#Because this is Arda Marred

[shrikeseams]

A fresh, new, unhappy counter-textual Tolkien headcanon for you all (that I will now proceed to try to forget because it’s too unhappy for me to apply to anything):

You know how Aman is supposed to be clean and pure and safe from the taint of Melkor? At least moreso than the rest of Arda?

Yeah, I think that's way, way less true after the drowning of Numenor. Like, it's not Angband-and-Mordor foul, but I can't buy that it's any cleaner than Rivendell.

Because Tolkien has set up a world where genocidal defense of your territory has to come at a metaphysical price. Because when you maintain paradise on the corpses of children and enslaved people and non-combatants, it can't be paradise anymore. Because I cannot buy that the silmarils would burn the sons of Feanor over three kinslayings, and that Finrod is Doomed because he would have taken the stolen boats if he had the chance, but Aman itself is untouched by the murder of thousands, even if Eru is the one doing the murder.

[veronicawildest]

Vedic Astrology Notes

by veronicawildewest

(please give credits if you want to copy)

(Disclaimer: this is my personal observation, take this like a grain of salt)

Those who have sidereal mercurial rashi in their natal placements when unevolved are too judgmental. The type of people who are too judgmental to the point where they feel perfect even though they have more flaws than the other person

(Looking directly at sidereal gemini and virgo specifically unevolved PUNARVASU and ARDA)

Anuradha men have anger issues

The unevolved dhanista women that I know personally are very thirsty for men's attention

Sidereal sagittarius men are generally womanizers

People with vimshottari nakshatra ketu are good at harnessing talents

Sidereal Leos are blind to their mistakes. After all, they don't know the word sorry

When it comes to transits, rahu and ketu (shadow planets) are the most reliable to observe when it comes to trends (in my personal opinion)

Rahu is represented by trends while ketu is past, The saying "History repeats itself" is connected to the rahu and ketu axis.

Although the sun is exalted in aries. Ashwini nakshatra men (first nakshatra in the lunar mansion) suffer when it comes to confidence. They don't know if it's too much or not enough.

If I compare the nakshatra arda to the quote, this is "work smart not hard".

shravana people naturally like to socialize even if they say they're quiet, they are the type who are quick when it comes to connecting with other people

Sidereal water signs are good at cultivating resentment, especially sidereal cancers, so maybe Mars is debilitated in that sign because, it takes a strong person to actually let go and that's the number one thing that sidereal cancers have a hard time with.

So maybe sidereal libra is infamous for the reputation that "tropical scorpios are great at transformation" maybe because of the resident nakshatra in sidereal libra. There is Chitra, Swati and Vishakha who are all about manipulating appearances and persona.

Example: Doja Cat and Eminem have a persona. The Era of Lady gaga in the FAME album.

Usually in the enemies I notice there is sun opposition moon synastry

[elfy-elf-imagines]

— Out of the Woods | Maedhros *✧･ﾟ

▹ Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff and Angst

▹ Words: ~8k

▹ Summary: Thrust into the world of Arda, you find yourself enraptured by the elven lord Maedhros. Yet nothing is ever easy in times of war as your love story unfolds and then unravels.

▹ Notes: Hi, hello, this is about 6k words longer than I intended. Oh well. This is a rewrite of a oneshot I wrote yearsssss ago, but thought it deserved a rewrite. I hope you guys like this because I deleted the original. You have no choice, YOU WILL LIKE THIS MORE. Please tell me you like it, I crave validation. Jk, jk...unless.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Golden. 

Glittering and gleaming. 

Opulent in an understated way and all too beautiful to be real. 

It was the only way to describe the lavish keep the armored guards escorted you into. Men with delicately pointed ears and unnatural beauty were both your protectors and jailers as they paraded you through the city. You weren’t familiar with your surroundings, never even heard of it. You feel as though a place as beautiful as this would be pasted on every tourist’s brochure and dream board. And yet there was nothing familiar.

Even the people seemed so different from you.

“You have brought a mortal woman before me; why is that?” his voice boomed as he sat straight back and stiff as a board on a lavish throne. You were speaking with the presiding ruler if the golden crown atop his head was anything to go by. He was tall and regal, only made taller by the raised platform his throne was built upon, his figure looming over you with an intimidating presence. 

His hair was like fire, falling in perfect waves that reached the middle of his back. His skin was porcelain and perfection, clear of any slight imperfections or marks that marred your own. He wore formal attire made from silk, with details of glittering gems that made him look like a sun. The heavy crown resting up his head was made of pure gold and dotted with jewels, each worth more than you’d ever make in a lifetime. But what captured your eyes were his own. Light green, they shone like the reflection of emerald leaves off a crystal clear lake. No poem or ballad could ever capture the beauty he possessed. 

He was ethereal, the poster child for what a king should be. 

One of the guards pushed you forward, and you nearly stumbled to the ground, but you’d caught yourself in time. You looked up at him, not even knowing his name yet and already being enraptured by him. A god, that’s what he has to be. There’s no other way he could look like that.

You must’ve died and now stand at the gates of heaven. In your current situation, the most illogical answer has become the only one that made any sense.

“T-they found me, your grace, in the...woods.” He raised an eyebrow at you, and your face flushed hotly as red stained your face. Did you address him adequately? Was there any correct way to address a literal angel? 

His gaze on you was sharp, making you shrink within yourself. His hair may have been made of fire, but he was entirely crafted from ice. Cold, biting, and bitter, you were surprised your skin wasn’t frostbitten. 

“She was rambling like a mad woman when we found her. Despite that, she seems harmless. We thought it best to present her for your judgment, your grace.” The guard spoke with a smooth and even tone, able to look at the elven man unflinchingly. Does one become accustomed to staring at the sun? They must if the guards can directly look at him.

“And so you deign to bring the mad woman before your lord?”

“Times are strange. She may be a gift from the Valar.”

A hush fell over the onlookers before a flurry of whispers filled the courtroom. The lord returned his attention to you, raising a single, inquisitive brow. He was assessing you, determining if there could be any truth to the guard’s words. It made you squirm under the weight of his eyes. They were too piercing and too invasive. He could see past your soul. Your deepest fears and thoughts were laid before him.

“Perhaps there is some merit to the words my guard speaks,” There was a lilt of amusement in his otherwise smooth, dulce voice. It nearly seemed mocking, the way he looked down on you. He leaned to the left side of his chair with his knuckles tucked under his sharp jaw, momentarily taking a more relaxed posture. Yet his gaze on you didn’t lighten; if anything, it became heavier.

“Have you been sent to us by the Gods?”

The throne room became quiet once more. 

Your heart hammered against your chest, a lump stuck in your throat. All eyes were on you, the undivided attention making you want to curl in on yourself. 

“I don’t know.” You mustered up the strength to speak, attempting to keep the fear drowning you out of your voice. Would he cast you out of the kingdom, leaving you to fend for yourself? You couldn’t survive in the woods alone, but you didn’t want to lie and be heralded as a sign of divine intervention. 

You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, the room’s walls closing in on you.

All there was to be done was hope he was as kind as fair.

He hummed in response, neither angry nor pleased. There was no grand statement or judgment, instead, he continued to inspect every detail of you. His eyes scanned you up and down in an almost clinical manner like you were a new art exhibit in his favorite museum. He took notice of your odd clothes, maintained teeth, and healthy hair. Strange for a human in these lands to be so… well groomed. Even with the mud that caked your body, you were cleaner than the other humans before you.

“You place me in a strange place. If I send you away, it may anger the Gods, yet if I allow you to stay, I may be dooming the very people who’ve put their belief in me.” He spoke in such a calm tone as if the fate of your life didn’t rest in his long fingers, each embellished with a ring. 

The anxiety made your body weigh a thousand pounds. You weren’t even sure your heart was beating, the impulse to check your pulse growing stronger. There was worry in your eyes, creases above your brows that were pulled together tightly. 

Yet you didn’t speak, unable to make your tongue form words. 

“Will you not plead your cause to me?” He leaned forward; both brows pulled upward, an almost challenging smirk pulling on his lips. 

Rendered speechless and playing the fool, you opened and closed your mouth as you tried to remember how to speak. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, leaning back into his seat, his smirk pulling back into a nearly disappointed frown. 

“Very well. I shall make the decision for you.” 

You prepared to be condemned to the wilds, thrown to the wolves who would surely tear you apart. Head lowered, eyes counting the reflections of sunlight inside the room. Tears threatened to fall, but you forced them away. You would face your imminent death with pride.

“You will stay here.

Gasps of surprise filled the room, followed by mutters of the courtesans. You made no such noise, head snapping up to meet the elven lord’s gaze. There was surprise evident in your wide-eyed gaze. You’d expected the worst, yet that was not what you’d been given. 

“In time, we will learn if the Gods truly sent you to us.”

He nodded at the guards around you, and they helped you stand. Shaking and nervous, the guards held your body up as they guided you from the throne room to what would become your quarters. But over your shoulder, you spared one last glance at the elven lord, his green eyes watching your form disappear. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar--” You stumbled over the elvish text, unable to translate the rest of the sentence. There was a crease above your furrowed brows and a slight frown on your face. 

It had only been two months since you were unceremoniously dropped here, yet it felt as if no time had passed, but not in a good way. You were like a newborn babe, stumbling in the dark as you attempted to gain your bearings. The faint throb in your head warned you of a headache, encouraging you to put the book down. A warning you didn't heed, you were stubborn, determined to prove you could assimilate. 

The court has been a dizzying experience to get accustomed to. Most courtesans treated you like a curiosity, a pretty bird for them to teach silly words and feed salted crackers. They were nice enough and greeted you with pleasant smiles, but it all felt patronizing. As if you were nothing but a simpleton child, but perhaps that’s just how they viewed you; elves were immortal, after all. Nevertheless, they have treated you kinder than expected, correcting your choppy Quenya with lyrical giggles and coy smiles. 

The giant oak doors swung open, startling you. Looking up, you watched as Maedhros swept through the library. He grabbed a few books from the shelves and went to a table opposite the room. His hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and his clothes were more casual than what he would don at court. Your eyes followed his form, only looking down when he briefly looked up from his book. 

Heat flared to your cheeks, eyes returning to the book before you. You haven’t spoken with him since your initial meeting. He’d never invited conversation, and you were too terrified to do so. Instead, you stole glances at him whenever the moment presented itself, content to daydream about the Maedhros turning his eyes to you. 

He’d say hello, inquiring about your stay in Himring. You’d answer him shyly, looking up at him through your lashes. So enchanted by your beauty and quiet whit as the conversation continued, he’d invite you to take a stroll with him around the gardens and then--

Your daydreams were cut short by the loud thump of a book falling. Turning, you watched as one of the library attendants scurried towards the fallen three or so books. A soft sigh left your mouth, and your attention returned to the book you were struggling through.

Picking up where you left off, you struggled through the same sentence. No matter how many times you re-read it, the translation wasn’t clicking. What did tenn’ mean again? A grunt escaped your mouth, the pulsing headache returning. You shut the book, perhaps harder than necessary, and opted to fiddle with the bracelets you wore. 

Was it even worth struggling through this silly language? Surely you’d return home sooner or later and this grand delusion would be broken.

Yet the longer you’d spent here, the less likely the prospect seemed. You poured over every map and searched every geographical book, and nothing seemed familiar to the home you’d known. 

Lost in your mind, you didn’t hear the scratch of a chair being pushed back nor the light padding of footsteps approaching your table. Only when you felt someone’s presence beside you and red hair loosely hanging did you look up? Maedhros had stood beside you, leaned over to be at eye level with you. His expression was perfectly neutral, not portraying a single thought in his head. Tucked behind his back was his left hand, which he’d lost many years ago. There were whispers in court about how it happened, being hung from a cliff for thirty years. How terrible that must’ve been.

“You seem frustrated.” His common was not as smooth as his elvish, yet speaking a common language with someone was nice. Most of the elves here only spoke their native tongue. 

“It’s nothing, your grace,” you looked away from his gaze that was entirely too invasive. You didn’t want to risk that he really could read your thoughts; you didn’t want him to see how often they lingered on him. 

“Your lie would be convincing if you hadn’t spent the past hour stuck on the same page,” he breezily replied, pulling up a chair to sit beside you. 

Has an hour already passed? 

And how did he know you hadn’t flipped pages? Had he paid that much attention…? 

“Some words are confusing in their translations; no need to be concerned.” You didn’t want him to burden himself with such a silly thing. This wasn’t something a lord needed to concern himself with. There was also a flush of embarrassment creeping up on you. You wanted him to see you as competent and intelligent, not fumbling over simple translations.

“Allow me to offer insight. It is my native tongue, after all.” 

You stared at him for a moment, lips pursed. His expression never wavered, and you couldn’t think of any reason to dissuade him from helping you. Apprehensive, you grabbed the book you’d previously pushed away. There was a light shake in your body from nerves, and you prayed to whatever god there was that Maedhros wouldn’t notice. 

Flipping through the page, more delicate with it than usual to avoid Maedhros thinking you disrespectful, you pause on the last page you’d read. You point at the sentence you were struggling with and push the book toward Maedhros. 

He leaned forward to read the sentence, and you took the opportunity to appreciate his side profile. His facial structure was sharp, with a tall, noble nose and a strong jawline. Pristine and void of imperfections, he was even more beautiful this close up. With each breath taken, the warm, heady cologne was enough to send you into a dizzy spell. It wasn’t fair for one person to be so…perfect. 

He whispered the sentence under his breath, then straightened his posture. As he did, you moved your eyes from his face, looking at the book as if that was where your eyes always were. His eyes met yours as he began to speak. 

“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta.”

You mimicked his pronunciation, awkwardly fumbling over the words as you did. The faint whisper of a smile appeared on his lips. However, as soon as it was there, it was gone. 

