#ITHOF Writes

[inthehouseoffinwe]

I have this hc that Sauron’s obsession with vanity led him to spend years studying Maedhros’ features and trying to emulate them. When he couldn’t get it right, the proportions always a little off, red hair never deep enough, he took his anger out on Mae and when that option was gone, tried to pull from others also renown for their beauty instead.

Fast forward a few centuries and turns out all that work wasn’t entirely useless. And Sauron knows exactly what to do with the features he was able to recreate. Weaving them into his new face, the line of Maitimo’s smile, the set of his eyebrows, the crease of his eyes, he puts just enough to be familiar, but not enough to set off any alarms.

Celebrimbor doesn’t know *why* he trusts Annatar so easily, just that he’s got a good feeling about him. The Maia reminds him of someone he can’t quite put a finger on, but it’s a good association and he doesn’t think on it too deeply. Grows to call him a brother in all but blood.

Of course we all know how that ends. And the last thing Celebrimbor sees is his eldest Uncle’s smile, a mockery of the warmth it should hold as Sauron finally ends his torture.

(Elrond, on the other hand, never saw Maitimo who used to laugh easily and play silly games with children. Only grim Maedhros. The gentle features Sauron steals are alien to him. A stranger with too many familiar features he can’t quite place, twisted the wrong way, leaving him deeply unsettled. It’s why he immediately tells Gil Galad to send Annatar away, hiding trembling hands in his sleeves.)

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Op you have just given me Ideas TM for a Silm AU where they capture Morgoth, maybe in a cage build by Curufin, Celebrimbor, helped along by Aulë and others. Because they can’t kill him, and there’s too much risk in the Void (remember Ungoliant? There’s all manner of creepy, powerful things that might just ally with him.) But to keep Morgoth on lockdown, someone has to bear the Mark. Basically an Amara situation.

But like. Who takes the mark? What does it do to them? What happens when someone is inevitably corrupted? Elves don’t die the way humans do, so if the bearer was killed like Dean was, would the darkness of the mark follow them to the Halls? What’s the Elven equivalent of a demon? Can they transfer the Mark between each other?

What if like how when someone takes the Mark once, they can’t take any form of it again because of that remaining influence. The Fëanorions can’t take it because they took the Oath and already fell under A Higher Being’s TM influence.

Can you imagine how horrible it would be to see someone else take it on? Knowing how things go, it’d probably be Fingon, and they have to watch their cousin, their *brother* who stood by them when so many would’ve let them rot, slowly be corrupted. Draw their people to corruption until they’re near unrecognisable. All the while everyone’s too busy making sure the Fëanorions are accounted for to see what it’s doing to their High King. Because they didn’t know what it would do.

And if you say anything? Well. Accusing such a loved King of falling to darkness is treason isn’t it.

It would also be interesting seeing if this Mark needs to be satiated in the same way. In which case capital punishment is a perfect way to do so. Maybe Turgon sees what it’s doing and subtly recommends a way to keep everything calm. Can’t have panic after all, Sauron’s still out there building his forces, and it’s not like there aren’t murders and wannabe usurpers amongst the Noldor. Because I don’t think orcs would cut it.

Thinking about that idea Tolkien had where the Feanorians get the Silmaril in Doriath and then begin fighting over it and killing each other until only Maglor remains, and so having killed at least some of his brothers, bearing the mark of Cain the burn of the Silmaril, he is cursed to wander the earth shore.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Finrod and Maedhros in the halls or post embodiment talking about Sauron.

Not about the torture or the agony they went through, more like gossiping on how much of a peacock he was, strutting around and bragging about how beautiful he is.

If you came across them in the street you’d think they’re talking about one of those overdressed Tirion nobles, but then you hear “I preferred his torture to his speeches because dear Eru those were a whole new level of pain-“

“Heard all of two before being mauled. Definitely preferred the werewolf.”

Celebrimbor sometimes joins these sessions but he’s got the additional years of having known Annatar and it’s therapeutic to talk about how self absorbed he was to people who really understand. Safe to say Maedhros and Finrod sombrely commiserate the kid on dealing with that for centuries.

“How did you two become friends??”

“I think his vanity numbed my brain.”

“That’s fair.”

[inthehouseoffinwe]

I sometimes think about Fingolfin being the sole Uncle looking after all his nephews/niece/kids. Like, there’s 16 children. Before taking the Helcaraxë he no doubt promised Finarfin that he would take care of them. And I feel like once he found out about Fëanor, and especially saw the state of Maedhros, he silently promised his half brother he’d do his best to look after them too. Not that he wasn’t going to anyway.

