#aikanáro

[last-capy-hupping]

So, this is my first year participating in TRSB, and it’s been an amazing experience working with my artist Torpi, who inspired me to go outside of my comfort zones and explore some rare pairings, including a main pair so rare that I had to make a new tag for them.

Her lovely art is featured in the first chapter of this fic:

You’ll be able to read the accompanying fic (all 22k+) in under twelve hours following the link below.

Summary to tempt you all:

During the Year of the Trees 1359, Aikanáro, third son of Arafinwë, third son of Finwë, High King of the Ñoldor, and Ëarwen, daughter of Olwë, High King of the Teleri in Aman, prepares to welcome his father’s half brother, Fëanáro, his pregnant wife who is craving sea air and seafood, and their four sons. His only goal is to prevent his eldest brother Ingoldo from embarrassing himself trying to impress their eldest Fëanárion cousin. He soon find that Nelyafinwë is not the Fëanárion about whom he should worry most.

Meanwhile, Tyelkormo is simply excited to explore new territory, learn about new wildlife, and find fresh ways to hunt. Alas for him, he almost immediately starts a minor family feud on his first night in Alqualondë. And that’s just the start of his problems.

For TRSB Slide #5.

[arwendeluhtiene]

✨"Andreth's Lament" + Aegnor in the Dagor Bragollach, both from 2011 and sent as part of that year's art competition of the Spanish Tolkien Society. All works from this competition were part of a Tolkien art exhibition in Valencia, also featuring my oil painting of Dorthonion 😄 ✨ . "I was young and I looked on his flame (...). He was young and his flame leaped towards me, but he turned away and he is young still (...) For one year, one day, of the flame I would have given all: kin, youth and hope itself." . Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, or "When one of Galadriel's younger brothers was a bit of an a-hole to a wise-woman of the House of Beor and then Finrod decided to major in patronizing human women ghosted by his brothers about life and love instead of getting his brother to give her a bit of closure and communication and not just leave", am I right 🙄😬🙃 . Like, Aegnor leaves Andreth because the relationship isn't worth the heartbreak, and Finrod rationalizes this to Andreth to no end, but Lúthien and Arwen literally become mortal and die for their male human lovers (the ultimate sacrifices in love are the order of the day if you're a woman, apparently, even a half goddess 😕). Idril literally gave human husband Tuor a ticket to Valinor. And Mithrellas did ultimately leave, but stayed quite a while with Númenoréan Imrazôr and had children with him. So, gendered double standard much?! Thank the Valar Rings of Power gave us the very needed representation of Arondir actually being a decent person with Bronwyn and pursuing a serious relationship with her in respectful terms, because seriously 😐. .

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[brynnmclean]

I'm not really here, but I do want to tell y'all how badly I want to give Artanis short hair or an undercut of some kind out of SPITE

[dfwbwfbbwfbwf]

I just want people to know there's a version of the Silmarillion where Tyelkormo was very good friends with Finarfin's sons, Aikanáro, Angaráto, and Artaresto, and he brought them along on the ships to Middle Earth. So this happened:

[actual-bill-potts]

(Continued from this post)

After breakfast, Earwen cleared the plates away. Finrod had attacked his food like one who was starving - and Finarfin supposed he had been, long ago and far away, when he had fallen in the dark - and had seemed a little in shock afterwards. Perhaps it was the absence of the desperation he had felt in his last weeks - Finarfin shuddered again at the borrowed memory - or the ease with which what he wanted could be obtained. Or perhaps he was merely still unused to eating, after so many years without a body. Finarfin had heard that it could be so.

Still, his son leapt to his feet and offered to help. “Please,” he said, “I have done nothing to help you, all yesterday and today.”

Earwen shook her head and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “You have been back for so little time that I keep stumbling over the sight of you. I insist you let yourself rest, and do nothing for at least one six-day.”

When Finrod still looked doubtful, she had looked over at Finarfin and laughed. “Besides, your father would never speak to me again if I assigned you such a menial duty, when he is looking at you like you hung the Valacirca and set Tilion’s course yourself.”

Finrod met Finarfin’s gaze, startled, and Finarfin blinked back. He realized belatedly that he had indeed been staring at Finrod for far too long. It was just that he was so familiar! So familiar, and so dear! How - how - how had he gone an Age without seeing his children? He did not know. The grief for his other dear ones warred in his heart with the rising crest of joy that would not be denied: his eldest was home! Home, and safe, and himself. It was nearly unbelievable.

Finrod looked as if he were about to say something; but after a moment he dropped his gaze. His eyes so often fell away from Finarfin’s face, as if afraid of a blow, or a rejection. As if there could be one, as if Finarfin would be capable - !

He wanted to explain, to take Finrod by the shoulders and tell him of all the messages he had choked down within himself for years uncounted: for him, for all their children. In the early days he had wandered about the rooms of their old family home like one whose fëa had departed, thinking, my children, my children, I am sorry if I ever said you were too loud; come back, for this house sounds like my father who is dead. 

He had sat upon Ingoldo’s bed and thought, my eldest, my son, what will I do without your laugh; had wandered in upon a half-finished painting of Artaresto’s and felt all the colors run together in his mind; tripped blindly over Angaráto’s hunting bow and Aikanáro’s bangle of necklaces, tangled together in the hallway; come upon a little mirror that Artanis had crafted at but twenty years of age and stared into it for an afternoon as if her face would suddenly swim into being, laughing: see, Atar, I have hidden from you again! You are not very good at finding me.

And then the many years after, holding messages for his children that would never - as he thought - be delivered. For Findaráto, it had most often been stories of the court: little exasperations, or funny moments that he thought his eldest would like. For so long, he had turned automatically to Findaráto with little observations or the beginnings of ideas, for his son had a gift for spinning out his tangled thoughts into a beautiful weft and then handing it back to him all shimmering. It had taken him so long, nearly a hundred years into his long exile - for it was an exile, sealed away from his family as much as they were trapped away from him - to break himself of the habit. 

But now Finrod was here.

Finarfin shook himself; mustered all the gentleness that was left inside him after forty years of war; smoothed away the lingering frustration and grief that Finrod could not trust him; and said, “Shall we find you a comb?”

Finrod laughed suddenly, and Finarfin nearly jumped. That sound - he had not heard it in so long! The clearness of it!

Finrod laughed again, and said, “I suppose my hair must be a sight. Yes, let us - and help would be most welcome, if you are still willing.”

“Of course,” said Finarfin, and led Finrod up the stairs. He made his way to the chambers he shared with Eärwen and rummaged about for a little before finding what he sought. Then he bustled out again, meeting Finrod, who again was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Let us go to your room,” said Finarfin, brandishing his prize. “There is a new style of brush which is all the fashion in Tirion now. Rather than being sung or carved into shape from wood, it is made of goats’ hair. One rubs a little oil into the bristles before brushing. I have found that it does wonders for how my hair lays, and it makes the braiding much less painful later.”

