleasant mood. “All done for the day, my lord?” you teased, slipping your hand into the crook of his outstretched arm.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp yet amused. “You seem… unusually pleased,” he remarked, his tone light but laced with suspicion.

You only chuckled softly, leaning closer as you began your walk together. Since that evening in the forge, you had avoided speaking of the tension with Calandil. Even with Eärlindë, who had made every effort to bridge the growing divide between you, you had remained distant, unwilling to reopen the wounds her brother’s actions had inflicted.

But it had taken a toll on you, and you knew Mairon could sense it. The glow that once radiated from you had dimmed slightly, a shadow lingering in your fëa. He hadn’t pressed you to speak of it, yet his watchful gaze and the quiet comfort he offered in his every action revealed that he knew.

Mairon’s fingers brushed against yours lightly as you walked, his touch grounding you. He understood your longing to have your friend at your side once more, and he understood the pain of a bond strained by choices beyond your control. Though the tension weighed on you both, his silent presence was an anchor—a reminder that even in moments of fracture, your harmony with him would not falter.

As you walked arm in arm with Mairon, his steady presence grounding you, your playful smile faltered for just a moment. The weight of the unspoken lingered between you, a shadow cast by the rift that had grown with Eärlindë since that fateful evening. Mairon glanced down at you, his emerald eyes catching the flicker of your momentary sadness, though he said nothing. He rarely pressed, letting your emotions ebb and flow as they would, yet you knew he noticed every nuance.

“I spoke with an official today,” you began softly, your voice carrying a lightness you hoped would mask the deeper thoughts weighing on you. His brow raised slightly, curiosity flickering in his expression. “They wish to honor us—with a wedding ceremony and feast.”

Mairon hummed, his gaze forward, his steps measured as he processed your words. “A public affair?” he asked, his tone calm but contemplative.

“They offered to keep it small, intimate,” you replied, glancing up at him, searching his face for a sign of his feelings. “But they wish to celebrate your work. You are their most treasured craftsman.”

A faint smile touched his lips, though his gaze remained thoughtful. “It is not my craft that should be celebrated, Meldanya,” he murmured, the endearment slipping from his lips like a caress. “But the bond we have forged.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, but your heart tightened as the lingering ache of the past weeks returned. “I would have wished for Eärlindë to stand beside me,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I fear her brother has made that impossible.”

Mairon’s steps slowed, and he turned his gaze to you fully, his hand covering yours where it rested on his arm. “Time will mend what is meant to be mended,” he said, his voice steady, the weight of his presence wrapping around you like a shield. “And what cannot be mended, we will endure together.”

The warmth of his words soothed some of the ache in your chest, and you nodded, leaning into him as you walked on. 

After escorting you safely home, Mairon returned to his own abode, the familiar solitude greeting him like an old companion. He moved to sit upon his neatly made bed, the orderliness of the room bringing him a fleeting sense of peace. For a moment, the quiet steadied him, but it was not long before the creeping shadows of his past began to stir.

His gaze drifted toward the piles of parchment stacked on his desk, their edges curling slightly in the warm air of the room. The sight should have filled him with purpose, but instead, a cold unease began to settle in his chest. He tried to shake the feeling, to cast the unwelcome thoughts away, but the tendrils of darkness were already coiling around his mind, their grip unrelenting.

“So this is where you are, servant?” The voice, dark and familiar, slithered into his thoughts, chilling him to his core. It was smooth and mocking, a cruel reminder of what he had tried so hard to leave behind. “You think yourself redeemed?”

A chuckle followed, low and bitter, echoing in the quiet of his room though no one was there. Mairon clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he fought against the words, against the presence that lingered like a shadow over his every step. His master’s voice, though distant, still held the power to shake him, to remind him of the weight he carried and the chains he had yet to break.

“No,” Mairon finally breathed, his voice low but firm, as he tried to shut out Melkor’s prodding. The effort took all his focus, yet he could still feel the darkness pressing against his thoughts, insidious and unrelenting. Over the past few days, his former master’s presence had grown more pronounced, like a shadow creeping closer. Mairon knew what it meant. Melkor’s strength was returning, even if his attention was divided for now. It was only a matter of time before he issued the inevitable summons, calling Mairon back to Angband to shatter the fragile bliss he had built here.