But the burden that must have been, especially with how volatile and independant all these kids are. Oh they might be grown. But he’ll never see them as such. Even now he remembers Nelyo’s birth and how the baby would toddle after him, crying when it was time to leave. Curvo going through all his mechanical devices, Turukano right behind him as Fingolfin explained where each came from and listened to the children tell him all about the workings. Carnistir carefully running little hands over the embroidery of his cloak, Anairë laughing quietly and explaining the techniques that went into it. Ambarussa and all the chaos they caused, enough so that Fëanor and Nerdanel would dump them at his house for days at a time, usually a couple of brothers tagging along. Tyelko and Irissë wrestling in the mud, neither group of parents knowing what to do when they trudged in, a sticky trail behind them.

Findekáno’s duets with Makalaurë, the little musician quietly asking to play before his uncle and cousin to make sure it was perfect before he showed his father. Finno, Nelyo, and Findarato encouraging him with whoops, Fingolfin and Anairë applauding with wide smiles at the end as he was swarmed by his cousins and brother. The four’s ‘secret’ sleepovers whenever they were in the same place. Aikanaro and Angamaitë raiding his kitchens, Fingolfin joining in with a finger on his lips, helping steal pastries in the middle of the night. Artanis insisting she could join in whatever game his boys were playing, Ireth backing her with a scowl until they were let in. Little Orodreth and his own Arakano, friends since birth. The screams of delight whenever they saw each other.

Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, he doesn’t know. All of them are now his children. He couldn’t stop the Fëanorions from taking the most dangerous lands because he had no argument to give. He can’t stop Turno and Ingo from making hidden kingdoms and taking Ireth and Artaresto with them. He couldn’t save little Arakano. He can’t stop Artanis hiding in Doriath, although he’s grateful at least one of his kids is safe… even if that safety comes with disowning the rest of her family.

He can’t even protect little Tyelpë and Itarillë who never asked for any of this.

So when the Dagor Bragollach comes and he hears Aegnor and Angrod are definitely dead, Curufin, Celegorm, and Celebrimbor might as well be for the trail of bodies leading to Doriath and the mass murder at the Girdle, Maglor’s land has been burned so far beyond recognition, they can’t even *find* bodies, Turgon, Idril, and Aredhel he wouldn’t even know if they were killed, and he hasn’t heard from Finrod in months-

He can’t.

So he makes a last ditch attempt because maybe, just maybe, he can make their battle the slightest bit easier. Give his kids if any of them survive a weakness to exploit. A slight advantage to turn the tables…

A stab to the foot does the trick. Morgoth will be limping on that one for millennia.

He hopes his brothers can forgive him.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin loved all their nephews and nieces I take no argument. They showed it in different ways, but there were never any malicious thoughts towards them.

Any competition they had was between each other (though Finarfin was very much youngest sibling literally cba to deal with his older brothers.)

Fëanor: Always has too much food, used to his kids bringing over their respective favourite cousin for a meal because they were out playing too late and he’s not exactly going to send a child home hungry. As they got older it was because they’d been out and this was the closest place to disappear away to and crash. He’s used to seeing various kids sprawled across the carpet in the living room, waking up with headaches and groans. He’ll never admit it, but he finds it hilarious and enjoys seeing the children happy. If his brothers ask? ‘What do you mean they were out, I’ve had your children here with me all night.’

Fingolfin: One day I’ll stop linking this post but I really like how it turned out so you get to see it again! Fingolfin happily lets them traverse his house, go through his belongings. He’s very much a partner in crime, helping them sneak around, acting as lookout. Pretending not to see a majority of sweet pasties disappear overnight. He lives closest to the busy parts of the city, so it’s not unusual for the kids to get ready at his house if they’re going out anywhere or even preparing for Court. Most of the kids have their own shared room, and they’re full to the brim of everyone’s clothes, jewellery, shoes. Essentially a whole wardrobe. It gets messy, but he loves seeing his house full of life. Even if he could do without the mess Tyeko and Iressë bring in… and the various musicals at 3am. ‘You know we never tire of having you here… but perhaps you could tone down the partying? Just a little?’ He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Finarfin: My guy ofc has his house by the sea which like Fingolfin’s, has many many rooms full to the brim with clothes and jewellery. It’s essentially a home away from home for his niece and nephews, they don’t have to pack because everything’s already there. As youngest uncle and closest in age, he’ll just so happen to tell the kids where to have fun. He had the least pressure on him growing up and knows the best places in Tirion and Alqualondë. Going to Finarfin’s is like going on holiday, he’ll back them up and make sure they can do what they want without worrying about their reputations as princes and princesses. ‘The kids are far too stressed and don’t get to come here often, brothers. Let them have their fun. I’ll take care of them.’

Bonus!

