#círdan

[meluiloth]

My drawing for @silmarillionepistolary day 4, Friendship and Alliance!

It has been a long time since Finwë drew anything … it didn’t feel right without his muse. Besides, he has been too busy raising his soon, Fëanáro, whose tumultuous temperament lives up to his name - though, despite being still very young, he has shown great intelligence and creativity. Finwë’s duties as High King of the Noldor have also filled up his time, but it has also opened up so many opportunities for learning more about the world and people around him.

On the top left is Círdan, a Telerin mariner and good friend of Finwë’s. Though his people came to Valinor later, Finwë was the first to welcome them - and since then the Noldor and the Teleri have been friends. The Teleri’s beaches are rich with jewels and pearls which they gladly trade with the Noldor.

What really inspired him to draw again is the Vanyar princess, Indis, a gentle and outgoing woman with hair like spun gold. Finwë tries to avoid her - and the feelings for her that have gradually been growing in him - but there is something in her smile that makes him want to smile too, in the way that only his late wife could before.

[aosmccoy]

i think so much abt the fact that celeborn was one of the last elves who left middle-earth... like we don't even know when it was that he left

and i also think that it was probably him who lived on middle-earth for the longest period of time (out of the elves). i mean yeah galadriel was probably older than him for example and maybe even círdan too, but none of them lived longer on this side of the sea than him. celeborn was already living in doriath in starlit beleriand when the noldor lived still in valinor, and he also stayed longer after the war of the ring, after galadriel and círdan and elrond left. like, idk. how much you have to love a place to stay there even after the most of your kind and the love of your life all left... etc

[celebrimbot]

Círdan

[justpostsyeet]

A Little Hope

Inspired by this post

Lord Círdan was weary. The court proceedings were exhausting. The ongoing dispute over constructing a bridge had been dragging on for weeks. It was beginning to fray his nerves. Finally, as the court session concluded, he decided to wander along the seashore. A gentle breeze swept through, and the sun was descending, casting a warm glow. Lord Círdan ambled along the coastline when he heard a faint cry. The cry was weak, resembling the distress of a wounded creature. Knowing that injured sea gulls were not uncommon, he scanned the area but found nothing.

Focusing intently, he pinpointed the source of the sound, which seemed to emanate from among the rocky terrain near the beach. Climbing carefully over the rugged rocks, he eventually discovered a white bundle. It was unmistakably not a sea gull. Drawing closer, he discerned that the cries belonged to a baby. He hurried towards the whimpering bundle. There was an elfling trapped between two rocks. The thin white fabric barely offering any protection. Sea water lapped at the helpless infant. Exposed to the elements, the harsh weather battered him relentlessly. His delicate navel, still swollen and raw, indicated that he had entered the world no more than a few moons ago. Though being an infant, he appeared incredibly tiny, his feeble cry barely audible amidst the sound of crashing waves. It seemed as though his voice was being drowned out, perhaps due to the relentless splashing of seawater on him.

Without hesitation, Lord Círdan swiftly lifted the elfling, enveloping him in his cloak to shield him from the biting cold. Drawing the baby close to his chest, he could feel the chill emanating from the tiny body, as if it were on the verge of freezing. Holding him gently, Círdan cradled the elfling, rubbing his back in an attempt to infuse some warmth into the almost frozen child. With a sense of urgency, Círdan hastened back to the castle, the elfling's fragile form nestled securely in his arms. As they journeyed back to the castle, the elfling grew eerily silent in Lord Círdan's arms. Trying not to dwell on the ominous silence, Círdan focused on the fact that the elfling seemed to be growing warmer, and he could still detect faint signs of life—a sporadic heartbeat that gave him hope amidst the uncertainty of the situation.

