#reborn!finrod

[who-needs-words]

Thinking about the ten elves who stayed loyal to Finrod and joined him on Beren’s quest for a Silmaril. Thinking about Edrahil. They were probably close to him but not high ranked. Them. If they weren’t friends before they left they sure where by the time they were captured. Did they come to love Beren too? They listened to each other die. Love them.

[sexiestfinweanpoll]

[sesamenom]

This is such a beautifully sad yet sweet piece - I’m honored that you were inspired by my art :D

This piece is dedicated to @sesamenom whose art of Finrod and Celebrían broke me inside a bit. Thanks for your beautiful art <3 <3

Celebrían did not miss her children.

She did not miss much of anything, really. Ever since she had fully awoken in Rivendell, that first time, there had been nothing inside her but a great grey nothing that filled her chest - then the bed - then the room - until even the distant sound of fountains that she had always delighted in seemed muted and dull.

Elrond’s relief and her children’s painful joy had painted the world in bright colors again, for a few moments; then it was as if a pall had been cast over their faces, which they could not see. Their quick high laughter, their smiles, their tears, even their caution - it emptied her out. She was a vessel, and she had poured the last drop of her joy into Elladan and Elrohir, when they found her, and there was nothing left. And after awhile all their expectations, the flinches of her parents when she did not laugh and Arwen’s quietness, unnatural in such a young child, refilled her with grey bitterness.

So she had sailed.

Now she sat in the house of her grandparents, in a beautiful white city that seemed to have stepped right out of her mother’s childhood, and she did not miss her children. She felt only dull relief. Their eyes were no longer on her, expecting her to dance for their amusement - but no, that was unfair. Her children had not wanted her to be anything but well.

She had not been able to give them that, and so she was here.

Her grandparents had been kind, when they met her in the harbor. They had fought in the first Great War; they understood loss and pain. What had happened to her was - not comparable to the torments of Angband. No one had said that, of course; but Celebrían had met many veterans of the first and second Great Wars, in Lothlorien and Rivendell, and she knew.

It was just that she was weak. Weak and useless, a doll for others to play with, and she had passed into the wrong ownership, and now she was - cracked. Wrong.

But none of this had shown in the eyes of Finarfin or Eärwen. They had taken care of everything, from the moment she stepped off the boat. They had taken the little luggage she had, and they had bundled her away without allowing any of the crowd of well-wishers and distant relations near, and they had let her sleep without asking any unnecessary questions. She had been taken care of, the way she had been cared for her whole life, save - once. And that one time had broken her.

She shook off the bitter thoughts, or tried to. Things were better here, a little. There were no expectations of leadership, of recovery, of motherhood or daughterhood. Just kindness, and a quiet room. She was - grateful.

She was.

A gentle knock at the door startled her, though she did not jump. The few weeks she had been in Aman were sufficient for that, at least.

She got up and opened the door. Finarfin stood there. He was smiling, and quiet, as he always was. But there was something different about his eyes. He seemed - happier.

"My son is home!" he said. "That is - Finrod," he added hastily. Then, uncertainly, "You may have heard of him as Felagund? He is unclear on that point."

Celebrían twitched briefly in amusement. "I have heard of Finrod, Haru," she said, watching his eyes warm further - as they always did - at the familial address. "All have."

"Of course, of course," her grandfather said. "Silly of me. Of course Galadriel would have spoken of him. In any case, he has been traveling, and has just arrived, and wishes to see you, if you will permit it?"

That was another way they were kind, her grandparents - they did not require her to see anyone. Many had wished to see her, and speak to her, from old friends of Elwë who wanted to hear of Celeborn, to schoolfriends of her mother - Artanis, they all called her, which was strange to her ears - to Elwing the White herself, seeking news of Elrond.

Celebrían had met with Olwë and Falwen her great-grandparents; she had refused all other visitors, even her law-mother. And Finarfin and Eärwen had simply nodded as if this was expected, and said, "Another time, perhaps," and then they sent the guests away, and Celebrían returned to her quiet room and sat in the sunlight.

For a moment she thought of refusing to see Finrod, as well. But her mother had spoken of him so often, with such fondness - and he was kind. All knew he was kind.

She said, "I would be honored," for after all she was the Lady of Rivendell, and Finarfin brightened. He was proud of his son, it was clear: proud and happy. It reminded her of - of her own father.

She shook the thought away.

"He will be delighted to hear it," Finarfin said. "Would you like him to meet you here, or elsewhere?"

Celebrían considered. "Perhaps in the garden," she said at last. She did not like to have anyone between her and a door anymore; and these old, old Elves were all so tall! Tall and queenly like her mother, and frightening because of it.

"Very well," Finarfin said. "I will tell him, and you may come down when you are ready. If you change your mind, he will not be offended," he added gently, and Celebrían nodded.

He left, and Celebrían heard him calling to his son.

For a moment, she sat in her chair in the afternoon sunlight and did the exercises Elrond had shown her for calm. She breathed deeply, felt the cloth of the chair rub against her back. Tightened the muscles of her arms, one at a time, then released them slowly. Breathed again.