Finwë: The mastermind. The accomplice. The alibi. He has a wild side to him born in Cuivienen and honed over the Great Journey. Court life is too stuffy even for him sometimes, let alone his grandchildren. He’s the one telling them all the wild things he got up to in his youth with a wink at the end subtly telling them how to do things their parents definitely would not approve of. High King Finwë would never! High King Finwë definitely would, and he’s making sure his grandkids get the experience too. He’s the one who gets the parents to leave for weeks at a time and his grandchildren have the time of their lives. ‘My sons, you worry too much! Don’t you trust your father?’

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Instead of honouring specific aspects of his heritage, Elrond creates something entirely new for himself.

The House of Elrond is it’s own thing. Imladris is entirely unique. You think you see something Noldorin or Sindar or even Mannish, but look for a second more and it’s not like that at all.

Because when Elrond designed it as a Homely House, he made sure anyone who came knew they’d be welcome. They could heal and start over without judgement.

(Ultimately that’s what keeps his relations with other races so strong too. They feel comfortable in this home of many lines.)

There are specifically Dúnedain influences though. He’s fostered so many kids, looked after so many families, he wants to make sure they know that they might have lost their kingdom, but they still have a home. It’s common for Dúnedain to stop by, take refuge, recover, just say hi to friends. But they’re such an unknown people, you can’t see it unless you know it’s there. There’s even a beautiful little graveyard where so many of his distant nephews and nieces have found their rest, visited regularly by the residents of Imladris.

There’s also many many trinkets from across the centuries scattered around. A wonky dagger with a place of honour, the first work of a rising chieftain. The cracked vase from that time it was knocked over by a ball from a young boy. Letters and drawings carefully kept in Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, and even Celebrian’s drawers. Glorfindel, Erestor, and most residents of Rivendell have at least a few items gifted by the many generations of Dúnedain who’ve walked through the valley.

All this is taken with them when they sail, and the memory of these people whose lives were so entwined with their own lives on.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

The ships burn and Fingolfin hates.

…the ships keep burning and Fingolfin fears.

Mad cackling can almost be heard a continent away and he can’t figure out whose it is: Morgoth’s, or his brother’s.

In either case, he knows the people Fëanor has just taken to the other side, Fingolfin’s dear nephews most of all, are in great danger. He knows his brother. And he knows what happens to the people around him when his passion meets rage in a merciless, all-consuming flame.

No one deserves to be in that line of fire.

So when his children and remaining nephews and niece cry out their betrayal and curse their uncle and cousins, he turns a firm eye to them.

“If I’d commanded it, would you not have done the same?”

They begin to shake their heads, and he frowns.

“Do not lie to me, children.”

They turn away. Fingon’s relief at his father’s words breaks his heart, his eldest should know he cares deeply for Fëanor’s sons. Surely? Has he become so distant? Would any of them have confided in him earlier if he’d just opened his arms a little more-

No use in what ifs.

He turns back to the burning ships and sends a small prayer to whoever might still listen to keep his nephews safe. Fëanor is gone, mind shattered with his father’s death, and he’s dragging his children down with him to ash and blood and ruin. They just have to survive long enough for Fingolfin to arrive. He’ll talk sense into his brother, he’s the only one who can. He’ll get the children their father back and fix all of this, pride be damned.

The Helcaraxë is the only option. His nine children spit venom at their half uncle, but no longer complain of their cousins. A year following him into this hellscape, a year of leaving the weakest to the blizzards lest everyone freeze yet refusing to turn back, has shown them exactly what they’d have done were the positions reversed.

It’s a sobering thought. He wonders what he’s done to deserve such dogged loyalty.

Wonders when he started taking advantage of the same things he hated and admired most about his brother.

Time passes. He wakes one day to a coldness in his fëa and sends another desperate prayer. A bad feeling takes route that grows day by day, fear and a strange fire dancing in his periphery urging him and his people on.

Time is running out Nolofinwë.

Ice slowly gives way to solid rock, then slush, then grass and he arrives at Mithrim in relief, all but running to the fortress, only to see little Makalaurë greeting his host. Eyes hardened, crowned in silver, heavy shoulders draped in a frayed red cloak-

And he knows it’s far, far too late.

Agony and despair are hidden behind a stony mask that he sees right through but can no longer reach. His open arms greeted with caution. Watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. His kind words with narrowed eyes, all but daring pity, and Fingolfin could weep.

There’s no reconciliation that can prove his love, his understanding, now.

Fëanor is gone.

His children are being consumed in the blaze left behind.

…and Fingolfin doesn’t know how to fix this.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Finarfin Fades.

No one expects it, no one’s faded in Valinor since Miriel. The War of Wrath is won and he comes back, waving off the courtiers, well wishers, and congratulators with his usual grace, and walks into the palace of Tirion. To rooms abandoned since their owners left so long ago. Winding deeper and deeper his feet take him to what was once Finwë’s favourite garden.

He’s so tired.

