#and then artaresto for orodreth

[actual-bill-potts]

Let's try Orodreth with "weary and content" so maybe your poor lil guy can have a nice time for a change 😭

lsdjkfskldf a nearly impossible prompt. but i have done my best

There was a timid tap-tap-tap outside his door.

Arafinwë groaned inwardly, and wished it would go away. He had been awake for days on end in Tirion, helping Nolofinwë to soothe Fëanáro's latest political mess. This was his first night at home, and he had hoped to sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Perhaps if he stayed still and silent, his son would give up. Eärwen beside him had not yet stirred.

He heard light footsteps enter his room hesitantly, and then a tugging on his sleeve.

Silently offering a prayer to Varda for patience, Arafinwë sighed and opened his eyes into Artaresto's enormous brown ones.

"Atya," whispered Artaresto, loudly. "Atya!"

Arafinwë sighed again. "Yes, Artaresto?"

"I had a bad dream," said Artaresto. "I cannot sleep."

Eärwen pushed herself up on one elbow beside him. "Artaresto," she said, "you must go to bed. Come, I will tuck you in."

Artaresto's lip trembled threateningly. "No!" he said. "Want Atya!"

"Atya is tired," said Eärwen reasonably.

"But he has been gone," said Artaresto. "I missed him! And I cannot sleep," he added petulantly. "I do not want to be tucked in!"

Arafinwë sighed for a third time, but rolled out of bed and tucked his feet into slippers. "It is all right," he said, smiling a little at Eärwen. "Artaresto and I will go to the kitchen and have something to drink, and then he will go back to bed. Won't you, hinya?" he added, turning to Artaresto.

"Yes," said Artaresto, nodding vigorously, eyes lighting up. "May I have yullas, Atya?"

"You may," said Arafinwë, taking Artaresto's small hand in his own and leading him out of the room. Artaresto padded beside him, seeming quite content, and Arafinwë's tired exasperation quickly abated at the little fingers clutching his own tightly.

"I missed you, Atya," said Artaresto again, as they entered the kitchen.

Arafinwë felt a little pang. He begrudged even the short days spent away from his children; they were growing up so quickly! Artafindë was already grown, and often wandered far from home. Soon Artaresto would follow him, no doubt; he idolized his older brother.

"I missed you too, hinya," he said, smiling down at his son. "Now, what sort of yullas would you like best?"

Artaresto's eyes lit up. "Oh! I would like ornemalin!"

"Very well," Arafinwë said, putting water on to boil.

Artaresto sat down at the table, snuggling further into his night-shirt. "I am cold, Atya," he said.

You could go back to bed, Arafinwë almost muttered; but he refrained, shrugging out of his outer robe. He draped it around Artaresto's small shoulders.

"There," he said, "are you warm enough?"

"Yes!" said Artaresto. He sniffed at the robe. "It smells nice," he said. "It smells of the Sea!"

"Yes," said Arafinwë. "Ammë Sung such into the weaving."

"Could she do that for me?" asked Artaresto eagerly.

"Perhaps," said Arafinwë. "Or perhaps she could teach you how to do it yourself."

"I would like that," said Artaresto, swinging his small legs.

Arafinwë sat down beside him and put an arm about his son. "Would you like to talk about the bad dream?" he asked. Where Artafindë would confide his troubles without prompting, Arafinwë had found already that Artaresto was shy about his innermost heart. If he was not asked, he would keep his troubles buried deep until they burst forth in upset that had festered.

Artaresto shuddered, a movement that seemed almost too big for his small body. "There was a lizard," he said. "Like the ones that like to sun themselves on the rocks by the palace, but much bigger. So big it blotted out the whole sky. And I could not see the light of the Trees! Then it looked at me and laughed, and I felt as if - as if I had done something terribly naughty. Then I woke up."

Arafinwë wanted to laugh - a huge lizard? - but refrained, for Artaresto's eyes had filled with tears. He tightened his arm about his son's shoulders. "That sounds frightening," he said.

"It was," admitted Artaresto, trembling again.

