#or that everyone in Tirion's life would be easier if he had not been born

[imakemywings]

This week’s obsession is Feanor’s adolescence.

Timeline thoughts: Miriel died when Feanor was young but I’m tempted to say not so young that he has no memories of her...if he was the Elf equivalent of 3 or 4, he might still have some hazy recollections of her that I think would likely exacerbate his sense of loss. Assuming then that Finwe takes a few years to process this and decide to remarry, I can see Feanor as potentially 11-13 when Indis comes into the picture which means he contended with his father’s remarriage and the birth of his half-siblings and puberty at the same time, which is just a fun terrible time for everyone.

Content thoughts: And just like...obviously Finwe loves the hell out of this kid, but I also tend to think Finwe doesn’t really get him. So he can try his damnedest and still not be able to get through to Feanor that no one is trying to replace him. And even at such times as he might convince him of that, something else will happen later and Feanor will leap back to his original concern and the cycle starts over again. Indis, of course, is the unfortunate focal point around which all of Feanor’s anger about everything that’s happened coalesces, so nothing she can say, no matter how kindly she might try, is ever going to make him feel better about anything and he will always assume the worst of her intentions (also, yk, she does get mad sometimes, because it would only be natural, that Feanor keeps making her and her kids’ lives so unnecessarily difficult, and that he picks up on very well).

Feanor is somebody with big feelings, and I tend to think Finwe and Indis are much calmer, mellower people in general, which means they are not well-equipped to try to help Feanor learn to manage those feelings, and especially not when he’s dealing with the ongoing trauma of losing his mother and his father’s remarriage. They don’t understand why he acts the way he does, although even they can see I’m sure that a great deal of his anger stems from pain, but they don’t know how to calm him down or get through to him.

This is how he ends up screaming at Indis and her kids or saying terrible things to people or breaking shit and then turning around and spending the next hour sobbing in his bedroom because he is convinced they all wish he had died with Miriel. There is possibly also reluctance on his part to really explain his feelings to Finwe, which of course makes it harder to try to help him with them and also makes Finwe underestimate how upset Feanor really is.

(He also has a habit of deeply romanticizing the period between Miriel’s death and Finwe’s remarriage as the time when it was just him and Finwe doing Royal Family Things together. It was a time of intense grief for both of them and Finwe recalls it that way, particularly as the first Elf in Tirion to lose his life partner, but to Feanor, retrospectively it became a time when his dad’s attention was all on him, and not being shared with Indis and her kids.)

So he ends up in this position of really wanting to be part of a family, but also continually assuming his family doesn’t actually want him around (which is not true) and consequently blowing way out of proportion (from the family’s perspective) things that happen that even suggest any of his concerns might be valid (which he’s constantly looking for). It just ends up being this whole mixed bag of a bunch of people with no bad intentions, but a lot of misunderstandings and mismatched emotional needs and messy feelings and it results in a difficult time for everyone.

Therefore, he clings especially tightly to his role as the crown prince and to Miriel’s legacy, and his insistence on her not being forgotten is both to honor her and because he loved her, but also because if Miriel is forgotten, what does that say about his own position? Suddenly more precarious, isn’t it?

That said, I think there were times Feanor was a fun big brother. He was, of course, always curious and testing things and inventing things, so when he was in a good mood, Findis and Fingolfin could convince him to show them what he was working on and sometimes to help him test things, and they really liked hanging out with him then--they just did not understand why he was so angry with them the rest of the time (because of course they were too young to understand, and I don’t know that the concept of death in general would have registered with a couple of Elf kids who had never seen or heard of anyone but Miriel dying before). So to them he was just incredibly unpredictable in temperament which was difficult for them because they never knew what to expect if they approached him.

Now he mellowed out some with adulthood until Melkor showed up, as most of us do, and I think settling into smithing and jewel-crafting and academics helped him feel he had a place where he belonged and that calmed him down a bit, and his friendship and later romance with Nerdanel made him feel that he had someone in his life who both understood him on an intimate level and also was pretty much by default on his side. But his teenager years did set the tone for his relationship with Indis and her kids and did shift his relationship with Finwe and left him with this underlying fear of someday being replaced by the people he cares about.

[arofili]

HCs about Elemmírë?

Oh man, for a character we have next to no information about other than “Vanya” and “sang a really sad song about the Trees,” I have a lot of headcanons for Elemmírë!

First of all, Elemmírë is named after a heavenly body (possibly Arda’s version of Mercury?) and the name is not given in either a masculine or feminine form, so we don’t know Elemmírë’s canon gender. This of course means that Elemmírë is trans, you can’t change my mind! I’ve seen depictions of them as nonbinary, which I love, but personally my Elemmírë is a trans woman!

All the rest of my headcanons are pretty much made up whole cloth :)

I intended to make like, a bullet point list of headcanons, but I ended up referencing my recently created personal timeline of the Years of the Trees and the First Age, and...it kind of expanded into an essay on Elemmírë’s role in the larger story of that verse of mine. So, under the cut is a roughly 2,000 word essay on my take on this blank slate of a character!