“Oh, Mairon,” Melkor’s voice slithered through his mind, mocking and cruel, the sound heavy with disdain. “She has truly softened you, hasn’t she? Filled your head with foolish notions of redemption.”

The voice chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating like a distant thunderstorm. “The great Moriquendi smith,” Melkor drawled, his tone dripping with contempt. “That is what they call you, is it not? A title so grand for one who crawled to me, begging for purpose.”

Mairon clenched his fists, his breath shallow as he fought to block out the words, yet they coiled tightly around his thoughts, refusing to be silenced. “You are my pet,” Melkor sneered, his voice slithering through Mairon’s mind like venom. “Remember that. Nothing you do will ever outshine me. Even she will bow to me, whether by her will or by yours. You’ll see to it if you must.”

Mairon’s jaw tightened, his fists trembling as he fought to force the voice out, pressing harder against the door to his mind in a desperate attempt to shut it. But Melkor’s presence lingered, and with one final, taunting phrase, he left his parting blow.

“She is truly a gift from Varda herself,” Melkor mused, his tone dripping with false admiration. “Perhaps I should make her mine, for she is hardly worthy of a weakling like you.”

Mairon’s breath hitched, the words slicing through him, igniting a fury so fierce it made his vision blur. His hands gripped the edge of the bed tightly, his knuckles white as he wrestled with the rage threatening to consume him. Yet even as his mind burned, the melody of your bond thrummed softly in the background, steadying him, reminding him of what was real and what he must protect.

And like the cool breath of dawn breaking a restless night, his master relinquished Mairon’s mind, leaving him shaken but free to think once more. His heart thundered in his chest, and his thoughts immediately turned to you. Rising swiftly from his bed, he stepped into the darkening street, his steps quick and determined as he followed the pull of your song. It called to him like fuel beckons the flame, guiding him toward the only solace he knew. He had to see you, to know you were unharmed and untouched by Melkor’s insidious presence. Now that his master knew of you, the thought clawed at his mind, filling him with dread.

When Mairon reached your door, the soft hum of your fëa greeted him, its melody pure and bright even against the encroaching shadows of the night. Relief washed over him as he stood there, your light a balm to his frayed nerves. He lifted his hand to knock but paused, hesitating as doubt seeped in. You were safe, untouched, and knowing this should have been enough.

But it was not enough. Before he could stop himself, his knuckles rapped against the wooden door, the sound echoing softly in the quiet night. A light shuffle followed, and the door creaked open, revealing your delicate face framed by the soft glow of candlelight spilling from your home.

His gaze traced over you, drinking in the sight as though it were the first time. Your features, illuminated in the dim light, seemed ethereal, a vision of calm amidst the chaos that had plagued his mind. Yet, as his eyes wandered downward, those earthly desires he had thought long buried stirred within him again. The same fire that had ignited the first time he laid eyes upon you now burned anew, deep and unrelenting.

The sweetness of your scent drifted toward him, wrapping around his senses as you leaned casually against the wooden doorframe, the candlelight casting a soft glow over your figure covered only by a sheer material. Leaving nothing to imagination.

“To what do I owe the visit?” you asked playfully, your voice light and teasing. You could see the way his gaze lingered, his usual composure faltering as if he were at a loss for words. The way you stood there, so effortlessly radiant, seemed to captivate him completely, drawing him in like a moth to flame.

Desire stirred within him, undeniable and fierce, yet Mairon held it at bay. He drank in your presence, his fëa drawn to yours in ways both profound and earthly, but he would not let himself give in to the darker impulses lurking within. He wished only to protect and cherish the innocence you carried, even as the part of him that thrived on shadow ached to claim you entirely, to pull you into his world and lose himself in you.

“I wanted to ensure you were safe,” he finally managed, his voice low and measured, though the storm of emotions within him churned relentlessly.

“How could I not be safe when I have you?” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips. The words warmed him, but they also pierced his heart. He wished it could be true, that his presence alone could shield you from all harm. Yet the looming shadow of his master’s return cast a heavy weight upon him. He knew too well the power Melkor wielded, and with his attention now drawn to you, there would be no safety even in Mairon’s arms.