Then she stood and went out to the garden.

As promised, Finrod was waiting on a bench, in the sun. He stood as she approached, and bowed.

"My Lady Celebrían," he said, "and my youngest niece! I am so happy to meet you."

Celebrían nodded back, not trusting her voice quite yet. He was very tall.

His smile faltered briefly; then it was back. "I have taken the liberty," he said, indicating a pitcher and a platter, "of bringing out some water, and some small other refreshments. I am quite hungry. I hope you do not mind."

"I do not," Celebrían said. "Thank you." She was not sure if he was being entirely truthful; she had been - hungry, for quite some time, and one of her grandparents’ little gestures was making sure there was always food close to hand for her.

But it was kind of him.

She studied him as they sat. He was all gold, as the lays said: loose gold hair that haloed his face and swept down to his waist, gold on his sleeves and at his belt, gold in his eyes which were so like her mother’s that for a moment Celebrían could not quite breathe. His smile was kind and merry, as her mother had said; and his voice was unquestionably that of the diplomat her father had described.

But he was grave. This nobody had told her. She was not sure from whence the impression of gravity sprang, for he shone in the sun and had a smile of such brilliant loveliness one nearly forgot his hair. Still he was grave, and sad, behind the gold.

"I am told," her uncle said, reaching out to snag a scone from the platter - so he had not been lying, after all - "that you have passed through great suffering. Forgive my manners," he added, taking a bite.

It was - it was as if he had taken a blade and cut right to her heart, and in doing so freed her from a trap she did not know she was caught in. She breathed again.

"I would not call it great," she said. "But - suffering."

"Perhaps you will also forgive my bluntness, then," Finrod said. "I find it trying, to dance around that which gives us pain. I did it for many years in Beleriand. No more!"

"It - I do not mind," Celebrían said, and found to her surprise that it was true.

"I thought you mightn’t," Finrod said, and smiled at her expression. "My parents are very kind, and they have seen much suffering - but it is different to live it."

Celebrían had - nearly forgotten. Galadriel did not like the Lay of Leithian, and when she talked about Finrod it was most often tales of their merry childhood, or their escapades in Doriath. Not of her brother’s ending.

Elrond did not like the Lay either, though it was often played in the Hall of Fire; and so they did not listen to it much.

She said, "I must emphasize - it was not great. I was not -" and she broke off, unsure of what she wanted to say.

"Not eaten by wolves?" Finrod said wryly. "Many can claim that. It is not an easy end, to be sure, but it is not the only kind of suffering."

Celebrían did not know what to say to that; so she sat silent. But she did pour herself a small cup of water.

Finrod continued, "In any case, I cannot pretend to understand what you have undergone, or how you feel. I -" he faltered for the first time. "Perhaps it was presumptuous of me, but I thought you might like to talk to someone who - who has suffered in like manner. We needn’t," he added hastily, "we can also talk about - anything else. Say the word, and I shall be silent."

"It was - not presumptuous," Celebrían said. "I - would like that." She stopped, and drained her cup. Then she did not have any more words.

Finrod waited; then he said softly, "Of all the torments of Sauron’s dungeon, I always thought that shame was the worst. The shame of helplessness." His gaze was far away.

"But you were not helpless," Celebrían said. "Not as I -" her words ran out again.

Finrod waited, quietly; then, when she did not speak, he said, "I was, niece. So thoroughly helpless that to speak of it now still burns my throat. And it has been a long time. A very long time…" he trailed off, eyes unfocusing. Then he spoke again. "I am sure the Lay is known to you. But it cannot describe what it is like to hear someone I carried in my arms as a babe die not an armspan away, and be unable to comfort them. The Ten were in my care. They trusted me." He paused.

"When I was captured," Celebrían said, "they killed my guards in front of me. That evening."

Then she stopped. She had not meant to say that. She had not told that to anyone, not even Elrond.

And now the words - hung in the air. She swallowed hard. Something within her had been lanced open.

"I am sorry," Finrod said. "That could not have been easy."

At that Celebrían suddenly felt so desperate for someone to understand, truly understand, that she could not breathe. "It was not," she said, a pain in her throat. "They - they tried to be strong, for me, but the - the Orcs, they -" she paused. "They could not help screaming. No one could. I could not - later. And - and I could not do anything. I saw faith in their eyes. The Lady of Rivendell is here, they were thinking. It was clear as day. But my presence was - was the reason they -"

She choked, stopped. Finrod had refilled her cup, and handed it to her. She drank.

"I am sorry," Finrod said again. "Very sorry. That is the -" he paused. "It is a terrible pain. But I will tell you that you helped indeed, Lady of Rivendell."

Celebrían could not help herself. She laughed. It hurt the roof of her mouth, made her want to double over. "I did not."

