#making me want to draw Varda

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I want to comment on art in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Jane Eyre, because I think it’s an illustrative comparison.

In both books, the heroines have an interest in and a talent for art. I’m a little behind on Wildfell Weekly, but in chapter 18, “The Miniature”, we see Huntingdon looking at Helen’s art on several occasions. On all of them, he shows no interest in the art itself or Helen’s thoughts as an artist (as with a scene where he calls her away to look at a Van Dyke painting and she’s actually interested in it, but he cuts off her thoughts as he doesn’t care about it and only wanted to get her alone), but only what the art demonstrates about her feelings for him, which please his ego.

On the first occasion, he is looking through Helen’s drawings, but we get none of his comments on them until he is delighted to find a sketch of his face on the back of one of them, and some erased but still visible attempts at other sketches of him. He is delighted by this, flaunts his power over Helen by ignoring her for the rest of the evening and flirting with another woman, and then kisses her (a very unacceptable advance on a woman you weren’t married or engaged to at the time, and one which Helen does not consent to).

The next day, he sees Helen working on a detailed painting of a young girl in a glade of the forest looking up at a pair of nesting turtledoves, a symbol of love.

“Very pretty, i’faith!” said he, after attentively regarding it for a few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her hair black?” [Helen’s hair is dark.]

“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.”

“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.”

“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find him.”

“Perhaps—for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s imaginings at such an age.”

Helen gets him to walk the last comment back, but his takeaway from the painting - another assurance that she’s in love with him, and he can use that and rely on it without giving anything in return - is, again, one that satisfies his vanity and sense of power. And immediately after, he takes Helen’s works in progress and looks at them, ignoring her refusal, and laughs at finding a miniature of his portrait she has drawn.

This contrasts with a scene in Jane Eyre where Rochester is looking at Jane’s art: he is not interested in what they say about how she feels about him (this is still early in their acquaintanceship), but in what they say about her and her thoughts.

Rochester looks through her portfolio closely and picks out three, all with rather Gothic subjects and tone (in contrast to the more sentimental tone of Helen’s turtledove painting):

one of a shipwreck in storm, with the arm of a drowned woman, and a cormorant holding a jewelled bracelet that the waves had torn from her wrist

the peak of a grassy hill in wind, with a deep blue twilight sky showing the shoulders and head of the figure of a woman with a star on her brow (Silmarillion fans, imagine fanart of Varda and you’ll get the idea)

An iceberg in polar winter, with the northern lights, and a vast, pale-white head in the sky, half- veiled and representing Death.

Even as a narrator of the book, Jane is diffident, saying the pictures are “nothing wonderful”, but she describes them in great detail, and in answer to Rochester’s question of whether she was happy when she painted them, admits that “to paint them was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known”, and that when she painted them she worked on them from morning to night.

That Rochester focused on these three paintings, which are very different from the calm, composed, and dutiful image Jane projects to the outside world, already says a lot about his understanding of her; he is seeing something in her that almost no one else has noticed. He observes, before she has told him anything, that they took “much time, and some thought.” Jane, despite having loved working on them, says in response to his questions that she is dissatisfied with them: “in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize.”

Rochester is clearly impressed by both the art and the thoughts, though he is blunt and not flattering:

“You have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on that hill-top.”

Huntingdon is interested in Helen’s art only insofar as it reveals her attraction to him and flatters his vanity. Rochester is interested in Jane’s art for what it says about her and her thoughts; she is reserved with most people, and he probably gets a better sense of her personality and character - and shows more interest in it - from that one conversation than anyone else has in Jane’s adult life. His questions are blunt, but she answers them with honesty and emotion, like it’s a relief and pleasure to meet someone who wants to know. She wants the side of her revealed in those paintings to be understood, and he’s the only person she’s met who understands it; that’s central to why they fall in love.

[amethysttribble]

Makalaure entered the quiet, oft-abandoned green drawing room on the far side of their palace in Tirion intending to quickly exit through the opposite door.

Halfway into the room, though, his feet drew to a stop as he saw a familiar, light head bent over the desk. Was this where Tyelkormo had been hiding all day? His brother had startled when he paused and turned around to glare at him. He looked ever so slightly guilty.

“What are you doing?” Macalaure said with a grin, shifting his intentions and striding over. He bent over the desk to try to get a look but Tyelkormo was fast.

He immediately dropped his quill with a ‘clack’, causing ink to splatter everywhere, and snatched up the papers, pulling them to his chest.

“Ah, your shirt,” Makalaure said, standing back up. With ink that fresh, he could stain the front of the whole damn thing!

Tyelkormo was unmoved, though, perhaps because- now that Makalaure studied him- he was in an undershirt, one so roughspun it could only be one of the ones he made for himself while with the Hunt of Orome. He continued to petulantly glare, clutching his papers close, as the undried ink no doubt ran. Makalaure raised an incredulous eyebrow.

His little brother looked away as he answered.

“The Scriptures of Orome are not meant to be written,” he said, shame and guilt radiating from him, but Makalaure just smiled again, delighted.

“And yet you write them,” he breathed out, smirking.

Tyelkormo had been so staid in the rules of his Vala recently! And mind you, the laws of one such as the Lord of the Hunt were more strange and permissive and at odds with Elven society than, say, Varda’s, but still… To see his wild little brother so throughly reined in- a feat that not even their father and mother had ever been able to accomplish- after just one year in the Vala’s train was galling.