Arriving at the castle gate, Círdan wasted no time, urgently instructing his guards to summon the healer and maids to prepare a warm, comfortable room with plenty of blankets. Despite his efforts, the elfling remained too cold for Círdan's comfort. With gentle hands, he cleansed the baby with warm water, washing away the remnants of sea water that clung to his fragile form. Wrapping the elfling snugly in a soft blanket, Círdan anxiously awaited the arrival of the healers. Though the baby lay silent, devoid of any cries, faint movements reassured Círdan that there was still a spark of life within him. The elfling's frail body trembled with each passing moment, his shivers punctuated by moments of eerie silence. Lord Círdan held him close, offering what comfort he could provide to him. As he cradled the infant, Círdan couldn't fathom how anyone could commit such a callous act against an elfling, especially one so young. Barely a week old, the baby had not simply been abandoned, he had been left in a desolate location, devoid of any hope for survival. If he had been abandoned in a more accessible place perhaps someone could have found him and offered aid.

Suppressing his rising anger, Círdan resolved to uncover the reasons behind this act. There had to be some explanation, some motive driving such cruelty. Determined to seek justice for the helpless elfling, he vowed to unravel the mystery surrounding his abandonment and ensure that those responsible would be held accountable. Rondir, the healer arrived swiftly and gently took the baby from Lord Círdan's arms, conducting a thorough examination. With each movement, the healer's expression grew increasingly somber. Lord Círdan could now discern the unhealthy pallor of the elfling's skin—a disturbing shade of red, with hints of blue tinting his fingers and toes, a detail he had failed to notice earlier. His heart clenched with worry as the healer suddenly flipped the child over, administering chest compressions and abdominal pressure. Lord Círdan's breath caught at the seeming brutality of the procedure, but he trusted in the healer's expertise. After a few tense moments, seawater began to trickle out from the elfling's mouth and nose, a troubling indication of the ordeal the little life had to endured.

As the healer glanced up at Lord Círdan, their eyes meeting in silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. Rondir spoke softly, voice laden with concern. "My Lord," he began, "the condition of this child is dire. He is gravely ill, and his body bears the brunt of his harrowing ordeal."

Lord Círdan listened intently, his heart heavy with apprehension.

"The exposure to the sea water has chilled him to the bone," the healer continued, "and his senses have been greatly affected. His fever rages unchecked, and numerous infections have taken hold, ravaging his fragile form. His vital organs has been exposed to sea water and has been corroded."

Lord Círdan's brows furrowed in distress as he absorbed the bleak prognosis.

"The child's health hangs by a thread," the healer added solemnly, "Without intensive care and unwavering attention, he may succumb to his illnesses at any moment."

Círdan seem to be thinking and said firmly, "Do whatever to save the elfling. Spare no efforts. This one should live."

The Healer nodded and began to take care of the tiny infant. Whereas Círdan moved out. Old memories suddenly came to him and he felt a need to get out. He moved to the castle garden. For some reason the images of his dead son kept flashing. He perished in battle against Sauron and was thrown into the sea. When he was found he was just a bloated mess of mangled flesh. He couldn't help but think again and again "How could someone just leave such precious gift of Eru to die such horrible death?"

Tears welled up in Lord Círdan's eyes. He could scarcely recognize his own child, save for the familiar emblems on the armor and the ring that adorned his broken form. The injuries inflicted upon his son had been brutal, his body ravaged and bloated by the sea water that had seeped into his wounds. Many nights had passed since then, each one marked by tears shed for his lost son and his departed wife, who had succumbed to grief not long after. Lord Círdan had laid them both to rest and became a solitary figure in the vast expanse of Middle-earth. The sight of the abandoned infant stirred a torrent of emotions within Lord Círdan, prompting him to ponder the depths of cruelty that could drive a parent to forsake their own flesh and blood. He had cherished every moment with his son, from infancy to adulthood, holding onto mementos and memories with unwavering devotion. He had missed him so dearly that only time he was almost tempted by the dark side was when Sauron offered to reunite him with his son. Though he had resisted, the allure of seeing his son again had been a powerful temptation, a fleeting respite from the unrelenting grief that haunted him.