He’s fulfilled his promise to Fëanaro and Nolofinwë, to avenge them. To make the agony of their final moments - agony Finarfin felt, falling to the floor screaming as fire and darkness consumed his spirit - count for something. Now Morgoth is finally gone, but he’s not the only one.

His brothers, larger than life, larger than death, are gone. With them his sons. Niece. Nephews. Grandchildren. His daughter is never to return. He Saw little Nelyo’s death in his dreams and is sure hopes for the child’s own sake that Makalaurë will be close behind.

Little remains. Even less on these golden shores.

So Finarfin sits on a bench long overgrown with vines and weeds, and watches the sun filter through the thicket, wishing the ghosts he sees in his father’s garden would flesh out.

He sits. He waits.

And by the time anyone finds him, it’s too late.

…at least he’s smiling again.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

I think of all the elves, of all his family, Maglor best understands what it is to be world weary. To want to leave. I feel like there’s this connection which forms between his and his grandmother’s fëa, and over time, she’s even able to reach out. To give him a little comfort. To give him just enough will to keep going, because Maglor would never forgive himself if he didn’t:

Miriel on the ocean’s waves, adding a little tune of her own to Maglor’s lament

Maglor not even fully away of what he’s singing, what part of the Noldolantë is being composed but still picking up the quicksilver thread and turning it into its own tapestry

Miriel’s strangely proud of her singer

Maglor alone and cold and lost in hallucinations and dreams. Miriel reaches out and is able to twist them into good ones. Into memories of Aman, memories with his brothers and cousins from a time less marred

Miriel sees her son in the halls and watches him determinedly walk through each section depicting his sons’ fates, make himself see what he did to his family.

And he manages to make it to the end, soaking each one with his tears

But then he sees his second son alone, screaming his grief to the ocean, he collapses

His other sons he has comforted, he’s held snd assured them of his love. He’s sent them on their way to be healed and released.

But this one… this one he cannot reach

And it breaks her heart. She knows too well what it is to see your son in agony and have no way of comforting him. Of assuring him you don’t hate him, that you want him to move on and live a full life again.

She sings her own grief into the next tapestry of Maglor’s she weaves, and is stunned to hear a song reaching right back

Vairë and Námo tell her Kanafinwë’s power reaches to her threads. She weaves their history and he sings it.

Their fëa which should have connected in life, now connect in each of their deaths.

Námo seems to smile at this development and gently wiping away her tears gestures to the newest tapestry of Maglor clenching his burnt, blood soaked hand. More spirit than elf.

“Call to him.”

She does.

And she finds him responding in his semi awareness.

Maglor is his music. Maglor is his song. What remained of anything else is swept away in the endless tides of his grief and lamentation

He’s fading. Becoming a spectre of the shore because he will not die. Refuses to die.

But this little spark of home, the fire so similar to his father’s but older, more steady and persisting, breaks him from his fading.

And when Fëanor beholds the newest tapestry, his remaining son has more colour to him, tattered robes standing out against the grey backdrop, and his head is tilted as if listening intently to something.

He looks *alive*

The next tapestries solidify Maglor even more. Where he was blue and grey, faded red comes back, his loose hair falls in his favoured braids, eyes clear grey shining tree light rather than milky white.

Maedhros, so like his father, determined to see his little brother fade in a final attempt to atone and keep him company as he’d failed to before, is stunned

And when his grandmother sings his brother’s song, he understands.

Miriel holds his hands warmly.

“I’ll take care of him until he comes home. Go, Maitimo. Heal. Be there when he returns.”

Fëanor sits for years, in front of the weaving of Maglor’s small smile as he beholds a crab crawling along his robe. The first smile since he let go of his twin stars.

Eyes wide. Unblinking. As if turning away would bring everything crashing down and Maglor will be a wraith again

Miriel continues to call out to her grandson, and the spirit that brought Fëanor’s fire to the world slowly revives his son.

She breaks her son from his frozen state and takes him to her weaving room.

“Ammë?” He sounds lost.

She smiles and in a familiar sing song gestures to the loom.

“Look, Fëanaro.”

Because there sits Maglor, singing still but with new robes, a smile creasing his eyes and his foster son leaning into his side.

And behind, a familiar silver haired figure in the ocean mist singing right alongside him

“Ammë… you?” Fëanor’s jaw falls. “How? Why?”

“He is my grandson, yonya,” she says firmly. “As for how…”

She explains the connection, and the song.

Somehow in speaking the Doom, Maglor reached through Mandos’ halls to the one member of his family whose skill lay in the same craft.

“Does he know?” Fëanor finally asks, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Does he know his family love him. They protect him. They long to see him again. That he can come *home*-

To this, Miriel sighs.

“I do not know. But he knows he is not alone.”

Maglor returns with Elrond to Imladris where he meets a little boy called Hope who speaks of ancestors reaching out to him and innocently asks the old elf if his family do the same.