Finrod’s eyes lit up. “I have seen this before!” he exclaimed. “Well - not this exact comb - but the Dwarves used a very similar implement to care for their beards. I believe it was made of boar-bristles. I wonder that we never thought to use it on our own hair!” His smile turned wistful. “But then, perhaps it is not so surprising. Relations could be - difficult, and there was much else to think about.”

Finarfin thought of the Great War, ended not four hundred years past. He remembered how the dirt and the blood and the filth had worked their way into every crevice he possessed, caking his hair and face - how he had wanted to cut it short, and only kept it long thanks to the advice of his Sindar advisors. He remembered the tiring dull periods between battles, and how there were always warring factions to be kept in check, commanders to be pacified, supply lines to organize, little squabbles to calm, and of course his appearance desired everywhere, for all wanted to know that the king was there, and that he had heard their grievances, and was confident the war was not going ill…

“Not surprising at all,” he agreed at last, softly. “War is - terrible, and tedious, and all-consuming. And you were fighting for a very long time.”

The smile dropped from Finrod’s face. “How easy it is to forget,” he murmured, “that you too went to battle. My gentle father! I am sorry. All our effort, all that pain, and in the end it was - useless.” He looked up at Finarfin, eyes pleading. “I really believed it, you know,” he said. “I believed it, when we set out on the road. That we stood a chance. That we could defeat the Moringotto, or at least hold him back from our home. That I could build a safe place for our people. Yet all was in vain, and you were wiser than I.”

Finarfin stood in the hallway, brush in hand, and felt the words strike to the heart of him. How he had longed to hear that, from anyone! For years uncounted as he had labored alone to build anew the trust between Noldor and Teleri, as Eärwen had looked coldly at him and then turned her face away, as his father was silent in Mandos and his mother retreated from him in grief. He had longed, in anger and then in despair, for someone - anyone - to come back, and say, You were right. I was wrong. I am sorry.

But now it rang hollow. Finarfin did not want that. Not if it came from his son, standing before him tired and in disarray. Not if it was paired with yet all was in vain. Not if it came at the price of Finrod’s tired eyes and hollow cheeks.

And besides -

Finarfin brushed past I am sorry with barely a thought, and said, “You shall not stand before me and name your efforts useless.”

This was another thing he had wanted to say to Finrod, and there was nothing now preventing him.

“Do you know,” he said, “have you thought - how terrible was the onslaught of the Valar in Beleriand! How bright the armor of the Maiar, how shining the eyes of my mother’s people! Círdan trusted us, for Ulmo’s sake; but even Gil-Galad was wary. How much more so the Noldor who were Doomed, the Sindar who refused the call West - to say nothing of Dwarves and Men! We very nearly found ourselves arrayed against an alliance of mortals and Avari before we could strike a single blow against Morgoth. And I do not blame them! How could they trust us, who were so tall and so strange, and came dressed for war?”

He paused to breathe, chest tight. Finrod was staring at him transfixed.

“And then,” Finarfin continued. “They saw me. Or rather - they saw you. They saw you in my face. And at once they laid down their arms.”

He stopped again. The moment was graven in fire on his heart: stepping out bareheaded and pleading in front of a crowd of shaking and dirty Beleriandrim, hoping they would just listen. The utter silence that had fallen. The clatter of falling weapons his son’s epitaph.

“Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers. Felagund. Atandil, Edennil, Friend-of-Men. Angolodh. You came before me and smoothed the way, as a father should do for his son - not a son for his father! There was not a place I could go where I was not gathered close to the hearts of the people. From everyone, I heard of you; by everyone, I was asked about you. Do you know - did you know - how you were loved?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. His breathing was ragged, and grief had settled upon his shoulders like the heavy mantle of his House: proudly worn yet wearying. “Yes. It was the greatest gift I have ever been given.”

“Then - then do not say useless!” said Finarfin. “For it was not. You were not forgotten. The Dwarves of Nogrod allied with us for love of Felagund; the Men of Brethil, for love of Nóm; the Sindar for Finrod the Beloved. I was - I am - so proud. My son! My son, who has surpassed his father!”

Finrod was looking at him with wet eyes. He did not move. 

“I did not expect this!” he said at last. “I expected - I do not know. Fury, perhaps. We parted in such anger; and if, as you say, our efforts were not vain, they yet led to pain and death.” His eyes were distant. “My little brothers! Yet you are kind.”

Finarfin, still clutching the comb, crossed the distance between them and gathered the other in his arms. Finrod’s chest rose and fell against his own; his golden head was laid upon Finarfin’s shoulder.

“If you think,” Finarfin said, “that I could ever love you any less, or welcome you with any feeling other than joy, then I think that you have not been paying attention.”

Finrod was still; and after a moment Finarfin stroked his son’s bright head, and said gently, “Come, hinya - let me at least take care of your hair.”

[camille-lachenille]

Day 3: Helcaraxë

Findaráto curled tighter on himself in his bedroll, crushed between Aikanáro and the tent wall. They were all piled together like a litter of kittens, him an his siblings, to ward off the biting cold of the outside. He could hear Artanis’ mumble in her sleep and Angaráto’s faint snores and, just out of the skin and fur wall, the wind howling over the Ice.

He tried to keep exhaustion at bay just a little longer, to savour this too rare moment of relative privacy. In the faint glow of the small lamp devised by his half-uncle, a necessity here on the Ice despite how much he wanted to throw the cursed thing away, Findaráto fished the small leather pouch he wore around his neck and opened it. With a trembling smile, he unrolled the slip of paper he kept there, worn smooth and thin with how many times he had read it over the years on the Ice.

My dearest Ingoldo,

I cannot wait to see you at the festival next month. I already miss you terribly.

Yours forever,

Amarië

Findaráto blinked tears away as he read the note over and over, trying not to wonder if Amarië loved him still. With a last, reverent brush of his lips on the paper, he rolled it back and tucked it away in the leather pouch. When sleep finally claimed him, Findaráto had composed yet another never-sent letter to his beloved in his mind.

[dalliansss]

Ambaráto Aikanáro knew all too well the bittersweet pain of longing for acceptance. He is the third son in what will be a brood of four, and through no fault of his own, he was born as he is – a boy, where his parents were so desperately pining for a girl, a daughter, one to be his mother Eärwen’s friend and companion, belonging to her simply because her boys (then only Angamaitë and Ingoldo) belonged to Arafinwë and the Noldor. But Aikanáro was born, yet another boy, and Arafinwë and Eärwen conceived early afterward, when Aikanáro was not yet ten in the elven reckoning.

The moment Artanis Nerwen was born, Arafinwë and Eärwen turned their sights and affection to her, sparing the bare minimum to their half-unwanted third son, oft leaving Aikanár in a state of mild neglect. 