He sighed, his eyes flickering with unspoken worry. “I apologize for disturbing you,” he said, his voice steady but subdued, as though he regretted the burden he carried to your doorstep. You reached out, your fingers curling gently around his wrist, the warmth of your touch stopping him in his tracks. The simple gesture spoke volumes, silently telling him that he was not a disturbance but a source of joy, a presence you longed for.

“Come inside,” you said softly, a mischievous smile dancing on your lips, your eyes glimmering with unspoken yearning. The cool evening air only seemed to heighten the palpable pull between you, the subtle tension that hung like a thread waiting to be woven into something more.

Once inside, you leaned your backside against your wooden table, arms supporting you as Mairon walked up to you. His deep, fiery scent filled your nostrils and begged your eyes to close, waiting patiently for what would come. You had sensed his wish to bed you the moment he took you in at the door, your gown giving him visage to something no being could turn away from.

The silence of the small room was only cut by both your labored breaths. Mairon leaned in and kissed your lips gently, as if just to taste that you were real, before moving to grasp your hip. His touch was so gentle it almost felt like only a whisper of shadows gracing your clothed hip. “May I?” he breathed against your lips. 

“You may,” you say breathlessly as his fingers move to untie the top of your gown. His hands were delicate against the tiny strings as he undid them, revealing a piece of you he had never touched before. His fingers parted the gown as his lips captured yours once more, this time hungrier and more eager to devour. Your arms moved to wrap around his neck, fingers lacing in his ginger hair while his fingers skated across the soft skin of your breastbone. He only parted from your lips when he wished to speak. 

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed against your jaw as your fingers traced the sensitive points of his ears, causing a groan of satisfaction to float across your skin. “I am hardly worthy of your beauty, my divine. " You smiled and tilted your head slightly as if to permit him to continue his gentle exploration of you.

Every piece of you alight with need and soaked in arousal as his fingers ghosted over your throat before he journeyed downward, though not before he hoisted you onto the wooden table. Mairon’s compliment of your beauty only added to the fuel of the fire burning in both of you.

His fingers moved to push the fabric over your hips as if to create a place he could neatly fit into. The very place he was meant to and that Eru had created for him. Mairon’s lips captured yours again as your hands cupped his face before breaking away, only to push the shoulder of your gown down, already growing tired of this prolonged wait for the climax you desired.

His eyes flamed with a new fire as he took in your delicate skin as it was exposed to him. Mairon wanted nothing more than to carve his mark upon you so no being could ever wonder who your equal was. His fëa sang as more and more skin was exposed until your breasts were on display for him. 

The round mounds of flesh were perky and delicate as your nipples hardened against the cool air. He licked his lips before you spoke, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. The candle’s light casting warm glows against you, causing him to harden even more against his mortal form. 

In the dim light that almost bordered on darkness, you were your most beautiful, he mused. The shadows added to your ethereal beauty, almost like the light, and shadows knew of your name and status as an elf of the dark, showing him your true place in Eru’s grand design.

“It is yours, my Mairon,” you breathed. “I have given you my soul and my heart; let me now give you my hröa,” A delicate smile filled your lips as those green gems flicked across your face. “We would be one in their eyes, husband and wife.” Mairon sunk to his knees before you, and those soft pillowy lips moved to caress your inner thigh. A satisfied whimper pushed through your lips as your eyes closed and your soul pulled at his. Threads calling out as you searched for the right song to sing at this moment, hoping that when the time came, his would match yours in blissful synchronization.

He nipped at the delicate skin of your inner thigh. Your hips fighting the urge to roll towards him. Strong hands gripped down on your thighs before moving up as he did, touching every inch of you. Your head fell back, and your eyes closed as you braced for what was to come, but Mairon paused at your entrance.

“For all eternity?” he breathed against your skin, the warmth of his breath skating across your slick opening, causing you to shiver at the anticipation crawling across your skin. You knew nothing of the deeper implication of his question nor its darker meaning.

Would you bind yourself even to the darkness within him?