Hour by hour, Lord Círdan received reports on the infant's condition, his heart heavy with concern. Whenever he found a moment of respite from his duties, he would hasten to the crib where the elfling lay, unwilling to leave him alone for even a moment. The elfling's fragility was evident. The healer's assessments painted a grim picture: the elfling struggled to perceive the world around him, his senses dulled by illness and injury. His delicate skin bore the marks of infection, a result of his harsh exposure to nature. The damage caused by the sea water had infiltrated his organs, leaving them compromised and vulnerable. Even his navel, which was yet to recover from being disconnected from his mother, had become a site of infection. The healer's revelation about the elfling's undernourished mother only deepened his resolve to see the child through this ordeal. With each passing day, he offered prayers to Eru, beseeching the divine to grant the elfling the strength to endure. As Lord Círdan kept vigil over the infant, tending to his needs with unwavering dedication, he couldn't help but marvel at the resilience of this tiny being.

In moments of reflection, he pondered the appropriateness of calling the elfling simply "elfling." It seemed too crude a label for such a precious life. It was then that he learned that healers caring for the infant had taken to calling him Êl. The name resonated with Lord Círdan, a fitting tribute to the bright spark of resilience that shone within the fragile elfling. "Yes," he thought to himself, "Êl, a name worthy of his strength and resilience.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Amidst his vigil and his duties at court, Lord Círdan also pursued a clandestine investigation. He was determined to uncover the truth behind the abandoned baby.After much investigation, Lord Círdan uncovered the identity of the abandoned infant's parents: the wife of the revenue collector, Arion. They were a couple blessed with numerous children, and Êl was intended to be their seventh. As the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Lord Círdan's gaze hardened upon Arion, the revenue collector whose wife had borne the abandoned child. The revelation stirred a simmering anger within him, and he confronted Arion with a steely resolve.

Arion's response was swift. "I swear, my lord, I knew nothing of this child," he insisted, his tone pleading.

Lord Círdan's gaze narrowed. "The evidence suggests otherwise," he countered. "Witnesses saw you near the shore just days before the infant was discovered."

Arion's expression faltered. His eyes betrayed a flicker of guilt. Yet Arion vehemently protested his innocence, Lord Círdan's frustration mounted, his patience wearing thin. "My Lord, I would have known if my wife was pregnant," Arion insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. "I didn't know she was pregnant. She might have done something. And how can you be so sure that it's my child? Was there any evidence to prove it?"

Lord Círdan's jaw clenched as he struggled to contain his anger. "Impossible," he retorted through gritted teeth. "How could you not notice your wife's pregnancy?"

Arion's reply was swift. "I do not lie to you, my Lord," he maintained. Lord Círdan fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Are you certain? Let me repeat myself. The reports indicate that sea guards spotted you wandering near the shore just days before the child was found."

Arion attempted to deflect, his tone defensive. "Anyone can wander near the sea shore to calm their mind."

Lord Círdan's expression hardened. "Yes, they can," his voice icy with resolve, "but none would bribe a sea guard."

Arion's e,pression changed. Blood drained out of his face. His gaze darted to Lord Círdan, searching for some semblance of understanding. "My Lord, there were already too many children," he pleaded, his voice quivering with emotion. "And she didn't tell me she was pregnant again until it was too late. As her husband, I felt compelled to keep her secret and bribe a healer. But you know that was to be our seventh child. Parents of seven children are not looked upon favorably."

He glanced up at Lord Círdan, hoping to find agreement, but was met with a stony silence.

"You know what I mean, my Lord," Arion pressed on, desperation creeping into his voice. "Seven sons... the seventh son..."

Still, Lord Círdan remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Growing increasingly anxious, Arion continued to plead for mercy. "My Lord, I swear she tempted me. She said these things to me. She confessed that she had hidden the pregnancy out of fear of bearing seven sons and wished the child would die in the womb. But the pest persisted. So I had to get rid of it. She told me to do it."

As the tension in the room reached its peak, Lord Círdan finally broke his silence. "Summon his wife," he commanded, his voice cold and resolute. Arion's eyes widened in alarm, a strangled cry escaping his lips. "No, my Lord, please! She's tired and sick," he pleaded, but Lord Círdan remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on his trembling subject. Lord Círdan struggled to maintain his composure, his fury simmering beneath the surface as he listened to Arion's feeble excuses.