It was Ingoldo who stepped up; unable to withstand nor suffer the sadness such a young child didn’t deserve. It was Ingoldo who took Aikanár home with his nursemaid Nemmirilë; it was Ingoldo and Nemmirilë who raised Aikanár – they were his Atar and Amil, in the depths of his heart.

It was Ingoldo who was there to hear his first word (“Hanno!”); Ingoldo who was there to hold his hands when he took his first tentative steps; Ingoldo who dropped everything and anything to run to him when he scraped his knee or cried for help; his hanno, always running and catching him unfailing, and the legendary gold of his hair curtaining Aikanár from the world and all the ugly things in it.

When Ingoldo fell into the ice, of course Aikanár jumped after him.

[on the ice / AO3]

[silmarillion-stats-polls]

Inspired by this post by @thedarksearises

[cilil]

❝ He remembers that day all too well, of course. He remembers visiting the bustling port of Alqualondë together with his brothers, excusing himself when they started arguing in the evening and sitting down at the dock to cool his feet in the water and read. He remembers being caught off-guard by the swift and surprisingly silent arrival of the Alquilda, the ship he now knows to be one of the most famous and infamous, feared and revered ships that sail the oceans of Arda. He remembers Eärwen calling out to him, mistaking him for a sailor or dockworker, and telling him to catch the mooring line, which he caught with his face instead of his hands because he kept staring at her. ❞

𓊝 Characters/pairing: Finarfin x Eärwen, Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, Galadriel 𓊝 Synopsis: Finarfin tells his children how he fell in love with their mother, the (in)famous pirate captain Eärwen 𓊝 Warnings: / 𓊝 Oneshot (~1.8k words)

AN: I have @camille-lachenille to thank for inspiring this one. Also fair warning, there isn't any on-screen pirate stuff happening, I just had this cute little scenario of house hubby Finarfin telling his kids about their cool pirate mom in mind and had to write about it ^^

"Atya?" 

"Yes, Artanis?" 

She looks up at him with wide eyes, alight with the same sort of inquisitive curiosity Arafinwë has come to know so well. Behind her stand her older brothers, quiet but equally eager to witness the conversation unfold. 

He can tell that they have been talking among themselves and wonders if his boys put their sister up to whatever she is going to ask next. 

Artanis wastes no more time. "Can you tell me about Emya again? Please?" 

Arafinwë is careful not to let his smile falter for even a split second, nods and closes the book he has been reading. It's not that he doesn't enjoy talking about his beloved Eärwen — he could do so for days, and his brothers would surely tease him for it if they didn't feel similarly about their wives — but he knows their children miss her as much as he does and at times feels guilty that stories are all he has to offer. 

For the moment, at least. 

As soon as he places his book on the nearest table, Artanis climbs on his lap as if to take her due place on her personal throne. Findaráto, Angaráto and Aikanáro take it as their cue to follow, making themselves comfortable on the armrests of his armchair and at his feet. Arafinwë takes a moment to look at them, admiring their small, young faces, and strokes Artanis' hair absentmindedly. Time and time again he marvels at how lovely, smart and brave they are, sees their mother's grace and fire within them. 

I haven't even begun talking and I'm already getting sentimental, he silently chastises himself. 

Four pairs of eyes look up at him expectantly. Arafinwë clears his throat. "Is there any specific story you would like to hear?" 

Findaráto shakes his head, then rests his chin on his knee. Angaráto and Aikanáro exchange a glance before they do the same. Artanis, however, nods without hesitation. "Yes, please tell us about the first time you met Emya." 

Arafinwë's smile brightens. It's one of her favourites, he knows, and something tells him that she's already looking forward to sweeping an unsuspecting nér or nís off their feet as well one day. 

He remembers that day all too well, of course. He remembers visiting the bustling port of Alqualondë together with his brothers, excusing himself when they started arguing in the evening and sitting down at the dock to cool his feet in the water and read. He remembers being caught off-guard by the swift and surprisingly silent arrival of the Alquilda, the ship he now knows to be one of the most famous and infamous, feared and revered ships that sail the oceans of Arda. He remembers Eärwen calling out to him, mistaking him for a sailor or dockworker, and telling him to catch the mooring line, which he caught with his face instead of his hands because he kept staring at her. 

Eärwen never let him live it down, and neither would Artanis if she knew. 

"Years ago, your mother was already known as Lady Eärwen the swashbuckling swan-maiden, while I was but a young prince," Arafinwë begins his tale. "It was on a summer evening that I met her at the docks of Alqualondë. The sea was calm, and the Alquilda bound for the shores of home. Standing atop its bow and underneath swift sails, hair billowing in the wind, was Lady Eärwen and she came upon me as swiftly as upon her enemies." 

"It must have been meant to be, that she just happened to toss me a mooring line like a thread of fate, binding us together in spite of whichever tides may come. Your uncles say I was quite literally roped into the tale of a pirate princess and they may well be right — I certainly don't mind." 

Findaráto rolls his eyes at the last sentence, but can't suppress a grin. Artanis meanwhile takes no offence to her father's narration, hanging on his every word like a tiny kraken clutching a stray boat. 

"I was immediately fascinated by her, bewitched as if I had met a siren," Arafinwë continues, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Truth to be told, he isn't even exaggerating by much — his infatuation was immediate and strong. "Forgetting all about my feuding brothers, I embarked on my most daring adventure as of yet: I asked Lady Eärwen if she would join me for a drink at her favourite local tavern. Though perhaps I should rather say it was I who joined her, given that, in my haste, I had forgotten that I was woefully unfamiliar with our surroundings." 

"We talked and laughed and drank until the early morning hours, and it was the loveliest night I had ever had. It pained me to say goodbye to her at sunrise, but Atar was getting worried about my whereabouts and Ammë had begun sending out servants in search of me after Fëanáro and Nolofinwë mentioned they hadn't seen me since the previous day." 

"Lady Eärwen and I met again the next day and the day after and the day after that too, every day she stayed in Alqualondë. Yet in time all good things must come to an end, and she had to return to the sea eventually — something she had warned me about in the very beginning, but I didn't mind then and don't mind now. When we parted at the docks, she promised me that we would meet again and that she would send for me when the time came. To show me that she meant it, she gave me this–"

Arafinwë reaches for the necklace he always wears, a fine silver chain with a little swan pendant made of mother-of-pearl. The children have seen it before of course, but at least for little Artanis this moment never gets boring. 

"I returned to Tirion, slightly heartbroken but mostly hopeful, and I had faith that my lady would keep her word, especially now that her little swan kept me company. Every day I thought of her, every night I dreamed of her. To prepare for her return, I asked Fëanáro to help me make a gift for Lady Eärwen as well. It too would be a swan pendant, that much was clear, but we spent much time pondering which material would be best. In the end we settled on amber; not only to match the colours I had chosen for my future house, but also because at times small things become encased in amber, fleeting moments captured and preserved forever, like the feelings I had for her." 