~

Elemmírë is one of the Unbegotten elves who awoke at Cuiviénen. When she awoke, everyone assumed she was a male elf, which didn’t really sit right with her but she didn’t know how to express herself at the time. For the first part of her life she lived as a nér.

Elemmírë has a sister*, Calima (one of my OCs). Calima marries an Avar, who she manages to drag with her on the Great Journey despite his reluctance to go West. Right before Ulmo takes the Vanyar and the Noldor to Aman, Calima’s husband leaves her and disappears into Taur-im-Duinath...but not before Calima becomes pregnant. Elemmírë comforts her and supports her through the birth of her child, Elenwë - the first child to be born in Aman.

*(My headcanon around Unbegotten siblings is that some elves woke with soul bonds that connected them to other elves, which while they aren’t genetically related, they consider to be siblings of their fëa. This is the case for Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo; I also gave Nowë (Círdan) and Ingwë OC siblings. Finwë is a loner, which is part of why he’s so concerned about creating and keeping a marriage bond...)

While Ingwë is busy building Tirion with Finwë, his sister-in-law Alcariniel (the mother of Indis; her spouse died on the Great Journey and has yet to be reborn) leads some of the Vanyar to the foot of Taniquetil and founds what will become Valmar. Calima, Elenwë, and Elemmírë go with Alcariniel.

At this time, Elemmírë enters into the service of Varda. She develops a close relationship with her Vala, and feels more comfortable in the beautiful starry robes and among the company of mostly priestesses than she ever did in the more gendered Vanyarin society. She sings and composes hymns to Varda and the heavens.

About a century later, Elemmírë is an established and well-renowned musician in Valmar. It is then that she meets Findis, daughter of Indis, when Findis is visiting Taniquetil with her grandmother Alcariniel. Findis greatly admires��Elemmírë’s songs and engages her in a discussion about poetry; the two quickly become friends.

After another hundred years or so, Findis’ half-brother Fëanáro has his fourth child. Finwë invites his whole family to the celebration; Findis now lives in Valmar and does not always attend these begetting day parties, but she happens to be in Tirion for the occasion - with Elemmírë, who tags along to the party.

At the celebration, Makalaurë (a young teen in Elf Years) sings a piece he wrote for his new baby brother, and Elemmírë is greatly impressed by his talent and offers to teach him personally. He’s had music tutors before, but none so renowned, and he is absolutely star-struck. Fëanáro has an inherent distrust of the Vanyar, but he cannot deny his son anything, especially when it comes to furthering his craft, so he agrees to let Elemmírë teach Makalaurë, on the condition that she move to Tirion. Findis offers to move back as well, so her friend won’t be alone; they move in together.

A few years later, Elemmírë takes her star student Makalaurë to Valmar so he can perform at her niece’s 200th begetting day party. This is, of course, Elenwë; Makalaurë is immediately besotted with her, and does his best to impress her. Of course, Elenwë is well into adulthood and Makalaurë is still an awkward adolescent, so nothing ever comes of this, but they do eventually become friends.

All this time, everyone has assumed that Elemmírë is a nér, but with every passing year she becomes more and more certain that is not actually the case. At last she confesses to her dear friend Findis that she thinks she might be a nís, and while Findis isn’t quite sure what that means at first, she’s very supportive and encourages Elemmírë to go to Varda with this revelation.

I do operate in a verse where some homophobia and transphobia exist in Aman, kind of accidently put into place by a well-meaning but ultimately harmful decision by Manwë, but Varda is significantly more chill than her husband. She doesn’t really get what Elemmírë is saying, but she supports her servant’s change in expression. Elven gender roles are pretty loose, so it’s not really that much of a difference, and with Varda’s support Elemmírë feels more confident in herself and comes out to the public.

Most elves, especially the Vanyar, likewise don’t really get it, and privately they still see her as a nér, but there is a firm taboo against rudeness which means they will refer to Elemmírë with the correct pronouns and honorifics and such because it would be incredibly rude not to. The discomfort with someone else’s non-normative expression is easier to deal with than the social impropriety of deliberately refusing to respect someone’s wishes about their personal identity.

This, along with Varda’s kind-of-confused-but-she’s-still-got-the-spirit support of  Elemmírë means it’s a pretty smooth transition process for her. Since her name isn’t gendered, she decides to keep it, and she is much happier now that she can express her true self. She also has a staunch ally in Findis, who she has recently begun courting.

Again, there is some homophobia in my verse, and two níssi in a relationship is generally frowned upon, but the half-acceptance of Elemmírë’s gender allows them to exploit a loophole in that particular Law/Custom. Manwë, at least, still sees Elemmírë as a nér, and so doesn’t see anything wrong with her dating Findis. It’s not the ideal situation, but Elemmírë and Findis aren’t really the “fight the system” type, so they’re content to live with the happiness they’ve been allowed.

Eventually, Makalaurë reaches his first coming of age** and Elemmírë takes her student on a tour of all Eldamar to show off how exceptional a musician he has become. He is declared a master singer, and leaves Elemmírë’s side to pursue mastery in instruments, beginning with the harp. His teacher couldn’t be more proud.