She’s glad to be the one recording Maglor’s stunned face, and for the first time, laughs while weaving. It’s enough to bring Fëanor desperately knocking and Vairë shaking her head.

Some days pass and for the first time, she hears a song reaching out with intent. A hesitant question.

“Atya?” It calls.

She sings back.

“Not quite, my Songbird, though he sends you his love.”

Quicksilver hands and restless humming.

“It cannot be…”

“Hello, grandson of mine.”

Her influence is no longer needed, for Maglor is alive and healthy and keeping the heir of Isildur safe. Teaching him all he knows.

But she sings alongside him as he fights in the final battle by the Black Gate. Song and sword flashing as they haven’t in two ages.

She grabs Fëanor by the hand to show him Maglor singing and laughing at little Estel and Arwen’s wedding. And for the first time, Fëanor’s weeping is for joy.

Then the Doom is officially lifted read: please come back, everyone misses you and Galadriel is to sail.

And Miriel reaches out one last time.

“The Doom is long lifted. It’s time to come home, Makalaurë.”

And when Maglor comes home, he sees a silver haired elf in his periphery, grin flashing white in the afternoon sun before she disappears again

Miriel will never leave the halls.

She doesn’t need to.

Because she’s firmly entrenched in their family now, and Maglor sings to her everyday.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Hc that Celebrian knew from before they were born which of her children would choose mortality.

From what I remember, Elven mothers have insight to their child’s life pre birth. Thing Miriel telling Finwë not to blame her for the deeds Fëanor will go on to commit. Think even the names that are chosen, and how the mother names seem to hold a certain weight about them.

Celebrian knew from the moment she chose to marry Elrond exactly what she was risking. But I think having heard and potentially seen Elros, this was something she was willing to take. It wasn’t a case of hoping her children would be immortal and find their way back to her. It was ‘I know they’ll choose what’s right for them, and I’ll be happy either way.”

Also remember Celebrian was born as part of a family who had been dealt fates worse than death before, and others to whom immortality would become a curse because they were the only ones left. Galadriel was still in exile, and had lost all her brothers and cousins. As far as they were concerned, this was it for her until she became a shade on Arda.

All that to say, she saw mortality and death not as a curse or sundering - she knew you didn’t have to die for that to happen. But as the gift as Eru intended it.

So yes. When Arwen was born, she grieved. But she also smiled. There’d come a point where her daughter would leave her forever, but she had an Uncle on the other side waiting for her. And Celebrian knew whoever had Arwen’s heart would be a noble and kind man indeed.

And based on conversations I’ve had with people talking of their married children? There will always be a sense of grief. But every parent, especially someone like Celebrian who had such a wonderful life with Elrond, wants their child to experience what they have.

Wherever it takes them.

(Celebrian receives letters from Arwen and Aragorn when Legolas comes. She holds them close and weeps, but smiles and laughs as she reads them. And her heart eases. Just as she thought, Arwen was happier in her short time on Arda than she ever would’ve been as an immortal in the Undying Lands.)

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Mirdania is Celebrimbor’s child in all but blood, I take no argument. When she goes to the Halls, she’s immediately surrounded by a large company of Finwëans who all feel incredibly old and just stare at each other like:

Tyelpë has a daughter??!!

Anyway, she very quickly finds out about what went down with Annatar and well… Celebrimbor joins them all soon enough. His soul is in a lot of pain and Nienna is already on her way to give him her strength and hold him together.

But the first person he sees, or rather the first person who approaches, is Mirdania, who takes in his state and gives him literally the biggest hug. He clings back to her, weeping, and she just squeezes tighter.

“I’m so sorry…”

“So am I.” She looks him in the eyes, determined for him to understand this if nothing else. “But it wasn’t either of our faults.”

Anyway his pseudo daughter is quickly claimed by the House of Fëanor and finds herself with a very large extended family to look forward to meeting. In and out the Halls.

She leaves sooner than Celebrimbor, but you best bet she’s right there at the gates when he finally heals enough to come out.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

In the end, Maglor spends more time asleep than awake.

He finishes the final note of the Noldolantë, recited as many times as it has verses, and collapses at last.

But Elven bodies are slow to fade, the High Elven Sons of Fëanaro slowest of all, and it takes thousands of years to so much as weaken. Ulmo takes pity on the Singer who’s haunted his shores longer than he’s had a home, and covers him in a sandy shelter until his fëa finally departs, yearning for the family lost long ago.

The Vala makes Kanafinwë’s tomb at the base of what was once Himring. He doesn’t know where the elf will go, but perhaps his empty hröa might find peace under the shade of his older brother’s fortress as it had so long ago. And perhaps his fëa, wherever it is, will get a measure of that peace too.