It is at this point that the boys audibly groan, but Artanis shoots her brothers an angry glare. "Let Atya be in love! It's not like he can help it!" 

"Thank you, my little princess," Arafinwë laughs and places a small kiss on her parting. 

Artanis appears to appreciate the gesture, but has her mind on other things. "I want to hear how Emya came back to you." 

"Of course." He hurries to focus on the story once more. "Well, one day many months later, I found a seagull sitting on my windowsill, carrying a letter in its beak. I was overjoyed to find that it had been written by none other than Lady Eärwen, telling me that the Alquilda was once again heading for Alqualondë and that she would love to see me there. Without hesitation, I packed my things, borrowed the fastest horse I could find from Atar's stable and rode out to meet her, speeding across the plains of Valinor as if the hunters of Oromë were after me. And indeed, she was there when I arrived. She was waiting for me at the docks where we had first met." 

Arafinwë smiles wistfully. "Everything was exactly as it had been, we picked up where we had left off. And as for how it went on... well, the rest is history." 

He looks at his children, the greatest and proudest achievement of his and Eärwen's union. They sit in contemplative silence, their young minds pondering the story they heard before yet never understood in its entirety and wouldn't for some time, not until they grow up and fall in love themselves. 

Artanis' eyes are glowing with joy and excitement, and she claps her little hands. Arafinwë knows she has almost no memory of her mother, so these stories mean a lot to her. He takes her into his arms, also gathering her brothers, and they remain like this for a while. 

When he and Eärwen got married and decided to have a family, they knew already that her sea-longing would come back in time and sunder them for a while. Arafinwë was ready for it; before proposing, he asked her father for her hand, and Olwë took him aside to ask if he knew of his daughter's origins. She had told him of course — that her mother was a Maia who took the shape of swans and other sea-birds and couldn't live without the air and sea and that she, Eärwen, had become who she was because she had been beset by the same longing. 

Olwë confided in him, telling him how he had raised his children alone when she was absent, then asking again if he still wished to marry Eärwen. Arafinwë said yes. He meant it then just as he means it now, and his only regret is that their younger children barely remember their mother. 

Eärwen didn't take her decision to return to the sea lightly, of course. She spent years living with Arafinwë in Valinor while the Alquilda rested in the port of Alqualondë, lovingly maintained by her crew. Yet after their fourth child was born, she slowly felt the sea-longing return, and he was ready to keep his promise to let her go, as he had once said to her as part of his marriage vows. He had known all along what it meant and he would neither see her suffer nor go back on his word, he had sworn to himself. 

Every few weeks or months, birds from all over Arda arrive at his house and bring letters from Eärwen, detailing her adventures. Arafinwë reads all of them to their children and tells them everything he knows about the birds and the lands she's visiting. One day, when they're all old enough, they'll sail together, she promised him on the day she left. 

At times he wonders if the sea-longing will come for their children too one day. He is a prince, a politician and a diplomat, hardly fit to be a pirate or a sailor, but he will follow his family across the seas of Arda if he has to. At least, as Arafinwë often told Eärwen in jest, he knows how to use a sword and is the youngest of his father's house, unlikely to be crowned king any time soon, if ever. 

And until the sea calls for the Elflings he's now lovingly cradling in his arms, they are safe at home with him. 

Etymology: Alquilda - silent/hushed swan - referring to the silent swiftness of the ship, as well as being a pun on mute swan (the species) which are known for being monogamous and using the same nest every year

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @numenhore @urwendii

[edennill]

the deep breath before the plunge, (G, 613 words, assorted Silm charactes)

(Ao3)

There is a weariness in the air, that summer before the End. A heaviness of purpose and deed.

There might be more summers to come, of course; no one in Arda, not maybe even Námo himself, knows the future with such accuracy – to tell, whether one year, or five, or five hundred. Nonetheless, unprecedented ever before in time, there is a marked finiteness to its measure. Across the plains of Valinor, the breeze lazily eddies through the wavering noon heat.

Far across the star-path on the sea, the Secondborn are quiet. Three cities cruelly destroyed in the year that has passed, and a tyrant or two, seemingly following Morgoth’s playbook, but now a strange peace has descended upon all of Arda. Those that still steal glimpses at Middle-earth through the seeing-stones see the rebuilding effort take place in fits and starts, and, oddly, quiet lulls. Where the engines of war didn’t touch, it is the calmest year since the Younger Children learned to raze cities.

Time is counting down to something.

Valinor waits.

It is easiest to pretend nothing has changed. The heat was ever so cloying, the skies ever so tediously dim. Flesh ever so half-elusive, senses ever so muted, existence always just a little tired. Many do.

They cannot help but speak about it, of course; the Quendi never could stand dealing in lies. But when they do, they clothe their speech in hypotheticals and polite disbelief.

Among those who had known and loved the Second Kindred, there is a certain anticipation. Finrod laughs often as ever, but that laughter has a different, lighter tone, as if the burden of memory was already becoming a wealth. Others are more subdued, readiness mingling with trepidation. A year, a yen (what are either to an Elda) and all shall be known, one way or another.

Elrond and Thingol are seen talking into the night. Aikanáro is intent in a way he has not been since the Great Siege.

Elwing takes out a little charcoal portrait of a boy about thirteen from the drawer it lay in and sets it on the mantel again.

Sometimes, an earnest word is enough to break the floodgates. One speaks, to a friend, to a brother. It is enough. Or if it is not, so it shall always remain.

The Noldor work their crafts and try not to count, how long, how many, they who spend a decade on a ring, five on a circlet. Finrod gathers materials, and slowly, very deliberately begins to build a completely superfluous house somewhere on a hill, the door casings carved into lacework. He hums as he works.

We are mortal now, someone laughs, with or without bitterness, and another takes up the phrase. Few would admit to say it out loud, but it is the sort of thing that stays at the back of the mind. What is it, the knowledge of a close, to an Elda? All the time in the world, and the world is ending.

You try not to be feverish in your crafting, an object’s worth measured in the time of it’s making. Sometimes you don’t succeed.

Fëanáro alternately yields to that hectic, impatient pace of his first youth, fire that knows it might burn out, and drops his work to spend a day, two, silent, seeking. He searches a star out with his eyes, and his gaze is wistful, but there is a determined set to his posture that those who know might recognise.

The Valar wait.

Eärendil, the one who was drawn beyond and chose an immortal life, feels time around him slow on his nightly journeys, a ship grinding into the sand at harbour.

[eilinelsghost]

Look, all I did was innocently look up how to use naur in a word structure, it is absolutely not my fault that I'm now lost in a winding conspiracy spiral of Gil-galad son of Aikanáro and Andreth and wondering just how terribly it would derail Atandil if I started covertly writing this into the marginalia.