“Do you know what it means?”

“No, I was having trouble translating.” 

This time he allowed his lips to turn upward into a faint smile, eyes glimmering in the dim lighting of the room. 

“It’s no wonder. This is in Sindarin. My understanding is you’ve been learning Quenya.” He reached over and grabbed the book, pulling it closer to him. 

“What’s the difference?” 

“Quenya is an older dialect, though many of the Noldar still use it, whereas Sindarin is a newer version of the Eldar language.”

You didn’t respond, simply nodding your head as you fiddled with the fabric of your dress. Maedhros closed the book much more gently than you initially did, though he made no move to stand.

“I apologize; I have yet to inquire about your stay here. Have you found the accommodations to your liking?” 

His question was nearly word for word what you fantasized he would say to you. Was he teasing you? Could he truly read your every thought, or was it just a coincidence?

“They’ve been great, better than I could’ve hoped.” You were nervous, so nervous it wasn’t even a joke anymore. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“And how do you find yourself settling in?” He seemed so relaxed and at ease; why can’t you be more like that. 

“I’m getting accustomed, but it’s all so different from the home I knew. I will admit, it is refreshing to speak with someone in a language I am familiar with.” 

Maedhros pauses, slightly tilting his head to the side, something flashing across his face.

“Forgive me; I did not think about how few people share a common language with you.” 

You shook your head once again afraid of accidentally offending him. “It’s no issue; if anything, it forces my Quenyan to improve.” You wanted to be reassuring, to show that you were more than comfortable with your current circumstances. The last thing you needed was the king thinking you were being difficult or ungrateful. 

“But it must be frustrating not being able to convey your thoughts clearly.”

You merely shrugged in response. It was, and sometimes it made you want to scream and break something, but you couldn’t admit that. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

Maedhros hummed in response and pushed his chair back, now standing at full height. 

“I must part from you, but perhaps we could meet here again tomorrow, if only so I may offer my translating abilities.”

A tentative smile appeared on your face, and you nodded in agreement. Maedhros tilted his head in a slight nod and turned, exiting the room with a flourish. 

Only once you were left alone did you let a high and girlish giggle leave your mouth. It echoed in the quiet library, and unbeknownst to you, Maedhros heard it on the other side of the door. 

And so a new tradition began as you and Maedhros met in the library every evening. You’d spend hours with one another, and within the first week, the excuse of studying linguistics had been forgotten. Enraptured in the presence of one another, you were both entirely unaware of the impending war.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

 You were waiting by the gardens. 

Wearing a new dress, fiddling with the bracelets that adorned your wrists. You were so nervous yet equally excited. Maedhros had broken tradition, and instead of meeting you in the library, he asked to meet you near the gardens. 

Your heart was in your throat; nervous goosebumps were all over your skin. It was truly as if all of your fantasies had come to life. Light footsteps echoed on the marbled flooring, and it made you turn. Maedhros, your intended partner, walked towards you, taking long strides. 

A smile was placed on your lips, and Maedhros matched it. Long ago had he shed the detached demeanor he so often presented to the rest of the world. Instead, he was open with his emotions - both good and bad - allowing himself to be vulnerable with you in a way so few people have witnessed. 

“You came,” he spoke as he closed the distance separating the two of you.

“How could I refuse?” Your smile widened, eyes in the shape of crescent moons. He laughed, low and smooth, offering his arm to you. Your hand wrapped around the crook of his arm, and it fits as if your hand was met for his. 

“Shall we?”

You motioned with your hand towards the gardens. “We shall.”  

The two of you walked in near perfect sync, wandering through the gardens, making quiet conversation with explosive banter. He was not as stern and rigid as he once appeared. With the moonlight reflected in his eyes and the stars making him shine, he seemed more like an innocent child than a hardened warrior burdened with war and trauma. 

You wanted to see this side of him every moment of every day. To see his eyes resemble glass and to hear his hearty chuckle as he threw his head back. Eventually, you gave up the guise of being interested in the flowers, even though they were quite beautiful. All your attention was focused on Maedhros, a sight you were determined to imprint in your brain. 

If you were to wake up tomorrow, back in your old bed, in your old apartment, you’d be happy to remember this moment and this moment only. You’d dedicate the rest of your life to writing poems about him, painting portraits, and writing overly embellished love stories. Anything to commemorate Maedhros and everything you’d wanted with him. Even if he didn’t return your affections quite as fiercely. 

“Tell me about your home. You never speak of it.” 

Your expression fell, your smile dimmed, and your eyes downturned. Home. You hadn’t really thought of it as much. It used to be a constant thought, a thing you wished on every falling star to return to. But now… You couldn’t remember the last time you made that wish. 

“It’s…different.” You fumbled over your words. How do you explain something you yourself hardly understand?

“In what way?” Maedhros pries, wanting to know more information. You’d be flattered in any circumstance or with any different topic. Yet the subject of home was complicated and one you hadn’t dared to broach with anyone.

“In every way.” A breezy laugh escaped your mouth, hoping to distract how tense you suddenly became. 

“I’d like to hear it all if you’d be willing to tell me.” 

“I--” You stuttered over the words, a lump caught in your throat. You wanted to tell Maedhros to bear your entire soul to him, but an inkling of fear gave you pause. Would he deem you a mad woman? Distancing himself and becoming as aloof as he once was.

Yet the two of you had grown so close as of late, and if you’d ever hoped to be more than friends, it would only be fair, to be honest.

“I don’t think I’m from this time.” You began, unsure of the best way to start.

Maedhros stopped, turning to face you. You nearly stumble but manage to catch yourself, meeting Maedhros’ gaze. 

“In what way?” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pressing your hand into a fist. Fortune favors the bold. You have to be bold if you want this.

“I believe when I was dropped here, I was dropped in the past. My world is so different and so much more advanced in terms of technology.”

He gave you a hard stare, not speaking for a few minutes. The moments of silence dragged on, and you were half tempted to flee and never return. Yet your body had become so heavy, and your feet were bolted to the ground. There would be no escape. 

“I don’t know why, but I believe you.” He spoke slowly, as if unsure of his own words as he said them. “At the very least, I believe you believe in what you say, and you have given me no reason to distrust you.”

Your breath that had been caught in your throat was suddenly released as your body slackened. The wide grin you previously wore returned to your face, all the worry lines and creases on your face melting away. 

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” You were breathless, a weight you hadn’t even realized was weighing you down, relieved from your chest. 

“I can only imagine how you must’ve felt, how confused you were.” His tone was soft and took a somber note, his eyes closer to an emerald green than the light color they previously were. 

“I managed to get by.”

Maedhros nodded, a smile tugging on the edges of his lips. 

“Well, please indulge me then, and tell me all the wonders of your home. I’m sure you’ve longed to do as such; you assimilated so quickly, I never would’ve thought you were from a completely different time.” 

You stared at him a moment longer, a breath caught in your throat. Yet this time, it wasn’t from nerves or anxiety; no, the pounding in your chest was for an entirely different reason. It had everything to do with the softness in Maedhros’ eyes as he looked at you. 

And so you indulged his every question and whim, the two of you wrapping around the garden a million times, talking until the moon was at the highest point in the sky, and all was silent. 

You were exhausted, holding back yawns every other sentence, but you pushed through, soaking in the time with Maedhros. Who knew when you’d get another chance? But eventually, he caught on, noticing the droop of your eyes and the lethargic pace you walked with. 

He guided you back to your chambers with all the chivalry gone from your world. You expected him to say farewell and give a single nod, as he always did when parting ways. He did bid you farewell, his smile warm and vibrant, and he did dip his head into a nod. 

But he also placed a kiss on the very edge of your lips before turning and disappearing down the hall. 

Frozen, you stood there for who knew how long, face awestruck and hand resting where his lips previously had been. 

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Time had seemed nothing more than an illusion. 

It seemed to move around you, yet you were the same, unchanged by it. Physically, you may appear the same, yet everything is so entirely…different. Maedhros made quick work of letting you know he intended to court you, and who would you be to deny it. 

All the formalities and technicalities that came with courting royalty was dizzying, but Maedhros was always there to center you. Strolls through the gardens and long evenings in the libraries; it made everything more bearable. It was also worth the stiffness that came with court to see the child-like grin that would light up Maedhros’ face when it was just the two of you. 

But doubt was a terrible thing. 

You constantly feared you wouldn’t live up to not only his expectations, but the expectations of his people. You were a human among elves, and despite not aging, you knew the court talked. Their fascination with you long died out, and anyone who believed you were sent by the Gods was the minority. They hid sharp words behind pretty smiles and musical laughter, but you could see through the fakeness all the same. Their cruel words only helped reinforce the doubts you already had.

And you weren’t the only one weighed down by it.

Maedhros was a far cry from what he used to be. Before the oath, before the torment, and before all the death at the hands of his kin. Could he really be so selfish as to tie you down to him? You were blind to this of course. You knew he suffered from PTSD and trauma, but even as you held him under the light of the moon, you were never aware of just how deep his fears went. 

How when he wept in your arms, it wasn’t only for what he suffered, but what he may suffer when you decide you want better. When you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you. 

His anxiety twisted into something harsh, manifesting as anger rather than sadness. Yet even as he lashed out, you stayed. Your face would remain perfectly passive, seemingly unbothered by it. 

It was another one of those nights.

You both sat on the balcony attached to his chambers, feet dangling over the edge. It was improper for you to be in his bed chambers, especially so late at night, but you couldn’t care about court etiquette at a moment like this. 

Your arms were wrapped around Maedhros, keeping him as close to you as physically possible. His head rested in the crook of your neck, eyes shut as his breathing matched the rhythm of your heart. All was quiet except the occasional sniffle from Maedhros. But after a few moments he was the one to break it. 

He pulled himself away from you, not an inch of his body touching yours. His relaxed posture suddenly seemed so tense and proper; an austere expression falling over his face. The sudden change was enough to give you whiplash, all the worst of your insecurities coming to head.

A moment passed before Maedhros stood, returning to his chambers. Tentatively, you stood, following after him. What made him suddenly change, as if a light had been switched?

He walked across the room, to the decanter holding a red wine. Maedhros took his time pouring it into a crystal glass before bringing it to his lips and nearly downing it all in one drink. He sent it down and refilled the glass, continuing the same pattern. 

The entire time he refused to meet your gaze. Awkwardly you say at the end of his bed, intertwining your fingers in an attempt to distract yourself. It hadn’t worked, all your fears growing the longer Maedhros held the silence. Was it a contest? Was he waiting for you to poke and prod?

“We should dissolve our courtship.” 

If you hadn’t already been sitting, you could’ve fallen to your knees. One simple sentence, that was all it took to make the past years come crumbling to nothing. 

“What?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Why?”

Another glass of wine drank and another glass filled before he dared to answer.

“While I have enjoyed your company, I do not believe us suited to continue any further,” he said. Even still, he refused to meet your eyes. His hand gripped the table he stood before, his grip so tight you were half surprised it didn’t crack under the weight of it. 

“So that’s it.” Your voice was like stone; hard, cold, and unwavering. “You decide to end our courtship, yet you can’t even look me in the eye as you do it.” 

Maedhros didn’t move from his position, you however, stood from the bed. 

All the anger and frustration, needling insecurities and self doubt came bubbling to the surface. You didn’t bother to push it down, or rationalize it so much you can’t even feel anymore. It came together in one chaotic concoction and exploded. 

“Look at me.” You weren’t shouting, but there was force behind your tone. A warning and a threat all in one. Yet Maedhros still kept his back to you. You took three more steps towards him, nearly behind him. 

“I said look at me.” The volume of your voice became louder, the stone facade breaking and cracks of desperation shone through you. You couldn’t understand why he was doing this, you’d thought he loved you the same way you loved him.

Had it all been a mistake, were there signs and clues you’d missed along the way?

Finally Maedhros turned to face you, and within moments all of your anger dissipated. Tears streamed down his cheeks, unshed ones exaggerating his red rimmed eyes. He looked absolutely broken, the worst you’d ever seen him. 

“Why are you doing this?” You dropped the facade of nonchalance. Tears began to well in your eyes, a slight waver in your voice as you spoke.

Still he didn’t speak. 

You closed the distance separating the two of you, grabbing his hand in yours, but he pushed you away. Still you attempted to grab it again and this time he didn’t bother rejecting your touch. 

“Mae please, what is the real reason for this?” You looked up at him like a doe, so wide-eyed and teary. Any shred of conviction he previously held onto crumbled as he looked at your face. 

He thought marrying you would be selfish, but perhaps this was the more selfish option?

“You deserve better. I can’t give you what you deserve.” 

A crease formed on your forehead as your brows furrowed. 

“Fuck it.” 

Maedhros blinked, stunned by your brash words. For a moment he thought he might’ve misheard, he’d never heard you speak like that. But it would appear he hadn’t misheard you.

“What?”

“I said, fuck it. I love you, and you love me, and god dammit, if you’re not best for me then I don’t want better.”

You moved one of your hands from his, cupping his chin, forcing Maedhros to meet your gaze, an attempt to show the sincerity in every word spoken.

“I love you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Your words hung in the room, imprinted on the floorboards and the walls.

The Maedhros’ lips were on yours. The kiss was quick and fervent, expressing everything he’d never be able to put into words. All the love and fear that clung to him like a shadow; his entire soul was laid before you. It was dizzying - you were drowning at sea, and Maedhros was your only lifeboat. 

You clung to his form, never able to get close enough, one of your hands wrapped around his lithe form while the other reached towards the nape of his neck, gently tugging on his hair. He groaned against your lips and you swallowed the noise, deepening the kiss. 

Closer, closer, you needed to be closer. 

