#the royal house of doriath

[ladysternchen]

Putting all my head canons concerning the royal house of Doriath together here in one post so as not to flood @sindarweek with them xD (sorry about that. But they are my family within Arda and I do love them all very very very much and have just as much to say about them)

-My headcanon about Elmo's wife (whom I at last decided to name Thônwen)

-little fluffy Lúthien headcanon (I'm still going to write my full hc about her)- @lycheesodas brought that headcanon to life for me with her gorgeous art

-my headcanon on Sindarin burial rites -Elmo (my most beloved obscure character) -about Elwë and Elmo as brothers part one and part two and part three -on Galadhon and his family/descendants -and our beloved Queen, my female mc through almost all my works, the one part of my favourite characters... part one, part two, part three & part four -how I think the Girdle might have worked -and, with my 'headcanon-explained' yet unfinished, my <put in many words here>, Elu Thingol, part one, part two & part three (to be continued)

[stacytea]

[southaway]

Here grass is still growing, And leaves are yet swinging

@imladrisweek : day four

Okay, so headcanon time again. (Idea taken from one of my mutuals who always has good takes) here's Erestor, originally a Sindar elf from Doriath and student of Daeron. I think after the fall of Doriath he accompanies Elwing and settles in Sirion and stays there until the third kinslaying. After the sack of Sirion he moves on to Lindon and eventually follows Elrond and ends up in Rivendell.

I figure he probably met Glorfindel in Lindon and they were both part of the initial group Elrond founded Imladris with. I like the idea that he always had some attachment to the Doriath royal house (I know at one point Tolkien played with the idea of him being a kinsman of Elrond). He was probably overjoyed when Elrond and Elros showed up alive. He and everyone else who survived Sirion probably assumed they were dead after what happened to Eluréd and Elurín ( and most of Thingol's direct descendants).

Anyway, I think he and Glorfindel were definitely drawn to Elrond because here is the legacy of the best of Sindar and Noldor, the heir of Thingol, of Turgon, of Eärendil and Elwing. I think they bond over that and their respective love and loss.

You decide what their relationship is, I'm not the boss of you

(This outfit/ styling is I think more of how Glorfindel dresses in the Second and Third Age, a little more laid back. He's tired, he already died once)

[lime-bucket]

Before reading the Luthien & Beren chapter i was bracing myself to be angry (or disapointed) at celegorm & pretty much any male charcter beside beren.unexpectedly i finshed it being livid towards her family

& u might think oh yeah thingol was an asshole fr what he done. But no. Im talking about that fucking melian

Up to that point,the story never shut up about how wiiiiise she is & how the queen can perceives things to come & shit like that

& YET SHE SAW NO PROBLEM WITH LOCKING HER DAUGHTER UP?? Like honest to eru how melian didnt had the tiniest of forsight that wont end in nothing short than a disaster

But again what did we expect from a character whose first interaction with future spouse is locked into a looong staring context

Further whats seems upsetting about luthiens home situation is the princess dynamics with her subjects or should i say the lack of it.like the story seems to implies she spend her time w/e any friends or at least an entourage,the only non royal elf that enteracts with her is the bard that snitch on her twice cuz he got butthurt hes friendzoned.

& tho ik the servants who built that tree house to imprison luthien cant be blamed as they were under orders to it sure didnt made me feel sad towards them when the elves grieved for their princesses absense.

Or rather, they seem to miss her dances & songs.. ik im paraphrasing here

Like idk it makes u wonder if luthien rlly did embark on that dangerous quest to get the silmarils only to be with beren or was there a desire somewhere in her to get out from a place where it seems shes perceived & treated as a treasure for her unique heritage.

For the fact luthien never returned to Doriath upon ber fathers violent death where her people would have needed her the most refuses to leave my head

[sotwk]

🌀 for the ask game!!

Thank you for Asking, my friend! <3

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

I've been a bit hesitant to share this particular plan of mine, because it's a huge project that I'm not sure I would have the time, focus, or bandwidth to complete even halfway through. But it costs nothing to dream, right? XD Dream big!

I would love to write an actual long fic (almost a novel?) that details the entire history of Thranduil, his family, and the Woodland Realm, in a style similar to "Fire and Blood" (an ASOIAF novel) or dare I say The Silmarillion.

It would be called "Sons of the Woodland King: The Untold Histories of the Royal House of Eryn Galen", and it would be written by Celuwen Calatùliel. She is my OC, and the twin sister of Feren. As the devoted personal secretary to Elvenking Thranduil for many centuries, Celuwen writes her account based on stories told by members of the royal family themselves, particularly Thranduil, Maereth, and Arvellas. Talk about access to reliable sources!

SotWK Fancast: Felicity Jones as Celuwen

The history is in the SotWK AU of course, but it would span from the time of Thranduil's birth in Doriath until his sailing to the Undying Lands. It would also include the full background histories of Elvenqueen Maereth and Princess Itarildë (Crown Prince Mirion's wife/widow), both of whom are from Noldorin descent, so it would touch on the stories of Maglor and Glorfindel, as well as many other ancestors, both canon and OC! The tales would speak of the beauty and majesty of the "Golden Age" of Eryn Galen, the realm's tragic and slow decline into Mirkwood, and the courage of the Silvans as they fought to protect their lands against Dol Guldur and the Necromancer.

It would be a LOT! Again, I'm not sure I would be able to write it all, but it's just a matter of getting down all my headcanons and notes into an organized, cohesive form. I suppose I can try to chip away at it a little at a time! 👀😅

It's nice to talk about these headcanons separately, though, so I absolutely welcome all asks about my ideas/concepts!

[searchingforserendipity25]

@finweanladiesweek | day 2. Lalwen & Findis.

Cordial Correspondence

Greetings and Highest Regards to Findis the Just, High Queen of the Noldor Across the Sea, wrote Gil-Galad, in his own hand.

Very like it was to Findis' own official writing, or Arafinwë's, as if learned from the same style - yet with its own elaborations.

It was something of a surprise. Gil-Galad, all knew, was formidable at worst and rueful at best. Arafinwë had said so himself; they two, who ruled together, kept little from each other. That was all he said: and then he had given her the letter, and left.

They kept little from each other, but there were a great many things they did not speak of easily. Already she could see the weariness and horror of war would be one such.

Findis wondered at it: raised up the paper of crushed bark, studied the characters for half-meanings before reading it. Here, a bold signature; here, an irreverent approach to consonants that would have infuriated Fëanáro, and had, whenever the creator of the Tengwar was requested by his father into giving calligraphy lessons to his siblings.

Half-siblings. Always everything parceled out carefully, among the royal family of the Noldor; even their names, even the crown.

Crowns, perhaps. The Queen in Tirion read the letter at last.

"O, for Manwë's sake," Findis said, and had to sit down on her own desk for an instant. 

It came to her then, clear as grass, the memory of her sister and her sister's writing, clear and lovely under the High-King's seal, the best trick Írime of the bright laughter pulled on the world.

No word ever came from the East, but grief was felt all the same, and the more keenly for coming without forewarning, with no address. When Fingolfin died, Indis had let out such a howl of grief -

Young Ingoldo, not so young now, brought only the barest news. Írime had crossed the Ice with Fingolfin's host, made herself quartermaster of the Noldor in the long Siege - Head Quartermaster, prodding all her nephews in their kingdoms for supplies and reparations and regular correspondence that that might not be enemies and strangers to each other.

She had made her wry smiling way to diplomacy with Elu Thingol in Doriath, stolen fair Melian's laughter to herself, a sound so lovely and terrible it multiplied the birds in the sky and called singing water to the wells. She has kept the armies fed, one  great battle after another: in the fighting, the defeat, and the flight. After the Nirnaeth - -

The Noldor had not so wealthy in capable and tolerable lords as once they had been. Lalwen, it appeared - so wrote the king, the stranger with the lilting vowels - had done the accounts, gathered the best and most loyal of her people, and arranged to die in a caravan ambush.

Across the sea, across centuries of separation, Findis reached out as she never had since her brother's death.