"Well," said Arafinwë, "there is no chance of a giant lizard coming to attack us here. Tulkas and Oromë would hunt it down before it gave us any trouble; and in any case I doubt Yavanna would create such a thing. It was just a dream."

"But -" said Artaresto. Then he hesitated.

"Yes?" said Arafinwë.

"What if -" said Artaresto, in a very small voice, "what if it was a true seeing? It felt so - so real. I have not had a dream like that before."

Arafinwë felt a chill. Foresight did run in their family. And Artafindë too sometimes had terrible dreams.

What was Vairë weaving for them, his gentle and shining children? Why could he not see it?

He shook it off. There was no reason to alarm Artaresto without need. "It may," he admitted aloud, "or it may not. There is no way to know unless it comes true - and I cannot think of a way that would come true! So let us put away worries for tonight."

"But what if," said Artaresto again, "what if the huge lizard fights its way past Tulkas and Oromë, and rips our house down? With us inside?"

"It will not," said Arafinwë.

"But if it does?" persisted Artaresto. "What will we do?"

Arafinwë exhaled a sigh. "It will not," he repeated. "But supposing that it did, it would doubtless already be friends with Artafindë. And upon seeing your brother, it would pause and apologize, and they would soon be dining together in great friendship. Though I do not know if your lizard would fit at the table."

Artaresto giggled. "You are silly, Atya!" he said. Then he sobered. "But what if Artafindë was not here?"

"Then I would simply have to tell the lizard very sternly to leave, and of course it would listen. I would use my fiercest, angriest voice!"

"Do you have one of those?" asked Artaresto, smiling.

"I do! But I reserve it for particularly annoying nobles," said Arafinwë, "and lizards who threaten my sons."

"But what if you are not there?" said Artaresto.

"Of course I would be there," said Arafinwë. "You are my son! If you were in danger, I would be there, even if I had to gallop across all Aman to do it."

Artaresto leaned his small head against Arafinwë. "Thank you, Atya," he said; and Arafinwë briefly had to close his eyes against the swell of feeling. The silver hair, so similar to Eärwen's - the little hands clutching at his sleeves - the warm press of his son's body against his own! How he loved his children!

The kettle began to whistle, and Artaresto sprang away from Arafinwë's side. "Yullas!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Arafinwë, rising to prepare two mugs. He poured the water over the ornemalin, briefly mesmerized by the swirl of silver light and shadow over the pale-yellow dye of the leaves. Then he turned back to Artaresto, and could not decide whether to laugh or groan.

Artaresto was slumped over the table, fast asleep, chubby hands clutched in his borrowed robe, hair falling over his face.

Love once again swelled in Arafinwë's breast; and fear for a moment clutched at his heart. So small - so defenseless! If the visions were true - !

They could not be. Perhaps in Endórë, where his father had grown up; but here in Valinórë evil could not touch them.

Arafinwë smoothed Artaresto's hair away from his face; then, when his son did not stir, gathered him up in his arms and carried him to bed.

[dfwbwfbbwfbwf]

The Fëanárions are not greedy.

I see posts that say the Fëanárions embody the sin of greed, but that's not really true. It isn't greedy to want your stuff back. It isn't greedy to want to keep your stuff safe, especially when you know other people covet it. (The fact that the Silm says he "denied others the sight of them" annoys me. They're his things. He doesn't owe anyone to be in their presence.)

They aren't greedy, but they are something else: wrathful.

-----

You know what? I'm going to do this. I'm going to connect some characters with the sin they most embody imo.

-----

Pride - Turgon

Greed - Thingollo

Lust - Morgoth

Envy - Ar-Pharazôn

Gluttony - Tar-Vanimeldë

Wrath - Fëanáro

Sloth - Orodreth

[art-of-firefly]

Preview - 3rd part of the Arafinweans

I'll post them every Saturday, starting with Orodreth

House of Finwë

[dalliansss]

💖/🕊 Celebrimbor?

Unusual Headcanons Ask Game!