“Yes,” Your voice breathless and full of want. It was only a brief moment that separated the answer and the moment the promise was sealed with his lips against you. You moaned at the newfound feeling spreading across your skin as he ate you like a starved animal. The fire that seemed to encompass him now ebbed and flowed against you. It crawled its way up your body and filled you with bliss as you instinctually rolled your hips against his face, giving more friction to your needy mound. The sensation was otherworldly as you fought to keep yourself anchored to the table, afraid you might float away due to his ministrations.

Mairon halted your movements and broke away, causing you to whimper at his retreat. Your eyes opened, and you moved to gaze upon the man you ached to bind your whole being to. Slick ran down his chin, eyes blown wide in lust and reverence, a scene you wished to commit to memory. Your fingers moved to run through his ginger strands as he gazed upon you once more, only this time from where he wished to stay.

Knelt at the altar to your very being, to worship the beauty that had captivated him and to seek the light once more.

Not for redemption, but for purpose.

“Mairon,” you said gently as your fingers moved to caress his chin. A smile touched his lips at the way your melodic and sweet tone wrapped around the syllables of his name. He ached to hear you scream it in ecstasy as you both rode out your highs to the heavens themselves, to dance across the stars and do nothing more than make love and be merry.

“Yes, divine,” He breathed before gently kissing your wrist.

“You think yourself unworthy of me, but I am unworthy of the divine being underneath my fingertips.” Mairon chuckled softly before standing again, arms cradling you like you only dreamed of. You felt like his whole world in this moment, like he saw only you as the greatest of his creations. He hoisted you up and wrapped your legs around his waist before carrying you up to your rooms.

His hands tore away your gown before he laid you on the crisp sheets of your bed. You watched as he got to work undoing his clothing until he moved like a predator in the dark to encase your bare frame with his. Your body aching to feel his skin meet yours in only the way the gods had designed husband and wife to achieve.

Those lips traveled down every inch of your soft skin as he embedded it into his memory, hands skating across the areas his lips could not, all the while your own clawed at his scalp. In no light, only the moonshine that trickled in from your window, he was of the most exquisite quality, the way his sculpted lines and a light dusting of chest hair felt against your fingertips as they danced across his form, worshiping it as you went. But what captivated you the most was how his red hair seemed to gleam brighter against the room's shadows, illuminating him in a fiery ember as his eyes burned with equal parts devotion and hunger.

He muttered words in a tongue you were unfamiliar with as he nipped at your hip before gazing at you again. A youthful smile touched your lips as his gaze lingered longer than you deemed appropriate for this moment.

“What’s the matter, love?” You ask in almost a whisper. His fingers caressed your cheek, thumb making delicate circles there.

“You truly are a Moriquendi,” he breathed against your face. “For the dark is your home, and the moon is your faithful companion.” Your face blossomed with a hue as his lips captured yours again. He moaned against your lips as you ran your fingertips across the shell of his ears once more. “I’ll be as gentle as I can,” Mairon whispered against your jaw as he moved to position himself between the moon of your thighs. You nodded in response, and he gave you a light nip of the jaw. “Good girl,” his silky smooth voice complimented, sending your core flaming at the praise.

Anticipation drove your pulse sky-high as you felt his fingers cascade down toward your wanting core, only to trace the slick through his fingers as he moved to wet himself. “My sweet wife,” he breathed softly; your eyes closed as your pulse pumped loudly in your ears. You felt him at your entrance. Then, in a light thrust, he broke past and stretched you as no being had done before. A groan left his lips, and a whimper left yours as the pain of him turned into a dull ache as he thrust lightly until you were adjusted to him.

You felt so fucking good around him, clenching and milking him of every ounce of his being. Your fëar finally found each other, and the songs it sang were nothing shy of the ones in which the Aniur sang this world into creation. Your walls fluttered as his pace quickened, and he leaned down to kiss and suck on your clavicle. Teeth pulling at the skin as this strong arm moved to wrap around your lower back, pulling you to meet every one of his thrusts. The new angle had you shivering against his grasp as stars shone above your darkened eyelids, his pace inside you causing your mind to white out in a wet, hot release of pleasure. 

The sweet sounds of your bodies colliding and breathy moans filled the room, driving you both into a plane of existence where nothing else mattered. There was no Melkor, no lies, and no darkness. Just the warmth of each other's embrace as you relinquished your hröa’s to each other.