"You did," Finrod said. He was grave indeed now, and kingly. "To lead is not only to command, but to inspire. To embody the spirit of a people, and honor the love of those who have sworn themselves to you. You know this full well, O daughter of Galadriel," he added with a slight smile. Then he sobered. "I came to the Halls broken and bleeding. In truth I wished to disappear into the Void, as my cousins had sworn themselves to. I was so shattered I could not remember my name anymore, nor - what I had looked like, before - well." His mouth twisted. "It was not pretty. So it took a long time for any of my Ten to find me. I had not known they were seeking me. I did not expect them to. But they had. And when they found me, they thanked me. All Ten of them. They said thank you for being there, my King. Thank you for honoring our sacrifice."

Silence, for a moment; then Celebrían, feeling the crack in her chest open wider, said, "But you did. You kept your honor, and theirs. I - I screamed and wept. I begged for their lives, and for my own. My - my suffering was to no purpose."

"Suffering," Finrod said, "is rarely for a purpose. Think you that I did not scream, that I did not weep? I begged Gorthaur, before the end. I begged him for the lives of my Ten, for Beren’s life, for the pain to stop. I did not tell him our names, nor our purpose; but in truth - and the Lay does not mention this either - he did not care much. We were an amusement, a diversion. He thought I was some foolish captain, seeking glory. My dearest friends died in agony because it pleased him to cause pain - and, of course, because I was neither careful nor strong enough to protect them."

Celebrían was quiet. But feeling was roaring through her. The great wide emptiness within her had cracked open, and in its place was - too much.

Finrod continued, "But as it turned out, that did not matter much to my friends, in the end. They were simply glad I had been there - well, not glad I had been there, of course!" he added hastily. "But glad that someone had witnessed their sacrifice, and been thankful for it. That their leader honored who they had been. And - I am sure that those of your guard felt the same. You are known here, Celebrían," he said gently. "The name of the Lady of Rivendell is as celebrated as its Lord. Your kindness, your patience, your laughter, your dignity and strength and generosity; they are known to all. Your people love you. They would wish you to heal, if you can."

The swelling lump in Celebrían’s throat became too much, and she had to blink away tears. It was both pain and awful, aching relief. She had not cried in Rivendell. Not once.

"And if I cannot heal?" she said.

"Then they - and Atar and Ammë, and I, if you permit it - will love you regardless," said Finrod.

Celebrían gathered her courage and looked at him, into those gold-and-brown eyes she had only ever seen in her mother. She realized what had given him that air of gravity, when he first stood before her. A scar split his upper lip. It was clearly old, and faded; but she could see that it had once been deep.

Finrod followed her gaze. "Yes," he said. "I am still marked. I always will be."

Still marked. Shattered and broken and split apart for no greater purpose than - amusement. No one had marks like hers, in Rivendell. Many had scars from battle; but it was not the same.

She was - not alone?

Not alone.

The water cup fell from her hands, and a tear followed it. Celebrían watched its glittering path to earth. Something within her had been - been drained of poison. In its place was grief. It sped through her body like lightning. There was no emptiness now.

It hurt.

"Would you like - that is, may I embrace you?" Finrod said hesitantly.

Celebrían almost said no. She felt full of shattered glass, all brittle edges that would draw blood.

But he was - so gentle. As gentle as Elrond, or Arwen. She missed them. She missed her children.

She missed her children.

The relief that flooded her, at that, was almost as strong as the sorrow.

She nodded, and felt Finrod’s arms enfold her as a wave of grief crashed over her at last.

[melestasflight]

Arafinwëan Reading List

compiled by Melesta, in no particular order, for @arafinwean-week. Why not find someone new to read?

Wanderlust by @cuarthol The finrodest Finrod. Finrod the explorer, the one who seeks and finds beauty in all things. Fenomenal worldbuilding.

Finrod: 30-Day Character Study also by @cuarthol An in-depth exploration of Finrod’s character, canon analysis, headcanons, beautiful written and visual creations to inspire.

Many a Dreadful Path, part of the Atandil series by @eilinelsghost Beren comes to Nargothrond in hope and grief, and stirs Finrod’s oath to wakefulness. The entire Atandil series is a masterpiece, but this segment is fresh in my mind and had me gasping.

keepsake by @welcomingdisaster Another fantastic piece on Finrod and his Bëorians over the generations. A family archeology and a nice dose of heart-wrench. 

The Gift by @fadesintothewest An oldie but goodie, pairing my beloved Finrod with Russingon. Full of magic, songs, eroticism and all that good Finwëan rebelliousness.    

Little Lords of the Brine by @eilinelsghost One more by frankie that’s close to my heart: Finrod and Orodreth reborn, all feelings and a new beginning.

Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry by @sallysavestheday In a Dark Wood Wandering by @elentarial Speaking of Orodreth, I have been thoroughly sold on the appeal of the Orodreth/Túrin ship, particularly by these two stories.

Across So Wide a Sea by @emyn-arnens Half-way through this Galadriel epistolary piece and loving it so much already. Digging into the little-explored “what after Beleriand.” 