"Feanor may have had seven sons, but that does not excuse your actions," Lord Círdan finally spoke, his voice laced with disdain. "Abandoning a child out of fear of societal judgment is a cowardly act, unworthy of any elf."

Arion cowered before Lord Círdan's righteous indignation, his earlier bravado crumbling under the weight of his lord's condemnation. Lord Círdan observed Meluwen's arrival with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, her demeanor betraying the weight of guilt and desperation. Without preamble or greeting, she launched into her confession, her words laden with a sense of urgency.

"My Lord, we have done nothing wrong," Meluwen began, "Our son was deemed cursed even before his birth, foretold by a shaman. Despite our efforts to protect him, his soul seemed to attract only misfortune. Thus, we made the heartbreaking decision to abandon him near the sea, entrusting his fate to Ulmo in the hopes that he would care for the darkened soul. I swear, the rest I have nothing to do with."

Lord Círdan listened in disbelief as Arion's wife, Meluwen, offered a new explanation for their actions, one filled with superstition and desperation. Lord Círdan fought to contain his incredulity. "At least you should have sorted out your stories," he remarked dryly, his tone laced with skepticism. Meluwen turned to Arion, her confusion evident in her gaze. Arion, unable to meet her eyes, could only bow his head in shame, knowing that their deception had been exposed. Lord Círdan's voice cut through the tension once more, his patience worn thin. "Alright, speak up. The truth. There is no need to lie anymore," he demanded, his gaze piercing as he awaited their confession. Meluwen took a deep breath, her voice trembling with emotion as she began to speak. "We didn't want any more children," she confessed, "My husband made it clear that if there were any more children, he would leave me."

"Well, it's your fault for popping out child after child," Arion lashed out, his tone filled with bitterness. Meluwen's anger flared in response. "How can I help it?" she shot back, her voice rising with indignation. "You could spend more time away from me, you perverted bastard! You think being pregnant is easy? Since our first child, I've been wishing they would all just die so I could live in peace!"

Arion's rebuttal was equally scathing. "Ha! As if you do all the work," he sneered. "Servants run around you, yet you forgot to feed the children when the cooks were away."

Meluwen's voice rose to a crescendo as she continued to vent her frustrations. "If you cared, you would have at least held them once," she accused, her words ringing with accusation. Lord Círdan's patience finally reached its limit as their argument spiraled out of control. "Enough!" he boomed, his voice cutting through the heated exchange. "Take them away, and check on their children."

With a firm command, he directed his attendants to remove Meluwen and Arion from his presence, his heart heavy with sorrow for the children caught in the midst of their parents' callousness. Lord Círdan paced the hall, his mind consumed with a tumult of emotions. He struggled to quell the rising tide of anger and disappointment that threatened to overwhelm him.As he waited for the reports on their children to come in, Lord Círdan's thoughts turned to the wider implications of Arion and Meluwen's actions. How could such callous individuals live within his haven, among his people? The realization that he had failed to protect his young, helpless subjects from the cruelty of their own kin weighed heavily upon him.

Finally a report came to him. The news only served to deepen his sense of dismay. Four of their children had already reached adulthood and had chosen to make lives of their own, far removed from the influence of their parents. Three had sought refuge in the sanctuary of Lothlórien and Rivendell. While the fourth one had found solace in the role of a librarian on the outskirts of the Grey Havens. Yet, it was the fate of the two youngest children that struck Lord Círdan the hardest. At ages 140 and 170, they had been left in the care of their grandparents, where they appeared to have found happiness and stability. Their grandparents were poor shoemakers yet they managed to provide for both of them. The contrast between their fate and that of their abandoned sibling only served to underscore the cruelty of Arion and Meluwen's decision. Lord Círdan's fists clenched at his sides as he grappled with the knowledge that Arion and Meluwen had been surrounded by elves who could have readily taken in their child, yet they had chosen to abandon him to his fate. It was a betrayal that cut to the core of his beliefs in compassion and justice, leaving him with a sense of bitter regret and resolve to ensure that such injustice would not go unpunished. He almost threw the report on table, scaring the servant. He angrily left the room trying to calm himself down. His feet wandered amongst the halls till he absentmindedly reached the infirmary.