[pearlescentpearl]

Rebirthed!Maedhros AU post 3

You know what time it is, folks, capping the last post again at 7 parts.

Part 15!

“What do you mean they’re blaming Uncle Arafinwë?” Russandol demands

Eyeing him tiredly, Findekáno notes the faint dark circles under his eyes, the delicate tremor in his hands, the way he flinched when he tried to hug his cousin

“They’re inconsolable, and seeking to rationalize a cause and effect,” he repeats, verbatim, what Nienna had solemnly explained to them. “The fire started on his and Aunt Eärwen’s ship. They’d never believe their own princess foolish enough to set a ship on fire, even by accident, and her children were raised as Teleri as they were Noldo. So,” Findekáno shrugs angrily

“So it must be the outsider husband’s fault,” Russandol finishes bitterly. “How do they figure that?”

Findekáno shrugs again, clenching his hands together. “The only area of the ship where fire is allowed is the kitchen.” Because Fëanárian Lamps handily replaced every candle, torch, and lantern they’d used on ships before, but Fëanáro hasn’t yet invented a fireless source of heat. “And since we Ñoldor hold that the men are the cooks...”

“I see.”

“Mind you, Olwë doesn’t believe this,” Findekáno says, dragging the conversation along in the hopes he won’t be subjected to yet another round of grieving, outraged tirade against the Teleri

He’s already sat through Aikanáro, Eldalótë, and Artanis’ reactions. Plus his parents’ reaction, Turukáno’s, his grandparents, and Fëanáro. He loves Russandol, but he’s not sitting through Fëanáro But Worse. He’s tired 

“But he’s also having difficulty believing it’s Melkor’s work. Not that we know it’s Melkor’s work, we only suspect. The Teleri are really used to being largely ignored by greater Valinor.”

“Who does believe it then?” Russandol says, evidently willing to set aside any outbursts in favor of focusing on the situation at hand, for which Findekáno loves him even more

“When I left Tirion, we still hadn’t heard back from Olwë on who started the rumors, just that his people were starting to mutter about it.”

Grandfather had been terrifying to behold, in his anger at the news. Even Fëanáro had been taken aback by the sight of his rock steady, indulgent parent so wrathful

Grandmother went silent. She wanted no one to disturb her while she embroidered the funeral shrouds for her youngest child and his two eldest sons

Findekáno isn’t foolish enough to think she isn’t just as angry

She’s just honing the blade of her temper 

“And you? How have you been holding up? You look awful.”

Russandol’s mouth twists. “I had a... protracted episode. A few days ago.” At Findekáno inquisitive look, he elaborates; “Wandered off into the deep Gardens and got stuck in my memories, for some reason. I don’t remember what set it off.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Russandol looks down. “Everything’s... off. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“You don’t have to, you just tell me what you need from me,” Findekáno says

Russandol shrugs a shoulder, but the twist of his mouth softens and some of the tension goes out of his jaw, so Findekáno will call it a victory

He needs all of them he can get these days

He’s not blind to the fact Melkor -- and they do believe it’s Melkor at work -- that the Vala went to Alqualondë in response to him trying to fortify Tirion against him

Aikanáro, now Head of the House of Arafinwë until his father or his brothers return, or Artaresto wants the headship when he’s full grown, had given him a long look when Findekáno, spurred by a deep well of guilt, tried to apologize

Findekáno told himself he wouldn’t let Melkor make him believe any evil thing the Vala did was his fault, and he holds to that

That doesn’t mean he can’t be sorry for others suffering

“Am I supposed to be blame you for protecting our people?” Aikanáro had said to him

“No, I just...” Findekáno didn’t know what he ‘just’

“We didn’t do enough,” Aikanáro said, swallowing hard. “We took the warning to Grandfather Olwë, and then we didn’t do anything. We didn’t even try to encourage him, or our uncles, to do anything. We just assumed Melkor would keep on ignoring the Teleri. After all, wasn’t that why Grandfather Finwë bade us evacuate there? But we are none us safe until we all band together and deal with the threat.”

And then Aikanáro lost the battle of wills against his tears and crawled into Findekáno’s arms until he felt strong enough to face the world again

“They’ll be alright in Mandos, won’t they?” He’d whispered

“They’ll be just fine,” Findekáno promised, kissing the crown of his spiky hair. “They‘ll be back before you know it.”

“Think they’ll back as quick as you were?” Aikanáro asked, so hopeful that he could only agree 

There is no earthly way Findekáno can explain that it wasn’t so much that he re-embodied quickly because he healed quickly, so much as he bolted past Námo’s legs like a cat spotting a cracked open door at the nearest opportunity with his dignity intact, so he doesn’t

“You do enough,” Russandol says, breaking Findekáno out of his reverie. “You’re doing far more than I can, really.”

“Hey, no, don’t do that to yourself,” Findekáno protests. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even know to be on our guards. Melkor would have caught us with our pants down--”

Russandol abruptly blanches gray, eyes wild

“Russo?” Findekáno says sharply, half lurching to his feet

Russandol clenches his eyes shut, swallows hard, and takes deep breaths through his nose. “Just a memory. From Mísrilya. It’s all--” he gestures curtly to his temple, “a bit raw, right now. Too close to the surface.”

“Do you want to--”

“No.”

“--switch to a lighter topic?” Findekáno pivots smoothly. “In fact, I insist. I came all this way to visit you. What kind of projects do have going? Are you still into woodworking? Or did you pick up any new hobbies lately? You were telling me all about how interesting the wickerwork is here just last month.”

A content Russandol is a Russandol that hops between hobbies the way bees hop between flowers; with utter abandon 

He’ll throw himself into his present joy all the way to journeyman status, accumulate a storeroom’s worth of finished projects to foist on all his friends (mostly Findekáno. it’s mostly Findekáno), then gets bored, picks a new joy, cycle repeat

His parents treat this apparent restlessness with endless indulgence, but it drives his brothers who have committed themselves to their crafts up the walls and all the way across the ceiling

Haltingly, Russandol went with the subject change, describing the paneled divider he was carving out to liven up his living space

Findekáno is gratified when he eventually stops looking like he’s going to be violently ill

“So many of the birds snatch up the wood shavings for their nests, I barely have to sweep,” Russandol jokes half-heartedly

“One less thing to worry about!” Findekáno says, injecting as much cheer as he can muster

“Yes, but I’d hoped to use those shavings!” 

“So do the birds!”

[moonlightswritingandstuff]

five for silver, six for gold

Six great-grandchildren of Finwë, and their tales. Or: sometimes, children are nothing more than reflections of their forebearers.

trigger warnings: none, just stuff that happened in canon.

for best results, read on ao3!

Tyelperinquar was born in Formenos, after Málintë daughter of Þindecala left with her husband. His father named him Curufinwë, after himself and his father, and his mother named him Tyelperinquar, partially after herself.

People will wonder if Tyelperinquar got his kindness from his mother. He did not.