Scion of— by @gwaedhannen A short thing that, nevertheless, bites. On Galadriel and the newest High King of the Noldor.

Tapestry of Years by @niennawept The Patience of the Oak by @imakemywings I have a weak spot for all things Galadriel/Melian and these two pieces tick every box about this ship.

Snakes and Ladders by @polutrope A Valinor smut burlesque featuring the Arafiinwëans and their respective Fëanorian lovers. Young Artanis under polu's pen is quite something, trust me.   

empty spaces by @queerofthedagger An angst fest of the highest quality, starting with papa Finarfin and going down the line. This one has me in a chokehold.

in the hills of dorthonion by @emyn-arnens More by Arveldis because they are my go-to Aegnor/Andreth writer. Stories full of feelings, of gorgeous nature, of all the bittersweetness that keeps this pairing so close to my heart.

Fire Dance by justonelastdance Aegnor/Fingon, tethering on that sweet border between friendship and romance, is a pairing that I have been stuck on for ages and justonelastdance finally made my dreams come through.

Sundering by @zealouswerewolfcollector Fingon faces the Arafiinwëans in the aftermath of his participation in the kinslaying at Alqualondë. I’ve read this 3 times, at least.  

Song of Sirion by @welcomingdisaster I learned to love Finduilas with this fic. Featuring long journeys, battles, dogs and her emerging friendship with Edrahil. 

one whole with my other by @i-am-a-lonely-visitor Indis rules, endures, lives, until one by one, her beloved people return to her from the Halls. And yes, she is on this list, because without the matriarch there would be no Arafinwëan anything. 

The Forest House by @balrogballs Every Blessed Mark by @searchingforserendipity25 Two gorgeous Celrond pieces, my comfort pairing, featuring love, scars and the complexity of all things endurance over the ages.

Some of my own attempts to tackle the Arafiinwëans:

Voices That Were Once Ours Finrod and Maglor rebuild a friendship and compose the Noldolantë. 

crowned with the Sun Celeborn expects his first meeting with the golden Noldo princess to be a tense diplomatic ordeal. He’s quickly proven wrong.

as a naked flame and The Golden Poppies of Dorthonion Aegnor and Andreth, Edain lore and foresight.

Stay, Forever and filled with wonder and delight Celebrían and Elrond, falling in love, staying in love.

Scion of Kings  Finduilas and Orodreth at the doorstep of Nargothrond’s fall.

seducing the Edain Finrod, Aegnor and Fingon at Barad Eithel, co-written with @polutrope

This list is most definitely incomplete -- I pulled only what was in my recent-ish bookmarks. Always looking for more recs.

[edennill-archived]

If sometimes the graves of heroes in Middle-Earth seem to have something, some fate, some enchantment, laid over them, like in any good legend -- that flowers or grass will ever grow over them, or they shall never be violated -- what happens if it's the resting place of an elf and the elf is reborn? Does it last? That grave is not really theirs anymore, cannot be; one can't have two bodies. There cannot be a corpse there anymore, but even as a symbol it falls apart -- there is no need for a grave for the living.

If Gondolin had not drowned, what would have happened with Glorfindel's cairn once he was returned? What about Finrod's?

Was it the earth itself showing its love? Do the flowers that grew where Glorfindel was buried now grow beneath his window in Rivendell?

[notreallystars]

I've read a lot of fics that show elves being reborn into bodies that retain evidence of the things that happened to them in Middle Earth - like Maedhros being reborn with only one hand - and this makes sense. Their bodies are sites of trauma, and this will change them and they way they relate to their bodies so it makes perfect sense that they might return scarred or missing limbs.

But consider: the Valar do not understand Eru's children. They do not understand what it is to inhabit a body rather than simply wear one, do not understand the interrelation of body and self.

Finrod returns. There is joy, there is sorrow, there is confusion. He looks well enough but he keeps rubbing his hands over his wrists (he had pulled so hard against Sauron's shackles that there had been little skin left), over his throat (the memory of teeth sinking into his flesh screams at him, more vivid at times than the faces of his parents as they sit before him), over his face (claws drag through his cheek daily in his memory so where are the scars). Eventually he paints onto his body the scars he knows would have existed, and this at least stops him rubbing at them for fear of smearing paint all over himself. It is not enough, but at least he is still.

It seems grotesque to the Eldar of Aman who see only an obsession with past hurts, a playacting of injury, but Finrod is loved and so his eccentricity is tolerated. As more elves return, however, it becomes clear that this is not Finrod's trouble alone. Many take Finrod's lead, painting on their bodies the patterns of scars they remember and those they know they should have borne had they survived the attacks that killed them. Some wore eyepatches over eyes that had once been injured. Some walked with limps their new bodies did not need.

When Fingon returns he paints his whole body red. It is long before he speaks at all (his voice ought to be hoarse from shouting, scratchy and painful to use but no! - how does one reconcile the memory of being beaten to a bloody pulp in the mud with the perfect, unharmed body of one's youth?), and even then he will not sing.

Much, much later when Maedhros returns, he begs Fingon to cut his hand off again.