Lord Círdan's heart softened as he beheld the sleeping form of Êl in the crib. His peacefull face was like a small sliver of peace amidst the turmoil of the day. Gently, he lifted the infant into his arms, cradling him close as he marveled at the subtle improvements in the child's condition. Êl's skin, once inflamed and raw, now bore the faint semblance of elven complexion. His eyes, though still weary, no longer held the same depths of exhaustion. Lord Círdan dared to hope for brighter days ahead. Êl's inability to open his eyes or respond to sound after eleven days in the infirmary was a cause for concern. It seemed like he might have permanently lost his senses. Feeding Êl had proven to be another obstacle . His injured organs struggled to process milk and water without causing him to vomit. In the initial days, the medical staff had resorted to regular chest compressions to aid his breathing, a painful process that left him in distress. Despite their efforts to comfort him, there was little they could do to ease his suffering. As Lord Círdan brushed his cheek, Êl stirred, a faint murmur escaping his lips in response to the gentle touch. It was a small but significant victory. It was a evidence that the child was beginning to respond to the world around him. Though his progress was slow and tentative, each step forward filled Lord Círdan with a renewed sense of determination and hope. As Lord Círdan cradled Êl in his arms, a sense of awe and wonder washed over him as he gazed into the child's eyes. It felt like a miracle, seeing Êl stare back at him. His eyes open and unfocused but nonetheless filled with a glimmer of life. Without pausing, Lord Círdan called for Rondir, the healer who had been tirelessly caring for Êl since the beginning.

Rondir's smile spoke volumes. With gentle hands, Rondir carefully examined Êl's senses, noting each small movement and reaction with keen interest. To their surprise, as Rondir laid Êl down, the infant attempted to turn his head as if searching for Lord Círdan's comforting presence. A smile tugged at Lord Círdan's lips, his heart swelling with joy at the sight. As Rondir continued to assess Êl's remaining senses, it became apparent that while the child still did not respond to sound, his ability to open his eyes marked a significant milestone in his recovery. Though there were undoubtedly many challenges still ahead, Lord Círdan found solace in the knowledge that Êl was making progress, step by step, towards a brighter future.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

As Lord Círdan hugged Êl close, he couldn't help but marvel at the remarkable transformation the child had undergone in just five months. Though still fragile, Êl had grown significantly in size, a testament to his resilience and the dedicated care he had received. Notably, he was beginning to respond to sounds. Lord Círdan observed with joy as the child turned his head at the sound of familiar voices. His attempts to gurgle and coo served as a heartwarming indication of his growing awareness of the world around him. In that tender moment, as Lord Círdan cradled Êl in his arms, he couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that washed over him. The child's dark eyes and pale complexion stirred memories of his own son, long gone but never forgotten. Though he may never admit it aloud, watching Elen progress and thrive reminded Lord Círdan of the joy and wonder of parenthood.

Meanwhile, Arion and Meluwen languished in jail. When Êl's grandparents expressed a desire to take him in, Lord Círdan dismissed the notion, unwilling to burden elves who already had their hands full. He couldn't in good conscience impose the care of a very sickly elfling on elves who can barely sustain a family of four. Instead, Lord Círdan turned his attention to ensuring the safety of the other elflings, deploying a spy to gather reports on their well-being. Thankfully, they seemed to be faring relatively well. Lord Círdan also reached out to Meluwen's other children, hoping to offer them some semblance of familial support. However, they politely declined any contact with their family members, leaving Êl feeling utterly alone in the world.

During this time, Lord Círdan has been tirelessly working on improving laws to protect children in the Grey Haven. Lord Círdan also made a decision. He would keep Êl, the child he had nurtured back from the brink of death. In many ways, they were both alone in the world, devoid of immediate family. But in each other, they found a newfound sense of belonging and purpose.