He pulled you just as tight as you were pulling him, just as desperate if not more so than you were. His one arm wrapped around your waist and held you against his body. His scent was intoxicating, that same heady cologne he’d been wearing when you first spoke in the library. Your teeth clacked against his, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You needed him to know that every word you’d said, you’d meant. 

There wasn’t a universe you wanted to exist in without him. 

And while that thought terrified you, you repressed it, opting to deal with it later. 

Maedhros needed to know you were all in, and you’d spent the rest of eternity convincing him if need be. 

At some point he pulled back, the rise of fall of both of your chest and heavy breathing the only sound in the room. 

His hand moved from your waist and into your hair, finger combing through it. There were stars in his eyes that you surely replicated. 

“Forgive me, I was being foolish. I don’t want our courtship to end, you’re the woman I want to marry. I never want to leave your side and I promise to never send you away, I swear it.” 

A smile, small and delicate, lit up your features as you frantically nodded in response. Maedhros huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead against yours, muttering elvish endearments against your skin. 

You closed your eyes, basking in his presence and the musical sound of his voice. 

Oh to freeze this moment and live in it forever. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

 Everything was silent and calm, but not in a way that would be soothing and leave behind a sense of weightlessness. Instead, it was harsh and grating, mile-high walls building up around you as you subconsciously prepared for...something. Anything that would cause a ripple and disturb this illusion that encased you. 

You couldn’t deny it anymore and continue to make excuses for what was so clearly right in front of you. War had brought devastation, and with that came change, and with change came the end of a life you’d built. For so long, Maedhros was able to ignore the Oath he and his brothers had sworn. The Silmarils were forgotten but only for a time. Word had reached Ossiriand that the son of Beren and Luthien had inherited the Silmaril his parents had recovered. 

Maedhros, once noble and as bright as the sun, now appeared worn and haggard, his eyes bearing the weight of a consuming madness. Restlessness gnawed at his soul as his insatiable quest for the Silmarils tightened its grip on his heart. 

It was only a matter of time before the bubble burst, and you could no longer delude yourself into thinking he was still the same man you fell in love with. 

“Maedhros,” you said quietly in hopes of not sparking another argument. “Are you certain this is the wise decision?” 

He turned to you, his eyes stern and calculating. It was a stark difference from the love and warmth they used to be lit by. Instead of looking into the sun, you were staring into a fiery furnace.

“It is my duty, as well as my brothers, to honor the Oath we swore to our father. I have no doubt this is the right course of action.” He sounded so detached when he spoke to you. It was the same way he talked to commanding officers and diplomats, not how he should speak to his wife. Not the way he used to talk to you. 

The fear you’d felt, the drop of your heart each time you looked into his eyes, intensified. He was teetering on the precipice of madness. You bit your lip, mulling over the right words to keep him from falling off the ledge. 

“I understand your quest,” your voice trembled with slight trepidation despite your best efforts to keep it even. “But Maedhros, the toll it’s taking on you…I fear for your well being.” 

His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration, impatience, and slight madness evident in his gaze. It made you nearly flinch, but you held your ground. 

“You doubt me?” His voice had an edge so sharp it cut you like a knife. It intensified your anxiety, but you swallowed it, steeling yourself against your nerves. 

“I don’t doubt your intentions, Maedhros,” she replied, her voice steady now, “but I fear for what this obsession is doing to you.” 

Your words seemed to strike a chord within him, his anger momentarily giving way to a flicker of doubt. A moment of clarity within his addled mind. “You think I don’t know the burden I bear?” he murmured, his voice softening now, but the anger still lingered beneath the surface. 

“I know, my love,” you replied, much softer this time. You crossed the room’s threshold, gingerly sweeping your knuckles across his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, momentarily allowing your soothing touch to wash over him. “But I can’t bear to see you suffer like this. Your people need you. I need you. Not just as a leader but as a husband too.”

His eyes opened, and the green within them softened as his anger began to wane. Yet the turmoil was still evident within him. He was a man fighting two wars, one war with the forces of Morgoth and the second war within himself. 

“It’s not easy for me either, and I curse the day I swore that oath.” His confession made the flicker of hope within you get bigger. Perhaps you’d successfully pulled him from the ledge. “But I cannot turn away from my destiny.” 

Just as soon as it appeared, the hope was snuffed out; stubborn and proud, you now cursed what you used to admire about him most. 

“But at what cost, Maedhros? The Oath has led to nothing but tragedy and death. You are losing yourself in this darkness, forsaking all that once mattered. Look around you! Our people suffer, our family crumbles, and still, you are blinded by this madness!” Desperate and pleading, you tried to force him to see reason. 

As if your touch was made of acid, Maedhros pulled away and sidestepped you, a sea separating you from him. The anger returned to his eyes as they hardened once more. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, and it was difficult to remember if it had ever even been there, to begin with. 

“And for what? For some gems that shine prettily,” you continued; he needed to hear your words, to taste the venom behind them. If he held even an ounce of love for you, he would heed your warning. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, lost amidst the blaze of anger that threatened to burn the whole world. 

“You know nothing of the weight I carry,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a freshly sharpened sword. “You are my wife, not an advisor; quit constantly questioning me and stand by my side as you were intended to.”

The words caught in your throat faded, replaced with a bitter taste of the last bit of love and hope you held for Maedhros dying. Your eyes fell to the floor; there was nothing left to do. The butterflies he incited within you had turned to ash. Everything the two of you built crumbled, and Maedhros gladly helped, knocking down the pillars it once stood upon. 

The Maedhros you loved was long gone; what stood before you now was a shell of the man he once was.

“If that’s the way you feel.” It was all you uttered before exiting the room, leaving Maedhros in the dimly lit room with nothing but anger and regret. He wanted to call out to you, to beg you to stay and reassure you he hadn’t meant it. But the grip of madness was unyielding, and even in the depths of sorrow, it would not relent.

The Silmarils that had once been a beacon of hope now seemed to mock him, and the emptiness in his heart felt like a chasm he could never fill.

In the stillness of the night, as Maedhros lay slumbering, you stole away into vast open fields. Cloaked in the darkness that came with night, you ran, nowhere in particular, just so long as it was as far away from Maedhros. Your heart was heavy with the weight of your decision and the finality of the ending of a love you thought would last forever. Yet the echoes of the argument lingered; his harsh words and austere face were a haunting reminder of what had been lost. 

“It’s better this way,” you told yourself. 

You would carry the memory of Maedhros until your dying day, praying that he might find solace and release from his Oath. But you couldn’t count on it, and you wouldn’t waste your days hoping he’d change. 

“It’s better this way,” you repeated once more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The warm glow of the sun was waning, warning you of the impending cloak of night. 

You stood on the cliffside, staring into the waters below, feet buried in the overgrowth and dirt. The air was cool, and the world was quiet. So serene and perfect that it was hard to believe it was real. You burrowed your feet deeper into the dirt, desperate to ground yourself into reality. 

The mellowness of your surroundings eased the grief within your heart. War was over, and the suffering you’d endured was but a distant dream. Residing in the lands of Aman, you could forget your life had been anything other than something full of beautiful poetic prose. 

Yet it was hard to let go of all of your pain. But as time passed, it became twisted, no longer the stabbing pain of a needle. It poured from you into a melancholia that you would use to paint all your skies a dark blue. It lingered in the edges of your landscape, blurred in the edges and nearly unseen by anyone except for you. 

A soft hum escaped your mouth as you allowed the sound of cascading waves to fall over you. Eyes fluttered shut, the faint mist of water touching your body. 

You only opened your eyes once the sound of footsteps was heard. Your posture stiffened, ears sharpening to hone in on the sounds of the intruder. No one dared to intrude upon you, and if they did, it was preemptively planned, never just a sudden visit. 

Slowly, you turned, but you were still surprised even though you didn’t know what to expect. 

Standing before you, as tall and proud as the day you’d first met, was Maedhros. He was vibrant and real, only a hint of tentative uncertainty marring his neutral expression. He stopped a few paces away, silent as you took him in. Framed by the soft glow of the golden rays of sunlight, he was just as you remembered him, yet with an unmistakable touch of time. 

It wasn’t in the traditional ways of humans; there were no wrinkles and lines imprinted on his face. It was all in the eyes, the centuries of wisdom, pain, and suffering making them heavier than they once were. 

He’d died. You knew that. He cast himself into the fire alongside his brother when he could no longer possess the Silmarils. It was said they burned him upon contact and it was a fate too terrible for him to live. You’d wept for days on end upon learning his fate. 

And yet here he was, as real as the day you’d met. 

“Maedhros.” His name hung in the air as if you were unsure it was truly him. He simply nodded, an affirmation that he was really here, standing before you.  

Silence stretched between the two of you, your eyes locked in a gaze that spoke the words your lips couldn’t find. There was a tempest of emotions within you - joy, relief, curiosity, and a lingering sense of hurt you couldn’t fully let go of. 

And then, like the first rays of sunrise, a smile graced Maedhros’ lips, and it was as if the years spent separated vanished. The arguments disappeared with them, leaving only an overwhelming happiness to see him standing before you. Your strides were sure as you stepped towards Maedhros, and he helped to close the gap, your arms weaving around his body as you embraced him for the first time in years.

He smelled just how you’d remembered, and you buried your face into his chest, determined to remember how his arm felt around your waist. 

“Is it really you?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and delight.

You felt the rumble of Maedhros’ slight laughter as he nodded his head. “ Yes, it’s me, my love.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough that you could see his face but close enough that you could feel the warmth he radiated. “I- I can’t believe it; how is this even possible?” You were nearly out of breath as you spoke, eyes searching for answers within his. 

“A twist of fate, I suppose. I was released from the Halls of Mandos, my time of repentance done.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his grip on you tightening. “I should have listened to you the night that you left. You were right, and I was just to--”

You cut him off by placing a searing kiss on his lips. His words were forgotten, the long speech he’d probably been preparing since the moment you left cut off. There would be an eternity for forgiveness and apologetic words. Right now, you just wanted to remember how his lips had felt on yours.

He melted into the kiss, his lips just as sweet as you’d remembered them to be. The years melted into oblivion; it was just you and Maedhros, with nothing severing the love you held. The kiss was a mixture of vehement remorse and a promise to never forsake the promise of love he’d made to you. Time slowed as the two of you savored the moment, fully immersed in the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips. 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you and Maedhros stayed tangled in one another. You’d both been given a second chance, something you hadn’t dared to think would be possible. And yet here he was, so intertwined with you it was hard to see where you ended and he began. It was a chance to reignite a love that had never fully died out.

[nenyabusiness]

"Arda Unmarred"

Tolkien’s legendarium is full of unreliable narrators. “The Silmarillion”, for example, is based on the lore of the Elves, and “The Lord of the Rings” is based on a fictional book written by Hobbits. In these stories, Melkor, the fallen Vala who later goes by the name Morgoth, is the power-hungry being that brought evil to Middle-earth. According to the Elves, the Valar refer to the world as “Arda Marred” – a name based on the assumption that Ilúvatar’s original design, “Arda Unmarred”, has to have been free from evil.

I use the phrase “unreliable narrators”, because we don’t know for sure what Eru Ilúvatar was truly planning when he created the Music of the Ainur. Not even the Valar, who are described as being the offspring of his thought, could fully understand his vision. So, can we really say for sure that there ever was, or ever will be, an “Arda Unmarred”? Was Melkor’s initiation of the cycle of evil in Middle-earth unintentional, or was it a part of Ilúvatar’s design all along? Those are the questions that this short essay is going to explore.

The creation of the world is described in “Ainulindalë”. The story has gone through multiple changes over the years, but its foundations remain the same. Eä, the universe, is sung into existence by the Ainur. Melkor, gifted with the most power and knowledge of them all, tries to introduce his own ideas into the song, but Ilúvatar simply incorporates the discord into his Music. Melkor is incapable of creating anything of his own, since he is ultimately an offspring of Ilúvatar’s own thought. This is later stated by Ilúvatar himself.

“And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.” (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The statement is repeated again when the Ainur are shown the world that their Music has created.

“Behold your Music! This is your minstrelsy; and each of you shall find contained herein, amid the design that I set before you, all those things which it may seem that he himself devised or added. And thou, Melkor, wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory.” (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The Ainur learn much about this new world from Ilúvatar, but their god also withholds a lot of information, especially regarding his Children – the Elves and Men.

Yet some things there are that they cannot see, neither alone nor taking counsel together; for to none but himself has Ilúvatar revealed all that he has in store, and in every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling, for they do not proceed from the past. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

For the Children of Ilúvatar were conceived by him alone; and they came with the third theme, and were not in the theme which Ilúvatar propounded at the beginning, and none of the Ainur had part in their making. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

These statements prove that not even the Valar can be considered fully reliable narrators. They never saw the full design, and their knowledge of the fate of Elves and Men is ultimately limited.

Later in the chapter, we find out that there’s another layer of unreliability in this story.

For what has here been declared is come from the Valar themselves, with whom the Eldalië spoke in the land of Valinor, and by whom they were instructed; but little would the Valar ever tell of the wars before the coming of the Elves. Yet it is told among the Eldar that the Valar endeavoured ever, in despite of Melkor, to rule the Earth and to prepare it for the coming of the Firstborn; and they built lands and Melkor destroyed them; valleys they delved and Melkor raised them up; mountains they carved and Melkor threw them down; seas they hollowed and Melkor spilled them; and naught might have peace or come to lasting growth, for as surely as the Valar began a labour so would Melkor undo it or corrupt it. And yet their labour was not all in vain; and though nowhere and in no work was their will and purpose wholly fulfilled, and all things were in hue and shape other than the Valar had at first intended, slowly nonetheless the Earth was fashioned and made firm. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The phrasing of this paragraph reveals that “Ainulindalë” is not a story told by an omniscient narrator – it’s Elven lore. Melkor is depicted as the culprit behind all of Arda’s flaws, but since we now know that it’s an Elven story, we also have to take possible bias into consideration.