[neyafromfrance95]

galadriel -

cheats "death" in the beginning of s1 -> cheats death in the end of s2.

almost dies in the sea but is saved by sauron (as he uses her dagger - a sharp, pointy object - to free her from the ropes). they are bound by the sea now -> is stabbed with a spike of morgoth's crown by sauron but not with intent to kill, instead it's most likely to transform her. they are bound by blood now.

galadriel is metaphorically reborn in both seasons. in a way, she is given a (new) life by sauron in both instances. in s1, by turning her back on valinor, she rejects the light. but she doesn't "touch" the darkness yet! she is touched by the darkness in the end of s2.

it would make sense for s3 to finally explore what happens after galadriel touches the darkness, and how she manages to navigate the world following finrod's guidance! as he warned her, the darkness of the water is pulling the ship down! like the shadow realm will be pulling her soul down!

[polutrope]

Very happy birthdays to you and Melesta! Wishing you both health and joy and freedom.

Would love a little scene between Finduilas and Turgon, in Valinor, "after." If you feel so moved.

🧡

Turgon and Finduilas, reembodied. Rated G, 1100 words. By @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Sorontië, Numentië, Asartië,” Turgon mutters to himself, looking from street corner to street corner, placing names upon the grid of Tirion. Strange that he, who built a city in its image, now finds the grandeur and pulse of Tirion too much to bear. Perhaps it is only the freshness of his renewed body, but everything is so dazzling here, too clean, and the reflected light off all the marble and painted glass hurts his eyes. 

As his gaze travels between stalls, carriages, and ornate facades, they land upon one nearby who had until now escaped his notice for how still they stood amidst the city’s perpetual movement. 

“Findaráto?” he says, half to himself, because he knows that hair, that peculiar shade of gold as if a bloom of Laurelin has just burst open. But no, he has seen Finrod since he returned — this figure is slight, delicate, as Finrod was in his youth. Not as he is now, in his second life, a warrior reborn as their people’s crown prince.   

The body turns and the face that greets him is both alike to Finrod’s and distinctly not. A deep frown adorns her fair features. “How many more in this city will take me for my uncle?”

“I am sorry, lady,” Turgon says, nodding in greeting — and it is only when he lifts his chin and looks at her that her words fully settle in his mind. “Your… uncle?”

Her frown deepens and she looks as if she is ready to throw yet another accusation at him, but she is interrupted by a jewelry seller thrusting an elaborate hair ornament practically into her face.

“Would the lady Finduilas like to try this piece instead?” The seller is almost shouting in her excitement. “It is our latest, created by Lúletinwë.” When Finduilas does not react, the seller adds, sympathetically: “Tirion’s most famous designer of this century.” 

Finduilas — Turgon knows the name. Could it be? Finduilas of Nargothrond, Orodreth’s daughter, Finrod’s most beloved niece? Finduilas now glares at the jewelry seller, the exasperation written upon her face.

Turgon cannot blame her. He looks from her face to the ornament: it is like a malformed octopus made of gems, lined with the most ostentatiously enormous, poorly cut, and ill-matched ruby and emerald crystals Turgon has ever seen. 

“Return that hideous clump of rock to the bowels of the earth where it belongs!” Turgon blurts, physically recoiling. He shudders. “Better yet, cast it into the Void.”  

The jewelry seller’s eyes widen in shock, her jaw dropping. Turgon winces; his mouth has run away with him, again. He considers apologizing, taking back the offense, when a thunder of laughter sounds at his side. Finduilas is roaring, doubled over, and then she grabs Turgon’s forearm to steady herself.

“Oh, that’s the best insult I have yet heard in this new life,” Finduilas says when she regains control of herself. “You, lord, curse as well as the very uncle you just mistook me for, when he loses his famed calm.” Then she turns to the seller, whose face has now hardened like baked clay: “We shall not be requiring your assistance further, lady. I thank you.”

Finduilas leads him away, sliding her hand into the bend of his elbow. Turgon glances over his shoulder for one last look at the jewel-seller: she still glares after them, and this prompts a laugh to leap from his throat. 

“It is good to meet you, Finduilas,” he says. “I did not know you were…” It has not become easy, yet, knowing how to speak of having been dead.

“Yes, I am. Returned to life.” Finduilas smiles gently as she turns to him, her earlier frown replaced by mirth. “The pleasure is all mine and please excuse my impatience; I am yet new to this business of living again. May I know your name, also, oh saviour from the terrors of Tirion’s fashion?”

“Oh, yes, I am sorry, I–” Turgon feels the heat in his cheeks, knows that he is making a fool of himself. He feels a child, sometimes, who has to learn the simplest things all over, such as how to place words together… what to call himself. What does he call himself, to this child of Beleriand, reborn in Aman, who never knew him as anything but — what did she know him as? How did Finrod speak to her of him? What did she think of him, the distant King of the Noldor who stayed ensconced in his mountain valley while Nargothrond fell to ruin? 