Gil-Galad called out to her, alive in her heart as her brothers had been. The king at war, whose hair and brows was rubbed clear of the charcoal stain Lalwen had used since youth to make her Vanaryan silver-brightness, in the times when the mingling between the ruling houses of the Eldar was a rare and ill-regarded thing had been relegated to the past.

Gil-Galad, clad in worn and polished armour, who had the friendship of Círdan in Sirion when few of the Noldor had any claim to it. Gil-Galad, righteous and just and of a provenance so uncertain as to please the dozen squabbling factions of the Noldor.

Findis of the Noldor was not notable for her joyful disposition; stern was she, fair of countenance and judgment, not very merry. But she did laugh then. Her sister had always known how to bring laughter out of her.

[ceescedasticity]

fic: well-behaved women (rarely make history)

Sixteen times Artanilmë Angarátiel failed to make it into the historical record.

1. Finwë's first great-grandchild might have drawn a great deal of attention. But Angaráto and Eldalótë were aware of this, and wary of it; they dwelled in Arafinwë's house near Alqualondë and visited Tirion only discreetly, until Artanilmë was no longer a child and also was not Finwë's only great-grandchild. (Nor was this itself notable: Curufinwë and Turukáno in turn also strictly limited their children's public appearances while they were children.)

2. Studying and practicing healing is just not a notable thing for a Noldorin woman to do, even in the royal house. It was more notable that she was one of the first to treat (accidental) sword injuries, and studied Lindarin techniques not dependent on the Valar in order to do so discreetly, but not being obvious about that was the entire point.

3. Artanilmë did not join the debate at the bonfires; with her brother, grandfather, father, uncles, and aunt already there, she felt any opinion she might offer would be superfluous. There were still many people suffering the effects of the Unlight, and others who had been injured in the panic of the Darkening. She was needed more elsewhere.

4. Perhaps it would have been noted had she acted on her impulse to refuse her aid to any Noldor injured in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. (They had no right to expect the teachings of the Lindar to help them now.) But she looked to her duty, and swallowed her grief and rage to tend the wounded, though in stony silence.

5. No one was writing history while crossing the Grinding Ice, nor did anyone wish to speak of it afterwards. The brutal learning curve of the limits of healing when the healers themselves were at their limits was not discussed. Artanilmë nearly killing herself failing to save a child was not discussed. The reinvention of amputation was not discussed.

6. Arameldis was never the only one bringing Doriathrin medical knowledge to the Noldor and vice versa. There were healers of the Falathrim and the Northern Sindar who crossed the borders as freely, and the odd healer of Doriath who came forth, and Galadriel also learned and shared many things. And, regardless, none of that was thought interesting enough for anyone's annals.

7. Many Noldor reached out to provide aid and wisdom to the Edain. Not so many sought to learn from the Edain in turn, but Arameldis was certainly not alone in the House of Finarfin in doing so. The treatise she wrote on best practice for elven healers treating injury or illness of Men was of limited interest outside of the community of healers and some conscientious leaders.

8. Perhaps it would have been noted had Arameldis died with her father and uncle in the Dagor Bragollach. But she was ordered to lead the retreat and evacuation to Nargothrond, and followed those orders, and the journey was not as perilous as some.

9. When Beren came to Nargothrond, Arameldis was in the Falas, lending her skills to those without a hidden city to keep them safe. Had she been present, perhaps her strength and her counsel might have made some difference, or at least captured enough attention to be recorded; but she was not.

10. Had Arameldis returned while Celegorm and Curufin ruled in Nargothrond, she might have been able to stir the people to drive them out: She was not wounded as Orodreth was, and she was older and taken more seriously than Finduilas, and a battlefield healer must be able to stand her ground against irrational princes. But she suspected nothing of the state of things at home until Finrod's death.

11. Some in Nargothrond witnessed the debate of Orodreth and Arameldis over the Union of Maedhros. Voices were raised, tears were shed, and many of the arguments for and against joining were neatly summarized. It would likely have entered the histories of the First Age had any of the survivors of Nargothrond spoken of it. They did not. Survivors of Nargothrond seldom spoke of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

12. That Arameldis appeared for the Fifth Battle was far less notable than Gwindor's small defiant force. She went where she was needed in those days; it did not need to be said. No one thought she would be needed at Gwindor's side. If she tried to scream any orders from the rear no one took note of it.

13. Arameldis shed her share of the tears. She kept working until she was forcibly carried away by Mablung of Doriath. And she did not speak of it for anyone to write of it, save only: "I can recognize a mortal wound." This was, perhaps, too cryptic to be thought worth repeating.

14. Finduilas did not seek Arameldis's insight on the matter of Túrin. Why would she? Her aunt was very open that she had no experience in even simple matters of the heart. Arameldis was involved in what healing they could offer Gwindor. Obviously.

15. On the matter of the bridge and later Círdan's warnings she was publicly silent. When Orodreth sought her counsel in private, she had little to say. Venturing forth to seek battle was a terrible risk, evacuating in a large group was a terrible risk, and if they stayed where they were and did nothing they would surely die of internal injuries, metaphorically speaking. She had no conclusion.

16. Of course Arameldis rode out with the warriors of Nargothrond. Of course she was at Tumhalad. Of course she was slain. Of course none of the handful of survivors saw her fall. They could only say she was definitely dead, not captured, and while that was preferable it was also not noteworthy.

[anghraine]

I just finished the Silmarillion and Faramir and Denethor being Numenor call backs feels waaaay more significant now. Damn. I knew vaguely what happens before reading but now I have a greater appreciation for the sense of scale involved here.

It also means I encountered the first age origins of some of the Stewards names (Denethor, Boromir, Finduilas) I was wondering if you had any thoughts on any connection or relevance to their lotr namesakes? It makes Faramir an even more interesting choice in terms of departure from that tradition (and then Elboron after him, I wonder now about the choice of the El- prefix)

Another Silm finisher! Welcome :D

And yeah, I remember realizing on a first read that something important was going on with the Númenor throwback thing, but reading the Akallabêth and being like "...oh" made it more powerful and complicated in a really intriguing way. And the dream of Númenor's destruction haunting Faramir can be understood without the Silm, but it's definitely more with it.

I think the namesake thing is mostly a Dúnadan tradition that's gone on so long that later Third Age people with those names are more likely to be named after previous Third Age people with those names than directly for First Age ones (it could be both simultaneously, of course, esp if First Age names form a lot of the common "pool" of Gondorian ones). We see those kinds of namesakes in the House of Dol Amroth, too (Morwen, Finduilas, at a remove Ivriniel), and also just some random Gondorian characters (like Húrin of the Keys).

"Our" Denethor and Boromir, say, are most likely named for Steward Denethor I and his own son, the Steward Boromir. But there might have been a lost reference going on with the previous Denethor and Boromir. And I suspect the Ruling Stewards made more of a point of using First Age heroic names than they had before (though they and others did do it outside the Ruling Stewardship) to underscore their royal/heroic origins as they became the functional ruling dynasty.

I don't imagine the choices were always "random First Age name that the parents liked"—potentially some were even prophetic in meaning or in terms of future resonance with the original bearers' lives. There could be other reasons, too. I imagine that the names of Finduilas and her sister Ivriniel reflect some sort of parental or familial preoccupation with the original Finduilas, say. And generally, I think a lot of the choices would have to do with cultural stature in Gondor—which might explain why there are a lot of references to Edain heroes and some to big name Elves, but not to the Fëanorians.

I'm rambling a bit, lol, but I do find it interesting. Faramir's name, far from the insult it's often taken as, is a name of literal royalty. We know that the Stewards before the Ruling Stewardship often took Quenya names to mark their royal origins, as did other families of royal descent (the royal family themselves always did it). So a royal Quenya name is actually weirdly suited to Faramir's role as the Steward/chief counselor/regent/etc for Aragorn, but I doubt either parent knew exactly that would happen when he was born—maybe Finduilas had some flash of insight as Dúnadan mothers sometimes do, though. It's appropriate in meaning for her personally at any rate (fára means shore).