Even here, however, is it clearly stated that Melkor was incapable of creating anything of his own, and that the Valar didn’t know every detail of Ilúvatar’s design. It’s also worth noting that it’s the will and purpose of the Valar that were never wholly fulfilled. This is also reiterated in a similar description of the formation of Arda, told in “The Annals of Aman”.

… And the shape of Arda and the symmetry of its waters and its lands was marred in that time, so that the first designs of the Valar were never after restored. (Morgoth’s Ring: The Annals of Aman)

At this point in the story, Ilúvatar is no longer an active participant. The Valar are acting on their own, based on the vast yet still limited information that’s been given to them. The greatest fears of Elves and Men – fading and dying – are blamed on Arda being marred by Melkor. This is clearly expressed in “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth”:

Now the Eldar learned that, according to the lore of the Edain, Men believed that their hröar were not by right nature short-lived, but had been made so by the malice of Melkor. It was not clear to the Eldar whether Men meant: by the general marring of Arda (which they themselves held to be the cause of the waning of their own hröar); or by some special malice against Men as Men that was achieved in the dark ages before the Edain and the Eldar met in Beleriand; or by both. (Morgoth’s Ring: Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth)

Valar, Elves, and Men alike believe that they live in Arda Marred, and that Melkor is the sole culprit behind the cycle of evil that plagues Middle-earth. As readers, we’re led to believe that this is true, but Tolkien does occasionally remind us that this is a story told by unreliable narrators. He himself considers Melkor a Lucifer-like figure, but he also recognizes the differences between his Catholic faith and the universe he created.  

I suppose a difference between this Myth and what may be perhaps called Christian mythology is this. In the latter the Fall of Man is subsequent to and a consequence (though not a necessary l consequence) of the 'Fall of the Angels': a rebellion of created free-will at a higher level than Man; but it is not clearly held (and in many versions is not held at all) that this affected the 'World' in its nature: evil was brought in from outside, by Satan. In this Myth the rebellion of created free-will precedes creation of the World (Eä); Eä has in it, subcreatively introduced, evil, rebellious, discordant elements of its own nature already when the ‘Let it Be’ was spoken. The Fall or corruption, therefore, of all things in it and all inhabitants of it, was a possibility if not inevitable. (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien: 212.)

So, here we are again. Evil was created before Melkor descended into Eä. This raises even more questions about Ilúvatar’s original design – the supposed “Arda Unmarred”. There was evil in Arda before Melkor entered it. Does that mean that Ilúvatar knew that the world that he was about to send his Children into was already marred? Or was it a part of his design all along?

What we do know for sure is that there was always evil in Eä. We’re presented with another perspective in “Myths Transformed”, which puts even more emphasis on Melkor being a catalyst rather than the source of that evil.

Out of the discords of the Music – sc. not directly out of either of the themes, Eru's or Melkor's, but of their dissonance with regard one to another – evil things appeared in Arda, which did not descend from any direct plan or vision of Melkor: they were not 'his children'; and therefore, since all evil hates, hated him too. (Morgoth’s Ring: Myths Transformed)

Another important aspect of Melkor’s role in the supposed marring of Arda is the evil’s independence. As previously stated, the cycle started before his descent into Eä, and it continues after he’s been thrust into the Timeless Void at the end of the First Age.

One of the reasons for his self-weakening is that he has given to his 'creatures', Orcs, Balrogs, etc. power of recuperation and multiplication. So that they will gather again without further specific orders. Part of his native creative power has gone out into making an independent evil growth out of his control. (Morgoth’s Ring: Myths Transformed)

Yet the lies of Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest day. (The Silmarillion: Quenta Silmarillion)

When Melkor is defeated, Sauron takes his place, upholding the cycle of evil.

The servants of Sauron were routed and dispersed, yet they were not wholly destroyed; and though many Men turned now from evil and became subject to the heirs of Elendil, yet many more remembered Sauron in their hearts and hated the kingdoms of the West. The Dark Tower was levelled to the ground, yet its foundations remained, and it was not forgotten. (The Silmarillion: Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age)

This is where Tolkien decides to end his grand saga about Middle-earth. Sauron is defeated, but evil is not. Months before his death, however, he started a draft of a story taking place about a century into the Fourth Age called “The New Shadow”. He eventually decided to scrap it, but the parts he did write indicate that evil still lingers in Middle-earth after the end of “The Lord of the Rings”.

He halted in the narrow passage that ran through the house, and it seemed that he was wrapped in a blackness: not a glimmer of twilight of the world outside remained there. Suddenly he smelt it, or so it seemed, though it came as it were from within outwards to the sense: he smelt the old Evil and knew it for what it was. (Morgoth’s Ring: “The New Shadow”)

The cycle of evil continues, even though Melkor no longer has any influence over the world. The Arda we see in Tolkien’s universe has always been marred – always, or never. These texts show that the concept of “Arda Unmarred” was most likely an invention of the Valar, or possibly the Elves – unreliable narrators with a desperate need for an explanation for why their world is full of evil. Ilúvatar’s original design was known to him and him alone, and Melkor was always a part of it.

Arda is simply Arda.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Meleth Nín (My Love)

Summary: The very future of Middle Earth may hang in the balance, but a quiet night allows thoughts to stray toward questions of a more personal nature.

Pairing: Legolas Thranduilion x elf!Reader/OC

Warnings: Pining, female language used for reader.

I wrote this a couple summers ago during my brief but intense LOTR phase. "Enelya" is the Elvish name I got from a name generator as a kid so I used it here 😁. Apologies for the length, I got massively carried away. This IS supposed to be x reader, I just wrote it before I was comfortable writing in 2nd person.

(Translations of Elvish phrases at the end)

It is my turn for first watch tonight, an assignment that I do not mind even during normal times, and that I am almost bittersweetly grateful for on this night. I have much on my mind that needs settling, and somehow, I do not think that listening to the grating snores of the sons of Gloin and Denethor would give me more peace than the crisp night air. 

The surrounding woods are still, nothing moving about in the underbrush that shouldn’t be, and I allow my guard a chance at rest, turning my attention to the stars instead of the trees. Crouched where I am on a wide branch, I have a perfect window through to the deep ebony expanse of the sky, and a strange blend of homesickness and excitement blazes briefly through my chest. The stars are strange here, arranged differently than they are back in the Greenwood, yet a few familiar individuals still flicker amongst foreign constellations. 

It reminds me of the first time Legolas coaxed me into climbing his favorite tree back home so I could see the stars. I will never forget the wonder I felt as he pulled me through the last layer of obscuring leaves and the sky unfolded before me, rolling on forever. I’d seen the stars many times in Imladris, but they were different there, blessed with a sense of safety and serenity that everything beneath the watchful eyes of Elrond felt. 

With Thranduilion, high in the crown of the wood, balanced on the very threshold of the sky, with nothing anchoring me except his steady hand holding mine, it suddenly seemed I could reach out and touch the Valar themselves. I remember laughing, simply because no other reaction could express what I felt. Thranduilion laughed beside me; it was late, we were the only two still out after a hunt, and I still am not entirely sure why he took me up there. 

Whatever the reason, that instance changed many things for me. It sparked in me something older and fiercer than I knew, some desire for more than what I had there in the Greenwood, much as I loved it. Some yearning which prompted me to accompany my Prince along on this solemn venture, wherever it leads. 

I’ve tried not to admit it, but that night started changing the way I saw him as well. 

Someone approaches, passage no more than a whisper, only slightly less silent than one of my own people, and there is only one it could be. No guard is needed around one I’ve known since we were both children. 

“Estel.” 

“Mae govannen, Enelya.” He leans against my branch, supported on crossed arms. The others call him Strider, or Aragorn, but to me he will always be my Estel, the companion I spent a couple of decades with after my childhood, before my mother’s people sent for me to return to the Greenwood. Elrond looked after the both of us when our mothers died, and besides my Prince and hunting partner, Estel knows me better than any being in all of Arda. 

Silence hangs between us, draped across the strange stars, until he brushes it aside like a curtain of cobwebs. “What troubles you, Gwathel nín?” 

“Who said I was troubled, Gwador nín?” 

“Your face does, for one,” he replies, voice wry. 

“Manen?” 

“Well, you won’t look at me, Mellon nín. That’s usually a telling sign I’m right and you don’t want to admit it.” He gives no sign of letting up with his persistence. 

I sigh and glance down, taking in the familiar grizzled face and sharp gray eyes. “Mar bedithach, Estel?” 

“I’ll leave when you unburden yourself. I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t already heard from anyone else on this journey. If you miss the Greenwood, or are having a difficult time restraining yourself from stabbing several members of this fine Fellowship, I assure you, you are not weak, nor are you alone.” White teeth flash in a crooked grin, and I can’t help returning it. 

“Those are both excellent guesses, and I admit to you that such thoughts have passed through my mind on multiple occasions. However,” I cast my gaze back up to the heavens, “I highly doubt that anyone else in this…most distinguished company is suffering from the same unrest of the soul that I am.” 

Oh Valar, don’t let my face be heating up…. 

Estel turns so his back rests against my branch, leaving his hands free to light his pipe. He does so and takes a few long draws without responding to my declaration. 

I wrinkle my nose. “You’re inviting an early death with such bad practices, Gwador nín.” 

“So Legolas has informed me several times over, but without such sisterly concern for my health.” He’s laughing at me on the inside, I can tell. “Speaking of, am I terribly far from the mark in assuming your fair Prince is the source of your ‘unrest of the soul’, Mellon nín?” 

He knows me too well. Even decades apart have done nothing to weaken the bond we shared as children, nor have I mastered any technique of hiding my thoughts that can escape his piercing gaze, it seems. 

“You don’t have to answer,” Estel murmurs. “Your silence speaks more clearly than anything you could say.” 

“I didn’t think I would fall in love with him,” I offer. 

A grunt is his disbelieving answer. “You spend every free minute together, and even the time that is required for patrolling, hunting, and so on and so forth. To be bluntly honest, I’m surprised it took you six decades. I owe my brothers some money, it would seem, if they still recall the wager we made upon your departure from Elrond’s house. Perhaps I won’t remind them.” 

I can’t decide whether to be astonished or angry. “You and the twins made a wager on me?” 

“Not on you,” Estel is quick to clarify. “On how long it would take you to develop an attraction towards Thranduilion.” 

“So you all just assumed I would, hmm?” 

“And rightly.” He sounds so insolent, as if all of a sudden he is once again the younger brother, and not the protective elder he made himself out to be as he reached maturity. “It was only a matter of time, Gwathel nín. You held out longer than I bet, of course, but Thranduilion is easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. My correspondence with you has been irregular, I will be the first to admit, but from the time I learned of your partnership on both the battlefield and hunting grounds, I thought you would find him a kindred spirit, and someone to admire.” 

I shake my head as if to protest, but what is there to protest? Estel sees truth. Far from being pampered royalty, Legolas it was who took it upon himself to teach me the ways of his father’s kingdom. He reawakened the Silvan part of my heritage that had long since been denied its native wildness in Imladris, and instilled in me that ferocious love for the Greenwood that keeps the Silvan people rooted there even now, as we have to scrape our very livelihoods out of the Dark Lord’s overhanging shadow. We get along as well as if we have walked side by side for an Age, not the paltry decades I have been in the employ of King Thranduil’s guard. The Prince chooses me for the majority of his hunts and orc raids, and we have reached an understanding so fine that words need not be exchanged for us to always know where the other is in the thick of combat. 

He is nearly as much a part of my identity as the Silvan and Noldor blood that runs mingled through my veins. 

Is it any wonder, then, that I want more? 

“Enelya.” Estel’s voice is soft as he blows smoke into the breeze. “You can talk to me, you know. I’ll die before I betray your trust.” 

“I know.” I sink to a sitting position and let one leg dangle into space, resting an arm across my other knee. “I’m not entirely sure what else to say, aside from what I’ve already said. I love him, Estel.” 

He nods thoughtfully and taps the end of his pipe against his teeth. “Your eyes betray you when we travel. Ever they seek him out, even as you watch the landscape for danger.” 

Estel almost seems about to say something else, but even minutes of waiting do not draw it out of him, so I go back to the protest I would have made. 

“He does not distract me. I am as deadly as ever.” 

“I did not accuse you of distraction. I only observed that you watch him.” His eyes flit upwards, to my face, before darting away into the darkness again. “As he does you.” 

I stare down into my sworn brother’s shadowed countenance, unsure of whether my ears are playing tricks on me. Estel wouldn’t lie about such things. Surely I heard wrong. 

“He does what?” 

A burst of smoke from between his lips could mean either amusement or irritation. With Estel, the two often travel hand in hand. “Thranduilion. His eyes follow where you go when we are on the move. Always his attention is on you, even as he stands watch over us. You mean a great deal to him, Mellon nín.” 

Trying to tamp down the surge of emotion rising inside me, I shrug, letting the wind run its cool, long fingers through my hair. “I should hope I do. We’ve been through much together, and saved each other’s lives many times.” 

Now I know he’s annoyed with me. “I meant more than that. I don’t have much with which to wager at the moment, but if I did, I might wager he feels similarly about you as you do him.” 

I stare down at Estel, but he’s looking away again. “Well. Even if that were the case….” I trail off, pulling my knees back up to my chest. “There are too many problems standing in our way.” 

“Such as…?” 

“By the Valar, you’ve become so nosy in your old age, Little Brother.” Despite my ribbing, I can tell by the set of his jaw that this ridiculous matter has become of utmost importance to him for some reason, and I know Estel too well to believe he would give up before we have talked this through. I sigh, resigning myself to discussing my nonexistent romance with him. 