Mairon kissed below your eyes and slowed his pace to get your attention. “Open your eyes, my sweet Mori. Show me the stars within your eyes so I may commit their pattern to memory.” You opened your eyes and were again met with his gaze, soft and wanton with relinquished desire. Mairon leaned up, took your left hand into his right, and squeezed the silver band against his palm as he drew you up so you were flesh with him now, straddling his lap but still so deliciously full of him. The new angle sent your core pulsing and your mind weeping with the need for friction again. 

He was free to bring your ringed hand to his lips, the blue inscription shining brightly against the rays of moonlight. “For my fairest maiden, remember this night, and we shall never be parted. I will remember the stars in your eyes.” He spoke just before kissing the ring, only for you to capture his lips afterward.

“And I will remember the fiery harvest moon in your very being.” You breathed against his lips. He chuckled but groaned when your hips drove against his. You both finally gave in to the other, filling the room with a chorus of names and endearments that even the Valar could not miss.

You came first, clawing at his scalp as your sweat-covered forehead laid against his. Your breath floated across his face as you struggled to regain it while he drove you into overstimulation. Noses touching even as he kept the movements going, and the clenching of your walls finally drew him into his own with a low grunt.

Your fingers cupped his cheeks as you looked down at him in the moonlight.  His eyes were dark but full of satisfaction as his hands ran up your bare back. You wished to stay like this, conjoined forever in the deepest of embraces. Your lips leaned in and kissed his sweaty lips, tasting him again before he pulled away to gaze up at you.

You remain in each other’s embrace, the world around you fading as time seems to stretch into eternity. The steady rhythm of his breathing matches your own, a melody of unity that neither of you wishes to break. It isn’t until a soft yawn escapes your lips that the spell is gently shattered, and Mairon chuckles lowly, the sound a soothing rumble that vibrates through his chest.

With careful hands, he eases you onto the bed, his movements deliberate and tender. You instinctively curl closer to him, nestling into the warmth of his embrace as though it were the safest place in all of Arda. Your ear rests against his chest, the steady beat of his heart echoing in perfect harmony with your own. It lulls you, each thrum pulling you deeper into the quiet serenity of dreams, where his presence remains as constant as the stars above.

His heart ached with a quiet desperation, knowing this blessed time with you was drawing to an end. The fragile peace you shared felt like a fleeting dream, soon to be consumed by the looming shadow that threatened to overshadow the light of your union.

The carefully woven lie he had told himself began to unravel, thread by thread, as the shadow deep within his soul stirred, awakening once more.

For he would never truly know the light again—not in its fullness, not in the way your presence allowed him to glimpse it. The darkness, ever patient, awaited him, and he could not escape its grasp.

The older women of the city worked tirelessly, weaving intricate braids into your hair and adorning it with strands of silver and pearls they had carefully collected. Their hands moved with precision and care, their voices soft with reverence as they whispered songs of old, blessing you. Though you felt unworthy of such extravagance, they insisted, their determination unwavering.

“You must shine as brightly as the stars,” one of them said, draping a delicate shawl of shimmering gossamer over your shoulders. They believed that by enhancing your natural radiance, they might draw the favor of the Valar, offering you their finest blessings and ensuring your union would be one of harmony and prosperity.

Even as you gazed at your reflection, the silks, pearls, and braids catching the golden light, a part of you still felt undeserving of such finery. Yet their devotion, their unyielding belief in the significance of this day, began to settle into your heart, filling you with quiet gratitude for their love and care.

“Thank you,” you breathed to the woman, offering her a warm smile. “I truly do not deserve such an honor.”

“Ah, but you do,” came a silvery sweet voice from the doorway. You turned, your heart lifting at the sight of her—dark hair cascading like silk and soft blue eyes that radiated wisdom and kindness. Eäriel, the woman who had graced your early years in Laureandor, entered the room with a serene presence. It was she who had nurtured your craft, guiding you with gentle hands and teaching you to cherish all things that grew and roamed in the lands around the city.