The El- prefix for Faramir and Éowyn's son is very interesting, you're right! Considering Gondorian preoccupation with legends of the past and use of their names, it's hard to think there would be no association with the El- of the royal family of Doriath, including Elros. Faramir is a descendant, if remotely, but bringing that tradition back after thousands of years would certainly be an intriguing choice on his and Éowyn's parts. If it's not an allusion to Elros et al. but chosen for meaning, that's just "star" or (more loosely) "Elf," which is also rather peculiar. The -boron is a pretty obvious reference to Boromir, of course. I'll have to think about how I headcanon that particular one, actually.

Thanks for the ask!

[imakemywings]

What the Water Gave Me (1/5)

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Finduilas/Nienor

Summary: Finduilas had never thought she had been saved for a reason, until she found the woman in the river.

AO3 (w/ AN) | Pillowfort

Next chapter >>>

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Finduilas was wandering abroad in the dissipating fog of the morning when she found the woman in the water. She had taken to walking since she had recovered from her injuries, but she always found her way back to the village. Years had rolled by since she had first been brought in, though to her, it seemed only a short time since she had awoken there in a flight of panic. No one asked why she stayed, and so she was not forced to confess she wasn’t sure where else to go, and that the thought of travel alone on the open road made her stomach turn.

            Nargothrond was gone. Her mother and father were gone. Gwindor was gone; Agarwaen lost. She supposed she could venture into one of the other Elven realms—former king Felagund and her grandparents had been close with the royal family of Doriath, and her father had visited Menegroth on a few occasions—but the effort of setting out in search of a new home always exhausted her so thoroughly she retreated to the loft to lie down or picked up some chore to distract her mind.

            Had she become so fearful of travel, she wondered? And if so, could she be blamed? Certainly, it wasn’t very becoming of an ex-princess, but who was here to judge? The Men didn’t know who she was, only that she was one of the Eldar, and that when they found her, she had been in desperate need of aid. They had meant to bury her at first, believing her dead when they saw her. Finduilas had been surprised to wake up and find that was not the case.

            She was by the side of the Teiglin when she saw the body. The sky above was a gentle blue, with pearly gray clouds scudding across the open expanse and a faint breeze neither warm nor cool. Attracted to the burble of the river at this shallow point, Finduilas came near to the bank and down below was the body. She drew in a sharp breath at the sight and nearly fled—she had seen quite enough dead bodies recently! Surely there was someone in the village who could help! But she remembered how the Haladin had set upon the Orcs at their own peril, how they had come to her even believing her dead, and thought if they had left her there, they would never have known she was alive, and their mistake would have become a truth.

            With a quick breath, she steeled herself and picked her way down the embankment. The woman lay supine in the water, her honey blonde hair in a waterlogged cloud around her head. Finduilas could see she was a Man, though of her age Finduilas was unsure. It was hard to tell with mortals. Slightly upturned was her nose and firm was her jawline; there was a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and a tiny white scar on the left side of her chin. Her dress at the breast was torn, as if someone had rent it, and her golden skin was flushed on a closer look, as if she had been under the sun for sometime uncovered.

            It was the color that drew Finduilas nearer with alacrity—corpses didn’t flush! She dropped to her knees in the pebbly mud and pressed her fingers to the woman’s neck through the wet tangle of her hair, her own breath quickening to feel a pulse.

            “Alive!” she exclaimed to herself. “What a lucky pair are we!” Hoisting the woman onto her back—she was quite heavy despite her size—Finduilas struggled back up the soft embankment and carried her to the village.

            Seeing their dead girl bring back another dead girl startled the villagers, but Finduilas was permitted to bring her into the house of the family who had housed her through her own illness, and install her in the loft where Finduilas herself slept. The homeowners were an older couple, whose daughters were years out of the house, and the loft over the main room of the house was where they had slept before marrying and moving into homes of their own.

            “You carried her all this way?” exclaimed Arnor, the man.

            “It wasn’t so far,” said Finduilas.

            “They do not exaggerate the strength of Elves,” he murmured in amaze, passing a pail of water up to Finduilas so she could dribble a little into the woman’s mouth. He had said similar things before—Finduilas had taken it upon herself to manage as many of the chores which vexed the Mannish couple as she could. In truth, she pitied them, for she saw how their bodies began to grow feeble, and as she understood, it would only worsen with time, until at last their spirits wearied overmuch of the world and departed. If she could assist and express her gratitude by hauling their water from the well, she was glad to do it—yet surprised also, by how many things they insisted on doing for themselves, in spite of the fact that it would have been much easier for Finduilas to do it!

            It was in examining the lost woman for wounds that Finduilas learned she carried a child. This news was met with much fretful murmuring among the couple, and the woman, Hild, departed to speak with a neighbor. She returned with a midwife to examine the woman, who still had not woken. The midwife estimated the woman was midway through her pregnancy.

            “Her good fortune you found her when you did,” she said. “Although a pregnant woman is tougher than most would give her credit for!”

            Arnor and Hild allowed Finduilas to go on tending the woman in the hopes of her recovery. Several other villagers they brought by, but no one recognized the woman nor could find aught on her that would indicate from where she came. If anything, she was more of a mystery than Finduilas herself.

            On the third day, the woman opened her eyes. They were hazel green, ringed with a light brown, and complimented the freckling on her face well. Finduilas leaned over her eagerly, watching for some additional sign of awareness.

            “I am alive?” she croaked, her eyes darting about before settling on Finduilas’ face.

            “Yes!” Finduilas said excitedly. “I was walking along the Teiglin when I espied you there in the water! It was fortunate I went abroad that day, for not often do folk walk by that place. You must be very lucky!”

            “I am alive,” the woman repeated in disbelief, and she wept.

***

            It became quite readily apparent that Finduilas’ charge was not pleased to have been rescued, nor did she have a great desire to make use of the life she had been spared. The next morning, Finduilas found her on the roof, and had to wrestle her down before she could harm herself. It was astounding that in her weakened condition she had managed to get there at all, let alone how she resisted being brought down. The woman fought like a wildcat, but when at last she understood she would not overcome Finduilas�� Elvish strength, she slumped into her arms, sobbing.

            “Let me die, let me die,” she cried. “Oh, Iluvatar, let me die!”

            Finduilas held onto her until she had exhausted herself, and then took her back to bed. For several days this went on, with Finduilas thwarting the woman’s efforts to end her life, until at length they reached a stalemate wherein the woman at least recognized she would need a stealthier methodology to escape her Elfin guardian.

            “Most like, her husband and the father of her child is dead,” Hild speculated in front of the hearth late one night. She was squinting intently at a hole in the armpit of a shirt, which she was attempting to repair in the low light. Finduilas sat in a rocking chair nearby, her feet drawn up on the seat, ready to hand Hild whatever tools she might need, but presently staring into the flames of the fireplace, chin resting on her knees. “I’ve seen it afore. Some folk, they lose a life partner and just can’t go on.”

            “She will fade away then?” Finduilas said softly, an unaccountable grief stabbing through her ribs. The woman was no one to her—she still didn’t even know her name. Yet the thought of her death was painful.

            Hild did not seem entirely to understand, but she frowned up a the loft.

            “Sometimes, if you get them through the worst of the grief, they find a new reason for being,” she said. “But it can’t always be done.”

            “What should I do?” Finduilas asked. “If it is truly her wish to die, perhaps I ought not intervene.”

            “If death is truly what she wants, she’ll find a way,” Hild warned. “She has only to slip past your attention once. Have you been sleeping, dear?”

            “I can sustain on waking sleep for some time,” Finduilas said. The woman, unsurprisingly, had thought to take advantage of the small hours of the night when she assumed Finduilas would be at rest. Hild flicked her eyes over the Elf, and then filled in the rest of the sentence:

            “But you will need to sleep sometime,” she said. Finduilas sighed and hugged her legs. Did that need to be said?

            “Perhaps you can—”

            “Mayhap on a time I could have stopped her,” Hild interrupted. “But she is young and I am not, and she is driven by the fire of anguish. If is truly her wish to die, I doubt any among us will stop her long.” Finduilas seemed to sink lower into the seat, her shoulders slouching. For a long time, she watched the tongues of flame dance around the logs in the fireplace and listened to the crackle of the wood, and the occasional rustle of the woman in the loft turning over on the straw mattress.