💖 - Romantic relationships or ships. (This could be as simple as sharing a rareship you enjoy, or an unusual interpretation of a popular/canon ship!)

Narvi - I headcanon that Narvi was actually the first partnership-relationship Tyelpe entered into, not that he wasn't aware that in Valinor and during the First Age he did attract the attention of people. He was just a workaholic and preferred to research, nerd and make things than turn his eyes and look for a potential romantic partner.

Tyelpe was also averse from romantic relationships for such a long time because he saw Curufin and Helwe's relationship deteriorate as he was growing up. Also, Tyelpe didn't quite like the idea of marrying someone, because he knows the burden of a marriage to Eldar, having seen his parents be trapped into an unhappy and loveless union and unable to free themselves from it.

Finrod - in my non-CuruFinrod verses, I also think of Tyelpe having a tremendous one-sided love for Finrod. This was a youthful thing though, developed during their stay at Nargothrond, simply because it's impossible not to like Finrod -- gold, beautiful, and kind. Tyelpe thinks he is being discreet with his very obvious preference for blondes (which will be detrimental for him later on), and Finrod does not act on it.

Annatar - oh, he loved that strange elf. He loved how their minds and spirits seemed to in sync, but you had to hand it to Tyelpe because even if he was so in love, he was still able to clearly perceive red flags in the relationship and was even strong enough to initiate the break-up, even if it cost him his life.

But out of all of these three, Tyelpe considers Annatar the would-have-been love of his life.

🕊️ - Platonic relationships (friends, enemies, etc).

He was particularly friendly and close to Idril and Orodreth growing up. They had some sort of 'gang wars' as children; Idril and her girl friends against him, Orodreth and their friends where they tried to ambush each group with paint balls at every weekend after school and lessons. They were oblivious to the building quarrels and tensions of the family when they were children and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. Idril turned to them to 'fathom how boys acted like so,' and in turn Idril was their source of knowledge on girls.

Tyelpe mourned the deterioration of their friendships when the family got estranged from each other. Tyelpe loved and craved close friendships as he was an only child.

[descendantsoffinwe]

"Atar, I made you some pictures", Orodreth announced happily and offered Angrod his sketchbook. "Look, here I sketched Ladros", he pointed at a page with a detailed landscape on it. "And here is uncle - he was talking to someone." He next pointed at a sketch of Aegnor and a lady. "Oh, and--" Orodreth flipped the page happily to reveal a drawing of Bregor with a painfully obvious emphasis on the man's chest. "And Bregor! Of course I would draw him for you."

Angrod admired the details of Ladros, truly impressed at how much it resembled the real thing. The next page got a soft laugh from him, his brother beaming and Orodreth had captured the lady in question so well Angrod would know her anywhere. About to say as much, his eyes were pulled back as Orodreth flipped to the new page and all the words in all the languages he knew vanished. Heat seeped into his face, his mouth opening and closing twice.

"O-Orodreth--!" His hand pressed over his mouth, but he still hadn't looked away from the drawing. "He's-- it's very lovely. Looks, looks just like him." Why had it gotten so hot in the room? Wait... was it that obvious? "Why, why do you say that? That you drew him for me?"

[thegreatstrongbow]

"My cousin told me these are particularly delicious, so I thought I would bring you some." Orodreth smiled, offering Beleg a basket full of remarkably poisonous mushrooms.

"Did he now? Which cousin, might I ask?" Beleg raised an eyebrow, picking up a mushroom and sniffing it. He had eaten a lot of mushrooms in his life and while he did not doubt Orodreth's generosity, he did doubt his mushroom knowledge. "They look lovely."

[gxldenfinwe]

📔:)

send “📔” to read an entry from my muse’s diary about your muse

Angaráto brought little Artaresto today. He is growing so fast, he is talking already. Anga says he likes ponies - must write to Nolo to send some toy ones from Tirion. We played with the seashell collection - I think he will grow to love jewellery as much as Finda, he was quite fascinated by the shiny ones.