As he was musing Lumion came to the halls and spoke gently, "Greetings my lord. Here is the copy of amended laws "

" Put it on the table, Lumion." Círdan said, " And go to Census and write Harthael under the section of my children's names "

My Lord? , Lumion asked.

"This one," Lord Círdan said cooing at Êl, "will be my son from now on and will be known as Harthael. And, yes, bring me the adoption paper too. "

Lumion couldn't help but smile. He said cheerfully," Of course my lord! I'll be right back."

Lord Círdan smilled and tapped Êl nose gently making Êl scrunch his face. Lord Círdan chuckled, "Little one, I have matter to attend to. Take a nap with nanny. Ada will be back in evening."

Taglist @asianbutnotjapanese @bobitoo08 @crazed-flower

Tagging @imagine-all-the-elves because it was inspired by the post on their blog.

[caliawen]

Haunted

Pairing = Glorfindel x Reader

Genre = Teen and up

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

Content warnings = smut implied

Word count = 1,4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

@theladyvanya

[grey-gazania-fic]

Círdan the Shipwright moodboard for @tolkiengenweek (Day 4, solo)

“My heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores, guarding the Havens until the last ship sails.”

[meadowlarkx]

Scripts and Tongues

Stiff parchment crackled under weathered fingers as another page turned. Though Lord Denethor had said there was nothing in these chambers’ heaped records that was not already well-known to him, the being called Gandalf strongly suspected otherwise.

Elrond would despair: Gondor’s steward has done little to preserve these. If there is something here of use about our enemy’s weapon, I fear it will crumble at the slightest touch.

You have that effect, and not on paper only.

Gandalf/Círdan ósanwë sexting and comedy for @silmsmutweek Day 1 (Wind/Ainulindalë)! | Read here on AO3

[fallenrazziel]

Círdan

[ai]

[elithilanor]

I need to know Círdan’s land management practices given that he always has to make new boats…

[sillypelagicredcrab]

[who-needs-words]

Weirdly enough, and despite my many femslash ships for her- my favorite silm rarepair is Lalwen/Círdan.

Maybe for Galadriel/Celeborn parallels

Maybe because I think Lalwen deserves a cool spouse

Mostly because my imagined dynamic for them is so good.

Lalwen has many skills and hobbies- but her Craft™️- in the noldor sense where a craft is a key part of your identity. More than work, more than skill a noldor’s Craft™️ is a part of them. And Lalwen’s craft is charm. She could probably befriend Thingol if given the chance.

She’s recklessly loyal and aware of it. Knows it’s her flaw- that’s why she fears leadership. Not because others wouldn’t follow her but because she fears her own reckless nature. Her vindictive streak an ocean wide doesn’t help.

Círdan is as calm as steady at the sea. He is a creature of patience and perfection. Every ship he builds is a masterpiece. He hears lalwen laugh and every carefully planned diplomatic move leaves his head.

He wants to make her laugh.

Lalwen can talk and charm her way faster than most elves can think. She can back you into a verbal corner before you even blink.

Círdan thinks through every word- considers every angle. It’s what lets him survive. He’s kind, understanding and serene.

He looks at the shining high princesses of the noldor and thinks ‘she’s going to burn herself out’ he makes it a mission to be her safety.

Lalwen approches him with the goal of making this elf she sees as uptight loosen up and have some fun. Círdan teaches her to enjoy an afternoon in the sunlight. She teaches him how throw rocks in the sea just see them splash.

They balance each. There is a give and take. They’re like the tides. She always comes back to him and he always opens his arms to her.

[warthoong]

I'm here for the Grey Heavens as the most desolated and post-apocaliptic looking elven settlementin the Third Age. Its community consists of 30 elves at best. It looks like ruins. If you think that you see an elf behind the window curtains, it may very well be a ghost. The very few elves that still live here have small vegetable gardens somewhere in yards between/behind houses. People know someone lives in the city, but probably none of them ever met an elf from there. Most of the docks are closed. Círdan is a creepy old man who doesn't have a magic time-stopping-and-preserving-from-destraction ring anymore. The Grey Heavens is literally not a place for mortal, it's the outpost on the border between the finite world of men and the Undying Lands. It deserves to be creepy.