            At last, Finduilas broke the quiet again and said:

            “If her hand I may not stay with force alone, perhaps a more persuasive effort will succeed.” Hild paused in her work and looked up.

            “I think that’s likely to be true, dear,” she said. “If you snatch her from death yet give her nothing for which to live…well, what kind of life is that?”

***

            As she had on mornings past, Finduilas brought the woman breakfast up in the loft. Arnor and Hild had discouraged Finduilas from eating there, but Finduilas had insisted the woman needed her rest. As she had on mornings past, the woman picked disconsolately at the porridge with which Finduilas presented her, and did not look much at the Elf sitting cross-legged on the mattress beside her.

            “You have my deepest condolences about your husband,” Finduilas said. The woman’s head snapped up so fast for a moment Finduilas was worried the porridge was too hot and she had burned herself. Those hazel-green eyes scrutinized her as if tying to peel back her skin.

            “Condolences about what?” she said, gripping the spoon.

            “I—well, I thought—forgive me, you seemed so aggrieved, I thought he must have perished,” said Finduilas. “If he has not, and we may find him—”

            “No.” It was the loudest word Finduilas had ever heard from her and there was something scorching in her gaze—Finduilas’ first guess was anger, but she wasn’t sure. Aware she had mis-stepped but unsure if she had crossed some cultural boundary or simply offended with her ignorance of the woman’s circumstances, Finduilas hesitated to speak again.

            The woman put aside the bowl and moved the tray Finduilas had given her off her lap onto the floor, rolling onto her side so her back was to the Elf.

            “Forgive me, I meant not to wound,” Finduilas pleaded. The woman made no sound. “The grief of war is familiar to my heart as well,” she offered softly, “for Nargothrond I called my home all my life that I recall, and it lays now under the thrall of Glaurung.”

            “Have you not heard?” said the woman bitterly, pulling the covers tight around her shoulders. “Glaurung is dead.”

            “Dead!” Finduilas exclaimed. “How came you to know?”

            “I have seen his putrid corpse,” said the woman. “Whatever troubles Nargothrond hence, it will not be he.”

            With this news, Finduilas had to sit some time and consider. She spoke with other Men about the village, but none had heard the news of Glaurung’s death, though all were mightily pleased to hear it. The pub patrons offered a toast.

            The woman was abed still when Finduilas returned to the house, and Arnor and Hild were about with chores to keep an eye on her, so Finduilas left again and sought out some of the mothers with children. She wanted advice on how to persuade a Man to eat when she would not, but no one could tell her much beyond coaxing or waiting.

            Finduilas bought a honey cake from the pub and brought it back wrapped in a handkerchief, but the woman did not touch this either. Clearly, Finduilas thought with despair creeping up her throat, she must speed along her plan of which she had spoken to Hild—if the woman meant to starve herself, there was little Finduilas could do if she could not persuade her otherwise.

            “You never gave a name,” Finduilas remarked gently as she sat beside the still woman. “Rude it seems to me to call you nothing. What do you prefer?” There was silence, such that Finduilas thought she meant not to answer—often, she did not answer—but then:

            “Whatever you prefer. It makes little difference to me.”

            Finduilas considered this. Through her mind she ran several compositions of names. It was important, she felt, to choose one with a strong meaning—something that might indicate to this woman she had a life still to live.

            “If I called you Himil—” which was to say Enduring Woman, “—would that be agreeable?” After a quiet sigh, the woman grunted.

            “If it pleases you. As I said: it makes little difference to me. I should not expect to be called anything for very long.”

***

            Finduilas did not really think it was her place to tell others when to bathe, but she was concerned over Himil’s health, and also had to share a bed with her. Still, the topic was uncomfortable enough that she avoided it long past when it first occurred to her, and when she did broach it with Himil, the woman was so appalled at the thought of someone bathing her that she got out of bed and did it herself. Finduilas had not meant it as an insult, merely an offer of help, but perhaps, she thought, it was good for Himil to do something for herself, even if it was out of annoyance with Finduilas.

            She wanted to talk to her while she was up and about, but it seemed best to give Himil as much privacy as possible, so instead she busied herself brewing tea and pounced on Himil before she could make it back up to the loft to offer her a cup.

            For a moment, it looked like Himil would decline, but then, to Finduilas’ surprise, she took the cup and joined Finduilas at the hearth. She smelled like the family’s soap, but she had put back on the same dirty shift and her hair was a knotted mess. Finduilas had brushed it out when she first brought Himil back, but that had been over a fortnight ago.

            “If it might please you, I could brush your—”

            “Please don’t,” Himil interrupted, folding her legs on the bench. Finduilas lapsed back into silence.

            “There is not shame in accepting the care of others,” she said at last, speaking softly that the good intention of her words might make it through to Himil. “I have taken much in the last several years, as it was needed.”

            “I don’t need it,” said Himil.

            “It may also be a kindness to others,” Finduilas went on. “Many are glad to be of use, and glad to help.”

            “The good feeling and pride of others is no responsibility of mine,” said Himil. “They may find other charity cases on which to ply their feelings.” Her words wounded, but Finduilas remembered how it had been for her when she awoke there, and how long her thoughts and her heart had been in tumult with the memory of her trauma. Himil’s sharp tongue might well seek to protect a damaged heart.

            “It was not out of pity that I drew you from the river,” Finduilas said.

            “You should have let death claim me,” said Himil, which she had said before. “I meant to die.”

            “When first I saw you, I thought you were dead already,” Finduilas said.

            “Then why trouble yourself?”

            “The Men of this village believed I was dead when first they saw me as well,” said Finduilas. “If they had therefore let me alone and gone on walking, I would not be here now.”

            “What happened to you?” The words seemed to blurt out of Himil, even to her embarrassment, though she did not claw them back once they were out. Finduilas fidgeted in her seat and did not look at Himil, and the woman said: “Forgive me. That was thoughtless. I should…”

            “No!” Finduilas had spent too long trying to get Himil to speak with her to allow herself to be put off by a personal question. “’tis no trouble. Only one wonders how to describe things of this sort.” Himil nodded in ready agreement and settled back in her seat. “I was in Nargothrond when the dragon came,” she said. “The bridge which Agarwaen had built…” She trailed off and realized how tightly she was clutching her mug. “Well, it matters little how it came about now. Glaurung took the city and his Orcs took the residents who remained still.”

            “You were captured?” Himil’s words tumbled out in breathless terror, her eyes wide and doe-like. Finduilas looked at the floor. The mug was too hot against her fingers, but she did not loosen her grip. “Then how came you away from them? I have heard Morgoth and his lieutenants release prisoners only by death most gruesome.”

            “You have heard true, for it was so that I escaped,” Finduilas said with a twist of her mouth either darkly amused or pained, or perhaps both. “They sought to slay me and believed they had, surely, but I was found by the Men of this village before the job was done. Morgoth’s troops then were all in a rush to return to their foul master, and were set upon by the Mannish warriors, so they stayed not to watch my end.” The memory of it made her cold still and she took a hasty swallow of tea, which was on the wrong side of too hot against her throat. It was likely worse, she had long imagined, that they might have stayed to watch her bleed out. But there was cruelty too, wasn’t there, in being left behind like refuse, of so little importance they cared not even to be sure they had finished the job? When she thought of herself there, pinned to that tree, alone in the bloody darkness, praying only for someone to carry news of her death to Túrin and her brother, she shivered still.

            “Morgoth’s poison has touched every corner of this land,” said Himil, bitterness dripping from her voice. After a moment of hesitation, Finduilas rose from the rocking chair and moved to sit beside Himil on the bench, keeping a respectable distance between them.

            “Not forever,” she said quietly, looking to Himil’s shadowed eyes. “In all this time he has not yet crushed the spirit of Middle-earth, nor do I believe he will at the last.”

            “Yet how much must we endure to be free of him!” Himil exclaimed.