He settles for the name he carried for nigh five centuries. “I am Turgon." Finduilas’ brows arch: in surprise, joy, or fear, Turgon cannot tell, and he hastens to add: “But you may call me uncle, if you wish.”

Finduilas does not seem to share his doubts, the ruin of her fair city so far away that she barely remembers it. “The famed Turgon!” she cries heartily. “My uncle has barely spoken of anything else since your return. At last I meet you!” Then, Finduilas tosses herself into his embrace, arms tightening around his ribs. The top of her hair tickles Turgon’s cheek; she is of Idril’s height, almost to the inch. Turgon holds her against himself. It is the most at home he has felt since returning – strange as that may seem, embracing a kinswoman he never knew in his previous life. But there is something about Finduilas being both new and familiar that sets him at ease.

They pull apart, still smiling, and Turgon says: “If you are still looking for some adornment, I have just remembered a florist where my daughter – long ago – often went to pick out an assortment of exotic flowers brought up from the south. She would arrange them in a wreath herself.” Finduilas’ face brightens at what she hears and Turgon summons the courage to offer his help. “If you would like, I will take you there, for it is not easy to find.” 

Passingly, he wonders if the shop is still there at all, but does not speak this thought aloud. 

“Lead the way!” Finduilas agrees with a grin more golden than her fair tresses.

Turgon takes her hand, recalling the weight of his young daughter’s hand as he once led her through this crowded marketplace. He guides Finduilas from the bright bustle, towards the secluded, peaceful neighbourhood on the southern slope of Túna where he remembers a quaint little flower shop, down a narrow lane. As they walk in comfortable silence, warmth, as sweet as honeyed tea, fills his chest. 

He has made his first friend in this new Tirion.

Birthday Prompts

[silmsmutweek]

2024 Round-Ups: Elf/Mortal & Peredhel

All creations are Mature or Explicit unless marked as *sfw. Please see work tags for warnings.

Andróg/Beleg Yield by @maironsbigboobs

Aredhel/Haleth Art by @myceliumelium

Beor/Finrod But I My Bond Must Keep by @eilenelsghost

Beren/Lúthien Shift by maironsbigboobs

Caranthir/Haleth Art by @isilwhore

Celebrían/Elrond Returned, Reborn, Reclaimed by @unendingwanderlust Day 1 by @i-am-a-lonely-visitor

Curufin/Telchar Strip Mining by Elves_Behaving_Badly

Daeron/Lúthien spinning circles in your warm blood by @aredhels

Earwen/Tar-Míriel pearl diver by @saampaguita

Elwing/Idril as a river flowing into the sea by @melestasflight

Hunleth of the Haladin/Mablung Succour by @misst1ff

[eilinelsghost]

Throwback (belated)Thursday

Thanks so much to @melestasflight for the tag to share something written over a year ago. I think I'm going to go with Little Lords of the Brine, written last summer, nominally based on @actual-bill-potts' trip to the beach, wherein Finrod and a recently-reembodied Orodreth talk about memory, forgiveness, and culpability while sitting on the sands of Valinor:

Little Lords of the Brine

Rating: G Word count: 1.6k Characters: Orodreth, Finrod

Finrod’s approach was slow through the luminous sand. It had been gemstones once, in the long gone days when he and Orodreth played along these cliffs, carefree children laughing in the twilight and sea foam. Now the tides had wrought their long unmaking and the gems lay ground into particles, transformed now and holding their life as light within the shining dust. So it was to be reborn, Finrod mused as he moved ever nearer his brother, the essence of your fëa lingering and binding you to your place in the world, to the memory of your vessel, but you knew the unmaking yet within every fiber. Each sinew held too the memory of that. You walked through the world, more permeable than before, light and pain both spilling more easily from its cracks.

Tagging @thelordofgifs, @actual-bill-potts, @that-angry-noldo, @welcomingdisaster, and @searchingforserendipity25 to dust off an oldie but goody if so inclined!

[ithiliensmenagerie]

If Luthien gets reborn

Tolkien made it pretty clear in his works that everything is somewhere second hand, and not necessarily unbiased accounts. Adding that the only people who actually know what happened between Luthien and Námo are Luthien and Námo, and none had a really big social circle, there is nothing to confirm that things actually happened as we were told.

So what it the deal was actually that Luthien could go back until Beren's death, but she could not give up her immortal fate. What if Beren made her promise to give life another chance after him, to get reborn, live again and maybe even fall in love again?

So sometime in the third or fourth age Luthien feels ready and is reborn in a world were she is the mythical figure, where absolutely everyone believes she will not come back, where she is the subject if thousands of songs and very few people actually know her.

(I have to mention that this will fuck with Elrond and Celebrian very specifically, and they deserve better. Poor guys.)

Luthien meeting her father again, who almost got her fiancé killed in trying to keep her, who died over a necklace. Her mother. Finrod who died for her ans needn't have. Potentially the Fëanorians, Celegorm. Elrond. People who knew Arwen. People who believed her a fairytale.