[searchingforserendipity25]

does anyone have thoughts on what gandalf's retirement is like? i mean, he's ólorin again, returned to angelic vigour etc. whatever. what is he up to in valinor, besides helping his hobbits get settled? he is always up to something and always involved in something, and that can't simply stop because he's back home, Paradise Itself. he would go a little nuts without enrichment.

does he have to write reports to the Valar? is he sitting on some juicy and potentially dramatic message from eru after his post-death pre-return chat with the Maker and is simply waiting for the right moment to drop some bombs and play the prophet? does he simply start a fireworks business and introduce hobbit weed into elf society? does he have another radical political system to overturn? are him and círdan finally making things official.

[cilil]

I was wondering if I could request Ossë for suntan/freckles prompt for Summer stories 2023...I so curious about how would YOU depict him :). I love your writings <3

Author's Note: Awww thank you! Hope you enjoy this little drabble - I read your headcanons for inspiration ^^

Characters: Ossë & Círdan (can be read as platonic or romantic)

Synopsis: Ossë discovers something new about his fána.

Warnings: /

"You have silver spots all over your fána," Círdan says, eyes gleaming with mirth as the Maia starts inspecting his blue-tinted skin. 

"I do?" Ossë turns his head to glimpse over his shoulder and down his back, then squints at his reflection in the water. "Hm. I didn't notice." 

"You've been at the beach often these days," Círdan notes. He appears to be contemplating something, until he suddenly smiles and pats Ossë's speckled shoulder. "I didn't know water Maiar can get freckles." 

"Freckles, you say?" Ossë looks down once more, then grins. "You know what? I think I like them."

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!♡

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[outofangband]

Common Symbols and Motifs in Heraldry and Art part 3/? The Falathrim

Previous part

World building Masterlist

Falathrim world building introduction

I really love world building! As always please feel free to ask more!

Note: I have a headcanon that the Falathrim have a pictograph system for denoting weather, sea conditions and other information easily. This system is later utilized in Nargothrond. I have a post for some of those planned but this one does not include that though there is some overlap!

River Brithon and/or River Nenning Generally ascribed meanings: Community, home, abundance

Sails/ships Generally ascribed meanings: exploration, home, culture

Barad Nimras Generally ascribed meanings: connection to kin in Valinor, diplomacy and connection, vigilance

Sea thrift Generally ascribed meanings: gentleness, song

Waves and tide patterns Generally ascribed meanings: the ocean, strength, connection to Ulmo

School of fish Note: unlike the Telerin symbol which usually shows smaller, nimbler fish, the Falathrim one is of a more compact, rounded group Generally ascribed meanings: community and family, remembrance and perspective

Seabird one Note: this generally takes the form of a wader bird like a piper, snipe or stilt Generally ascribed meanings: joy, creativity

Seabird two Note: this one generally takes the form of a gull or turn Generally ascribed meanings: resourcefulness, perseverance

Amethyst sea holly Generally ascribed meanings: honor and protection

Olive shells (Mollusks) Generally ascribed meanings: tradition, discovery

[grey-gazania-fic]

Pray for the Foxes (Círdan, rated G)

'Let us pray for the foxes sleeping in your knees. May you always know when to run.’ -Caitlyn Siehl, 'A Prayer’

They call me the shipwright, and my hands have indeed shaped wood into many vessels that sail the seas. But they have also shaped these cities, raised them up in wood and stone, created a place for all the Eldar to take refuge, for I do not believe in vengeance, even vengeance by inaction.

Now my cities burn. Great clouds of smoke rise from the walls, and the armies of Morgoth are battering at our doors, breaking like waves against the levees. Every man, woman, and child who can wield a weapon is fighting in defense of our home, but they fall by the hundreds, slain by the sword or the smoke or the orcs' poisoned arrows.

My people are dying, and I have only one way to save them.

"Fall back! Fall back to the ships! We make for Balar!"

A wise leader must always know when to run.