**(In my headcanon, elves have two coming-of-age ceremonies: one when they reach age 50, and are considered physically mature and old enough to be given more freedoms in their decisions, including now being of a socially acceptable age to start dating; and the other at age 100, where they are considered a Full Adult and able to marry. Sometimes elves marry younger than that, but it isn’t super common. Age pretty much stops mattering, especially when it comes to age gaps in relationships, when an elf is about 150.)

Not long after this, Elemmírë and Findis get married! Makalaurë performs his then-masterpiece at their wedding. Also at the wedding, Findekáno is caught up in all the glorious romance, and the possibilities of same-gender marriage now that two níssi (one a princess!) can be wed, and confesses the depth of his love for Maitimo. Maitimo...immediately panics and brings up all the reasons why their love is doomed, how their aunts are the exception and not the rule and besides there’s that loophole they’re taking advantage of that doesn’t really work for néri like us - but notably does not deny that he feels the same way. Findekáno is heartbroken by the rejection; Maitimo is terrified of his feelings and distances himself from his beloved cousin for a time.

But of course that doesn’t last long - and it’s at the celebration of the birth of Laurefindil, Findis and Elemmírë’s son, that Maitimo brings himself to reconcile with Findekáno...platonically. Of course. Until a few months later where he just can’t take it anymore and breaks down and confesses he can’t deny his feelings any longer, and they get together at long last.

Findis, Elemmírë, and Laurefindil return to Valmar and settle down there. Laurefindil is buds with both his Vanyarin cousin Elenwë and his oodles of Noldorin cousins. At his first coming of age celebration, he introduces his cousin Elenwë (on Elemmírë’s side) to his cousin Turukáno (on Findis’ side), and Turukáno immediately falls madly in love and begins some intense pining that will rival even his older brother’s romantic dramatics.

As strife grows among the Noldor, Findis and Elemmírë distance themselves from Tirion as much as they can; Makalaurë is pretty much the only Finwëan who is allowed to visit them. However, Laurefindil misses his Noldorin cousins and, after his second coming of age, chooses to move to Tirion and join his grandfather Finwë’s court. He becomes even closer to Turukáno (who has by now married Elenwë) and is very loyal to his older cousin.

At the Darkening, Elemmírë is deeply grieved at the destruction of the Two Trees, and it is then that she composes her most famous song, the Aldudénië, “Lament for the Trees.” Her grief is compounded when her son chooses to go into exile with his Noldorin kin - and, almost worse, when her niece Elenwë chooses to leave as well.

Elenwë is the only Vanya who leaves (well, the only Vanya who is fully culturally Vanyarin without any Noldorin ancestry), mostly because she cannot bear to be separated from her husband and young daughter, but also because she knows the story of her Avarin father who stayed behind in Endórë and hopes that she will meet him on the hither shore. (Unfortunately, she perishes crossing the Ice. Idril will eventually meet her maternal grandfather, but not until just before she and Tuor sail West. Elenwë is reborn in Aman shortly after the founding of Gondolin; she reunites with her Vanyarin family and with her good friend Amárië.)

I don’t have a whole lot of headcanons for Elemmírë and Findis during the events of the First Age; they live mostly a quiet life. I think Elemmírë rededicates herself to the service of Varda, and pleads with her Vala to show mercy for the Noldor in their need. (Perhaps that helped to convince Varda’s husband to send an eagle to Thangorodrim?)

When they hear of Laurefindil’s death in the Fall of Gondolin (because of course Glorfindel followed his favorite cousin Turgon to his hidden city, and got a noble house out of it!), Elemmírë and Findis grieve his loss all over again. They don’t know how long it will be before his rebirth, and they soon decide to have another child together. This is their daughter, Faniel, who grows up on stories about her brother’s bravery.

Eventually Glorfindel is reborn, and he has a few good centuries in Aman with his family (and his husband Ecthelion, who he finally gets to marry; they had gotten betrothed the day before Gondolin fell, RIP) before the Valar send him back to Middle-earth to play the hero again. Elemmírë and Findis are once again heartbroken to lose him, but they are at the same time incredibly proud of their son for his bravery and dedication to all things good in the world. This time, he leaves with the blessing of Varda, his mother’s patron Vala, and a promise that he will return when his task is complete. He does, but not until the Fourth Age, when he sails back to Valinor with Elladan and Elrohir!

[sweetteaanddragons]

A Question of Precedence

I was having difficulty writing this one, and then I remembered it had been a while since I’d done a bullet point fic and tried to write it that way. Things went much faster after that.

Feanor is born too soon. Miriel dies within an hour of the birth. Feanor lasts only a day longer. The healers say that he might have lived if his mother had - that his spirit is still so closely bound to hers that she might have been able to sustain him. But Miriel dies, and a day later, her son follows.

(Finwe holds him from the moment the midwife hands him over to the moment his son takes his last breath. He’d have poured out every drop of his fëa if it would have saved his son, but there is nothing he can do.)

Miriel refuses to return, and Estë warns that without her, there is no point in returning Feanor to the world. He will die again just as quickly.

Finwe pleads with his wife to return for their son’s sake if nothing else, but Miriel refuses him.