Tyelperinquar got his kindness from his father. For all they sing of Curufinwë Atarinkë’s cruelty, they sing little of his kindness. Before the Oath twisted him, Curufinwë had been the second in kindness - the first was Makalaurë, as the history books say.

«»

Itarillë was born in the Helcaraxë, conceived just before the Darkening, to Elenwë and Turukáno. Irissë Araquendë her aunt delivered her, and the cold seeped into Itarillë’s bones.

See, this is what they get wrong about Itarillë: she had all of her father’s follied righteousness and all of her mother’s boldness, even though mother is spoken as soft.

(It is forgotten that Tyelperindal is an epessë. Elenwë named her daughter Lossiel.)

But Itarillë was born in the Helcaraxë, and the cold became much more familiar than the warmth. For Ondolindë was always a little too warm, and Itarillë craved the cold.

«»

Finduilas was born in Minas Tirith - the first one - and although it could not be spoken, Findetuilassë her Quenyan name was whispered.

She had no mothername, for her mother bore the curse of Míriel, which shaped her life. Except unlike Míriel, Finduilas’s mother felt nothing but spite towards her child, and died wishing Finduilas never existed. Perhaps Finduilas’s fate would have been different had her mother given her an amilessë.

Her father Orodreth hated her also, or so Finduilas believed; why else would he send her to faraway Nargothrond?

«»

Maeglin Lómion was born on a starry night in Nan Elmoth, when his parents still loved each other.

Eöl laughed and said he looked like his mother. He did, in all but his eyes. Aredhel smiled and agreed, kissing her husband.

Of course, neither of them forsaw that Maeglin would be so like his mother as to cause ruin. Neither of them forsaw how he would turn their relationship bitter.

Perhaps if they did, Aredhel would have left him for the wolves.

«»

Here is the truth of it: Gil-Galad is the great-grandchild of Finwë. Whose, no one knows.

Perhaps it was Findekáno, who died not knowing one of his lovers was pregnant. Perhaps it was Makalaurë, who sent his wife away before either of them knew she was pregnant. Perhaps it was Artaresto, lonely after his wife died with only a woman who ran as a lover. Perhaps it was Findaráto, with a string of affairs. Perhaps it was Carniþtir, with the adaneth he so loved. Perhaps it was Aikanáro, likewise. Perhaps it was Curufinwë, and Málintë, however uncharacteristically, kept their second son a secret after what happened to Tyelperinquar.

Perhaps it was Maitimo, or Tyelkormo, or Irissë, or Arakáno, impossibly.

All that I know is that Gil-Galad was the great-grandson of Finwë. His parents - or the lack of them - shaped him, and he was a good king.

«»

Celebrían was born after the War of the Wraith, kept secret for many years thereafter.

Silver was her hair and strong was her spirit, but she was more her father than ever her mother. She lived, but she was a healer, not a warrior.

Those who remembered commented that she was like Indis. It was supposed to be a compliment, but if they knew, they would have compared her to Míriel.

«»

It is ironic; kindness from Curufinwë, follied righteousness from Turukáno. Death from Artaresto, yearning from Aredhel. Nobility from the unnamed, and life from Galadriel.

And perhaps it is what children are doomed for: the forgotten of their parents becomes the trait of the children.

«»

Tyelperinquar rejected his father but was followed not by his mother; she was, perhaps, worse and better than Curufinwë. Less kind, but much less to fall. But it is forgotten of Curufinwë that he got his kindness from his mother, before good turned to ill.

Tyelperinquar took the name Ereinion, which was thereafter taken by those who wanted naught to do with their Finwëan parents.

(Perhaps this means Gil-Galad was son of Curufinwë. Perhaps this means he was a Fëanorion. There is no use in guessing.

But let it be known that Finduilas followed him. Finduilas Ereinion, she became, in place of a patronymic.)

«»

Itarillë disliked her cousin from the moment she met him. She was not dissimilar to her father in that way.

Perhaps if she had tried harder - although she would acknowledge it not - Ondolindë would have been saved.

But Itarillë was so convinced of her righteousness and so convinced of Maeglin’s wrongness that she did not even try.

«»

Finduilas was not flighty. She thought her betrothed dead, can we really fault her for wanting happiness thereafter?

Gwindor did not; the history books did and condemn her for it.

(That is the curse of the women of the House of Finwë. From Míriel to Indis to Írimë to Málintë to Elenwë to Irissë to Itarillë to Finduilas, the women of the House of Finwë have always been more of symbols than people. Weak Míriel to heroic Itarillë to flighty Finduilas, none of them are remembered for who they are.)

Finduilas is faulted for loving twice, Finwë is exonerated. I would say it is a surprise, but this double standard never is.

«»

Here is what people forget: Irissë Araquendë called Aredhel ran from one cage to another, yearning for freedom, but at least she had that in her youth.

Here is what people forget: Maeglin was the same, except he was never free.

And so he was not sad to see Ondolindë burn. But he was sad to see the people within it burn.

It is a kinder lie, or so Pengolodh thought - but Maeglin Lómion was the son of Aredhel, and so he did not betray Ondolindë willingly.

«»

Gil-Galad lived. Perhaps that is all we can say. He lived. A good king, but that is the problem of history: every king is good, every hero perfect, every princess beautiful.

There were no kings after Gil-Galad. Was that because there were not enough Ñoldor, or was that because none wanted another?

«»

Celebrían - Tyelpetári - silver queen - was as kind as summer. Last and least of the three of silver, if you listen to the history books. Defeated and tortured, some say.

But Celebrían was the daughter of Galadriel.

Silver-haired women of the House of Finwë were not lucky, as it seemed. Míriel and Celebrían, weavers and known more as mothers and wives than as people.

But that is the curse of the women of the House of Finwë.

(Perhaps, to complete the set, Irissë should have silver hair, too.)

«»

Perhaps we assign to much meaning to the parents. Perhaps Tyelperinquar’s kindness did not come from Curufinwë. Perhaps Itarillë’s follied righteousness did not come from Turukáno. Perhaps Finduilas’s flightiness did not come from her mother. Perhaps Maeglin’s yearning for freedom did not come from Irissë. Perhaps Gil-Galad’s goodness did not come from his parent. Perhaps Celebrían’s strength did not come from Galadriel.

«»

Tyelperinquar died for being too kind. Perhaps Curufinwë would not have died that way.

«»

It is said that Itarillë is still lost. Perhaps she never should have Sailed with her husband, a mortal not of the Undying Lands.

«»

Finduilas did not deserve her end, but others treat her life as a warning, a prophecy.

(They do not do the same to Finwë.)

«»

Maeglin died as he lived: trapped, in a cage, the shadow of his parents arching impossibly over him.

«»

Gil-Galad perished for his people, or perhaps he perished from them.