-

Fiery red hair and a laugh he thought he’d never hear again. Warm arms wrapping tightly around him.

“Outlived us all, huh little brother?”

Sometimes I think of Maglor going from being a prince of the Noldor with a large, comfortable house full of family, then ending up alone on a beach, no roof over his head, nothing to keep his safe and warm. The only comfort his memories when he sleeps.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Maglor isn’t the first in the family to become more thing than elf.

That honour goes to Miriel.

Her years in the halls continuously weaving have given her several arms that flash in and out of existence. Eyes more akin to a spider’s. Hair that extends for miles, hanging all over the room to the threads she uses in her family’s tapestries.

One strand to every gleam of the silmaril. Several locks to the white flame that consumed her Fëanaro.

Another to carefully craft the jagged scars on Nelyo’s face and hand. He may not care for his looks, but Miriel refuses to give him anything but perfection. He’ll always be her beautiful grandson. She learned to see past looks long ago.

For Tyelko, so similar to her, she uses only the brightest strands. For Moryo’s glittering embroidery woven in careful detail, the finest. For Curvo’s intricate jewellery and sharp smile, the strongest. Ambarussa need little of her, so she makes sure to capture their shimmering tunics lest they feel left out.

She never much cared for how her grandchildren looked, they are hers and she is theirs.

Dear Celebrimbor is never without a quarter head of hair, silver in name and silver in looks. Even in death Sauron couldn’t separate him from her, the arrows that pierce him delicately captured in uncanny detail, so when her great-grandson arrives, he knows he was never alone. Not in his darkest times.

Most recently, she finds herself using the same several strands twisted again and again to make the white streaks in her Songbird’s hair. She often weaves Makalaurë between her larger tapestries, her way of accompanying her lonely child, and each time he seems to have grown more. She wonders when he’ll look like her. Silver hair. Embodying the element he was born into. More creature than elf.

Wonders if like her, he might be happier that way.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

AU where even after death our favourite Finwëions are being stubborn as ever so a new solution is found. Finarfin just wanted to help his grandson in law.

Fëanor and Fingolfin are being stubborn as ever

It’s been three ages, their wounds are healed, they’ve made up and understood most of their deeds

But they cannot for the life of them get along, and everyone, from Mandos to their children and people, know that if they’re released in their current state, things will go right back to how they were

Even if their people are kept in line by their kids, it’s a very explosive situation

And in all honesty, Námo feels like they’ve put poor Finarfin through enough without this addition

He can’t keep them here forever. The halls aren’t meant to be a permanent residence unless it’s by choice, and they’ve started causing chaos in here too

…but speaking of the sons of Finwë

Finarfin himself isn’t doing particularly well right now. He feels great guilt for his inaction over the last two Ages, especially as Tyelpë and Ereinion turned up with their own tales

Then of course little Celebrian

(Doesn’t matter how much everyone tells him they’d genuinely be lost without him and his actions. The Noldor especially would’ve been outcast and alone. They needed a stable ruler, not another revolutionary. And the work he’s done is more impactful than either of his brothers ever managed)

Not to mention he’s still furious at his brothers despite what he’s convinced himself of

…and misses them greatly.

Truth be told, the Valar owe him a lot.

So they offer him a choice.

Ereinion’s skilled with managing all kinds of people and people don’t have a problem with the kid, so for a time he’ll be the High King

Finarfin is overjoyed at the chance to help his granddaughter’s family. Elrond is dear to many across all factions, and his children too.

…He’s less overjoyed at the news his brothers will be joining him if he agrees.

Nevertheless desire to be of use for once wins out and he accepts.

He gets a week or so to say his goodbyes and prepare for the journey. Asking around, particularly asking the third age elves who’ve recently arrived and Celebrian most of all, gets him the clothes and supplies he needs to somewhat blend in.

They’re still his colours (though he has none) and his symbol is carefully hidden under the cloak.

And he heads to the Hall’s Opening.

“For what it’s worth, Arafinwë, I’m sorry for the additional baggage. We’ve asked much of you, but hopefully this at least will benefit us all.”

Námo is kind when he stands and opens the gates.

“I know you’ve missed them too.”

The soft whisper dissipates into the wind with the Vala and now two figures are walking out. Tall. Broad shouldered. Eyes shining with light.

Clad in their usual blue and red, weapons strapped to their backs and hips.

Fëanaro and Nolofinwë have returned at last.

Before he can say anything there’s a whirl of light and the three elves are swept away.

Aragorn did not sign up for this

A bright flash of light all but blinds him, leaving three figures in its wake.

Three very tall. Very Elven. Figures.

And if that’s not enough, they look strangely familiar. Like he should know them from somewhere.

“That damn Vala! He couldn’t have warned us!”

And now they’re speaking Quenya.