            “I know not,” Finduilas murmured, looking down into her tea as if it might carry answers. For some time after, they were silent, but Himil nursed her tea and did not retreat back to the loft. Finduilas thought to ask her of herself, but she had always responded so poorly to such questioning that Finduilas had become concerned with treading on old wounds and kept silent.

            “I have never known an Elf to live so among Men,” Himil murmured eventually.

            “Much have I thought on this,” Finduilas said. “Yet when I consider taking to the road, I confess, my spirit falters. There is warmth here, and kindness too. Perhaps I have no recovered so well in heart as in body.”

            “Wounds of the spirit do more damage, I think,” Himil said, more quietly still.

            “It would be sensible to travel to Doriath,” she said. “Yet the journey seems too far to me. No nearer is Balar, where I might avail myself of Círdan’s hospitality.” Finduilas was talking in a river now, thinking perhaps that Himil would understand. “In truth there is only one thought which presently draws me from here: A brother I have, Gil-galad, and I would know if he lives still, or if my family’s line is ended with me.”

            “Your brother is Gil-galad?” said Himil, turning to look at her. “Then your father: Orodreth, King of Nargothrond?”

            “He was,” Finduilas murmured, pressing her cooling mug against her legs.

            “What tales you tell!” Himil exclaimed, with the least of grief and resentment that Finduilas had heard from her yet. “‘Nargothrond I called my home’ she says, and nary a word that she wasits very own princess! Now I wonder what else you have told me without telling!”

            Finduilas blinked at her, for she had not considered it much that way, but then a tentative smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

            “I meant not to deceive you,” she said. “I spoke only of what seemed important.”

            “Not important to mention your father was a king?” Himil said. Finduilas shrugged.

            “He was my father before he was a king.”

            “I never knew my father.”

            Himil’s words hung in the air, the only thing she had ever said of her past, and she seemed almost surprised that the words had passed her lips. The two stared at each other and then Finduilas said:

            “The loss of a parent is a terrible one. I grieve with you.” She reached out and set her hand on the bench between them, but did not touch Himil.

            “Difficult to grieve what one does not know,” Himil muttered, looking away from Finduilas’ hand and knocking back the dregs of her tea.

            “An absence can be a loss,” Finduilas said. “An ignorance can be a loss.” At this, Himil lapsed back into melancholic silence, and would say no more, before she went back up to the loft and returned to bed.

***

            It was possible that Himil had fully intended to starve herself to death; Finduilas couldn’t say. But she was aware from her own experience that the biological drive to keep one’s body alive was strong and would require incredible force of will to overcome. Himil ate, although she did not seem pleased to do it. She alternated between sitting sullenly and silently at Arnor and Hild’s table with the three of them and picking at her food, and staying in the loft until Finduilas delivered her something, which she would take a few bites of before abandoning the rest.

            She allowed Finduilas to take her clothes once a week and give them a scrub, though she did not come down or change, but stayed up in the loft naked in bed until her things were dry enough to put on.

            At times, she seemed almost to be reaching for a light, like a drowning person who surfaced before sinking back below the water. Finduilas tried desperately to grab at her during these moments, but Himil always slipped back through her fingers into the murk.

            Finduilas’ entire existence had come to center around keeping Himil alive and trying to repair what damage had been done to her. She still did whatever chores she could for Arnor and Hild, but her mind was often occupied with some way to coax Himil into more cheer. At night, when Himil slept—Finduilas no longer felt she needed to keep watch to prevent Himil from taking advantage of cover of dark to end her life, but she often stayed up a few hours later, just to ensure Himil did indeed get to sleep—she worked over the torn dress in which she had found her. First, she patched up the holes and tears, wondering if they had been made by Himil’s own fingers, or if someone else had clawed at her with such violence. Then, with some direction from Hild, she began to embroider over the patched breast with flowers. It was delicate, time-consuming work, and Finduilas was grateful to have something to keep herself busy. Himil would not mind if it took Finduilas time to fix the dress, for she had never yet left the house save by need and never ventured at all beyond the ambiguous line of Hild and Arnor’s property.

            When the dress was done, Finduilas presented it with a flourish to Himil up in the loft.

            “Now you have something you may wear into town!” she said brightly, eagerly watching Himil’s face for a sign of pleasure or even an absence of sorrow. She saw neither.

            “I expect it shan’t fit anymore,” was all Himil said before going back to staring down at the wall over the front door.

            Indeed, the swell of Himil’s belly had grown even in the time she had been there, and she was likely correct the dress would be tight on her now—it had been made with a different figure in mind. Still, Finduilas could not help but deflate at this utter non-response.

            Perhaps Himil was afraid to go into town and ashamed to say so. Neither thing would be difficult to understand. For a while, Finduilas sat on the edge of the loft beside where Himil lay, swinging her feet in the empty air.

            “I could fashion you something new,” she suggested. “Though I would need to take your measurements. Especially here,” she said with a hint of teasing, gesturing to Himil’s round belly. The woman frowned and bunched the covers up around her to hide the sight. (Among Elves, there was often a measure of pride in displaying a pregnancy, as evidence of a coming child, but perhaps it was not so among Men?)

            “No, thank you.”

            “I asked Hild if perhaps she had something old she might lend you, but all her maternity wear was given away or cut up for other use,” Finduilas went on. Himil sighed and rolled onto her back.

            “You needn’t go through such pains on my account,” she said. “I never asked it of you.”

            “One need not always ask for help for it to be offered,” said Finduilas.

            “One who may be helped does not always wish it to be offered,” said Himil.

            “If death has not claimed you, nor will in short order, you may as well go into town,” said Finduilas.

            “It is you who has prevented that,” said Himil with a glare, snapping her eyes onto Finduilas’ face. “Now you use your own machinations to push me out the door!” Finduilas swung her feet.

            “Many weeks I too, spent in this loft,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “There are no Elven healers here, and the methods of the Men here are…” She did not wish to insult her hosts, as they had saved her, but it had not been a painless process. “…rudimentary. But even when it no longer pained me to climb up and down the ladder, I remained. In time, though…well, if naught else, one grows terribly bored up here. It sounds awful, doesn’t it? To be bored, when one is in the midst of such agony of spirit? And yet, the mind craves a distraction, a purpose.”

            “No purpose seek I,” said Himil. “Only an end to this…” She waved her hand around, at a loss for words.

            “Perhaps more paths to that goal there are than you have yet seen,” suggested Finduilas softly. “Perhaps that is all I mean to show you.” Again, Himil glared, but less fiercely than before. “Will you come into the yard with me? I should be glad of the fresh air.”

            “Then go,” said Himil.

            “I should be gladder to have it with company.”

            “Hild may join you.”

            “Hild is luncheoning with a friend.”

            “Perhaps Arnor will go.”

            “Arnor is helping patch a neighbor’s wagon.”

            “Perhaps you will still enjoy the air alone.”

            “Still, I should be gladder to have company.” Finduilas swung her feet. “Immortal am I,” she said with a tug of a smile at her mouth. “I may have this conversation as long as you like.” Himil narrowed her eyes.

            “Perhaps you are no Elf at all, but some other torment on me,” she said. For a moment, there seemed to be a fire in her, and when she moved, Finduilas thought it would be to throw off the covers and tag along, but just as quickly it vanished, and she turned her head to the side, away from Finduilas. “Let me alone, won’t you? I’m tired.”

            So Finduilas went out alone and gathered a few of the simple yellow flowers around the yard and brought them back to place in a mug of water near Himil’s head.

            “At home, it was considered of great value to the sick that they should feel the sun on their cheeks and the wind in their hair,” she said. “Being so confined damages the spirit.”

            “There is no star in the sky nor wind in the air that might heal me,” said Himil. Finduilas felt a tightness in her throat and for a moment she wanted to shake the woman. Would Himil take nothing of what Finduilas offered? Had she truly no wish to live that might be recovered? How it stung, to pour life into something only to watch it drain right back out!

            “So certain, are you?” she asked despairingly.

            “Never have I been more certain.”