Laureandor, the Golden Realm. The Eldar called it such now, a beacon of light and hope in a world where shadow had begun to creep ever closer. Its beauty and radiance stood in stark contrast to the encroaching darkness that saddened so many of your kin.

“Ladies, may I?” Eäriel asked with a slight incline of her head, her voice laced with both grace and authority. The other women bowed their heads respectfully to the elder elf, stepping aside to allow her presence in the room.

Eäriel, mother of Calandil and Eärlindë, and wife of Ulmoion, carried a lineage as ancient as the stars. She was of the first Elves who had dwelt by the sea, her love for its life and the currents of its waters unparalleled. Her wisdom and calm had been a cornerstone of Laureandor, a guiding light for so many, including you. Now, as she stepped closer, her gaze rested on you with a quiet pride that warmed your heart.

“My lady,” you murmured, bowing your head softly in her direction. But Eäriel, with her graceful demeanor, waved the gesture away with a gentle smile before stepping toward you. In her hands, she carried an intricate weaving of metal, its craftsmanship so fine it seemed to have been wrought by the hands of the Valar themselves. The piece gleamed in the fading light of the setting sun, its jewels vibrant and alive, like stars caught within its delicate design.

“You came to us in a dark time, Mornelótë,” she said, her voice soft and steady. You stood still in front of the mirror, hardly daring to move, captivated by her words. Her presence carried the weight of ages, and her tone wove a tale of belonging and purpose.

“But we are as one kin,” she continued, her eyes glinting with the memory of distant times. “Traveling over Ered Luin in search of the Blessed Realm, driven by the song of the West.” Her steps slowed as she reached your side, her gaze falling upon you with a quiet fondness. “Yet our hearts never fully felt the call that others did. We were bound to this land, tied to its beauty and life, for our destinies were always meant to take root here.”

She lifted the metal weaving gently, its light dancing against your reflection in the mirror, as though it too acknowledged the story she carried. Her words settled around you, not as a burden, but as a connection—an unspoken bond to the history and kinship that surrounded you now. 

“My lady, I would never consider myself—” you began, your voice faltering as you tried to object. But she silenced you once more with a soft wave of her hand, stepping closer to place the intricate metal weaving into your hair. Her movements were careful and reverent, and as the jewels settled against your forehead, they seemed to catch and hold the light, as though starlight itself had been captured within their design.

“In this land,” she said, her voice rich with conviction, “you are the very image of Varda herself. Not I, nor my daughter, but you.” She smiled, her blue eyes shimmering with an almost maternal pride. “Tintilmë, as our people shall know you now. She who sparkles. Long forgotten is that dark, forboding name.”

A flutter stirred in your chest, your heart swelling with emotion as her hand moved to caress your cheek. The warmth of her touch steadied you, grounding you in the gravity of her words. “You, Tintilmë, who sparkles like Varda’s stars, shall one day find your place among them. You will bring beauty to this land as you have already blessed this city with your light.”

Names were everything to your people, a reflection of one’s soul and purpose, woven into the melody of existence itself. To be graced with a name as honorous as that of Varda, the Lady of the Stars, carried an immense weight. It was not merely a title but a legacy, a mantle of light to bear even in the darkest of nights. Varda, the purest of luminaries, was a beacon to all, and now her reflection rested upon you. It was a gift of reverence, but also a promise—a destiny you would have to honor for the rest of your days.

“For now, you will be bound to the one who is most Admirable, one whose skill surpasses even Aulë himself,” Eäriel said softly, her voice carrying a weight of certainty. “He who is truly worthy of a maiden such as you.” Her fingers gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her touch as light as a whisper.

From beneath her robes, she drew forth a delicate golden chain, its singular red jewel glowing like a drop of fire captured within its setting. She held it out to you, her expression warm and maternal. “As you have no kin here to honor this union, I will stand as your mother, and Ulmoion as your father.”

Her gaze softened as she stepped closer, placing the chain in your hand to inspect. “This trinket is simple and plain, as is fitting for the moment,” she continued, her tone reverent. “It will never compare to the splendor of what he will bestow upon you, but for now, it serves as a symbol. A reminder for a man so attuned to perfection and order as my lord Mairon is. One who sees in you the harmony that matches his own.” You handed the chain back to her with a gentle smile. “Forged in the great fires of the Noldor, and a jewel crafted by Fëanor himself,” you said softly. “It will be an honor for him to wear until he too may join you in the Blessed Realm.”