Finwe cannot forgive her for this.

(Miriel wishes she could find some way to explain the cold weight and bottomless weariness even the thought of returning brings her. She holds the shade of her son in her arms and weeps for him, but no matter how she tries, she cannot find the strength to return. Not even for him.)

Finwe eventually remarries, though he waits longer to do it. Giving up on Miriel means giving up on Feanor too, but he has come to believe both are lost to him, and he can’t bear to face all of eternity alone.

Indis gives birth to Findis. Finwe is overjoyed both are healthy and secretly relieved it’s a girl. It’s . . . easier that way, at least for the first.

Then there’s Nolowfinwe, Irimë, and Arafinwe. All healthy. All safe.

But he never forgets Feanor.

Melkor is eventually released and inevitably stirs up trouble. This time, though, Feanor has almost nothing to do with it.

Finwe’s heir is still in question, though.

Findis is Finwe’s oldest surviving child. Many believe she should serve as his heir.

But inheritance is a rarely used concept among the elves as of yet. Nothing is set in stone. Should this be determined by birth or Finwe’s choice? And since all of their original leaders were male, should their potential replacements be male too?

More pressingly, Findis is . . . Well, all of Finwe’s surviving children are half-Vanyar, of course. But Findis is particularly Vanyar. She looks and acts far more Vanyar than Noldor, and the Noldor aren’t thrilled with that fact in a potential heir.

Nolofinwe, on the other hand, could easily pass as a full Noldor. And though his is loathe to do anything that could be at all construed as trying to usurp the crown from his sister, he has to admit, if only to himself, that he wants it, and he’s not at all sure that Findis does.

Findis doesn’t. Not exactly. She does, however, resent everyone that suggests that she couldn’t do a perfectly good job

(No one particularly considers either Irimë or Arafinwe since Irimë spends as much of her time as she can running wild through the forest, and Arafinwe is both the youngest and suspiciously Vanyar in appearance to boot. Both are fine with this, though Irimë occasionally likes to complain for the sake of it.)

There’s no open fighting between the siblings, but things get progressively more heated amongst their supporters. Indis wants Finwe to step in and officially proclaim a heir to make it stop. Finwe hates the idea of appearing to choose between his children. He quietly thinks that if Feanor was still alive they wouldn’t be having this problem; Feanor is his firstborn, fully Noldor, and to top it all off, male. That’s a wish, though, not a plan. His plan is currently just to live forever and render the point moot, a plan that, while flawed, is at least more plausible for elves than anyone else.

There are no Silmarils this time around, just steadily increasing tensions that finally erupt into a full-scale riot.

When the Valar intervene, Melkor’s intervention is discovered.

No one is exiled, but there is a reconciliation scheduled once tempers have cooled. They meet at the Trees.

Which Melkor destroys.

In the chaos, he also kills Finwe for the sake of stirring up trouble.

There is no possible way to avoid the succession issue now.

Nolofinwe is furious and grieved at his father’s death. He argues passionately that they should pursue his murderer.

Findis is more cautious. They should trust the Valar, she argues. Light will surely be restored soon. They cannot possibly hope to fight a Valar on their own.

The succession issue is resolved, more or less, by those who wish to go to Beleriand with Nolowfinwe following him to the shore and those who don’t staying under Findis’s leadership.

The Teleri refuse to give them the boats, but though it’s suggested, Nolofinwe refuses to steal them. Instead, they take the path of the Grinding Ice.

(By the time they arrive, Círdan’s forces will be long dead, as will many of the Avari. Only those within the protection of the Girdle or far from Angband will still be grimly holding on. Even with no Doom, there is a long hopeless war in front of them.)

Findis faces problems of her own. While many of those who stayed are her supporters, others stayed for other reasons and resent her rule.

And . . . all of her siblings have gone to Beleriand. She can’t help feeling that’s a comment on her.

Her mother, in her grief, returns to the Vanyar. Findis wishes desperately she could have gone with her and swallows down the feeling that she’s been abandoned.

Meanwhile, Finwe’s found Miriel and has told her everything.

And Miriel thinks . . . maybe. Maybe she can return to life, or at least something resembling it.

She goes to weave for Vaire.

And she takes Feanor with her.

He grows little by little. When he’s big enough, she knows he has to leave. This half-life is no place for a child.

So she sends him to the only family she can.

She sends him to Findis.

Findis has had the crown for a few years by now. She’s proven her point. She can do this. She just doesn’t want to.

And Feanor is the perfect excuse.

She invents the term regent and declares that Feanor will be the next king.

Feanor grows up with a good deal of curiosity about his absent siblings and a confused mess of emotions about his parents and step-mother. He wishes fiercely that he could have gone to Beleriand to fight, to explore, and to do great deeds and avenge the father he doesn’t remember. 

He’s as brilliant as he was always destined to be, but the Silmarils aren’t a possibility now. He makes lesser gems that capture the light of sun, moon, and stars, and wishes he could have seen this light that others mourn.

You saw it once, Findis reminds him. For just one day. I can still see the light of it in your eyes.