“For one, he’s thousands of years older than I, Estel. I’m barely over a century old.” 

“Oh no,” he mutters dryly. “How scandalous, an age difference.” 

Realizing that he and Arwen are also thousands of years apart, I drop my forehead to my knees. “Well, maybe that wasn’t the best reason.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” Another long draw of his pipe sends a misty cloud drifting about his face. 

“His father would never approve of his son taking up with a Silvan and not a Sindar.” This is painfully true. Legolas told me of his father’s harsh objections to his interest in Tauriel quite some time ago. 

“Are you in love with Thranduil?” Estel asks in a monotone. 

I glare at him. “No! Mîbo orch, Estel.” 

He ignores my insult. “Then worry less about what Thranduil thinks and more about what Legolas thinks. He’s as loyal as one could ever be to those he chooses, and more than stubborn enough to stand up to his father.” 

There is wisdom in his words. However, the biggest reason that has kept me silent on this subject for so long still remains. 

“You know Elves only love once,” he murmurs, tone fading to gentle. “And they seldom err in their choice of soulmate.” 

“I know.” The words slip from my tongue, condensing in the cool air. “And he once thought he loved another.” 

Estel says nothing to this revelation, merely sending smoke rings floating up into the night sky. I can’t tell if he’s pondering what I’ve said, or if he truly has no rebuttal for it. 

“You never saw the way he looked at her, Estel. He talked about her many times when it was just he and I on a hunt. No one else was ever allowed to see how deeply he was hurt when she fell for the Dwarf. I can’t be sure, but I expect he’s never been the same since.” It feels freeing, to finally relate all of this to my sworn brother. I keep many secrets, probably the reason Legolas felt he could confide his heartbreak in me. Yet long has that particular burden hung heavy on my own heart, and I am relieved to bare it to the man beside me. 

His hand rests comfortingly on my back, once again the protector he thought I needed when we were young. “None of us are ever the same as we once were, Mellon nín. Much as you resemble the elleth I once knew, even you have been changed by your time in the Greenwood. Your people may not change as swiftly nor as dramatically as mine, and yet not even the eternal can live so long in Arda without being shaped. Six decades certainly influence a lot of things.” 

I nod, turning his argument over in my mind. “You say he watches for me?” 

The small smile that crosses Estel’s weather-worn face is this time not sarcastic nor teasing. “Indeed he does. Whenever the two of you are parted for a time, even if it is just that I sent you off to scout ahead, he is as tightly drawn as his own bowstring until you return. Who knows, perhaps even he hasn’t entirely recognized it yet. But something will come of it, Enelya. Of this I am sure.” 

“And if Elladan and Elrohir were along with us, am I to assume you would all place a wager on how soon?” 

He nudges me with his elbow. “There’s that sense of humor I’ve been missing. Now, I suppose I had better leave you, because as unobtrusive as he thinks he is being, someone else is waiting for you. I’ll take next watch. Losto mae, Gwathel nín.” 

“Nostad lín sui orch, Estel,” I snicker, referring both to the stench of his pipe and what I’ve been telling him since childhood. “And le hannon.” 

He waves as he returns to the light of the fire. “Carnen an gwend, Enelya.” 

I stare back at the stars above me, knowing that if who Estel implied is really waiting for me, he will approach at his own time and no amount of cajoling will bend him my way sooner. 

So I wait as well. 

No more than a sigh of the tree itself heralds his arrival beside me on the branch. 

“Do you wish to be alone with your thoughts, Mellon nín?” 

Gazing over my shoulder, I am met by Thranduilion’s piercing blue eyes as he leans against the trunk of my perch. 

“If so, I will gladly leave you to them.” There is the slightest wistful note beneath his tone; for all his politeness, he wishes to speak to me. 

Did he overhear my conversation with Estel? 

Heart starting to flutter like a sparrow’s wings, I shake my head. “Avo ‘osto, Hîr nín. Baren bar lin, as they say.” 

“What have I done to deserve such formal address, Mellon?” he asks lightly. Though he laughs, warm and cheerful, an undercurrent of hurt runs deep through the words. 

Does it hurt him, truly, to call him so? “Goheno nin, Thranduilion,” I murmur, unable to look away from that intense gaze. “My mind was not in the present moment, I fear.” 

“Ú-moe edaved, Enelya.” His reply is warm, and I cannot miss the affection that wreathes around my name as it falls from his lips. “I am only glad to learn I have not offended you.” 

“Rest assured, I would have let you know in no uncertain terms if you had,” I inform him saucily. 

His laughter at my cheek is bright now, all trace of concern gone. “This is true.” Nodding towards my view of the dark sky, he leans closer, bending so he can see what I am seeing. “Looking for old friends among the new?” 

“Indeed.” I stretch out my spine, careful not to knock him away from my shoulder. “I miss some of our constellations that you pointed out to me in the Greenwood.” 

Legolas stands upright again. “Aphado nin.” He reaches upward for a branch and swings to a higher level. 

I rise to my feet and stare up at him between the leaves. “Am man theled?” 

“To see the whole sky, of course. You’ll never gaze upon the greater picture if you do not climb higher, Mellon nín.” He holds out a hand. 

I take it, allowing him to pull me up to his level before continuing the climb. “You said those very words when you made me climb that tree the first time back home.” 

“I didn’t make you.” I can nearly hear the smirk in his voice. “You were given a choice.” 

It is my turn to laugh now. “Not when you say such poetic and inspiring things, Legolas. Although I was terrified of climbing to the crown of that tree, your way of putting it made me feel I should never be complete until I had seen the whole sky. I consider myself bewitched.” 

He shoves my shoulder as he easily passes me up. “No one is whole unless they have seen the entire sky. Estelio nin. It is truth.” 

“I do trust you. That’s why I climbed the tree with you that night, even though I was still frightened of falling. I knew you would catch me.” 

We remain in silence then until we break through the leaves, pushing through as if to the surface from underwater. I cannot count the amount of times I’ve done something similar with Thranduilion, those late nights after a hunt, but it still takes my breath away, to gaze upon the veil of stars and clouds that rolls ever on to the very edges of Arda. The sight makes the songs of my people flow through my veins, never failing to give me the gift of peace. 

I should thank him for introducing me to the sky more often. 

“I hope I never grow tired of this.” It takes me a moment to realize I’ve breathed the words aloud. 

Legolas is gazing out in the opposite direction, handsome face serene. “You will not.” 

I want to impertinently ask him how he would know, but I swallow the teasing words. He has walked these lands for nearly three millennia, and still finds such joy in it that he felt he needed to introduce me to that joy. He would know. 

“Enelya.” 

“Yes, Mellon nín?” I turn to face him. 

He drops down to sit on a branch that is old enough to serve as a seat. “Will you help me?” 

I know what he is asking for. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, but it has been a ritual of ours for years, and I enjoy it as much as he does. “Of course.” I make my way to his side and start to unwind his braids. 

“I’ll do the same for you,” he promises, relaxing into my touch. 

I weave my fingers through his silky hair as I release it to the mercies of the breeze, untangling any knots, minuscule as they are, and drawing out fronds of moss and bits of leaf that have found their way into his tresses. I can’t remember when we first started caring for each other’s hair at the end of the day, but it is always one of my favorite times spent with him. The few moments we have no responsibilities and can just talk about nothing, as friends are wont to. 

“What do you think the others would say, if they knew the truth?” I ask teasingly, moving to the tiny braids over his ear. 

His eyes flash to give me a sideways glance. “What do you mean?” 

I smirk. “Do you not hear them speak of you, in wondering whispers? They all ask how Thranduilion manages to stay so neat, how his hair, long and beautiful as it is, remains free of forest debris and untroubled by tangles. They have begun to speculate that it is some gift from Elbereth, that he looks fresh as the day we set off while the rest of them grow ever more unkempt. What would they say, if they knew it is simply because I re-braid your hair every night?” 

Wicked mischief flashes across his countenance for a brief instant. “They would all come running to you for your excellent services, I imagine. Do you want me to tell them, and so dispel the legends? I would prefer to keep your company in such matters to myself, but perhaps I shouldn’t be so selfish. After all,” he leans closer to whisper, “it might be worth it, to see you running your fingers through Aragorn’s oily mane.” 

I can’t stop the choking noise that comes from my throat. “I love that man, but there are some things I will never do for him, Legolas.” 

His quiet laughter floats into the night. “Nor should you have to.” 

Something pricks my fingertip and I yank my hand away from his hair. “Ai! Is this a burr, Thranduilion? Where on Arda did you find that?” 

He shrugs easily. “It could have been anywhere. Yet I assume it came from one of my solitary scouts. Had the halflings followed where I tread, surely they would have all come away full of them.” 

I try not to laugh at the thought of our four smallest companions drowning in burrs. “It is fortunate you only picked up one.” 

Once my Prince’s hair has been seen to, he turns so I can sit before him and begins the same process on mine. Much as I love the feeling of the wind running its fingers through my hair, it cannot compete with the gentle and nimble hands of Legolas. My eyes close as those hands begin their familiar path, and for some time all that I know is the warmth of his body next to mine and the soft melody of the well-loved song he hums next to my ear. 

Is it any wonder, that I have come to care for him as I do? 

“Mellon nín?” he murmurs suddenly. 

“Yes?” 

“What made you decide to accompany me on this quest? You know you could have returned to the Greenwood.” 

“That I do.” I sigh and let my eyes flutter open again. How much do I say? “But if this quest fails, it will not matter if I had returned to the Greenwood, for even Thranduil Elvenking cannot keep the shadows at bay forever if the Dark Lord triumphs.” 

He is silent for some time, and I let him remain so. I learned long ago that Legolas will not share what is on his mind except at a time of his own choosing. 

“I suppose you are right,” he finally concedes. His fingertips brush my ear, and I shiver at the contact. “It was no doubt my own desire to know you would be safer at home that clouded such truth from my mind.” His voice grows somber. “You do know, Enelya, that we may never see the Greenwood again.” 

“Of course, Mellon nín. Yet through all my time in my mother’s land I have been at your side, and the Valar themselves could not keep me from staying beside you. Even unto the Halls of Mandos, I would rather accompany you than be apart from you.” My breath catches on the last word. Have I said too much? 

His hands pause in their combing to rest upon my shoulders. “I am blessed, then, to have found such a companion as you.” 

“Le hannon, Legolas.” 

When next he speaks, there is a layer of hesitation resting over his tone that I rarely hear from him. “Do you know, I was quite angry when you first insisted on traveling with me.” 

“Oh, I remember. How could I not?” I sniff. “You didn’t speak to me the entire first day of our journey.” 

“I am not proud of my conduct,” he admits penitently. “However, I do realize, since that time has passed, that some good came of it.” 

I feel his long fingers trace my jawline, soft as a breath, turning my face slightly and prompting me to shift so I can meet his gaze. 

His eyes are deep and thoughtful, turned mithril silver by the moon as it breaks from behind a cloud. 

“Do you know, Enelya, how that one day without your company felt to me? Even the torture of seeing you walk at the perimeter of our Fellowship, yet kept from approaching you — by my own stubbornness — made my heart feel sundered from my chest. I realized that day that I could not have endured it if you had indeed returned home as I suggested. One day without your laugh, without your smile on me, was enough for a lifetime.” Legolas’s tone is raw with honesty, and a great many things seem to be making sense to me now. 

It would seem Estel may have been correct, after all, though I won’t tell him so. 

I remember how difficult that first day of the trek was, knowing all too well that Legolas was displeased with my choice. I have seen him angry, at his father, usually, and I knew all the signs too well. I can recall then how delighted and relieved I was when I awoke the following morning to the smell of my favorite fish baking over the fire; Legolas and I have had our fair share of tiffs over the long years, and that is his tried-and-true method of asking my forgiveness when he is at fault. 

We ate our morning meal sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, no one else the wiser of our wordless play of apologies and affirmations. 

Well, Estel probably was. But he doesn’t count. 

“What do you wish to say to me, Mellon nín?” I murmur, lifting my own fingers to brush against his cheek. 

He leans into my touch. “I have thought about you much during these uncertain days, even when we are not given much opportunity to talk. About how sorely I would have missed your presence, and grieved at not being able to feel you at my back whenever we face a threat. About how much I have missed times like this, when there is no one but you and I beneath the stars, sitting in the lap of the heavens.” 

“And what would you have done, without me to braid your hair? Become as scruffy as dear Estel?” I tease. 

He curls his lip in mock disgust. “Gerich faer vara, suggesting such a thing to me! I should certainly think not. I admire your Estel, Mellon nín, but I don’t believe the man has bathed once since we set out from Imladris. Yet he has had plenty of chances!” 

I laugh, leaning back against his chest and settling into my new position, comfortable from countless times of sitting like this. “Estel and his questionable hygiene aside, what were you saying?” 

His hands trail down my arms to my hands, where he weaves our fingers together. His hands are finer, more elegant than a mortal man’s, yet they are still wider than mine, surrounding my smaller ones with gentle fondness. This, too, is a much-practiced gesture between us, though there is a different flavor to it tonight. It feels more intimate, as if it means more than our mutual trust and respect this time. 

He smiles; I can hear it in his singsong words, close to my ear. “What I am trying to say, Enelya, is le annon veleth nín.” 

He gives his love to me? 

“Gerich veleth nín,” I answer simply. “It already belonged to you.” 

His lips brush my hair. “I used to wonder, when I was a much younger ellon, why I never felt the need to find a life partner when I came of age. Indeed, Ada certainly bothered me about it for several centuries, until other more pressing issues caught his attention.” 

I’ve never heard Legolas refer to Thranduil as Ada, and certainly not with the echo of a sigh beneath the endearment. It makes my heart ache strangely, to wonder what long-forgotten love once flowed freely between adar and iôn before they let their rift widen so far. 