            Not trusting herself to keep from crying if she stayed, Finduilas left the loft and drifted listlessly and anxiously around the house until Arnor returned to begin preparations for dinner. He sent her out from there when her nervous air became difficult to bear, and she went again for Hild’s sewing tools.

            A new project, that would keep her mind at rest.

***

            There was one thing that finally got Himil out-of-doors: Hild insisted the sheets needed to be washed and the loft swept clean. Finduilas offered to take care of it, but Hild assigned her the task of keeping Himil out of the way until it was done, a state of affairs that quite obviously offended Himil to no end, but Hild was sterner with Himil than with Finduilas, perhaps owing to their being of the same species.

            Finduilas nonetheless flicked out an old blanket in the grass for Himil and brought them out a tray of tea with slices of buttered bread from the loaves she and Hild had made two days previously. Summer was rolling in on the tail of spring by then; it was warm enough to be out with no cloak or scarf and the birds and insects had returned from their winter absence. The light gleamed richly off the slight curl in Himil’s hair, though she squinted out in the light after so many days indoors.

            “Hild has chosen the ideal time for cleaning the loft,” declared Finduilas when they had finished their bread. Himil flicked her eyes over to Finduilas but said nothing. She picked at the grass and watched a goat meander about. “Why is that, you wonder?” Finduilas said, when Himil did not fulfill her assigned part by asking. “For now I have such a lovely setting in which to give you my gift to you.”

            Himil heaved a sigh, not all in the manner of one expecting to receive a surprise gift, but rather anticipating enduring a trial.

            “And what is that?” she said.

            Pleased to be asked—pleased to see Himil exhibit even perfunctory curiosity—Finduilas reached for the bundle at her side to unwrap her project of the last several days, which was a new baby shift with a scalloped collar. She held it up for Himil to see before handing it over.

            “It will be too large at first,” she said. “But she’ll soon grow into it!” Mannish babies grew quickly, she understood. Many of the parents in the village had commented on how their children’s youth flew by. Even some who had been babes in arms when Finduilas first arrived were walking by then!

            Himil sat, staring at the tiny gown in her lap, silent so long Finduilas wondered if perhaps she knew not what to say about it. Finduilas could not say she had been an avid sewer in her life, but surely her work wasn’t so terrible!

            Then, Himil thrust it back at her.

            “Keep to yourself your pity!” she snarled, that fire which had heretofore only been hinted at blazing in her eyes. “I need it not! I will be no pet project of yours! Perhaps it is your Elvish disposition which makes you so arrogant and presumptuous, and so quick and so keen to believe you know what is best for me! Or perhaps they are your flaws alone; I know not, nor do I care. Believe you this: if I had anywhere else to go but here, and any way to get there, I would stay no more under your insufferable smothering!” She rose to her feet and whirled back into the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

            Finduilas could do nothing but sit in shock on the blanket, clutching the little shift, replaying their last several interactions in her mind, wondering where she had gone astray. Perhaps Himil was right. Perhaps it had never been any right of hers to try to save Himil. But no—how could it be that the right thing to do was simply to let her drown? It couldn’t be! Could it?

            She remained in such unhappy considerations the rest of the day.

[thevalleyisjolly]

what, in your opinion (or the opinion of anyone reading this after you answer) would a Maedhros Hamlet AU require? snappy lines, character parallels, etc... right now I'm thinking the setting is Formenos, with Fëanáro dead and all of the Valar as the people fëanor is encouraging Mae against

First of all, absolutely fantastic ask, thank you!  Formenos is a good place to start, I think my brain went towards Maedhros at Himring, sometime before the Nirnaeth, hearing his soldiers talk about a ghostly apparition on the ramparts that looks like his father. So he goes to investigate, and lo and behold, a spirit that resembles Fëanor appears and reminds him of his (Fëanor's) death and his (Maedhros') Oath.

Now Maedhros is very far from stupid, and does not immediately take the apparition at face value. This could be a trick of Morgoth or his servants, sent to sow terror and discord among the Noldor. Nevertheless, the reminder of the Oath begins to press in upon him...

Noldorin royal politics (aka the usual completely functional Finwëan family dynamics) happen. Perhaps with the memories of old tensions brought up again by the apparition of Fëanor, Maedhros is a little more tense than usual, something which does not go unnoticed by his allies. Old grudges and whispers start to simmer again, of Losgar and the Helcaraxë, even of Alqualondë. 

Meanwhile Celegorm and Curufin, as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern-esque figures, are very transparently pushing to do something about the Silmarils.  Maedhros is onto their game and tells them off for trying to play him like a flute (I just love that line too much) and Maglor (a much less helpful Horatio) plays the flute because of course he does, this is what happens when you have bards in the family.

With all of this happening, Maedhros devises a plan that surely cannot go wrong.  Tensions boiling under the surface and fathers in need of avenging?  Time to stage a show of force and unite against a common enemy!  Fingon (as a sort of Ophelia role) is worried about this sudden aggression from Maedhros, who’s always been the more diplomatic and rational among the whole House of Finwë.  He tries to check in on him, but Maedhros is consumed with his plan and sweeps Fingon along in it, even as the pressure takes its toll and he starts wondering to be or not to be...

(As a side note, the “to be or not to be” monologue translates surprisingly well, especially with the Everlasting Darkness as the undiscover’d country)

The Union takes shape.  The Nirnaeth happens.  Fingon, now taking Polonius’ role, is slain rather than Morgoth.  Maedhros flees the battlefield with Maglor and joins up with his other brothers.  There’s a little bit of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff here; pretend Lúthien and Beren has been happening in the background and they’ve recovered a Silmaril.  Maedhros hears of their death; in a terrible place mentally and emotionally after the Nirnaeth and Fingon’s death, he is convinced by Celegorm and Curufin to fulfill their Oath and attack Doriath.  “O, from this time forth/My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!”

The attack fails in its main objective and they don’t get a Silmaril.  Celegorm and Curufin (and Caranthir too of course, can’t think of a good character equivalent for him) are dead.  Meanwhile, something is rotten in the continent of Beleriand.  It’s not going great for the Noldor!  Nearly everyone is dead, insert graveyard scene here.  This here is where we diverge from the play a little; there is obviously no Claudius or Gertrude or Laertes, but Maedhros-Hamlet still sends his letter to Sirion, portending his arrival.  The Third Kinslaying happens, lots of bodies everywhere but still no Silmaril. 

At this point, Maedhros knows that he has succumbed to the genre, that there is only one way this ends.  The Norwegian army Host of the West arrives and defeats Morgoth, taking the Silmarils; Maedhros prepares to make his last stand despite Maglor’s best efforts to convince him otherwise in a version of the closet scene.  Instead of a poisoned blade in a duel, it is the hallowed light of the Silmaril that seals his fate; he feels its burn and he knows.

He doesn’t fight it.

“O, I die, Makalaurë; The potent jewel quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from Aman; But I do prophesy the Silmaril lights On Eärendil: oh! Middle-earth rejoice; So tell them, with the occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited.  The rest is silence.”

(I know it doesn’t quite scan, shhhh)

And Maglor lives to sing in regret the tragedy of Fëanor and Fëanor’s kin.

Idk, that’s all I got off the top of my head ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  Would love to hear anyone else’s thoughts! 

[cycas]

..."the only known Prince of Mirkwood"

Are we now suggesting that nobody *knows* how many other children Thranduil has?

Like, OK, fine, we know for sure he has one. How many other children does he have? IDK, maybe zero, maybe five.

Presumably not more than 5 + Leggles because Feanor had seven and that was considered The Most Children among the elves.

This seems like the kind of thing that Elrond would have researched. He was a Herald! He'd definitely know the number of the children of an ex-Doriath royal house. Probably he's got portraits of them all in a book for reference in case one turns up at Rivendell.

Maybe Legolas's portrait has a note under it: 'least favorite'.

Poor Leggles.

This sounds like an argument among Pippin Took's sisters.

I find it fascinating that they let Legolas go on the journey, because speaking in terms of politics, letting the only known Prince of Mirkwood go on a life-threatening journey to Mordor, presumably, without letting the king of Mirkwood know, is batshit insane.