He does still invent Tengwar. It’s adopted quickly.

When he comes of age and Findis is convinced he isn’t going to burn Tirion down in one of his experiments, she abdicates and goes to live with her mother’s family. Feanor gets busy being king . . . and wooing Nerdanel.

Nerdanel is older than him, that’s true, but he’s determined not to let that stop him.

It does stop Nerdanel for quite some time. But with every decade that passes, the less significant the age gap becomes.

Eventually, she says yes.

They have seven sons.

The twins are still very young when Namo breaks his long silence on the fate of those in Beleriand and makes an announcement that causes the biggest stir Aman’s seen since the Sun came up for the very first time.

Nolowfinwe’s eldest son, Fingon, is dead.

And for the heroism he showed in Beleriand, it’s been decided that he’ll be returned early. This week, in fact.

Fingon emerges from Mandos’s Halls to be greeted by an uncle that is simultaneously far older and far younger than him and who is very, very eager to hear absolutely everything about Beleriand and everyone who’s there.

Fingon is bewildered by pretty much everything that’s going on, but he’s also very, very eager to share what’s going on, mostly in the interest of getting reinforcements.

Feanor isn’t nearly as hard to convince as he was expecting.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic

Summary: Curufin’s wife Netyarë has been fascinated by bright colours all her life, but one day she finds herself chasing something subtler.

A one-shot about the artistic passion of a Noldorin painter, with a dash of other passions. Written for Legendarium Ladies April. Connected to some of my other stories but works just fine as a standalone. (AO3 link)

Rating: Teenage audiences and up; Length: 4,000 words

Some keywords: artistic crisis, vaguely described art, married romance, implied/referenced sex, some fluff

A/N: I've written about Curufin's wife before but it's not necessary to have read those stories to read this. All you need to know is that my take on Curufin's mystery wife is a fresco painter called Netyarë, that she's middle-class instead of nobility by birth, and that this fic takes place before Tyelperinquar is born.

I'm no artist so I apologise for any inauthenticity in the description of an artist's feelings, techniques etc. Happily, this fic happens to fit the LLA prompt 'skills, tasks and duties', though I began writing this before that prompt was posted.

*

Sparkling colours, subtler shades

Netyarë has always been ambitious with her art, aiming for both renown and artistic satisfaction. When she achieves one of these things, she discovers that it means little without the other.

She spent her girlhood learning to paint in one style: in vivid shades creating colourful, realistic landscapes on the walls of high halls in Tirion. By the time she has been married to Curufinwë for a few years she has become famous for this style, and popular enough that she has to turn down commissions almost as often as she can accept them. She is still young enough for this to count as remarkable, and it does satisfy the part of her that has always craved admiration for her art.

Yet gaining renown for something she has been refining, polishing and repeating for years doesn't feel as good as Netyarë had thought it would. While she is given more praise than ever before, she finds herself wanting to protest it.

'Don't you see that this fresco is only very little better than what I did last year – that it is the same thing, only infinitesimally superior in execution?' she wants to demand from those who admire her sparkling colours. 'Are you blind to how repetitive it is, and as such in fact no better than before?'

Netyarë doesn't speak these words aloud, of course. She's always known how to behave in a manner that benefits her, and questioning praise would not do that. She accepts the compliments and smiles radiantly, and no one among the nobles of the Noldor sees the smile for the lie it is but her husband.

After a piece that she is particularly unhappy with is unveiled to great acclaim, Netyarë turns down all commissions and stays home, working for herself for the first time in a long time. Curufinwë is busy with an intensive project of his own but once it is over, he, too, takes a rare day off and joins her in her study after a lunch where she fails to make an appearance.

'Study' isn't really the right name for Netyarë's workroom, for it has few of the features common to most studies. There no bookshelves, and while there is a desk, it is a small one, and crammed into a corner along with the only chair in the room. The only other furniture is a narrow, light table that bears Netyarë's paintbrushes, pigments, plastering tools and other equipment. The walls are covered in a chaos of frescoes: some reach to the ceiling while others, technique studies, are hardly bigger than a palmprint.

At the moment the room is a mess, large sketches littering both the desk and floor while empty buckets lie scattered around the room. Curufinwë makes his way around them to where Netyarë is staring at a mostly blank wall.

'I have kept this wall empty for new ideas', she says when she hears him coming, recognising his footsteps without turning to look. 'But now that I have time, I don't know what to cover it with. I don't want to keep doing the same thing, but everything new is… so new. Not good enough yet, just like my old style isn't good enough anymore.'

'This is your practice space.' Curufinwë picks up a few scrunched-up watercolours to have space to sit on the floor next to her. 'What you paint here doesn't have to be perfect or even good yet. Nothing is at the beginning.'

Netyarë gives him a small smile when she realises that he is echoing her own words back to her, words she spoke one time when he was frustrated with slow progress in the forge.

Soon she looks back at the wall again, though, tracing the smooth white surface with her forefinger. She has images in her head, but they are so elusive that she isn't even certain what they should look like when transferred to reality at the tip of her paintbrush, and no idea at all how she should move that paintbrush, what colours to use, to capture that elusive vision.