[rangers-are-cool-moved]

❤️ Orodreth is here to sample the mortal bois (it's his job after all)

The lone slate grey eye widened first with surprise as he was kissed unexpectedly. But then it narrowed. Dangerously as Arathorn stepped backwards. A rather sharp looking dagger in his hand.

"Orodreth."

[first-son-of-finwe]

"I for one cannot understand at all how anyone could be rude to one so exceptional. But their simple words must matter very little to such an accomplished and thoroughly handsome example of our people." (From Orodreth obvs bootlick mode activate)

“Oh, what wonderful thoughts. Of course you’re absolutely right on all counts. Some people are just too simple and blind to see perfection when it stands before them, aren’t they?”

[malkuvoitenoldoran]

[ BRAID ]:  sender, sitting behind the receiver’s back, begins to braid their hair. (From Orodreth)

Turgon blinked a little confused when he felt hands in his hair since he knew his daughter was nowhere nearby but after a quick glance behind him to see his cousin's son he simply shifted a little so Orodreth would have an easier time braiding his hair since sitting on the ground could only do so much to help. "If you need me to move any more let me know. I would rather you not yank on my hair like my cousins and sister have done in the past."

[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.

[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:

[oakenting]

Come Back To Me And Fill My House With Joy

Summary: There are hundreds of miles between Beleriand and Aman. Finarfin had never thought about it much. But since the Flight of the Noldor the distance haunts him. Five children he had with Eärwen. And every single one of them went over the sea. Thousands of years pass on Arda and Finarfin has to find his own way of moving forward. And of remembering. So that when his children return, they can return to a changed and advanced Tirion. And with them happiness may also return. - This a story about Finarfin's grief and happiness. Remembering each of his children Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor and Galadriel we get to know Finarfin intimately. Rating: G Word count: 6.3k Warnings: None Relationships: Finarfin & Finrod Felagund, Finarfin & Orodreth | Artaresto, Angrod & Finarfin, Aegnor & Finarfin, Finarfin & Galadriel, Eärwen & Finarfin Tags: Family, Family Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Finarfin-centric, House of Finarfin, Crystals, Depression, Worldbuilding

[link to story], [link to art]

@tolkienrsb

Art by @dreamsofgold, Story by @oakenting

[carmisse]

Of firstborns and births.

Fëanor : How did you feel when your first child came into the world?

Maedhros : There were many feelings at the same time. Joy, fear, panic, gratitude, it was too much to process, Artanáro left me speechless since I saw him for the first time, he was too small, more than we expected, however, he was the most beautiful jewel I have ever seen, under Findekáno's words, the baby seemed to be a star itself; and I couldn't agree more with that. While I had seen many babies born up to that point, Ereinion was the most perfect of them all. I felt I could duel Morgoth for him alone, he was the piece I needed to feel alive again.

Maglor : I wanted to cry, correction, I cried too much when I saw it; I was really scared about it. Daeron had not had a really nice pregnancy, and we were afraid that the delivery would be similar. However, thanks to Queen Melian, everything went well. When I finally carried him in my arms, my heart seemed to burst, I am not able to explain how I felt, only that my Lindir was more harmonious than any melody ever played, much more beautiful than Ainulindalë itself. He is magnificence itself, so majestic that many would be humbled to stand in his presence.

Celegorm : Eluréd and Elurín were a blessing from Oromë and Vána, a very unexpected one. I'm not going to lie, when I saw Eluréd it really bothered me not to think that he was the most beautiful baby in middle earth, you know those parents who say their babies were pure beauty, well, I was not one of those, Eluréd and Elurín were not exactly graceful when they were born, they were covered with blood and amniotic fluid, but they were very healthy, that was the important thing, although I can't say I didn't feel joy, they gave me back a part of me that I considered lost.

Caranthir : I must confess that after holding Artaresto already cleaned up, I couldn't help but curse Angaráto's genes. However, I can't deny that the little blonde hair on his little head was lovely. It was really unexpected to see that his cheeks had a tone similar to sweet apples, that made me fall in love with him, I longed too much to put my fingers on his face, I couldn't believe that he was really mine, he was too ethereal, although he was also a fussy baby, a true prince of the Noldor, if you ask me; it was inevitable not to feel proud of him, his mere existence did that.