«»

Celebrían did not die, but she went to a place where nothing bad was supposed to happen; how was she received, she who was nothing but a product of Marring?

«»

And we arrive at the final question: who to blame? Do we blame Fëanáro, for his sin of nothing but being born wrong? Do we blame Indis, for marrying Finwë? Do we blame Ñolofinwë, for attempting to usurp his brother? Do we blame Moringotto, for spreading darkness? Do we blame Finwë, for loving twice and yet not loving enough?

Here is the truth of it, as far as I know: we cannot truly blame anyone. Finwë was blind, yes, but Indis did not try. Fëanáro was angry, yes, but Ñolofinwë coveted what he had. Moringotto spread darkness, yes, but he would have had nothing if the family was not already fractured.

Perhaps we shall blame the Valar, for calling something Marred that never truly was. Even in a perfect world, Míriel still would have died.

(Perhaps, then, we should blame Míriel. But that is the curse of the women of the House of Finwë.)

There is no easy answer. Why did Galadriel get to live? Why did Makalaurë barely cling onto life, never to come home? Why did Fëanáro die too soon?

I would ask Varda Elentári and Manwë Sulimo, but all they would say is that it is part of Eru’s plan, and there is little comfort in that.

[sillysistersusi]

Reach You In The Dark

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Summary: Finarfin and Eärwen after the first kinslaying.

Arafinwë could barely see through the veil of tears, but he could hear Eärwen's cries, and that was almost worse.

He had never seen her so distraught and in so much pain. It was one of those moments in life that you didn't believe were true. They felt like a bad dream that you just wanted to wake up from. And Arafinwë wanted to wake up so badly.

They were gone. His children were gone and he didn't even know if they had helped in this massacre. Were some of these deaths their fault? Had they wielded those swords and spears and shot those arrows?

Arafinwë didn't want it to be true, but he couldn't shake this feeling. It was as if an icy coldness was settling on his skin and little spikes of ice were digging into it.

He had known some of these people. They had been cousins and friends of Eärwen and they had often visited them. Their children had been there too.

Could his beloved little ones really be capable of doing such a deed? Or had they just stood on the sidelines and let it happen? And would that really have been better? Because even if they had only watched, they would still be partly to blame, but-

His throat burned and a sick feeling spread through his stomach as images flooded his mind. Images of Findaráto holding a bloody sword in his hands, those hands which he used to write poetry with, of Aikanáro shooting an arrow at unarmed elves with trembling hands, of Angaráto closing his eyes as someone was struck down, of Artanis fighting her way through the ranks alongside her cousins.

His wonderful children. It seemed like yesterday to him when he had cradled them in his arms and read to them, and now they were to be responsible for such destruction?

He didn't know what he should feel at that thought, but he knew what he did feel. He could never hate them. Not for the fact that they had left. Not for what they had done to the Teleri. Not for listening more to Fëanáro than to his words. Not for causing their mother such grief.

It was the curse of a parent, Arafinwë thought, to still love his children as much as the first time he had held them, even if they now where monsters in some eyes.

As Eärwen's cries slowly faded, he was brought back to the present. He needed to focus on the now and repair the destruction his family had left behind.

He blinked tears from his eyes to get a clearer view and soon found Eärwen. Her bushy, silvery-white hair was all tousled, she had most likely brushed her hand through it several times.

She stared at him. Her tears were everywhere. He couldn't tell if she was still crying because her whole face was wet. She was still shaking, but she was no longer sobbing. Maybe she just couldn't anymore.

After a moment, she reached out a hand to Arafinwë for help.

"Ara." she breathed wetly. "Ara." Her face was all distorted and he wondered if he would ever see her laugh as carefree as she had only weeks before. When they hadn't expected their peaceful life to find an end so soon.

Arafinwë also reached out a hand and took her trembling, cold fingers between his.

"I am so sorry," he said softly, more tears escaping his eyes. His family had instigated this and he didn't know how he was ever going to make up for ir. If there even was anything that could.

Eärwen stepped closer to him and pressed her face against his chest. "You are not to blame for what your brothers did." Carefully and timidly, he put his trembling arms around her and pressed his face into her hair. It smelled of Eärwen, of home. Of a security that felt just so far away.

He hadn't thought he'd hear her speak again so soon, but that sentence alone seemed to have drained her of all her energy. She leaned her whole body against him and clung to him desperately, as if Arafinwë was the only thing keeping her alive right now.

Arafinwë knew that she was to him.

[felagund-the-valiant]

All I Want Is You - Fingon x gn!reader

There’s only one thing Findekáno wants for his Begetting Day – to finally start courting the love of his life.

Words: 1.1k Tags: best friends to lovers, first kiss

A/N: sooo, this is the first proper one shot i've ever written for fandom stuff. i hope it doesn't suck.

Aikanáro - Aegnor, Angaráto - Angrod, Fëanáro - Fëanor, Findekáno - Fingon, Maitimo - Maedhros, Turukáno - Turgon

Findekáno noticed you the moment you came through the door and made a beeline towards you. “(Y/N)!” He exclaimed in his usual cheerful manner and pulled you in for a hug that seemed to linger just a second too long, not that you minded. You discreetly breathed in his scent and felt your stomach flutter. “Happy Begetting Day!” You said with a bright smile when he let go of you and handed over your present to him. He gratefully accepted it and went to put it with the other presents he had received. Even though you shouldn’t be, you were astounded at the volume. He was a prince, after all, and you couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit self-conscious, hoping your gift wouldn't appear too simple next to the others. You pushed the thought aside and followed him to the opulent buffet to grab something to drink and a bite to eat.

You observed him carefully as you followed behind him. His hair was adorned with his signature golden hairbands that matched the artfully crafted jewellery he wore as well as the intricate embroidery on his royal blue robes. He looked stunning as always and you could only hope your own appearance was a suitable match.

After the two of you had filled your plates, you settled down at an empty table and you happily listened to him chatter away about all the planning that had gone into the celebration as well as the latest royal family drama. Apparently Maitimo – his oldest cousin – had managed to convince his uncle Fëanáro to attend and so far, he had only gotten into minor squabbles with Findekáno’s father. One would see what the rest of the evening would bring. After the recounts of drama were finished, he went over to presenting his newest jokes to you. He loved making you laugh. You were oblivious to the fact that he had practised all of his jokes on Turukáno beforehand, making sure they were actually funny, and he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of you. Although he sometimes wondered if his brother was the right choice for this as he wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humour.

When the conversation came to a natural lull he glanced over at the minstrels and the other guests dancing to their harmonious music. He rose from his chair with determination. “Would you care for a dance, my lady?” He asked with a dramatic bow and extended his right hand to you with a mischievous spark in his eyes. “You know I can’t dance, Findekáno.” You grumbled. You had been over this countless times, he seemed to ask you to dance every time there was a chance and you tried to not read into it, even though you desperately wanted to. It’s not that you disliked dancing with him – quite the opposite, you cherished every moment you got to be this close to him – you just hated making a fool of yourself in front of him. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll show you. Also, it’s my Begetting Day, meaning you legally can’t deny my wishes.” He gave you his best puppy eyes and broke into a triumphant grin when you let out a resigned sigh. “Fine, but don’t be upset when I eventually trample your feet.”