Random elf: my Lord, are we sure about this?

Elrond: Yup. Because if he does die and the mission fails, Thranduil will kill us faster than Sauron will.

[ladysternchen]

Headcanon explained- Melian, part 4

Melian did everything, everything she could to prevent what she knew in her heart was unpreventable. She watched with increasing desperation as Elu bade the dwarves join the Silmaril and the Nauglamir, and as both her husband and the dwarves fell under the spell of the dragon, and become entangled in the lure of the Silmaril. Melian tried to talk Elu out of it, to make him see the danger he put himself into, but to no avail, so she stopped talking after a while. For one because it was futile anyway and she did not want to waste their remaining time arguing and for another because she really couldn’t contradict him, caught in his own logic as he was. So she savoured what moments they had (when he was not either locked up with the dwarves in the smithy or else sitting under some tree or other, seeking solitude and the calm and cool of the night) and did everything she could to make at least sure he knew there were no grievances between them, that she loved him unconditionally, and drew her strength from the knowledge that he felt the same towards her, whatever they had been through. Apart from that, there was not much she could do other than pray, for the first and last time in her life, begging for mercy, but her begging remained unanswered. She had thought that she was somewhat prepared for what was to come. Thought she had an idea of how to cope. Never had she been so mistaken, she realised that on the winter’s day that ended life as she had known these past Ages. Elu’s death tore her very being apart. Grief was one thing, she knew that well already. But grief was not the worst part of it. She felt maimed. Wounded to the death, only for her there was no death, not the oblivion of the Secondborn, not the healing in Mandos of the Firstborn. She sat beside Elu's body, stroking him even as his body lost its warmth, wishing for nothing more than to accompany him, to follow him to the Halls, but she knew she couldn’t. Nevertheless, she fled Beleriand even before they had buried his body, unable to bear it, shedding her own physical form by the shores of the sea. But even as spirit only, Melian found no relief, not in Lórien, nor anywhere else. She sang before Mandos’ walls, hoping with all her might that her song would reach Elu, make him know she was there.  She grieved for Lúthien even more, watching from afar as she and Beren passed on, wanting with all her heart to embrace her daughter just once more, but at the same time being utterly unable to. And Lúthien deserved to go on in bliss, that experience not marred by Melian’s pain. That was the one thing she could still do for her child. But she remained, feeling horribly alone. Melian pleaded with Námo to allow her into the Halls as well, but knew even before she asked that he could not grant it.

When word reached her about the second kinslaying, and about Dior’s fate, she busied herself for a time to speak in her grandson’s favour, doing all within her power so he might remain with his family, be counted among the people he identified with. When this was granted at long last, she slowly started to feel something like peace. The grief for Lúthien was present at all times, and equally present was her missing Elu, but slowly, she began to be herself again. Her sister-in-law was re-embodied, and Galadhon, and so many of those she had counted as family. When Elmo returned to them, bearing her Elu’s love, she at last followed Olwë’s earlier invitation and went to Alqualondë, making the havens her second home beside the gardens of Lórien. She could not pretend it was happiness. But it was peace. And she still hoped. Hoped for an after, for a reunion with her daughter at the end of all times. Hoped that somehow, anyhow, she would find a way to be with her husband again, be it as spirit only, be it wherever. She hoped. And through that hope, she was able to be.

[sotwk]

Thranduil: the "Vigorous Spring"

Happy Spring Equinox / Start of Spring!

In honor of the occasion and the fact that our favorite Elvenking, Thranduil son of Oropher, was named after the season, I decided to pull together a few quick SotWK headcanons I have regarding Thranduil's birth:

Thranduil was born in the First Age 452, towards the end of the Long Peace in the Kingdom of Doriath.

His father Oropher was from the House of Elmo, and therefore a relative of both King Thingol and Celeborn. He also served as a high-ranking member of Thingol’s court of advisers.

Thranduil's mother, Meluiel, was a dear friend and noble handmaiden to Queen Melian, and the younger sister of the legendary hero, Beleg Cuthalion.

Thranduil was brought into the world by Queen Melian herself who served as midwife, in the highest honor that could be given to any mother and child.

Royals and dignitaries were present to welcome and bless Thranduil after his birth, including King Thingol, Luthien, Celeborn, and Galadriel.

He was the last Elven child to be born during the Long Peace, for the war resumed with the Dagor Bragollach only 3 years later.

Thranduil's name was given to him by his mother for a few reasons other than the timing of his birth. Lady Meluiel foresaw the strength in her son, and the greatness he would one day achieve as a leader of his own kingdom.

It was perhaps his beloved wife's visions of their son as a great King that drove Oropher to pursue the kingship of a realm of his own--not just for himself, but eventually for his son.

"Vigorous" speaks of Thranduil's might and being in himself a formidable force of nature. He would be able to endure and persevere through great trials to achieve victory.

"Spring" will always be able to break forth through even the harshest of winters because of Thranduil's power and tenacity, and under his care and leadership his people will find hope and refuge.

Happy Spring, everyone!

It's sure taking its sweet time to finally get here, weather-wise! I know we're all sick and tired of the cold and rain and snow, but hang in there! <3 Just like King Thranduil, the brighter seasons will endure!

Tolkien Headcanon tag list:

@quickslvxr @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @tamryniel @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @aduialel @glassgulls @ladyweaslette

(I am really unsure of who wants to be tagged in my posts anymore, so please know I don't mean for anyone to be excluded! I just choose to be conservative in who I tag because I don't never to "spam" anyone. XD If you want to be tagged any of my writings, please just let me know!)

[tanoraqui]

I think the Silmarillion fandom is very inclined toward hindsight bias re: the homicidality and moreover the perceived homicidality of First Age Fëanorians. To be fair so is the text of The Silmarillion! But I do think it’s important, when considering political and social dynamics of Beleriand, to remember that:

the majority of kinslaying was 85% of the way through the First Age or later, AFTER everything else had gone to firmly hell first

for that matter, Celegorm & Curufin’s attempted coup of Nargothrond was 80% of the way through, when everything had gone halfway to hell first

the Doom mentioned the House of Fëanor specifically, and of course there’s the Oath, but the Doom very much included “and everyone who follows them” and nobody knew exactly what the Oath would lead to (see: point 1)

exactly 2 people are named in conjunction to the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. One is Fëanor, starting it. The other is Fingon, the Valiant, rescuer of kings and foiler of dragons and High Prince then King of the Noldor, ending it with “the foremost of the host of Fingolfin.”

With that in mind, I think a highly likely summary of Beleriand social/political dynamics is,

Fëanorians, on average: Fuck you all, we did what we did and we’re doing what we’re doing!! (But we did not mean to kill (so many) people to get here, and we’re even kinda glad Fingolfin & co are here for backup, because we may have bitten off more than we can chew. (Wasn’t it generous of King Maedhros to let him wear the crown for now?)

About 1/3 Fingolfin’s people: @Feanorians you bastards led us into kinslaying and Doom and then you burned the ships and LEFT US to suffer on the Ice. You TRAITORS.

About 2/3 Fingolfin’s host, especially those who ended up in Nargothrond and Gondolin: @Fëanorians you bastards led our people into kinslaying and Doom and then you burned the ships and left us to suffer on the Ice. You TRAITORS. / @the ‘foremost’ of Fingolfin’s host: Why the FUCK did you run in and start killing people; what the FUCK is wrong with you

Beleriand locals, led by Thingol: You’re ALL a bunch of lying kinslayers, some more duplicitous than the others I guess—except you, Finrod, you’re an angel and we’re delighted you’re here. Your followers are…alright. Have a third of the continent <3

A number of locals significantly less affiliated with Thingol and Doriath: …okay kinslaying is BAD, obviously, and ship-burning and abandonment…also bad, but less so. Definitely wasteful, definitely a dick move. Your royal family has weird internal feuds. But thank fuck someone is here with better weapons to aim at the Enemy so I can keep living on my farm rather than die or move to Doriath!