Eäriel accepted it with a graceful nod, her expression tender. “Thank you, my lady. I am truly honored, and my heart is full knowing that you have been so accepting of this role and of our kin.”

“Child,” she breathed, her voice laced with an almost wistful affection. “From the moment Calandil spoke of you, I knew it would not be he who would wed you, but another. My son is too blinded by the shadows of this world to see what Eru proclaimed in the earliest of days.”

Her words carried the weight of foresight, her gaze distant as if seeing into a time beyond this moment. Yet as she returned her focus to you, there was warmth in her eyes, as though she found comfort in knowing you had chosen the one truly meant for you. 

“My daughter will stand by your side and be your most loyal companion until the end of her days,” Eäriel said gently, her voice carrying a note of earnestness. “She begs your forgiveness so she may share in the splendor and joy of this occasion.”

“I shall grant her that,” you replied softly, your resolve steady as you spoke. Eäriel’s lips curved into a warm smile, and she placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, her touch imbued with quiet strength.

“Good,” she said, her tone lighter now, her eyes glinting with approval. “Now let us not keep them waiting. I believe your betrothed is growing quite restless for you to join him.”

Her words carried a teasing lilt, but the truth of them sent a flutter through your chest. You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips as you prepared yourself to step into the moment you had long awaited.

As you gazed upon him beneath the cascade of falling petals from the great tree, your heart quickened, its rhythm echoing the song that bound you to him. His ginger hair shimmered in the moonlight, glowing as it had the night before, a beacon of warmth amidst the cool silver hues of the evening. His robes, a deep red adorned with intricate golden filigree, outshone even the finest creations of the city’s most skilled artisans. It was as though the fabric itself had been woven by Vairë, each thread telling the story of his magnificence.

A soft warmth spread through you as his gaze met yours, the corners of his lips curving into a smile that was both tender and knowing. He stood, regal yet inviting, his eyes alight as he watched you approach with Eäriel at your side.

Your heart swelled with gratitude that he had agreed to this, granting you the memory of this night, a treasure to carry with you even through the shadows of the future. To have this moment, this beauty you shared, would be a light to hold onto—a testament to the harmony and grace you could bring together to this land, even in its darkest days that were yet to come.

As you approached, he extended his hand, his movements deliberate and filled with reverence. Eäriel, standing at your side, gently placed your delicate hand into his, the warmth of his touch spreading like fire. It crawled up your arm, igniting a sensation that embedded itself deeply within your soul, where it harmonized with the song that had always bound you to him.

Only then did you take in the gathering that had come to honor this moment. Eärlindë stood near the forefront, her dark hair gleaming under the soft light, her eyes reflecting quiet joy. Nearby were the women you had worked alongside, those who had shared in your labor and care during the birth of many children. Scattered among the crowd were the children themselves, their small faces alight with wonder and awe as they beheld their teacher, their mentor, adorned for such an important occasion. Their parents stood behind them, their gazes warm with pride and fondness.

Others came from Mairon’s side, his fellow craftsmen and apprentices, men and women who had grown to admire his skill and discipline. The scene was intimate, just as you both had wished—a gathering of those you cared for, and those who cared for you. It was a quiet testament to the lives you had touched, a circle of kinship and respect encircling the bond you were about to seal.

Ulmoion stepped forward, his bearing regal and calm, as Eäriel moved gracefully to stand beside him. His voice carried a quiet power as he spoke the sacred words, honoring your place as embodiments of Manwë and Varda within this union. His blessings tied you both into a bond that reached beyond the world, one that was sanctified by Eru himself, eternal and unbreakable.

When the words were spoken, Ulmoion turned to you, holding a silver chain that gleamed as brightly as the ring on your finger. The stone at its center, a deep and luminous blue, caught the moonlight in a way that made it appear alive. Its craftsmanship, unmistakably Mairon’s, radiated a brilliance that only his unparalleled skill could achieve.