'How is this so difficult?' she wonders aloud. 'All my life I've been striving to reproduce what only I see, yet it has never felt like this. Isn't it silly that painting was easier when fewer people saw the results, even though I've always wanted exactly what I have now, a large audience for my art?'

'It's perfectly logical', Curufinwë replies. Netyarë turns to him, frowning, and he asks if he can rebraid her hair that has become a mess during her restless morning.

While he detangles the remnants of her old braid, combs the brown curls with his fingers and ties them into a long plait down her back, Curufinwë explains what he meant.

'You have been so busy these last few years that you have gone straight from commission to commission without pausing in between to develop your art. It is quite natural that those commissions have been for more of the same style for which you first became known, and it is also natural that you have become frustrated with it.'

'Perhaps your impatience is contagious', Netyarë muses teasingly, her mood lifting.

'Please', her husband huffs. 'You are just as impatient and passionate with your art as I am with my craft. Now you need to quite literally give it time. You have very smartly refused all commissions for now, so allow yourself some time to experiment and try new things. I'm sure you'll find the right style soon.'

Netyarë bites her lip while Curufinwë ties off her plait. It hasn't been long enough since the time she was one of the many unknown, unremarkable artists of the Noldor that she wouldn't feel a twinge of panic every time she refuses someone who would pay for her to adorn their house with her art. There have been moments during the last few days when she's considered contacting one of the nobles whose offers she turned down.

She is in a position of privilege now, in more ways than one, but a part of her still struggles to remember it. She wonders if it will ever get easier. It is different for Curufinwë who was born into the privilege.

She is roused from her thoughts by a small paintbrush being pressed into her palm.

'Where did you get this from?' she asks Curufinwë.

'Your hair', he replies drily. 'I believe I've told you before to stop sticking brushes into your hairdos. You have better ornaments for your hair.'

'I don't do it on purpose', she says, and indeed it is one of her absent-minded habits. Then she finds it in herself to tease him – teasing him is after all her favourite activity after painting. 'Darling husband, are you jealous because I decorate my hair something else besides the ornaments you've made for me?'

As their teasing always is, it's half play and half truth. Netyarë is glad, though, when Curufinwë's answer this time is all sincerity.

'A little', he admits, and after pressing a kiss on her cheek rises to his feet. 'I'll leave you to your art. Give it time. I'll keep everything and everyone else away.'

Netyarë doesn't doubt it: when it comes to art and craft, Curufinwë can be generous, and he is nothing if not protective of her when he deems it necessary. The protectiveness chafes her sometimes, but now she is grateful to know she'll be left in peace, alone with her art.

'Thank you', she says, turning towards the maddeningly white surface again. She doesn't hear his footsteps when he leaves the room, all her attention on filling that blank wall.

She doesn't begin with the wall though, of course not. The first thing a fresco painter learns is careful preparation – frescoes are painted on freshly laid plaster, and once the plaster dries the painting is done, any change difficult to make. Experimentation and planning must be done elsewhere: Netyarë does it in sketches, watercolours and even oil paintings.

Netyarë stares at the wall until she no longer sees it white, and then she starts mixing pigments, making new colours. Colours are the thing she will change in her work, colours and contrast. One day she will return to the more abstract style she learned from Nerdanel in the early days of their acquaintance – when she was Nerdanel's protege rather than Curufinwë's wife – but for now she will stay with the realism, only making it less obvious.

She has always painted in brilliant, sparkling colours that cannot fail to catch the eye, but now she wants to try something more difficult. Something that doesn't draw attention to itself but once someone looks at it, they can't look away until their gaze has travelled over every inch and they have become lost in the painting.

The idea of luring people into a world of subtle shades and soft shadows that she will have created is very pleasing.

Netyarë begins with watercolours, since their fluidness seems well suited to the task of creating fine distinctions. At first she only plays with colour, experimenting with how little difference in shade still creates a visible difference. It is more enjoyable than she'd have thought to just try out things without having a very specific outcome she's aiming for.

After two days she switches to oils, a more difficult medium for this task but one she knows she has to conquer before moving on to creating frescoes. It goes better than she expected, and she soon starts creating little scenes instead of just swirls of colour. She finds herself drawn to creating woodland scenes, for the thick foliage and gently dappled shadows of a forest seem well suited to this new style and as such are a good first subject.

At one point she finds out that she has run out of canvases. She moves her supplies and tools to the desk from the narrow table that usually holds them, and paints the tabletop. It is not perfectly smooth but that isn't a problem because this is still practice. Experimentation.

Curufinwë rolls his eyes when he sees the painted table and tells her that she could have just asked a servant to go buy her more canvases.

'I did', she replies, rubbing her back that aches from hours bent over the table. 'But I didn't want to wait until he came back.'

Recognising the faraway look in her eyes, Curufinwë leaves her to the nearly finished table-painting and returns with a tray of food that he quietly leaves on the floor.

Netyarë hears his steps nonetheless. 'Send Wirien here, would you? I'm going to get started on the wall soon, and I could use her help with the plaster.'