That said I can easily believe Fingolfin took general responsibility his people’s part in the Kinslaying, and even when apologizing, specific names of which of them took part, up to and including Fingon, were deliberately left out of the commonly known narrative. Better to have any given individual plausibly innocent (while potentially guilty) rather than some definitely guilty and the rest assumed still potentially guilty and lying about it! But I’m equally sure that detailed gossip from Noldorin infighting slipped through, albeit garbled. Just how much might’ve depended a great deal on specifically how Finarfin’s kids were all feeling about their eldest (full) cousin.

Tldr: for most of the First Age, if someone was side-eyeing the Fëanorians really hard over Alqualondë, they were almost certainly side-eyeing the Fingolfinians for the same reason, and if they were side-eyeing the Fëanorians over treachery/abandonment, it was equally based on hearsay and obvious old grudges, rather than anything they had done in sight in Beleriand.

[elspethdixon]

In theory, dwarves don’t condone kinslaying. When they find out that the victims of said kinslaying were the royal family of Doriath, the same kingdom that a) literally killed and ate dwarves when they first encountered them because they didn’t think they were sentient, and b) started a war with the dwarves of Nogrod over payment for the Nauglamír, I suspect they might change their minds.

(Yes, it’s technically more complicated than that, but the narrative from the dwarven side is that Thingol refused payment for the dwarves’ craftsmenship and them tried to have them killed over it, forcing them to slay him in self-defense and flee for their lives and leading to war between Doriath and the dwarves of Nogrod, who keep in mind were allies of the House of Durin aka Gimli’s family)

Legolas: They attacked Doriath and slew the descendants of Elu Thingol.

Gimli: Wait, these kinslaying victims we’ve been talking about are the elves of Doriath?

Legolas: Yes.

Gimli: The same elves that went to war against the dwarves of the Blue Mountains and were defeated at the Battle of the Thousand Caves? The elves ruled by King Thingol, who took possession of the dwarves of Nogrod’s masterwork by theft and then tried to hire them to upgrade it only to murder them when they asked for payment?

Legolas: I always was told that the dwarves were the ones who murdered him.

Gimli: I’m sure you were. Just so we’re clear here, we are talking about Thingol, the elven king so hated by the descendants of the lost cities of Nogrod and Belegost and all their kin in the Blue Mountains that my uncles Fili and Kili always used to spit when they said his name? That’s the King Thingol whose clan and heirs the Feanorians killed?

Legolas, who already suspects where this is going: *sigh* Yes. Yes, it was that King Thingol.

Gimli: Good for them.

Legolas: … My grandfather was from Doriath you know.

Gimli: How unfortunate for him. I won’t hold it against you.

Okay, slightly unhinged take, but I'd really like to see more of 'Dwarves are super confused what elves problem with the Feanorians is' actually.

Consider:

Gimli: So, they're father was a famed craftsman whose masterwork was stolen.

Legolas: Right.

Gimli: and he made them all swear a very famous and public oath to reclaim said masterworks.

Legolas: Right.

Gimli: and then a different group of elves recovered one, but rather than giving it back decided to keep it, despite knowing about the aforementioned oath.

Legolas: Right.

Gimli: and... the Feanorians are the bad guys for trying to reclaim the masterwork they swore to their dying father to reclaim.

Legolas: Right.

Gimli (trying so hard to be patient): Okay. Nope. Still not getting it. Let's take this from the top.

Like, do dwarves condone kinslaying? No. But on the other hand, I have to imagine they have a lot of sympathy for people trying to reclaim their stolen treasure.

[thevalleyisjolly]

More Elrond and Elros headcanons:

Elrond may resemble Lúthien, but his singing voice, while decent, is more suited to the mead-hall than a starry forest glade or the Halls of Mandos.  Elros, on the other hand, was once told by Maglor that if he applied himself to his music, he could quite possibly be the equal of Finrod Felagund himself one day in skill and power.   From that day on, the only song Elros would sing in Maglor’s presence was the Lay of Leithian.

Neither of them are vegetarians; however, Elros did become a pescatarian, and because Elrond had a seafood allergy, they often ended up having vegetarian meals simply because it was something they could both eat.

Technically, they have not seen their parents since the Third Kinslaying, apart from a brief sneaky shore visit from Eärendil during the War of Wrath.  Unofficially, a friendly albatross used to wing its way back and forth between Tol Eressëa and Númenor, following the trade ships, and if it happened to carry letters that ended up making their way to a white tower by the Sundering Sea or a royal hall in Armenelos, Ulmo shamelessly guilt-tripped the other Valar into overlooking the fact.

Neither of them were able to learn how to shapeshift in their youth, and it became moot point for Elros after the Choice.  Elrond once attempted to turn into a crow, but wound up stuck as a half bird person for seven whole months until Galadriel figured out how to reverse it.

Elrond spent the first five decades of the Second Age hanging around Men and learning from their lorekeepers, while Elros sometimes shadowed Gil-Galad and Círdan to learn non-Fëanorian leadership tactics.  Although they were not identical twins, this understandably caused the occasional bit of confusion about which one was which.

Elros never deliberately grew a beard, although with razors in limited supply on long sea voyages and brand new Valar-raised islands, he sometimes sported a respectable short beard.  Elrond did deliberately keep a scruff from the many post-apocalyptic lore-mastering trips he made in his youth, but Círdan advised him to either commit to a full beard or go clean-shaven because the scruff-look was too distracting.  A half-dozen people had already re-evaluated their sexuality, a dozen more were still in crisis, Círdan’s most reliable coxswain had been standing frozen in pure enchantment for a week, and he simply refused to deal with another Thingol-Melian situation.

Aranrúth and Narsil may be heirlooms of his House, but Elros personally preferred a spear and a shield when it came to combat.  It had nothing to do with Gil-Galad -fishing spears were common in Mortal fishing villages and Elros spent a lot of time with his people- although they did exchange the occasional tip or manoeuvre.

Both of them had the gift of foresight, but while Elrond received long-term big picture visions, Elros got the “You will stub your toe on that chair leg in three days” type of deal.  He used it primarily for cheap tricks.

There was some surprise when Gil-Galad appointed Elrond his herald and sent him to relieve Eregion, since up until that point, he had spent most of his time studying lore, mastering healing, and engaging in statecraft rather than practicing martial pursuits.  Then his soldiers saw him in battle and had an “Oh shit” moment when they realized that the reason he usually stayed out of the fighting yards was because Maglor Fëanorian had been his first teacher.

There was a period of time in their youth when they would braid silver into their hair in memory of Doriath.  It always upset Maglor terribly; he would go off by himself mumbling snatches of the Noldolantë.  Maedhros only smiled bitterly and, in a rare show of involvement in their upbringing, took them out on wilderness survival trips to practice woodcraft.

Contrary to what the Lindon rumour mill speculated, it was not Elrond who made out with Gil-Galad in the library after dark that one time.

The personal archives of Elros Tar-Minyatur were not among the artifacts rescued from Númenor before its destruction; however, an infant Meneldil was playing with a very old clay dog on wheels when he was hastily bundled onto one of his father’s ships.  Over 3000 years ago, Elros had clutched that same toy as Maglor’s servants tore him and Elrond away from the nursery; some years before that, one of Elwing’s nurses had quickly shoved it into her small hands to soothe her distress as they fled from Doriath.  Many years ago, in a peaceful little home in Tol Galen, Beren had once delighted his baby son with a set of lovingly crafted figurines of Papa, Mama, and their good friends Huan and Uncle Felagund.  Uncle Felagund got lost during a picnic, Mama Lúthien was accidentally left behind when they returned to Doriath, and Elúred and Elúrin had been playing with (Grand)Papa Beren when the Fëanorians came.

Elros’ favourite birds were ducks.  Elrond is personally fond of geese, but agreed with Celebrían that raising both geese and children at the same time was just adding more stress to their lives.

For nearly 6000 years, the sea has always seemed to become especially frothy whenever Elrond steps on a ship or walks along its shore.  Much to the dismay of the Hobbits (and Gandalf, though he will never admit it), their entire sailing to Valinor is accompanied by cresting waves capped with glittering sea-foam.