Curufin : The phrase "You never love anything in the world as much as you love your first child" made sense when Telperinquar was in my arms; although in my heart I vowed to protect him from the moment I began to nourish his Fëa with my own. I know what I felt, a deep love for him, as well as a need for devotion. He was my greatest creation, nothing else I did in the forge compares to him, and even the Silmarils are nothing compared to my son, as I held him, I was aware that I would do the impossible to preserve his innocence, I was sure that he would bring out the best and the worst in me.

°•°

Headcanon's extra :

Daeron is an offspring of Thingol and Melian. Consequently, she has Maia ancestry and thanks to this she was able to father a child with Maglor. (In my AU she is a trans elleth.)

Vána and Oromë blessed Celegorm so that he could have the twins; Dior was puzzled.

Caranthir is trans and Curufin is trans non-binary.

Fëanorian Orodreth!

The other parents of the children :

– Findekáno.

– Daeron.

– Dior.

– Angaráto.

– Findaráto (¿?)

[actual-bill-potts]

TRIGGER WARNING: violence (not particularly graphic) and minor suicidal ideation

When the first hoarse sob echoed through the house, Finarfin was out of his bed and halfway across the room before he realized what was happening. Then he stopped. He was not in Beleriand. There were no freed thralls to comfort, no injured members of his guard to soothe, nothing to be wary of if a strange noise came in the night.

Then what - ?

Knowledge struck him at the same time as another dry sob, followed by a terrible coughing, choking sound. Finduilas and Eärwen were away visiting Finrod, whose ever-wandering mind had led him to build a tower by the Sea upon Tol Eressëa, and that only left -

Artaresto had begun to weep in earnest as Finarfin reached his door: terrible heaving cries that sounded as if they must be tearing blood out of his throat. Artaresto was curled up in bed, shivering, and Finarfin approached cautiously, slowing his breathing, straightening his bearing. As he sat carefully beside his son, his heart clenched at the reminder of how Artaresto had been as a small child. So easily hurt, so slow to heal, reluctant to confide - but often reaching out impulsively for comfort all the same. So when Finarfin felt the flailing of Artaresto’s mind, tendrils of thought seeking warmth, he opened his own mind, unthinking, and -

Finduilas is safe, alive, breathing still in the back of his mind, and Adanedhel has gone after her. He will keep her safe, Artaresto repeats to himself, he will keep her safe, he will keep them all safe, they will not fall in vain - in this at least he will not fail -

Finarfin tried to pull away but the dirt has churned to reddish mud under his feet, he is holding a thin line of his warriors with the force of his will alone, blood is dripping into his eyes, he does not see the spear until it is too late and his chest hurts, it hurts -

“Artaresto, please, be calm,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady under the onslaught of pain in his lungs, he keeps coughing and coughing but he cannot draw a clear breath. Amathil kneels over him, mouth drawn tight. Her face is blurry. He tries to take her hand but he keeps missing it. Why is she moving so fast?

“Aran,” she says, “Orodreth, let me - I will try to help -” but she cuts off with a cry and slumps over onto his chest and it twists something past the breaking but Finduilas in his mind is bright alive alive -

“Artaresto,” Finarfin said, trying not to cry, “you are safe. Artaranya, you are safe.” His hands were his own, not sticky with blood. His breath came clear and easy. He was warm, and alive, and so was Artaresto beside him. Breathe, he told himself, breathe.

Artaresto reached out and clutched his sleep tunic, fists twining in the fabric as they had done when he was just a babe.

“My daughter,” he wept. “My daughter. Finduilas. Where is my daughter?”

Finarfin pulled him closer, rubbing slow circles into his back, ignoring the trembling in his hands and the pressure behind his eyes. “She lives, Artaranya. She lives. She is happy. She is visiting your brother on Tol Eressëa.”