To your credit, the dance went considerably better than you had thought – you only stepped on his feet two times and both times he laughed it off, assuring you it hadn’t hurt at all, though you suspected that was a lie. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.” He said out of nowhere and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. You felt your insides melt a little at the contact. “This colour really suits you.” He continued and gave you an earnest smile. “Thank you. You look quite dashing yourself.” You replied a little bashfully. Friends give each other compliments, you reminded yourself, there’s nothing more to it. Right? He stopped his movements after a while and threw a look at a set of doors that led out to an empty balcony. “I could use some fresh air.” He declared. “Care to join me?” You nodded and he led you out to the cool evening air.

Findekáno leaned against the railing and you followed his example. “Thank you for coming today.” He said. “Of course. You’re my best friend, how couldn’t I?” There was a short pause. “Have you … ever thought about us being more than just friends?” He asked with bated breath. You blinked rapidly at him, not sure if you had heard him correctly. “What do you mean? Like … courting?” He nodded, eyes filled with hope and nervousness at the same time. You felt an aggressive blush creeping up your cheeks and averted your eyes. “Maybe.” You said barely audible. “What about you?” “I have. A lot.” He replied and reached for one of your hands. “(Y/N), I’m in love with you.” He finally confessed. “I have been for a long time, but I was scared that if I told you, it might ruin our friendship.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “But I’m tired of hiding my feelings and it’s okay if-“ “I love you, too.” You blurted out and covered your mouth in surprise. “You do?” He asked and you nodded your head vigorously. His face lit up brighter than both Laurelin and Telperion together and he let out a laugh that almost sounded giddy. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.” He exclaimed and pulled you into his arms, squeezing you tightly before loosening his grip a little. You looked up at him and found your gaze wandering between his eyes and his lips. Findekáno smirked knowingly. “Is there something on your mind?” He asked in a teasing tone. You bit your lower lip slightly. “Can I kiss you?” You asked while subconsciously gripping the front of his robes. “You most certainly can, melda.” He replied and leaned down to which you rose to the tips of your toes to meet him halfway.

All your fantasies paled in comparison to the real kiss you were sharing, and you wished it would never end. When your lips parted you reached up to caress his right cheek and he lightly leaned into the touch. “I love you.” You repeated in a whisper. “I love you, too.” He whispered back and in that moment nothing else mattered.

If either of you noticed your other two best friends, Angaráto and Aikanáro, lurking outside the doors and triumphantly exchanging money, you didn’t comment on it.

[actual-bill-potts]

Belated birthday present for @that-angry-noldo <3 <3 I love u bestie

Finarfin and Eärwen had requested a six-day before anyone came to visit Finrod. No one had protested, of course; but Anairë, when she heard the news, had withdrawn into herself tightly, and requested curtly that she be the first visitor. They could not refuse her, second mother to their children as she had been, and Finarfin did not wish to; but he hoped, a little, that she would not still be angry when she knocked upon their door.

The six-day had been quiet. Finarfin had spent a great deal of time alone, trying to reconcile himself to this third loss of Aikanáro, to accept that bright little Findaráto was now quiet Finrod, to weave his son into the pattern of a life defined by solitude. But this last was not an arduous task, and smiling came easier to him than it had for many years.

He still found himself anxious when the seventh day came since Finrod’s Return and Anairë swept into their little cottage full of dignity. She did not seem angry; but something in her bearing made Finarfin half-reach for the spear that no longer hung at his shoulder.

No more fighting, he thought, please, no more, and ignored the voice in the back of his mind that sounded like Eönwë at his proudest, and said, Peace will not come simply because you wish for it.

“Hello, Arafinwë,” Anairë said, face softening a little as she looked at him. “Do not worry; I do not intend to cause harm.”

Intent rarely matters, thought Finarfin, but he returned the greeting and led her further into the cottage. As she and Eärwen embraced, he tapped gently upon the little glow that was Finrod in his mind. Anairë is here, he said, will you see her?

A little nod; and a moment later Finrod slipped into the room.

Anairë looked up. The hiss of breath that left her was so sharp Finarfin almost hastened towards the tea-kettle.

“Eäryonya,” she said, voice steady.

Sea’s-son, the name Anairë had used for all Eärwen’s boys, and they in turn had called her -

“Tarasamil,” said Finrod gently, and held out his hand. “Thank you for the keeping of my mother’s heart.”

“Someone needed to do it,” returned Anairë; but she took his hand and gripped it hard.

Eärwen flinched a little; Finarfin, as quietly as possible, slipped to her side. She put her head on his shoulder, and he felt something deep and cold within him unclench.

“Yes,” said Finrod. “Yes.”

“How fare my children?” said Anairë. “My husband?”

“I slept long and deep in Mandos, in dreams I half-remember; and only Turukáno came to me. He grieves,” said Finrod, “grieves for his city.”

“Does he grieve for those he killed in a land of peace?” said Anairë harshly. But she did not release his hand.

“Of course,” said Finrod, “but they no longer reside in Mandos.”

“Point to the kinslayer!” said Anairë. “But was he happy? In Endórë?”

“There was no unmarred joy in Beleriand,” said Finrod. “But by the deep pools and flowing rivers of Nevrast he was as peaceful as I have ever seen him. Irissë ran wild and free, and Findekáno took joy in his own fierceness and strength, and little Itarillë grew into great strength and wisdom. And your husband sought your counsel ever, even from far away.”

“Of course he did!” said Anairë. “I should not be glad to hear that my children won joy through bloodshed, and in bloodshed; but -”

She drew him into an embrace. Finarfin, watching carefully, was glad they had waited the six-day; Finrod’s hands were trembling and the set of his shoulders was not easy. But he did not flinch away.

“And you!” she said. “Was it worth it, Findaráto?”

“I am called Finrod now,” said Finrod into her shoulder, “and I paid for the joy I found many times over. I would not give it up now for even the unmarred bliss of Aman.”

“Yes,” said Anairë, “The price is marked upon your body,” and she moved her hand across the place just below Finrod’s left shoulder, where Finarfin knew there was a thick, ropy scar: muscle and bone cleaved by the claws of a wolf.

Finrod shuddered, and Anairë drew him closer.

“I am glad you are here, despite everything,” said Anairë, “and I am glad you were with my son. You kept his heart as I kept your mother’s, at least for a time; and I will not forget it.” She drew back. “And now I will make your father happy, and release you, and ask if there will be tea.”

“Yes,” said Finarfin, relieved beyond measure, and went into the kitchen to prepare.