But this moment is not to be sullied by mourning what has been lost. 

“Do you believe one can wait thousands of years to find their soulmate?” he asks. 

“I do. I know most can’t fathom such a wait, but for our people, it does not matter.” 

“Truly. I think I never pursued anyone with much seriousness because my heart knew it was waiting for yours.” Legolas turns me slightly, so our eyes can meet again. “I would make up for my blindness, Meleth nín, if you wish it.” 

I rest my forehead against his. “I wish it so, Meleth nín.” 

Then his lips are pressing into mine, and this kiss that I have awaited many years is a summer thunderstorm, warm and wild, washing away everything that came before and paving the way for love to bloom. 

Whatever our perilous path holds for us, I suddenly have all certainty that we can weather it. 

Together. 

Mae govannen = Well met

Gwathel/Gwador nín = Sworn sister/brother

Manen = How?

Mellon nín = My friend

Mar bedithach = When are you leaving?

Mîbo orch = Go kiss an orc

Losto mae = Sleep well

Nostad lín sui orch = You smell like an orc

Le hannon = Thank you

Carnen an gwend = For friendship

Avo ‘osto = Don't worry

Hîr nín = My Lord

Baren bar lin = My home is yours

Goheno nin = Forgive me

Ú-moe edaved = No need to forgive

Aphado nin = Follow me

Am man theled = Why?

Estelio nin = Trust me

Gerich faer vara = You have a fiery spirit

Le annon veleth nín = I give my love to you

Gerich veleth nín = You have my love

[tolkiens-middleearth]

Fëanor and the Silmarils: like creator, like creation?

"The heart of Fëanor was fast bound to these things that he himself had made."

Art can take many shapes and forms, hold many different meanings, and tell many different stories. It can be appreciated for what it is on its own, or what it means within the context of how it came to be.

But despite the many different approaches to art, one thing is certainly true in general: there will always be at least a small connection between a piece of art and its creator, because without the creator it would not exist. This fundamental importance at least is the imprint of any creator on their creation.

Fëanor and his Silmarils are no exception.

”Silmarils of Feanor” by Nikulina-Helena on DeviantArt

With the Silmarils Fëanor undoubtetly left a markt on the world, and it's fascinating to explore some of the similarities between Arda's most famous elf and most famous jewels, but also the aspects where they are fundamentally different.

Uniqueness

Fëanor was a very exceptional elf. He was made “the mightiest in all parts of body and mind, in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in understanding, in skill, in strength and in subtlety alike”¹ and no other elf has ever been described in a way that could be compared to this. In a similar way there were no other gems created that were like the three Silmarils: they are exceptional as well.

Fëanor did not create the Silmarils in a vortex of course: without the Two Trees it's basically impossible to recreate such jewels. But even while the Trees were ailve it was very unlikely that jewels as these could be recreated. Even Fëanor said that “never again shall [he] make their like”¹. With Fëanor being gone as well, it's basically impossible.

Attraction

People have intense feelings for both Fëanor and the Silmarils. There is hardly someone that does not feel some kind of interest, attraction or love for them – or intens hate. They are basically impossible to ignore.

Fëanor has the love and loyalty of many people – first and foremost his father, but also his seven sons, and a large part of the Noldor. He was said to be "a master of words, and his tongue had great power over hearts when he would use it"¹. As a result he had a large following amon the Noldor.

Even Melkor has an eye on him and picks him as his main focus for the corruption he’s spreading among the Noldor. And he’s not the only Vala who pays attention to Fëanor, the others “mourned not more for the death of the Trees than for the marring of Fëanor: of the works of Melkor one of the most evil”¹ – and that is quite a statement. Even ages later, Fëanor comes up when Gandalf talks to Pippin about what or who he would like to see if he would use the Palantíri:

“Even now my heart desires to test my will upon it, to see if I could not wrench it from him and turn it where I would-to look across the wide seas of water and of time to Tirion the Fair, and perceive the unimaginable hand and mind of Fëanor at their work, while both the White Tree and the Golden were in flower!”²

The Silmarils are even worse when it comes to their power of attraction, everyone wants them: Fëanor himself of course, but the Elves and Valar want to see the Silmarils at festivals as well. Melkor obviously wants them, and once they’re stolen the sons of Fëanor want them back. Thingol wants them, Lúthien and Beren want them, Dior wears it, Elwing too, and eventually Eärendil. Almost noone is ready to give them up.

Disaster

What the Silmarils and Fëanor also have in common is for almost all people that come in contact with them to somehow end up involved in one disaster or another.

Fëanor already has an unfortunate start when his birth demands so much energy from his mother that she eventually dies. His father Finwë dies as well, protecting Fëanor’s Silmaril in their house in exil – an exil that Finwë had taken upon himself for the sake of being with his son. All of Fëanor's sons join him in taking the Oath, and end up suffering as a result. The Noldor that follow Fëanor’s rebellion suffer as well, and so do the Teleri that stand in his way. And while Nerdanel herself may remain unharmed, she loses all her son's to Fëanor's quest.

The Silmarils have that effect to some extent as well: once Melkor sets his sight on it, they are a major reason why he specifically targets Fëanor, they are also the reason why Finwë is killed when he tries to defend them against Melkor, and they burn Melkor when he steals them. In a way they become a curse for Fëanor’s sons who cannot rest until they get them back, they are the excuse for Thingol to send Beren to Angband which eventually leads to Beren’s and Lúthien’s death (they get better), it leads to Thingol’s death, to Dior’s, the fall of Doriath and to Elwing’s death. Their main redeeming quality is then that they help Eärendil get to Aman.

The distruction they cause is closely connected to Fëanor: the oath that he and his sons swore seem to be not unlike a curse on the Silmarils. And maybe it is only this powerful of a curse because in origin they are Fëanor's creation. Why else should they bring so much pain and suffering to whoever keeps them? Then Melkor’s desire, Dragon gold and a dwarve’s curse make it even worse.

Impact

Fëanor and the Silmarils both leave the world in a way. Fëanor is dead, and although one of the Silmarils can still be seen in the night sky, it can no longer be reached by the inhabitants of Middle-earth.

Fëanor and his creation, despite being now largely absent in Middle-earth itself, had a huge impact on Middle-earth. For Fëanor it can be said that without him, the Noldor probably wouldn't have returned to Middle-earth. He was the central figure in this movement. Without him, the history of Middle-earth would be drastically different, and we can only speculate what would have happened. The dominion of Melkor in Middle-earth? The early destruction of Beleriand through the interventing army of the Valar? It's hard to say.

The Simarils also left their marks of course. Many people in Middle-earth had been motivated to do something because of the Silmarils – includign Fëanor himself, his sons, Melkor, Thingol, Beren, and so on. Especially relevant is the impact of the Silmaril that Eärendil gets his hands on – without the Silmaril, he would never have reached Aman. Even in later ages, the light of the Silmarils continues to play a role: without its light, Frodo and Sam would never have been able to face Shelob head on.

The Silmaril's impact is Fëanor's impact as well, since he is their maker. In addition, he also has created many other things that lasted through the ages and had an impact on history – the best example after the Silmarils being the Palantirí.

Differences

I'm sure there are many differences to be found between Fëanor and his Silmarils, but I only want to point out what to me is the most important one:

Despite everything that was laid on the Silmarils, they were never corrupted. Their light was never dimmed, they never turned evil – they were made out of some unkown and unbreakable material, and hallowed by Varda herself, protecting them against all evil.

Fëanor wasn’t like that. There was no protection against Melkor’s subtle corruption after the Valar had set melkor free in Valinor, and Fëanor by his firey nature may have been especially receptive for it. Murder, lies, rebellion – “evil” on that scale hadn’t been seen before in Valinor.

The Silmarils couldn’t be corrupted, but Fëanor could fall.

(On a less serious note: my family’s questionable contribution to this topic was that if you take Fëanor’s ashes and press them into a diamond he becomes more similar to a Silmaril.)

FOOTNOTES

¹ J. R. R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. The Silmarillion. ² J. R. R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers.

[skyeventide]

actually going back to my fate of the Silmarils musing, it's undoubtedly odd that the remaking of the world should be, as an actual fact, linked to the light of the Trees being freed and the jewels being broken. much as it's a cool idea, I would assume the remaking of the world lies with Iluvatar, not the Silmarils.

but I think that it's an incredibly telling legend if you approach it from the in-universe POV, in that it a) brings back the divine light that is currently forever lost to the world; b) reverses the decision of Feanor to not surrender the jewels, which at once rewinds the timeline to a period before violent death in Valinor happened and in a way both wants to rehabilitate the greatest creator via a new choice, opposite to his past one, and wants to believe that change possible; c) actually goes past the delimiting of Valinor as the blessed, exclusive kingdom that it was, by imbuing said light into the world itself, for everything that inhabits it; d) it even reveals the mystery of silime, because if only Feanor knows how to break it and make it, then doing that is a chance to look into the truth of the creation, while putting them back in the creator's hands.

I have some pretty serious problems with the idea of Arda marred and Arda unmarred, but this legend also kind of helps with giving meaning to the strife for the Silmarils and a part of the suffering of the first age. these things remake the world, and they remake it through Feanor. it can be read as a sublimation of their existence. and mind, it can also be read as the undoing of something that should not have been made, because it surpasses the skill and might of the gods. whichever the reading, both, either, it's a very interesting tidbit.

[alexandra-scribbles]

So I was listening to Taylor Swift as one does when the song Castles Crumbling came on and I think that once I said that it was a Maedhros coded song… and I was very wrong. Upon listening to it several times in a row I’ve realized that song is entirely about Feanor (if he were to get a 150k words redemption arc in a fully developed fic and not my scrambled thoughts)

Like, lets dissect the song

First verse:

Once, I had an empire in a golden age

I was held up so high, I used to be great

They used to cheer when they saw my face

Now, I fear I have fallen from grace

Like, Feanor was born at the height of Aman, peaceful tree light bathed paradise where nothing went wrong and was actually the beloved prince of his people, referred to as the greatest of the elves and he basically free fell from grace without a parachute.

The chorus:

And I feel like my castle's crumbling down

And I watch all my bridges burn to the ground

And you don't want to know me

I will just let you down

You don't wanna know me now

I am pretty sure that Formenos was destroyed by Morgoth and that was a physical castle crumbling but like, Feanor’s metaphorical castle crumbled too. And he did burn all of his bridges, with his half-siblings, the vanyar, the teleri, the valar, the mayority of the Noldor. My main man was burning everything in his path including his son sorry Telvo so we can asume that he also let a lot of people down in his path.

The second verse:

Once, I was the great hope for a dynasty

Crowds would hang on my words, and they trusted me

Their faith was strong, but I pushed it too far

I held that grudge 'til it tore me apart

Power went to my head, and I couldn't stop

Ones I loved tried to help, so I ran them off

And here I sit alone, behind walls of regret

Falling down like promises that I never kept

This kills me, because he was supposed to be the guiding light of the Noldor, the flame imperishable come alive, and it is also known that Feanor was a great orator and could command crowds and that people followed him out of devotion and like he pushed it was past too far with the Kinslaying.

The grudge part, we all know who it would refer to. He disliked and mistrusted his half siblings so much that it was one of the main causes of his defeat. He thought that with his host and his anger he’d be able to destroy Morgoth and get back his Silmarils.

And he certainly ran his siblings off (and Maedhros too to a degree) when they tried to help and he ended up alone somewhere in Mandos never to be able to return to the world.

He also broke his promise to Nolofinwe so…

The bridge:

My foes and friends watch my reign end

I don't know how it could've ended this way

Smoke billows from my ships in the harbor

People look at me like I'm a monster

Now they're screaming at the palace front gates, used to chant my name

Now they're screaming that they hate me

Never wanted you to hate me

The first line speaks for itself, everyone who was there watched how Feanor died and im sure even he was surprised by it.

Then the line that screams Feanor… who’s ships are burning? People being horrified by the ships burning? That checks out.

People that once used to if not love, respect Feanor, now openly hating him and scorning everything to do with him….

… and perhaps, if Arda hadn’t been marred as it was… perhaps no one would have hated him.

So… yeah, thats about it. If you’ve read this far, thank you. Now please go listen to the song and think about our favorite extra crispy Noldor king.

[caliawen]

Haunted

Pairing = Glorfindel x Reader

Genre = Teen and up

General ratings = a twinge of angst, fluff, smut implied (?)

Content warnings = smut implied

Word count = 1,4k

Notes = ……hi 🫣 I haven’t posted in a month 🙃 Life has been really busy and I haven’t really had the time (nor the motivation, truthfully) to write. I had a more regular schedule before, but I think for now it will stay… ‘irregular’. I have no idea when or what I will post next. Hope you can understand!

Glorfindel was being haunted. Not by ghosts- no. By the memories of his past life. Of his mistakes. Of his friends. Of their deaths. Of his death. The searing pain of his scalp as he was tugged down and down and down by the Balrog. Of the heat he felt as he fought for his life, for the lives of Idril and Tuor and Eärendil and everyone. His mind replayed those moments over and over, never leaving him a second of peace.

The slight smile of Ecthelion, Rog’s boisterous laugh, Turgon’s exasperation with them, Elgalmoth’s mischievous eyes as he gossiped, Penlod’s hums as he pretended he was listening, Galdor’s excited chatter about the trees and plants he saw, Duilin’s whistles as he walked, Tuor’s love-struck expression as his eyes followed Idril and Maeglin’s shy smile when someone asked him about his work…

Oh, Maeglin… Glorfindel had hated him, for a time. Hated him for giving Gondolin away to Morgoth, giving away their lives.. But that time had passed. In the halls of Námo, Glorfindel had had plenty of time to think before he was reborn. And think he did : about how Maeglin had lost his mother and father. About how his only parental figure was Turgon, who was too busy to really spend time with his nephew. About how he mistook his love for Idril as romantic and not platonic, and how that strained his friendship with her and Tuor. About how rumors spread that Maeglin was a vile being. About how none of them did anything to defend him. About how lonely Maeglin must have been.. About what impossible horrors he felt at the hands of Morgoth and Sauron. About how they never saw how broken Maeglin had returned. About how he didn’t care if he died anymore.