Artaresto did not seem to hear him. “She died,” he said bleakly. “She died in torment, she - I was not there. My life did not help her, my death could not save her. The things she - she died. She died - she is dead - she is dead - she is dead!” His voice rose to almost a scream by the last word and he ripped himself away from Finarfin’s side, curling into himself and rocking back and forth. He was trembling so violently Finarfin could hear the clattering of his teeth against each other.

For a moment he could not move. She died in torment. So too had all his children, save one. There was no easing that pain, that grief, for Aikanáro who would dwell forever in the Halls, for Angaráto who spoke little and worked much, for the hollows of loss under Finrod’s eyes and the lines of pain about his mouth, for Artaresto who wept and would not be comforted.

“Litsemir…” he said at last. “Hinya. She is not dead. She lives. She laughs again. You will see her soon, I promise.”

Artaresto’s head whipped up. His eyes were wild. “And what are your promises worth? You left - you left us! You left me - alone - and I could not - and Finduilas - how can you sit so calmly when she - she died so? You are heartless - faithless - and I cannot -” he dissolved into sobs again. They must be hurting his throat, Finarfin thought absently, feeling strangely distant. He is hurting. He is hurting, and -

What right has he to say such? What does he know of loss? another part of him raged. He lost only one child, and she did not part from him in anger and bitter grief -

Another part of him simply screamed and screamed.

He stood abruptly. “I will - I will be back,” he said, as calmly as he could, and fled to the kitchen.

It was dark and cool there, and smelled faintly of herbs. Finarfin sank to his knees and pressed his forehead against the solid coolness of the wall. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Where are my children? he thought despairingly. Where are my children? Where is Artaresto who was kind? How could they leave me?

How could I leave them?

He knelt for long minutes upon the stone floor, feeling the coldness seep into his legs, wishing he could just - freeze. Stay still and solid upon the floor, until all his family came back and laid their hands upon his heart.

This is so hard, he thought. Why is it so hard? I comforted Artaresto when he had not yet learned to speak - when he could scarcely open his eyes! Why can I not now find the words?

And then again, This is so hard.

He breathed in once more. The smell of the stone wall flooded his nose, at once sharp and earthy. He wanted to cry. He wanted to slam his head upon the floor until there was nothing left of him.

Then he breathed out, and lit a fire in the hearth to warm a cup of milk.

Long minutes later, during which he stirred the milk and thought carefully of nothing at all, he walked steadily back to Artaresto’s room. Artaresto was lying now perfectly still upon his bed, almost frozen.

“Litsemir,” said Finarfin into the quiet of the night, “I love you. I loved you at your first hour and I love you in this one. And I have brought you milk.”

Artaresto uncurled slowly and sat up. He looked down, pain clearly visible upon his features.

“Thank you, Atar,” he said, very softly.

“May I sit?” said Finarfin in answer; and Artaresto patted the bed.

Finarfin eased himself down next to his son and held out the cup. Artaresto’s fingers trembled so as they curled about the handle that Finarfin did not let go, but cupped his son’s hands in his. He helped Artaresto raise the cup to his mouth, once, twice, three times: and gradually the trembling eased, and the tense form beside him softened.

“I am sorry,” said Artaresto at last.

Finarfin breathed in slowly. Breathed out. “I grieve with thee, for your daughter who died so terribly. And I grieve for my son who suffered so, far away from me. But I rejoice in Finduilas and Artaresto, who are alive.”

Artaresto inclined his head. “I am sorry,” he said again, voice shaking, "for all you have lost. All we have lost. I grieve with thee.”

Suddenly he set the mug down and buried his head in his hands. “Too much is gone,” he said. “How do you bear it?”

Finarfin blinked. Blinked again. Felt tears running down his cheeks. Too much is gone. Salt in his mouth. How do you bear it? Dampness in his hair.

“I do not know,” he said. “Artaresto, I do not know.”

He wrapped an arm about his son. Rested his cheek upon the silvery head. Felt Artaresto hesitate, then relax into his hold.

Alive, he thought. Alive.

[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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.)

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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.

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

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

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

(They do not do the same to Finwë.)

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

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

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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?

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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.