And I'm not sure how equipped she is to deal with any of it.

[meadowlarkx]

tagged by @gardensofthemoon @elevenelvenswords @searchingforserendipity25 @swanmaids for badly summarized wip poll. I haven't done this one before so let's give it a try!

I think everyone has maybe already done this but I tag @imakemywings @polutrope @jouissants @aquaregiaarts @dovewifes @thecoolblackwaves in case it speaks to you 💕

[elronds-library]

The Silver Rule

by SpaceWall

Part 1 of Do Not Unto Others

“How is it, exactly, that you managed to get yourself kicked out of Estë’s gardens? Reading this does not give me the impression they sent you here because you were wholly healed.” Celebrían, who did not feel particularly healed, but did at least feel angry, which was more emotion than she’d been able to conjure in over a year, said, “I was asking questions.” “Ah,” said Finrod, “yes. That would do it.” -- Celebrían prepares to mount a legal challenge for the right to see her husband (no, the other husband) reborn. For this, she must gather allies from across Valinor and out of the wreckage of the House of Finwë. Perhaps along the way, there is healing to be found too.

Teen, No Archive Warnings

Words: 70,403

[kitcat22]

Au idea where Turgon who is still Turukáno falls through the ice and dies on the Helcaraxe instead of Elenwe.

The dude is seriously tall and and the ice beneath him is thin so he falls through while carrying idril who still survives. Maybe he sinks so deeply they cant retrieve his body or maybe he dies of hypothermia or a fever afterwards lying sickly in a bed covered in fur and blankets with his daughter tucked up against him and his father and wife holding each of his hands. By the time Fingolfin arrives in Beleriand he has lost two sons instead of one and is even angrier than before. Idril grows up with her mother Elenwe who neither forgives nor forgets her husbands death. Maybe Gondolin never gets built seeing as Elenwe is one of the Vanyar (or because shes a women, but that depends on how you think elves view gender) or maybe the Noldor respect her as one of their own, the golden widow of one of their favourite princes and mother of one of their only princesses, who endured the grinding ice alongside them when her people refused to. I don’t see Elenwe being as favoured by Ulmo as Turgon was but maybe Ulmo still sends her visions out of love for Turgon and Idril. Maybe she builds Gondolin from the designs she and her husband drew together of a settlement in Beleriand during many cold restless nights. some things still change but this Elenwe hates the feanorians just as much as her husband might have in another world. Finrod also probably finds it harder to forgive Curufin and Celegorm who caused the death of his best friend. Aredhel definitely doesn’t forgive them not until long after shes reborn alongside her brothers. She and Elenwe either have an incredibly close relationship co raising Idril and are very dependent on one another or have a more complicated relationship were sometimes, just sometimes Aredhel cant help but wish it had been Elenwe instead. Elenwe who had been standing where her brother had stood mere moments before the ice cracked. Some times Elenwe wishes the same.

[dalliansss]

Egg&finrod!!

"It feels like there's a hole in my heart because I never got to say goodbye."

Never Got to Say Goodbye starters

Re-embodiment has always been a tricky thing. The songs say, the loremasters say -- that the Elf who Returns is expected to pick up where he might have left off, that they resume their old life without further trouble and incident, that continuity settles normally in place. But the singers who first song about Re-embodiment, and the loremasters who wrote about Returning have never died themselves, and so in the end, what do they know of the great (or small) lapse of time in between lives, in between existence, spent disembodied in the Halls of the Awaiting?

There is no picking up exactly where one left-off. There is no pain-free Return, nor Re-embodiment.

And this isn't even taking into account a Return, which is a thoroughly different thing from Re-embodiment, where an Elf is reborn and lives an entirely new life, before the old life catches up, presumably when the new hröa is strong enough to handle the melding of all the memories prior into the memories incumbent.

It sounds easy in the perspective of an outsider. One who has never had to suffer the terror or pain, or both, of a demise, both timely and not.

==

Aegnor, Egg, has Re-embodied somewhere by the Sixth Age of Arda Marred. He'd had to deal with it all: the sickening debility of years, in his case, because his hröa had been destroyed by flames during the Bragollach, and he had long drifted in Mandos, seeking out Finrod, whom he never found in the fathomless halls. Angrod had Re-embodied ahead, and so did Edhellos, Orodreth and Finduilas, but Aegnor lingered overlong, looking for his older brother. He'd found everyone he had ever known, even Fëanor and Finwë, but never Finrod.

And then he got kicked out of Mandos, because his time of healing was done, and Námo's maiar will not let a fëa linger overlong. So Aegnor was Re-embodied, and though his new hröa was that of an adult elf, he had to go through infantile weakness all over again: unable to walk, feed himself, the world too noisy and full of sensation, as if he had never had a physical existence before. Like Angrod, it took him eight years to recover -- a mere blink to an Elf, but still a considerable length of time for someone who had not been a squalling infant for a very, very, very long time.