“He did. It’s not his fault you don’t listen to anyone but yourself,” the one clad in blue says viciously.

The third elf, the only one with blond hair, groaned and glared at the two others. Aragorn winced at the look, thankful he wasn’t under it, though neither of the others so much as flinched.

“You’ve been back how long?” He scoffed. “And here I thought I missed you.”

To his credit the one in blue showed some regret and bowed his head. Beside him, the red one huffed, but it was much less heated, and his hands clenched into the leaves around him.

“Forgive me, Arafinwë,” the blue one said.

Aragorn’s hand found his blade. It couldn’t be…

“Depends what you want forgiveness for, Nolo,” was the cold reply, tinged with hurt.

No way.

But it was there. The uncanny resemblance to the portraits he’d seen in his books as a young boy learning his history. This was no doubt Fingolfin, and beside him Finarfin. Which only left-

“My feud with Fëanaro has long tainted our relationship, little brother,” the blue elf- *Fingolfin* replied bitterly, glaring at the third elf. “I’d like to start again.”

“Well I’d like you two to shove your issues aside for once and try and get along!” Finarfin hissed back, and his older brother’s eyes widened. “How long will you keep fighting?! How long will you divide your people, your children! How long will you make them suffer for your egos?!”

Aragorn expected Fëanor to scowl, angrily proclaim his youngest half brother had no right to speak that way, but the elf only glared into the floor. Fingolfin stared into the trees and Finarfin turned away, eyes clouding with pain.

Only to stare right at Aragorn.

“Fëanaro, Nolo. Swords up.”

To their credit the elves immediately stood and followed Finarfin’s gaze to Aragorn. The Ranger carefully stepped into the light as the three sons of Finwë stared him down.

“It is not polite to lurk, stranger.” Fingolfin said in the common tongue and Aragorn vaguely wondered if he’d been taught it in the halls. He put his hands up, free of weapons, and lowered his hood.

“Forgive me, my lord Fingolfin. But I had to identify if you were friend of foe. You appeared in a strange manner wearing faces of old, and the enemy is skilled in his deceit.”

“You dare accuse us of being Sauron’s creations?” Fëanor’s eyes lit with a fell fire and Aragorn would have shuddered was he not accustomed to seeing much worse from his own father. Elrond could be… rather terrifying when he decided he’d had enough of his son’s’ shenanigans.

“He was being cautious,” Finarfin retorted. “Something you could learn from considering how your life ended.”

“I didn’t know what Balrogs were!”

“The great Fëanaro admitting to not knowing something, have the end of days come at last?”

“Some would say his presence here is an indicator of that,” Fingolfin muttered as Fëanor scowled at the blond. The scowl turned to him and he met it squarely. “I said what I said.”

The situation was fast unravelling and Aragorn had Nazgul on his tail. For all his training in Elrond’s house, nothing had prepared him for dealing with three Princes - Kings??? - of the Noldor at each others throats. Sending a prayer that this wouldn’t get him skewered, he whistled sharply and the three elves spun his way. He raised his hands in apology.

“Orcs and other fell beasts roam these lands, my lords. I’d advise a quieter argument?” He grimaced at the two stunned faces, wondering when it would turn to explosive anger that ended the line of Elros once and for all.

But Finarfin tilted his head, a small smile playing about his lips.

“It takes great courage to step between the arguments of the House of Finwë. What’s your name, stranger.”

The Ranger bowed his head.

“The trees have ears, my lord, I’d take you to an Elven safehaven before telling you that. But for now, you can call me Strider.”

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Tyelko isn’t one for excessive gold or jewellery, and most of it though decorative, serves a practical purpose. Most importantly, it must be completely silent no matter how he moves.

Fëanor made all the pieces himself to ensure they met his Silver Hunter’s requirements. Whilst his other sons wore all kinds of pieces, Celegorm only ever wore what his father made. These lasted everything Valinor had to offer.

But not Beleriand.

A few years into the endless night, Celegorm’s chains snap under the force of Morgoth’s orcs. He manages to escape with a few cuts, but the grief of losing this piece of his father, lost to the flames, almost undoes him.

He doesn’t wear any jewellery for years. Curufin could recreate it but Celegorm refuses, holding onto his rubies and shattered gold in a little pouch around his neck.

Until little Tyelpë, grieved at his Uncle’s pain, takes the chains in secret one night and reforges them stronger than before. Celegorm wakes to his nephew anxiously holding out the remade jewellery.

“I know you miss grandfather… but I think he’d want you to remember him for more than his death.”

Celegorm takes the pieces reverently. The rubies shine brighter, the chains are threaded with a silver gleam where Celebrimbor reinforced the metal to make it stronger than chainmail. This isn’t just jewellery. It’s armour. Of the body and heart.

Celebrimbor’s way of trying to protect his dearest Uncle and ease his pain.

