#aikanaro

[foedhrass]

Aegnor at the inlet of the lake he often visits in the morning. He doesn’t know yet that soon he will see an unfamiliar face there which will change his life forever.

Photo from our The_eldar_cosplay vacation, taken by Goldiepond.

[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]

[thelien-art]

Ohh Estë, for the request? Or Aegnor? 👀❤️

Finally a good excuse to draw buff Aegnor! Thank you!!!

[silmarillion-stats-polls]

House of Finwë masterlist

[art-of-firefly]

Aegnor

“...with Fingon stood as they ever did Angrod and Aegnor” - The way he tied his hair is intentionally similar to Fingon.

House of Finwë

[pengumi12]

Aegnor

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Amrod: So Ambaráto, how are you going finding a new name?

Amrod: The direct translation would probably be Amrod—

Amrod: Oh, wait.

[sesamenom]

you said we could bother you... ever consider transfem maglor?

hm, I don't really have much in the way of gender/orientation headcanons for most elves, but I feel like if anything I see him more as the "I have bigger problems and also a sword" brand of agender, if that makes sense?

[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.

[foedhrass]

Adaneth, I tell thee, Aikanár, the Sharp-flame loved thee. For thy sake now he will never take the hand of any bride of his own kindred, but live alone to the end, remembering the morning in the hills of Dorthonion. But too soon in the North-wind his flame will go out! (J.R.R. Tolkien, Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth)

Aegnor: Foedhrass Andreth: Little_solnyshka (Instagram) Photographers: 1. and 4.: Goldiepond, 2. and 3.: Aloha_Airbrush_Aloha_Pictures (both on IG)

[dalliansss]

Egg&finrod!!

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

Never Got to Say Goodbye starters

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

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

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

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

==

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

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

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

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

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

==

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

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

==

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

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

And he saw how Finrod irrevocably fell into the Dark.

==

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

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

==

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

==

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

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

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

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

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

"Mairon. His name is Mairon."

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

And all the wrongs will never be forgot.

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

@skaelds

Context: [Blood in the Mouth]

[thelien-art]

I’m jumping everytime on those kind of events 🙈💕

Bisexual flag and the Fingon/Aegnor ship? 🥺🙏

♡♡♡

I kinda wanna know more...

🏳️‍🌈CELEBRATE PRIDE WITH ME🏳️‍🌈 - send in a character or a ship with a pride flag and I´ll draw it

[feanoryen]

Confession: I do not care about Finwe's relationships with any of his non-Feanorian grandchildren except Aegnor.

Why am I singling out Aegnor? because that mf is going to sulk in the halls of mandos for the rest of time, I'm sure he & Finwe will have something to talk about.

Finwe: Don’t you and I have so much in common grandson, with our ✨tragic✨ romances and all? Aegnor: … Feanor: As little as I care for Arafinwe’s brat Atar, if Aikanaro was anything like you he would’ve wasted no time finding another lover after the loss of his first one. Finwe: Now that I think about it he is much more like you- Aegnor & Feanor: Thin fucking ice old man!

[arafinweanappreciation]

Finrod tries. He really does. For diplomacy’s sake, if nothing else. 

He had never been particularly close to his half-cousins, but they had gotten along, once. He had enough in common with the elder two to ease the way into some form of friendship. He shared music with Makalaure and his status as eldest with Maitimo. It was enough to build a foundation for cordiality, for conversation, to get him invited on a few outings on which their father would not be joining them. To get him invited on this hunt.

It had seemed a good idea, at first. And now, here he was, miles away from camp on the banks of a stream, splashing water on his face and trying not to remember the way Nelyo gripped his bow, or the knife sheathed on Kano’s belt. They did not threaten him, but the sight of the weapons in their hands made him sick to his stomach all the same. 

He hadn’t been there at Aqualonde. Not like Artanis— Galadriel, he reminds himself, Galadriel, who now bears the name given to her by Celeborn of Doriath, who now prefers it. Not like Galadriel had. Not like Angarato and Aikanaro had, near the head of the march with Findekano. He had not borne arms against his cousins on either side. He had not even seen the aftermath. He and his father had been following days behind, reluctant to leave. By the time he arrived in the city of his mother’s birth and his own childhood, the only signs of the massacre had been the blood soaked into the wooden docks and the darkness in his grandfather’s eyes. The same darkness he could now see in his own eyes, reflected in the rippling stream.

Some part of him (the wiser part, he suspected) said that he should have turned back then. Gone back to his mother and his aunts, to his people who stayed behind. To…

A light breeze flowed through the clearing he had stopped in. What it carried set his heart pounding.

It was the end of summer, verging into autumn, so there were no wildflowers. Yet the breeze brought with it the scent of wild jasmine and roses. A scent he was intimately, achingly familiar with.

But it wasn’t possible. He was dreaming. He had to be. Oh, great Varda, he had to be dreaming. The only thing that could possibly be worse than what had already happened would be if she followed him here, to ruin and death and corruption. No matter how badly he wanted it to be true. 

He lifted his eyes, filling with tears, her name already halfway on his lips, catching in his throat—

And there she was, on the opposite bank. Eyes filled with treelight, waves of golden hair spilling over her shoulders, gracefully pointed ears. Her smile was light, mischievous, fond. 

It could not be.

“Amarie—”

As he watched, she stood, and beckoned him closer. He could not help but comply. Every word he’d written in those unsent letters, every weak, unfit apology he had ever cobbled together in the deep and lonely silence of the night spiraled together in his mind, caught in a bottleneck of grief and desperation and regret. If the cool water soaked through the legs of his trousers, he did not feel it. He could only move, trance-like, towards his beloved, already reaching. 

For every step he took forward, she took one back, just beyond his fingertips. Just as the trees were about to swallow them up, she gave him a wicked grin, eyes glinting. And then turned and ran. 

Without a second thought, Finrod plunged in after her.

She was quick, light on her feet, flitting between the trees with effortless grace, as if she were floating. Finrod felt like a charging bull in comparison, crashing through the undergrowth and barely dodging tree trunks in his desperation to give chase. All thought had ceased. His only concern was keeping her in sight.

She was faster than he remembered. They had played this game before. He’d been on either side at different times. He had not taken note of her speed, then, but she seemed to him now to be swifter than any of Orome’s hounds. 

He tripped on roots and stumbled over fallen branches. The rough bark of the trees scraped and scratched and bruised him. He ran until his muscles burned and his lungs heaved, throat scraped raw and dry from his heavy breathing. Still, she remained just ahead. He tried to call out to her, more than once, to beg her to slow down, to pause, to give him a little rest. She did not seem to hear him.

It was not until the pale gray of predawn light began to creep across the sky that she stopped among the trees, turning to face him.

Finrod allowed himself to slow to a jog, and then a walk, still unbelieving. His muscles ached and cramped, but still, he stumbled forward until he was just in front of her.

Her gaze was soft as he drew closer. Sad, almost. This time, he dared not reach out until they were but inches apart. She closed her eyes, and he could almost feel her breath on his face.

Slowly, he raised a hand to cup her cheek.

As soon as his skin brushed against hers, cold and solid as starlight, she vanished. He could do naught but collapse to the ground, sobs building in his chest.

If this was a dream, then Irmo was cruel indeed.

As Finrod blinked away the last of his tears, something caught his eye. Light, as if from embers. A soft breeze passed over him, smelling not of wildflowers, this time, but the sea. It flowed towards the reddish glow. Ever the faithful, Finrod pulled himself to his feet and made for the light, emerging from the screen of brush at the edge of the forest.

A camp.