Like all who Returned and Re-embodied, he waited. In restlessness, in uncertainty. He'd found, in his own way, that he could not just seamlessly reintegrate into his old life at Tirion-upon-Túna and at Alqualondë. Like Findekáno, he too left Tirion when the expectant gazes of his father and mother got too much to bear, coupled with th expectations of the Amanyar who never went anywhere at all, and attributed his 'eccentricities' and restlessness to an incomplete healing in Mandos.

So, Aegnor left. And like those who Returned before him, he too, found a place for himself in the city called Entulessë, where all of the strangers from the other side of Belegaer found a place for themselves.

And in Entulessë, Aegnor waited, and waited, and waited -- through the Ages, until Dagor Dagorath took place, and Arda Marred made way for Arda Healed, and Melkor was freed from the burden of the Great Task, and resumed his place among the Valar.

==

Aegnor had been drinking with his cousins Ereinion Gil-galad and Curufinwë Telperinquar when the Maia of Námo arrived, looking for him. He dropped his goblet of wine, and he knew what the maia came for even without the Ainu saying what it was.

Finrod, who refused to Re-embody for the entire lifetime of Arda Marred, was to return soon.

==

Aegnor only saw the tapestries as they unfolded on the endless walls of Mandos. Of how his brother tried to come to his and Angrod's rescue during the Bragollach, and failing, and spiralling down into grief, losing control of Nargothrond, which rendered it ripe for the taking by Curufin and Celegorm. He saw how the subjects of Nargothrond rose up against Finrod, kicking him out, as if his brother hadn't given them all a chance for peace in Beleriand, however short. As if Finrod didn't lead them to a new height of glory and splendor during the Long Peace.

And he saw on the walls of Mandos how the Quest for the Silmaril unfolded; he saw Finrod's legendary contest of Song against Gorthaur, and how, in the end, Finrod wrestled with the werewolf, only for Gorthaur to refuse to let his fëa go into Mandos when his hröa perished, and sank claws into him instead.

And he saw how Finrod irrevocably fell into the Dark.

==

Yet Aegnor took care of his incapacitated brother. Covered him in enchanted cloaks, fed him, bathed him, as Finrod's spirit slowly got used to being housed in a body again. There is no room for judgment, only care and help. Like how Finrod plucked him from his parents' callous upbringing, so he too plucked Finrod from the dregs of discomfort of his Re-embodiment, tirelessly caring for him, nourishing him, teaching him again how to walk, how to hold a quill, how to write.

Where Aegnor took eight years, FInrod took two decades before he could stand on his own, and be a resemblance of how he had been -- golden radiant beauty -- before Sauron took him into the shadows.

==

And the most difficult part of a Return or Re-embodiment, is, of course, the painful conversations that can only be delayed, but never avoided.

==

"I feel like there's a hole in my heart because I never got to say goodbye," says Finrod.

It is nighttime, and they are sitting by the roofdeck of Aegnor's three-floor townhouse in the heart of Entulessë. Beyond them, this hodge-podge city that answers to nobody but its citizens, is lit in the myriad colors of the spectrum. Somewhere down Market Street there's a night market still sprawling with people. Entulessë is a city that. never sleeps.

Egg lowers the bottle from which he had been drinking. "For what it's worth," he says. "Me and Anga fought viciously until the end."

There is a ghost of a smile on Finrod's lips. Under the golden night lights of Entulessë, Egg imagines he can still see a glint of red among those summer blue irises of his brother.

"And I know you too, fought with all your strength, hanno, but just Gorthaur---. Gorthaur was a lot stronger. He's a maia, and you are only Elda."

"Mairon. His name is Mairon."

Egg grits his teeth and lowers his gaze. Even now, an entirely new world in place, Finrod refuses to call that maia his true, deserved names. He insists on calling him Mairon, Mairon, Mairon. An blot upon Finrod's soul that not even the Vala Námo could heal. Sauron's claw marks. Indelible. Forever there. Forever marring his perfect brother.

And all the wrongs will never be forgot.

Egg thinks of the justice system now in place in Aman. Will it reach for his beloved brother, now that he's back?

@skaelds

Context: [Blood in the Mouth]

[edennill-archived]

Angrod: Fun fact — did you know dragonfire melts armour? Fast.

Aegnor: Yeah, I can vouch.

Galadriel:

Finrod: Stars, are the two of you all right? *starts fussing*

Angrod: Yes? We wouldn't be out if we weren't all right?

Aegnor: As if you have any right to make ado when you're the one who was eaten alive by werewolves!

Galadriel:

Finrod: For the last time, I was not. I killed the wolf.

Aegnor: That's still worse than dragonfir—

Galadriel: If the phrase "eaten alive by werewolves" appears once more within this conversation, I'm leaving the room.

Aredhel, helpfully: Consumed before dying by man-eating canines :)

Galadriel:

Galadriel: That's it, I'm starting a riot.

Thinking how the reborn must have had a very lax attitude towards joking about their own deaths, and how as a result the house of Finwë would have some fun times post-canon... and I just pity Maglor and Galadriel.