Looking at the child - though he hasn’t been a child since the First Kinslaying, not really - Celegorm can only wrap him tight, tears gathering in his eyes, and thank him, kissing his forehead and cheeks. Celebrimbor leaves his room with a bounce in his step, and for the first time in years, the Hunter prays.

‘Whatever grudge you hold, let it end with us. Let him be spared.’

Celegorm never takes this chain off, wears it through every hunt and battle, trusting in the hands that crafted them. Sure enough, they never so much as dent even as swords and fire-tipped arrows come flying from every angle in the Bragollach.

When they reach Nargothrond and Curufin quietly asks him to help push his son away, he’s horrified. But he understands. And just like Curvo, he’s never been prouder of his little nephew than when he stood up to them and said “No.”

Just before they flee, he holds out the chains. An offering of peace. Celebrimbor holds enough shame from their actions, he doesn’t deserve to have such a meaningful piece tarnished by them too. But he just hands the hairpieces back.

“You’ve broken my heart enough, Uncle. Don’t break it even more.”

So Celegorm wears it through the Nirnaeth and all that follows, but when they reach Doriath, he pulls the chains loose, puts them back in the pouch with a small note, and slides them into Maglor’s pocket. A Doom is about him now; he can see his end in sight and he is glad.

But Celebrimbor’s heart is soft despite everything, he will be hurt. Perhaps the jewellery will give him some comfort. Perhaps he’ll look at it and remember Treelit days and nights learning of Valinor’s animals under a watchful eye. Perhaps he’ll remember his Uncle’s smiles rather instead of his bloodstained sword.

Celebrimbor, when he receives the chains with a small note from twin half-elves, remembers all this and more. And for the first time since he heard of Celegorm’s death he breaks down into tears, clutching the jewellery close, grieving for all that he’s lost.

‘Neither blood of Doriath nor Sirion touched these chains, Tyelpë, and you know I wasn’t wearing them the night of Alqualondë. Consider this an inheritance from your Uncle and do with them what you will. Never doubt that I love you, my little Silver Star.’

(Meanwhile in the Blessed Realm, Oromë did in fact hear his favourite Hunter’s prayers and protects Celebrimbor as much as he can: neither bird nor beast in the Vala’s domain will harm the youngest Fëanorian.

But it’s a very different kind of wolf that rips Celebrimbor’s throat in the end.)

Been a while since I experimented with realism, so have a Celegorm with his invisible chain hair jewellery :)

Art only allowed for personal use ie. phone/laptop wallpapers.

Do not repost or upload. Reblogs are always appreciated.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Y’know when you’re tired and come across the wrong post at the wrong time and just. Pure rage. For no reason whatsoever.

I’m feeling rather bitter at Elwing rn (it was a very well written ficlet and I admire the writer, I’m just tired and unwell 😂) so you get a little fic of me getting that out. Content warning done.

Here we go!

Elrond and Elros can’t stand most depictions of their mother.

White feathered wings, plain white gown billowing in the sea breeze around her slight figure, two dark shapes reaching taloned hands for the brilliant gem around her neck. Desperate expression on a too round face with wide eyes looking towards her sons. It makes them sick.

Because Elwing wasn’t soft and innocent. Elwing wasn’t like that at all.

Sharp, angular features. Grey slivers for eyes more often clouded than not. White? Yes she wore white. But it was the white of a desert sun, the white of cold starlight, merciless and unfeeling as elves were dragged to the darkness.

And she’d loved her sons, yes, but it was the love of an ideal. Elwing was young and far from ready for the burdens of motherhood alongside ruling a city in her husband’s ever growing absences. And the gem-

Well. The less said about the silmaril, the better.

The Sindar more than others remain desperate for a symbol of innocence, a sign of their claim to the stolen jewel over the sons of it’s creator. So they present their winged princess bathed in holy light whilst the sons of Fëanor cower from it’s brilliant glow.

But Elrond and Elros remember how the stone sang when Maedhros and Maglor arrived, just as they remember their mother’s fury at its song.

You see, Elwing loved her sons. But she didn’t jump to save them.

Elrond and Elros saw the beginnings of regret, but they also remember her steadfast determination to keep what was never hers, cold starlight and unyielding sun meshing to cruel pride as she fell. It wasn’t holy light but white hot fire that clashed with the silmaril to send her screaming as the stone rejected her grasp, burning brighter than ever as she flew to her husband.

Elrond’s arrival to Valinor and the white scars radiating from Elwing’s hand to her chest confirm what he knew all along.

It wasn’t innocence that crowned her the day Sirion fell.

Because years before Maedhros and Maglor had fallen victim to the Silmaril’s hallowing, Elwing the White had paid the price for her false claim. And no matter how they tried to hide it, the consequences of that pride marked her to this day.