'She won't like it, you know', Curufinwë mutters with a crooked smile as he drops a kiss on her hair, then walks away to leave her in peace again.

'She doesn't mind it so much anymore.' Netyarë chuckles, half of her thoughts on the last details of her painting and the other half on her personal attendant.

Curufinwë made her engage a lady's maid when they married. Netyarë had made half-hearted protests at first, feeling a little uncomfortable at the thought of someone else caring for her things and appearance. She had given in soon, though, knowing that having a personal servant was right for her new position – and that it would free time for her art and other things.

Wirien is a smart, lively girl and much more talented with hairstyles and dress designs than Netyarë. She has more surprising talents as well, as her mistress discovered when she taught her to assist her in some of the tasks to do with her art. Wirien had been horrified and indignant when Netyarë first asked her to mix and lay plaster, but after some coaxing and a promise of a raise to her wages if she mastered these additional duties, she agreed to do it.

To Netyarë's surprise, Wirien soon became better at finding the exactly right consistency of plaster and pigments than Netyarë herself. She soon realised it made perfect sense, though – her maid is after all quite skilled with chemicals and making various preparations. Netyarë's hands have never been chapped from the practice of her art since she started using the pungent-smelling but pleasantly cooling hand cream that Wirien makes herself and also sells to other ladies' maids.

Soon Netyarë hears Wirien's light steps coming into the room.

'Plaster or paint?' she asks.

'Just plaster. I will be using new colours so I'll blend the pigments myself.'

They work side by side in silence for a while. When Wirien is finished with her tasks she moves the buckets of prepared plaster next to the wall to set and informs her mistress that she is going draw a bath for her in an hour's time.

Netyarë wonders, not for the first time, if ladies who are ladies from birth and not by marriage let their maids order them around. All of her body aches from many days of painting in uncomfortable positions and very little sleep, though, so she acquiesces, laying the final touches on her table-painting and then seeking the wonderful warmth of the bath.

She closes her eyes and breathes in the fragrant steam. Colours dance behind her eyelids, and she finds herself becoming lost in them as she wants the audience of her art to do.

She's not sure how long it has been when Curufinwë joins her in the bath. Long enough that she is grateful for his body heat, anyway, for the water has cooled.

'Don't fall asleep', he says with a grin in his voice as he gathers her in his arms. 'Not before bed.'

'Mm.' She swats away his hands that have wandered to lightly tickle her belly to keep her awake. 'Since you're here, you can wash my hair. Get out those paint splatters you hate.'

Curufinwë doesn't always respond well to being told what to do, but when he does, Netyarë is delighted. Now she almost purrs while he gently washes and rinses her hair and even dries her off.

She never opens her eyes, trusting him to guide her to bed, and she isn't absolutely sure when the colours she still sees change from her imagination to the dream-realm of Lórien. It is a realm of shadows tonight, bluish greens and greenish blues and dim, silvery blacks, more beautiful and captivating than her watercolours and oil paintings, and exactly what she wants to create on the blank wall.

She rises early, soon after the mingling of the lights has begun, slipping quietly out of the bed where Curufinwë still slumbers. She spends that day and the next few days making a careful composition of her planned painting while an underlayer of plaster dries.

Once she has divided her composition into sections she can paint at one time without the plaster drying, she lays a fresh, smooth layer over a small area. Then she finally picks up a paintbrush and starts painting.

The first brushstroke on a large vertical surface is always a rush, almost like that of sudden desire, for while sketching and watercolours are pleasant enough, this is her true medium. Not painting on a piece of paper or canvas, but a wall, a part of something greater; by adorning one part she always makes the greater whole more beautiful. She makes it hers, one brushstroke at a time.

She is now certain enough of her vision that she can enjoy the process of bringing it to life. When the blank wall is no longer blank, Netyarë looks at her work and deems it acceptable. Far, far from perfect, but good enough for a first try.

It's not enough in size, though, just one wall. She needs to fill a room with her first scene in the new style to see if it really works. Her art in its fullest form is all about surrounding the viewer, for to become lost in something you need to have it all around you.

Netyarë summons servants and orders them to empty a guest bedchamber of furniture. She has left the walls of a few such chambers unadorned precisely for this reason, to use them for practice.

She covers the four walls of the small room in a simple woodland scene. She envisioned it already before her dreams of Lórien's garden in the same shades: sometimes dreams influence her art, and sometimes it is the other way around. Sometimes she doesn't know which comes first. It doesn't matter anyway.

The longer she paints in the room that has been stripped completely bare apart from her art, the more she loses herself in it. Fresco painting is slow work, even when the room is small and the subject simple, so she must be taking time to eat and sleep and do those other things which are required to keep making art, but she hardly notices them. She must be interacting with Curufinwë and Wirien, at least, but she can't remember if she says anything to them, and all she sees is the colours she's chasing.

Mainly shades of blue, green, black and brown, but all the other colours too. Abandoning all but a few colours would be a cheap trick; it is more difficult and more interesting to keep them all, but to blend them more closely, to make the contrasts less glaring but still present. She wants to paint a subtle seduction rather than a loud invitation.