Yes, Glorfindel had thought, Maeglin had done something wrong. And he forgave Maeglin for what he had done, because Maeglin had been a child. A child who needed to be guided and shown love, but no one had stepped up to take up the role.

He thought about you. About your smile, your eyes, your nose. About the way you moved, how you talked and your passions. And he ached. Because he didn’t know what happened to you. He didn’t know if you had died, if you had suffered or if you were still alive. If you had moved on from him.. And that haunted him. His every waking thought, his every dream and nightmare.

Sometimes, Glorfindel dreamed of you. He dreamed that you were laying in his bed, in Gondolin, smiling at him. That you carded your fingers through his hair and told him that you loved him. And when he woke up, his heart ached and he did not know whether to thank or curse Irmo.

Glorfindel had a mission. He was going back to Arda Marred. And he found himself dreading going back. Dreading seeing how everything had changed and how the language had evolved. Dreading how no one he knew would be there. How he would be alone. At least in Valinor, he saw his mother and father. He found himself crying when he realized he did not remember what being embraced by his parents felt like. They took care of him and he couldn’t be more grateful to have them.

When Glorfindel departed, he stood looking at Valinor until it had been long since out of view. He stood still, wondering if he was dreaming. He thought, how ironic, for he was going back. Not anyone else. Him. Laurëfindelë Glorfindel, an emissary of the Valar, granted powers nearly as strong as that of the Maiar. And he didn’t want to go back. Nienna wept for him, for his sacrifice, for his fear and for his love. He found himself appreciating her understanding. She visited him, before he departed. He listened to her words, without understanding : “Dear Child, your heart is being haunted. Your mind is playing tricks on you, and your heart is rendered blind by your pain. But your gut, your gut is still there and strong. Follow it, follow what it tells you. But do not silence your heart and mind for it, listen to them. Listen, but do not follow.”

~~~

When Glorfindel arrived in Middle Earth, he did not know where to begin. He was tired, but could not sleep. He thought about you. About your lips on his, about your laugh, about your hands in his, about the ring he had passed on your finger. He thought and thought and thought. And his heart ached. He walked on paths and in forests, stopping to wash himself in rivers. And he despaired.

It was later that he found Lindon. Days later. Or weeks, he did not know. He met Elrond, someone who would confuse and amuse him for the rest of their lives. Part man, part elf, part maia. He wore the insignias of Fingolfin and Fëanor with pride, daring anyone to confront him about it. He was a gentle soul with a heart of gold and the patience of the wise. He was as kind as summer and Glorfindel found himself basking in his presence, like a flower who had grown up in shadow feeling the sun on itself for the first time.

Círdan was surprisingly mischievous. Subtle jokes, sarcasm and deadpan looks were all things he threw at others, uncaring if they understood or not. He was calm, but could easily terrorize anyone with his anger, like the sea. Board games were his favorite and Glorfindel spent time playing with him, thinking of strategies to beat the older elf.

Gil-Galad was as confusing as he was funny. His father was unknown and he liked to joke around about it. Glorfindel spent time with him when they could, talking about everything and nothing. When Gil-Galad felt Glorfindel starting to lose himself in memories, he would randomly tell a stupid joke. They made Glorfindel laugh each time.

Celebrimbor had been a bit weary at first. Glorfindel almost laughed at the memory of a small Curufinwë Tyelpërinquar staring at him with the exact same look. It wasn’t long until they became great friends. Celebrimbor understood : he, too, was haunted by his past actions and words. Maybe for different reasons than Glorfindel, but the important thing was that he related to how Glorfindel felt. Having his feelings validated was something that alleviated the pain in Glorfindel’s heart.

~~~

Glorfindel walked around Lindon aimlessly and leisurely, taking his time to look around. You haunted him. Everything he saw reminded him of you. From pretty rocks you would have collected, passing by a stand selling your favorite fruit, to someone wearing clothes the exact color of your eyes. His mind played tricks on him, making him imagine hearing your laugh or seeing your beautiful hair swaying in the wind.

He stopped walking at a bookstore, a feeling bubbling up inside him. He looked at the door, curious. His gut screamed at him to enter that store, for some reason. His mind dismissed the feeling, but his heart held hope. They warred against each other. And then, Glorfindel was reminded of Nienna’s words to him. And he went inside the store.

Inside the store, which was cozy and homey, he felt pulled towards a particular bookshelf. His breath hitched as his mind reeled to a stop, his heart pumping wildly. There you stood, browsing the shelf while smiling. Feeling observed, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw Glorfindel, your husband, your soulmate, standing there. Glorfindel was frozen, his mind scrambling and heart singing with joy. You were the one to make the first move, throwing yourself in his arms, ecstatic. Glorfindel hugged you back, a sense of wholeness overtaking his mind and body as he kissed you long and passionately.

The two of you spent hours upon hours talking, laughing, crying and hugging. This long-awaited reunion was a balm on Glorfindel’s bruised and battered heart. That night, under the stars, in a magnificent glade full of flowers, you rekindled your fëas. Glorfindel made love to you slowly and passionately, kissing every piece of skin revealed as he undressed you, worshiping your body with his hands and mouth. That night, in your arms, Glorfindel had no nightmares. He woke up to your sweet voice and felt free. Free of the thing that haunted him. And he smiled.

End notes : Hope you enjoyed! Reblogs, comments & likes are extremely appreciated 🫶

@theladyvanya

[tanoraqui]

Oooh that is so beautifully put yes yes I love it.

To be honest I think Valar should be pretty happy that Feanor is not devout; imagine his intensity channeled in honest and burning religious fundamentalism. It'd take him a week to start heretical mystery religion and Aule and Nienna would be informed there are whispers they are trying to usurp throne of Arda.

But also, one thing I have been fiddling with wip fics for while is, idea that Feanor is metaphysically, a divorce child of Melkor and Nienna. His fate is place where Melkor's shouts and her keening meet, the melding spot of his cacophony and her elegy, violence and grief within and upon and outside and enacted by. He is vessel through which their influence is unleashed upon Aman, his very birth proof that nowhere can be safe from Marring and grief.

(Within context of Ea-s-Most-Disastrous-And-Covered-Up-Divorce, this means both of them identify with Nerdanel. Nienna is obvious but really, Melkor gets it, when your partner is a stubborn psychological mess swallowed up by their own grief and so obsessed with their ideals and past that can't be fixed that they refuse to be happy and hear you out and just complicates your own and theirs life, poor woman you are so put upon, I have been there with two of them now!)

Ooh, whereas the idea I've been toying with is that Fëanor is solidly a natural...maybe not follower per se but student, agent in the world, of Melkor. He’s TRYING to be an agent not of Melkor-as-we-know-him but rather Melkor-as-he-could-have-been, but…

That Melkor's divine domain is change in a way that cuts through, recombines and builds on all the other Valar's spheres of power; that only because he is, personally, an asshole that this is become discord instead. That it is because Melkor is an asshole bent on evil that change is, in basic human psychology, scary; that difference is intimidating and easily hated; that the grief of what is lost so often supersedes the joy of what is gained, and we are forever looking back and bemoaning that we cannot make this country great again... That the end of Lord of the Rings, in which the Time of Elves is over and this is sad, a grave loss, but never a source of despair because it feels right in a way, as right as the stars fading as the sun rises, and now it is the Time of Men and this too is a good and natural thing, such that overall we feel joy...that this is a total triumph over Melkor-who-is, because it is how every now-terrible change should have been if only he hadn't been a total asshole.

And where does Fëanor fit into this? Fëanor inventor of alphabets, shaper of Light into stone in a way even the Valar didn't imagine, instigator by Oath and allegiance of the Flight of the Noldor and the Three Kinslayings and so many of the great deeds and tales of the First Age and beyond...who didn't live to see most of them? Fëanor is a catalyst in this ongoing tale, in this Great Music. He is flame himself, but mostly in that he is the spark that lights conflagrations.

That's notable not just because it's pivotal to the story of Arda, but because that's weird for an elf. Elves are constantly shown to value stability and timelessness. They wrap their lands in girdles of timeless peace. They pick a good king and keep him for millennia. They never start battles, only react when attacked - except the House of Fëanor and those closest to them.

...mostly in Kinslayings. Because this is Melkor's domain, and he is determined to make change a thing of discord, domination and destruction. But oh, how magnificently the Music might have gone if Fëanor's every word and deed, every moment of being, invited good rather than evil!

As it is, Nienna is always here ease the hurt as best she can. If only proud Fëanor would let her help...

[warrioreowynofrohan]

There’s a few things that stand out to me about today’s Silm Daily.

Firstly, it was very striking to me that agriculture is the province of both Aulë and Yavanna.

Of him comes the lore and knowledge of the Earth and of all things that it contains: whether the lore of those that make not, but seek only for the understanding of what is [I’m taking this to mean Aulë is the vala of geology and chemistry] or the lore of all craftsmen: the weaver, the shaper of wood, and the worker in metals; and the tiller and husbandman also, though these last and all that deal with things that grow and bear fruit must look also to the spouse of Aulë, Yavanna Kementári.

The reason this stands out to me is because of the Ents (whom we’ll get to in a few days) and the Entwives. The Ents come out of a conflict between the values of Aulë and Yavanna, between the natural world as a source of resources for craft and the natural world as so ething of value on its own, to be left undisturbed. But the Entwives, who love agriculture and teach it to Men, in this context feel like a union of the domains and interests and loves of Aulë and Yavanna; as though Yavanna is actively trying to reconcile those two things. And yet, the Ents and Entwives themselves ultimately split over that same conflict - whether to shape the natural world for a purpose, or to leave wilderness as wilderness whose value lies in its own being.

Though Tolkien himself was, I think, more on the side of the Ents and of Yavanna, I feel like the takeaway is that the comflict is inherently a very difficult one to resolve even when you are trying: the conflict between the needs and wants of Men and Dwarves[1] for things made from the natural world, versus the value of nature in its own right.

[1] Elves seem better at reconciling this, even Noldor - at least, we never hear the Ents complain of them, and from what Legolas hears in Eregion, stone appears to outright delight in being shaped by them.

Secondly, although it says, “From the beauty and bliss of Valinor the Valar came seldom over the mountains to Middle-earth, but gave to the land beyond the Pélori their care and their love,” it also describes how quite a few of the Valar remained involved with Middle-earth:

Manwë Súlimo, highest and holiest of the Valar, sat upon the borders of Aman, forsaking not in his thought the Outer Lands. For his throne was set in majesty upon the pinnacle of Taniquetil, the highest of the mountains of the world, standing upon the margin of the sea. Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his halls; and their eyes could see to the depths of the seas, and pierce the hidden caverns beneath the world. Thus they brought word to him of well night all that passed in Arda; yet some things were hidden even from the eyes of Manwë and the servants of Manwë, for where Melkor sat in his dark thought impenetrable shadows lay.

Ulmo was alone, and he abode not in Valinor, nor ever came thither unless there were need for a great council; he dwelt from the beginning of Arda in the Outer Ocean, and still he dwells there…it was by the power of Ulmo that even under the darkness of Melkor life coursed still through many secret lodes, and the Earth did not die…nor has he ever forsaken Middle-earth, and whatsoever may since have befallen of ruin or of change he has not ceased to take thought for it, and will not until the end of days.

Yavanna also was unwilling utterly to forsake the Outer Lands; for all things that grow are dear to her, and she mourned for the works that she had begun in Middle-earth but Melkor had marred. Therefore leaving the house of Aulë in the flowering meads of Valinor she would come at time and heal the hurts of Melkor; and returning she would ever urge the Valar to that war with his evil dominion that they must surely wage ere the coming of the Firstborn.

Oromë tamer of beasts would ride too at whiles in the darkness of the unlit forests; as a mighty hunter he came with spear and bow, pursuing to the death the monsters and fell creatures of the kingdom of Melkor, and his white horse Nahar shone like silver in the shadows. Then the sleeping earth trembled at the beat of his golden hooves, and in the twilight of the world Oromë would sound the Valaróma his great horn upon the plains of Arda; whereat the mountains echoed, and the shadows of evil fled away, and Melkor himself quailed in Utumno, foreboding the wrath to come. But even as Oromë passed the servants of Melkor would gather again; and the lands were filled with shadows and deceit.

However, except for Ulmo, this involvement is occasional and limited.

The third thing I noticed is how hard it is to put the Silmarillion in an order that makes sense! We’re not even up to the awakening of the Elves yet, and already it’s talking about Vanyar and Noldor and Teleri and their relationships with the Valar! This isn’t one of my reorganizations, this really is in Chapter 1, “Of the Beginning of Days”. Chopping it out and moving it so ewhere else and trying to get it to mesh seemed harder. All my sympathies to Christopher Tolkien!

I guess a fourth thing of note is the description of Manwë. He’s the king of the Valar, but all his values and interests tend away from from power or control: air, which is the most free and amorphous and least controllable of substances; poetry and song, which require no physical resources to make. It does fit with Tolkien’s ideals that if someone has to have power, it should rest with the people who least want it. (Hmm, now I want conversations between Manwë and Finarfin!)

[youareunbearable]

I swear I wrote this down before, but I cant find it in any of my notes so here's a little fun idea! When the world gets recreated so its no longer Arda Marred, I think the Valar got together and Looked at the Finwe problem and shrugged and decided to make all of Miriel and her descendants Maiar to slove that tricky little problem of Remarriage.