Your gaze shifted to the fiery-haired man before you, and a smile touched your lips as his softened with emotion. His lips parted, his voice a whisper meant only for you. “For you,” he said, his words as steady as they were heartfelt. “My greatest inspiration, my light in the darkness. May you wear this, so I am never truly parted from you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as Ulmoion stepped closer, placing the chain around your neck. The feather-light touch of the metal sent a ripple through you, its design a perfect testament to Mairon’s love. It was not just a piece of jewelry—it was a symbol of how deeply he yearned for you, of his hope to turn away from the shadows and be bound to the light you brought into his life.

Eäriel then approached, holding a chain forged in the fires of the Noldor. At its center lay a jewel of such radiant beauty that it seemed to carry the light of the Two Trees within it. Her voice was reverent as she spoke. “For you, I gift this chain, forged under the brilliance of the great trees which light this world. A treasure of the Noldor, to honor the flame of your spirit.”

Your gaze returned to Mairon, catching the flicker in his eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible trace of fear as he looked upon the chain and its jewel. But he said nothing, and when you spoke, the warmth of your words seemed to steady him. “For the great smith of Finwë’s line, Fëanor, has crafted this jewel to match both your fiery spirits, and honor a smith of equal stature.”

As the chain was placed around his neck, you saw him brace himself, his features tightening as though expecting some unseen force to strike. But when nothing came, his shoulders relaxed, and his hand instinctively moved to touch the jewel, as though drawing strength from it.

“May you wear this in great honor,” you continued, your voice tender, “and never know separation from your place in my soul.”

Mairon’s gaze met yours then, his emerald eyes filled with an intensity that matched the flame within him. You knew in that moment that this union, bound by light and shadow, was the truest form of love and eternal grace, blessed by the ones who gave you both life.

And for a fleeting moment, it seemed the stars themselves joined in their harmony, singing with joy as the bond was sealed. Far away, the great shadow stirred, his cries of envy and malice echoing in the void as he gazed upon his wayward servant, now standing in the light once more, beyond his reach.

For the whispers that once plagued Mairon had fallen silent, their power diminished. The door to his mind, so long left ajar, was now firmly shut.

[askereiniongilgalad]

To Be or Not to Be (High King of the Noldor)

My Job Description

What does being Gil-galad entail? Simple: 1. Diplomat Extraordinaire: Elves bickering about trade routes? That’s my Tuesday. 2. War Strategist: Sauron shows up, and suddenly I’m not just king—I’m everyone’s go-to for “How do we not die today?” advice. 3. Babysitter: Galadriel won’t stop chasing vengeance, Elrond is too polite to say “no,” and Celebrimbor keeps playing with dangerous jewelry.

Leadership Challenges

People think being a High King is about glory, but honestly, it’s herding cats in crowns. Consider this: • Galadriel: Every council meeting: “We must stop Sauron!” Me: “Yes, and how will we fund that?” • Elrond: Always “volunteered” for diplomacy. Half the time, he comes back with an alliance. The other half? Dwarves are mad at me again. • Celebrimbor: Spends most of his time crafting things that will eventually explode or corrupt someone. I can’t keep up.

My Legacy

They say I’m wise and noble, but do you know what my real legacy is? Stress. I’ve fought wars, built alliances, and probably shortened my lifespan dealing with everyone’s drama. And what’s my reward? I get to die spectacularly while wielding Aeglos. (Seriously, it’s a great spear. Too bad I don’t get a retirement plan to enjoy it.)

The Upside

But let’s not forget the perks: • I look amazing in a crown. 👑 • No one questions my dramatic speeches. (Even when they should.) • I have an unparalleled collection of scrolls—scholarly AND gossip.

Final Thoughts

To be High King or not to be High King—that is the question. Honestly, some days I’d rather not. The meetings, the drama, the constant threat of Sauron—who wouldn’t want to sail west and leave it all behind? But then I remember: someone has to keep this place from falling apart.

So, here I am—crown on my head, spear in hand, trying to manage a realm full of chaos. It’s exhausting, sure, but at least I get to do it with flair. If Middle-earth needs a High King, I’ll do the job—just don’t expect me not to complain about it along the way.

[likesdoodling]

Edward. As an elf. (probably noldor 'cause of the 'into crafting' thing they got going on)-