She paints soft silver light (for it is a night-time scene); evergreen trees of the north that she saw when Curufinwë took her on one of his family's long journey's (for the shadows of those trees are blue and beautiful); animals of all kinds living their secret lives among the trees (prey and predators alike, small creatures in the undergrowth, a majestic elk raising his crowned head high, owls gliding silently around the treetops).

When she realises she has lost track of time completely in the forest she is creating, Netyarë knows she has succeeded in her goal. Others will be lost too.

It is always an empty feeling, a small loss, when she finishes painting a room. This time as often before, she sits down in the middle of the room and just watches and breathes, coming slowly back to herself. It takes longer than usual this time, which she takes as a good sign.

She falls asleep on the floor before the mix of elation and emptiness has evaporated, dreams of nothing and wakes up to her husband shaking her gently.

'Once again, my love: you have a bed. We have a bed, and I've been wondering if you've forgotten where it is.'

Netyarë opens bleary grey eyes to look into Curufinwë's sharp steel-blue ones. In spite of the acerbic tone of his words, the steel is very soft.

'I finished it', she says. 'This room, as well as creating a new way of making art.'

Curufinwë smiles at her, sharing in her quiet joy and satisfaction, and she smiles back and tells him, 'Don't you dare lecture me on coming to bed. I'm sure you're still ahead on the number of nights spent away from bed because of work.'

'No, you passed me three nights ago. Come now, wife.' He pulls her up, more prepared for how shaky her legs are than she is. She leans into him but refuses to budge from her spot in the middle of the room, gazing at the walls to make sure they are still as good as they were to her tired eyes before she fell asleep.

Curufinwë notices the uncertainty creeping into her. 'It's beautiful and brilliant. Your best work so far', he reassures her and she believes it, for he has never lied to her about things like this. He's not afraid to tell her when something in her frescoes doesn't work.

'I want Tyelko look over these paintings if I decide to replicate them for a client. I'm not absolutely certain about the anatomy of some of the animals –'

'I'm sure he'll be happy to help. We can talk about it more over dinner.' Curufinwë's arms that have twined around Netyarë's waist without her noticing tug her closer to him, then towards the door.

'Dinner? I'm not hungry', she says distractedly, her gaze still sweeping over the painted walls looking for flaws that she knows aren't there.

There is an odd feeling in her stomach. She supposes it is the emptiness of her work being finally over, of having poured her vision out of herself and on to the previously blank walls, but Curufinwë tells her that she hasn't eaten for six days.

'I brought food and wine and tea but for the last week, only the tea disappeared from the trays', he informs her drily.

'Oh.' She leans back on him a little. 'I didn't realise it was so long. I am sorry to have worried you, my love.' For his tone, dry though it had been, also told her that he had watched over her anxiously for the six days. It is not for the first time he has done so, never disturbing or interrupting, for they understand each other in this, sharing more passions than just their desire for each other.

'It's all right', Curufinwë replies. 'As long as you come and eat now. I'll carry you to the dining room if I have to.'

He proves his threat by sweeping her up in his arms, making her laugh. When he carries her out the door, she takes one last long glance at her work over his shoulder and then closes her eyes, the colours still dancing beneath her eyelids as they have done for weeks.

She washes the dirt of many days' work away while Curufinwë prepares a late dinner for her, for it turns out to be midnight and the servants have already gone to bed. Fortunately Curufinwë is a good cook, so it is no hard work for Netyarë to make appreciative noises at the food. A part of her attention is still on her art.

'I think I'll repaint this family dining room in my new style', she mutters between mouthfuls of soup. 'Not a dark forest scene, though. Something with many different hues of golden light, perhaps.'

When the time comes to go to bed, Netyarë doesn't find herself craving sleep in spite of having spent the last week painting almost continuously and the rich food she just ate. The exhilaration of having conquered the challenge of capturing her vision in paint on plaster still keeps her heart beating fast.

So instead of collapsing in exhaustion as Curufinwë seems to expect her to do – as he has done after some long days when his creative fire burnt bright – Netyarë finds herself filled with a new kind of energy and determined to conquer him.

It doesn't take much. Just a few touches and a long look aimed at him instead of any painting, and Curufinwë comes as close to her as he can.

'You are sparkling', he tells her before she silences him with her mouth.

The colours kept dancing before her eyes all through the dinner. They try to do so even in bed after but they go unseen now, for all her attention is on her husband.

When sleep finally comes again, it wraps her up in a soft grey haze as tender and firm as Curufinwë's arms around her. She is happy to rest in the greyness, for she is not afraid of losing the new colours for good. Now that she has found and tamed them once, she knows that they will return to her when she calls for them.

*

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to read more about Netyarë, see this series on AO3.

I based her surviving for days without eating or sleeping properly on Tolkien's mentions of the fëa (spirit) of elves having a lot of control over the hröa (body), allowing them to withstand harsh conditions for a period of time. I imagine that for an artist, this might mean forgetting to take care of themselves during moments of intense creation.

And in case you're wondering, no, Curufinwë isn't nearly as gracious about Netyarë fussing about his well-being when their situations are reversed. The detail about Noldorin men cooking is from LaCE.