Because the Feanorians are now Maiar, they aren't technically born, meaning they aren't really siblings and part of the same family so there is no real issue in separating them now is there?

Miriel is one of Vaire's weavers of course, and Feanor is one of Aule's most talented smiths, but that is understandable as he is the spirit of Hearth Fire itself. There are others within Aule's Halls, but their knowledge of each other is passing, for Celebrimbor tends to stay with the jewelry makers and Curufin likes creating hunting gear for Orome's hunt

Orome is almost never seen without his most prized hunter, Celegorm, who prefers a form that looks more wolf than Elf.

Vana, Orome's wife, herself has a pair of giggling and twittering songbirds that follow her around as she follows her husband's Hunt. They dance and sing and twirl in sync that many often just call the pair of them by a singular name, Ambarussa.

Irmo within his forest full of Song and Music has a very talented Maia that is so in tune with thr Song that they can play with it however they choose. Maglor only uses this ability to give the Elves good dreams, of course.

Este is forever thankful of her assistant Caranthir, who keeps all her medical necessities and books in order, so she is always prepared to help those in need, even if he himself doesn't have the best beside manner.

Lady Nienna’s Maia, Maedhros is a bit more of a recluse. He is charming when spoken too, but there is something distant, some type of lingering melancholy that clings to him, like a weak dawn in the deepest days of winter. He tends to hide himself away in the forests surrounding Formenos, helping those who are lost find their way back home.

Then there are Finwe and his beautiful wife Indis, their children, and many grandchildren. They are a stunning example of a happy family, and all the citizens of Tirion love having them as their royal family. Nothing is ever wrong, even when Fingolfin’s daughter Aredhel got lost during a hunt, she was lucky enough to be escorted back to her worried brothers' camp.

Fingon, who had never felt the degree of terror that flooded his veins at the thought of his sister lost in the woods, terror that was much stronger than what was called for because what could befell her in their peaceful land of Valinor?

She was being ferried on the back of a behemoth of a horse, pristine and laughing at the antics of the silver wolf-like Maia walking at her side. The horse was being led by a silent Maia, who smiled softly at the pair but made no move to include himself.

Fingon looked up at the tall Maia, and felt something in his fea shatter. He always had felt like something was missing, that he would havr an urge to go looking for someone he could never find, catch himself looking up to share an idea with someone who must have been taller than him only to look up at empty air. His bed felt so cold, but no matter how high he tended the hearth flames he knew it was because it was empty. He would look to the distant mountains and see a dawn peaking over their tops and weep as something in his fea ached.

Everything felt so overwhelming when he looked at this Maia, this being that looked cold, who wore furs and had snow dusting his shoulders even though it was a warm sunny summer day. Fingon was so lost in the sensations swirling within him that he was too slow to act before the Maia helped Aredhel off his horse, swung up himself and was out of the clearing. That wolfish Maia giving his sister a laughing twirl before bounding off into the thicket, chasing after the distant horn call.

Fingon’s knees felt weak, he found himself sinking to the forest floor. This world may be Arda Remade, but he still felt Marred.

[eccentricmya]

I've been obsessed with LaCE lately so here is another LaCE compliant headcanon!

Rebirth for elves happens through literal child-birth. They are not re-embodied but reborn in truth, most often in the original family they were part of. And I was thinking, if that is the case, then perhaps such children aren't recorded in the genealogy, to circumvent confusion.

Suppose Finrod is reborn again as, let's say Galadriel's kid. He will not be recorded as son of Celeborn because the fëa is Finrod's and he was created as an Arafinwion. Only the hröa can be called Celebornion but the fëa is the master of the hröa, not the other way round, so Arafinwion he would stay.

This brings us to the actual headcanon, i.e Gil-Galad as a Reborn Finwë!

Now we know Finwë gave up his right to rebirth to let Míriel live again. But what if Mandos offered him a chance to fix his sons' mess up in Arda? The deal says that he cannot take a third wife (duh!) and he shall never return to Aman alive— to prevent the conflict of his marriage bonds with his two wives dwelling in Aman.

Finwë accepts this. He already felt terrible about letting his progeny fight the great war against the enemy alone, without him there to guide them through. A war that was started in his name. So off he goes to Arda, reborn as someone's son.

But reborn children aren't recorded in the family tree. Moreover, Finwë cannot be his own descendant. Thus Gil-Galad is claimed as the son of no one but kings. Hence the name Ereinion and also the confusion about his parentage!

What's more, he doesn't regain his memories of his first life until after the War of Wrath. When only Maglor and Galadriel remain of his many grandchildren... The loss he realised was staggering. And to think he spent years warring with his own kinslaying eldest grandchildren, to think he gathered his people to raise arms against them, perhaps even pushed Maedhros to his death. The children of the son he loved best!

But there is more to do than to give into despair. He cannot fail his people again. The war with Morgoth may be over, but the marring remains, with Sauron lingering in the shadows to where he had fled. Finwë must lead the Noldor in Arda once more, but this time on their journey to the east instead, coming full circle.

Just... Gil-Galad the Reborn Finwë corralling his surviving descendants, Celebrimbor, Elrond, and Galadriel, and ushering in a new age as High King yet again.

[leonaluv]

Punarvasu thread: Dasha ruler Guru, (Jupiter) Symbol,: a quiver of arrows. Deity: Aditi (feminine goddess associated with infinity and unbounded ness) Rulership: handsome, famous, intelligent, the truthful, generous, servants, artisans and merchants from Parashara light 7 info

Sun in punarvasu: Elegant, simple, and workaholic in addition to someone who wants to reach out to the world to make so their craft can reach everyone. Somewhat sassy and loves dressing up. Keep to themselves.

Barabara Cartland she was was a writer and her sun (amk) in Gemini third house along with mercury (ak). She wanted to make romantic novels that weren't overly sexual. She also has Ashwini moon and Lagna she loves wearing pink connected to ketu.

Arthur Ashe -Tennis Player in (Amk) in 12 along with Mercury in arda. He was raised not to fight back during that time of aggression due to segregation. Other people asked him why he wouldn't speak out against issues. He replied he will speak using his racket

One common placements among rapper seems to be Gemini Punarvasu.

Nice guy/ Innocent man Kwang soo has his sun in punarvasu, and his best friend slept with his girl. He often plays the second male lead in the story.

Miranda Kerr (Model) was label Bagel girl in Korea meaning Babyface Angel and glamorous body. Moon in cancer ♋ Punarvasu and Asc in cancer pushya. Dorothy Dandridge was the most successful black woman actress of her time. She was denied to play the part of Carmen Jones

Another Punarvasu Icon Kathryn Grayson singing I hate man and I wanted to show Janis Paige song about all I got get now is my man. Reminds me of Jeongyeon ,because of her personality being funny and beautiful. Like the way they describe Punarvasu.

Jeonhyeon wants to be more feminine, but her agency expects her to be a tomboy. I saw girls called her oops (older brother) labeling her wrong. Her agency forces her to cut her hair and she said she never will cut it again. She could be giving out these vibes.

Georgio Amani - Fashion Designer ☀️ in ♊ (amk) , Mercury (ak), Moon, and mars (mrig) in 12 🏠. He wanted his designs to be wear by everyday people. He helps start the standard of Milan fashion.

Nikola tesla wanted to bring free electricity to all. Sun in Gemini ♊ punarvasu.

[polutrope]

A Gift

a @silmkinkmeme fill for @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 1: Aman

Rating: G | No warnings Words: 900 Relationship: Maedhros & Maglor

Summary: Maglor was born without sight and a unique gift for Song. Maedhros helps him understand his gift; years later, Maglor returns the favour.

Also on AO3

Macalaurë carefully runs his hands over the harp’s frame - a begetting day gift from Grandfather Finwë - and Maitimo watches the movement behind his half-lidded eyes as his brother creates a picture of it in his mind.

How worried they had been when little Canafinwë came into the world sightless. There were rumours of Elves being born without sight in the darkness of Cuiviénen, and there were those who returned blinded from the torments of the Shadow, but never had one been born thus into the bliss of Aman. And how Cáno screamed in fear and cried in pain and shouted in anger! Surely, it was his marring that caused him such distress.

Marring. That is what they called it. Of course Fëanáro’s secondborn was celebrated, loved, accepted – but ever did others watch him nervously and speak to him with pity, as if to a wounded creature and not to a prince of the House of Finwë. Grandfather himself more than any of them. Maitimo wondered if Finwë thought of Míriel when he looked upon his grandson. Feared that from her griefs some thread of Arda Marred had passed into his eldest son’s line. But Maitimo knows Macalaurë is not marred.

A bright scale on the harp returns Maitimo’s attention to his little brother. Macalaurë smiles, plucks out a lilting melody. His child’s fingers dance over the strings with the deftness of a master.

He raises his voice in song, and Maitimo is transported. He is carried from Finwë’s gardens, carried beyond the golden edges of Valinor; he soars above the dark Sea specked with foaming wave caps. Sight subsides, and he hears, all around him, Music. A symphony of viols and organs and pipes gathering around the gentle notes of his brother’s harp, voices raised in harmony with his singing.

So must the World have seemed when the Ainur sang it into being: a blur of light and colour, sight that melts into sound. Sound like water, sound with substance that threatens to overflow the spirit.

When Maitimo finds himself back on the firm ground again, he sways as if he might topple over under the weight of so much sensation.

But Macalaurë’s face has fallen, his brows furrowed. His small hands rest, palms open, at his sides.

“Cáno?” Maitimo says softly, not wanting to frighten him.

Macalaurë doesn’t startle, but he does sniff and wipe his nose on his sleeve.

“Cáno, why are you crying?” Maitimo sits down beside him on the bench and instinctively wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“You saw,” Macalaurë says. “There was nothing! I try to sing a story and it is just sounds. No pictures. I cannot see them, Nelyo!” He balls his hands into fists and strikes his thighs in frustration. “I don’t know how to show you mountains and rivers and birds because I have never seen them. I will never be able to tell stories like Elemmírë or Hyamindë or Elvion.”

“Shh, shh,” Maitimo cradles his brother’s head against his chest. He wants to protest, exclaim in disbelief, tell him he must be mad not to think his unique skill for music a gift – but he has seen how this makes Macalaurë cry even more. Maitimo cannot understand, not really, but remembers being a child and how frightening it was to be marked as extraordinary when all you wanted was to belong. So he holds little Macalaurë and waits for his breaths to settle.

“Cáno,” Maitimo says after a while, when his brother has stilled. “I know it is difficult to believe now, but the stories that you tell with the power of your voice and music will be greater than any bard with ordinary sight could ever imagine. You will be one of the greatest singers to live.”

Macalaurë inhales deeply and stretches an arm around Maitimo’s torso. “Do you think?” he asks.

“I am certain,” says Maitimo.

~ ~ ~

Standing opposite him, Maglor’s hands make their way down the length of Maedhros’ right arm, feeling out the new shape of him. When he comes to the blunted end of his wrist, finally grown over with a thick layer of scarred flesh, his eyes dart furiously behind his lids. He winces.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Maedhros asks.

“No,” Maglor says. “I was just thinking how it must hurt.”

“Not anymore. In fact, I can scarcely feel your hands on it.”

“I don’t mean physical pain, Nelyo,” Maglor scolds. Still holding the end of his arm, he sets his other hand on Maedhros’ chest and tilts his chin up. “It must hurt to be missing something that meant so much to who you were.”

Maedhros swallows the knot in his throat. No matter how many walls he erects around himself, he will always be transparent to Maglor. Well before they left Valinor, Maedhros had perfected the art of swordsmanship. He had set aside all other pursuits to become the warrior his father wanted him to be. Now Fëanor is gone, and Maedhros may as well be gone. What vengeance can a maimed and defenceless son possibly exact for his father’s death?

“Yes,” Maedhros admits. “It hurts.”

Maglor embraces him, presses the side of his face against Maedhros’ heart. “You will wield a sword with your left hand more skillfully than any warrior has ever fought with his right.”

Maedhros huffs, dulling the edges of his grief with wry amusement. “You think so?”

“I am sure of it,” says Maglor.

[theriverwild]

TWLATS Sneak Peek

Ch. 47) Oromë

I have not forgotten about my 'Use Well the Days' universe! My AU has just temporarily hijacked my brain and I'm trying to exorcise it so I can get back to TWLATS, Autocorrelation, Aftermath, SATPOD, and Marring of Mairon. Thank you all for being patient. Here's a sneak peek for the next chapter of TWLATS (below the cut):

“Not a chance in hell.” “You will do this, Mairon.” “The fuck I won’t. Were you not listening when I swore I wasn’t going to do that shit again.” “Which is why you’re going to teach me.” “Fuck you, Eöwnë.” “Fuck you, Mairon. When are you going to get it through your thick head that you do not know all ways and ends, nor do you see all paths for how this is going to play out.” “Okay, fine, so tell me. Why on earth would I teach you this kind of wizardry?” “You’re about to go to Middle Earth with Oromë.” “No shit.” “You know he’s going to have you hunt the fell beasts from beyond Arda that Melkor perverted to his service.” Mairon tilted his chin and glared at Eönwë, waiting for him to go on.  “You really want to send them back to Melkor in the void?” “You think I haven’t thought of this?” “So then what do you propose? Because you and I both know Oromë is not going to hold back.” “Can’t Námo sequester them?” “They are not of Arda, Mairon. They do not answer to him.” “So you’re going to play the hero then? Lock all these beasts up and then what? You can’t possibly believe Manwë will let you keep them in Aman.” “Manwë is not asking.” Mairon stared, balked, and then a grin crossed over his face, crinkling at the corner of his eyes. And he spoke with the slow drawl of delight. “He doesn’t know.”