Downright concerning, in some ways, though Nelyo cautioned him to just leave Tyelkormo be. He’s figuring things out for himself, Maitimo had said.

Which Makalaure might have been more sympathetic to, had be not spent the two years prior to this one getting non-stop accounts from every family member about how Tyelkormo had all but set fire to Tirion in his bad behavior while trapped at the University. He’d promised father he’d complete a course of study before abandoning all that Elven hands had learned and made for a Vala’s hearth. He didn’t make it past the third semester.

Now, his little brother looked positively quelled as he cringed away from him and from his own illicit papers.

“Not for anyone to see,” he muttered, “just for my purposes.”

“And what are those purposes?”

He intentionally made his voice slightly suggestive just to make Turko turn crimson.

“Study,” he spat, “and reference, and, yes, appreciation, but not like that, you fucking asshole.”

Makalaure snickered and waved his anger away, saying, “Yes, yes, I believe you. By Eru do I believe you. But, Turko! What a wonderful discovery! You are a Noldo yet, you are Father’s son yet. Committing blasphemy to eek out just a bit more knowledge.”

That made Tyelkormo’s face pull uncomfortably, and Makalaure watched. He truly looked chastised, and almost fearful. As of being Father’s son was bad thing. What were these acolytes telling him?

Makalaure reached out and thumbed at his little brother’s nose, trying to wipe that serious look off his face. It worked long enough that he was able to turn away and start to say, “Well, what can you expect? We spent so much time writing out poems and philosophical tracts and translations for our recitation lessons, I think it’s quite ingrained in us to want to transliterate into Tengwar whatever we are trying to understand.”

Makalaure collapsed upon the couch, hand cradled in his palm as he leaned on the arm.

“You know, I had a similar issue? My classmates at Alqualonde would mock me for attempting to notate every piece of music we made, even the free and spontaneous ones. I couldn’t help it! I see everything in terms of ink and parchment.”

And he watched as Tyelkormo let out a long but quiet breath of relief.

“Exactly,” he said. “I do understand the point and the importance of maintaining our traditions orally, but I can’t help but think that records are necessary. Communal debate over the scriptures is one thing, and I think I am quite eloquent there-“ Of that, Macalaure had no doubt, Tyelkormo was uniquely skilled at open argument and debate.

He was suddenly hit with the desire to see his brother debate the other Acolytes of Orome on their scripture, and despaired that the Vala of the Hunt kept his practices more secretive than most.

“-but I was trained in annotation. I often wish I could sit and work through my thoughts myself with a copy of the text. But, ah, but Tilion would laugh at me to even here me speak. Everything comes back to ‘text’ in the House of Feanaro.”

“There’s nothing wrong with text,” Makalaure argued. He’d spent quite a lot of his career dedicated to text! When he was studying in Valmar, he set himself to transcribing songs and stories no one else could seem bothered to want to save and preserve and disseminate to a wider populace. Ingwe’s court laughed at him good-naturedly as well, poking fun at the oddities of Feanaro and his sons.

Another oddity, how the teasing could be meant so gently and infuriate Makalaure so.

Most did not understand why the House of Feanaro cared so for preservation, and the ones who did understand? They were dismissive and cruel.

Tyelkormo was still obviously fighting with himself over this, while Makalaure had made peace with it long ago. Naturally. He had only just recently left their father’s house, and seen that the world and it’s peoples were bigger than their father. A hard thing to remember, to be sure, so large was the presence Feanaro occupied without even trying.

Makalaure knew how overwhelming that could be. He was many years graduated from the Alqualonde Music Academy, but he still remembered how frightening and intimidating that was. Tyelkormo was still in the thick of it.

He hadn’t yet reconciled that while the world was large and Feanaro was- wonder upon wonders- not the master of everything, he also wasn’t wrong about everything, either. While there need not be infinite pride in being his son, there was no shame either.

“Turko,” Makalaure said with a whistle in his voice, and his brother looked up from the still-hidden pages he was frowning at. “The Hunt of Orome, you come from a different… academic tradition than most of them. That’s a good thing, and I believe Your Lord would agree. He encourages debate of his scriptures in his hall, does He? Well, perhaps spend this holiday transcribing your scriptures, and making your annotations, and maybe make the manuscript illuminated. I know you have the skills, Mother ensured that. Present your papers to him. Make your argument. If his rebuttal is good, well, you have an answer to the quandary that torments you. If your argument is better, He will acknowledge that. Be bold, Turkafinwe!”

And that made Tyelkormo laugh. Makalaure considered that a success.

“I’m told I’m bold enough already,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Do you know how many fights I have had to have in Father’s honor? They all think because they know his tale, name, and a bastardized version of his beliefs, they can say whatever they want!”

“They are fools, and they deserve to be hit,” Makalaure sniffed. He’d never gotten into a physical confrontation- his touch was gentler than Tyelkormo’s- but there had been many a biting song or poem written because of this exact thing.

No one insulted their loving, vexing, genius, foolish father correctly.

“Be bold, be bolder,” Makalaure told his little brother, rising from his seat. “You are the son of Curufinwe Feanaro, nothing can or should quell you. I will not ask to look at your scriptures, so, by Eru, write them. Study them. This is the path you have chosen, do walk it as Turkafinwe Tyelkormo. Hasty and brash and stupid and self-assured, and very brave.”

He made sure to flick Turko’s forehead on his way out.

At his back, he was happy to hear the quill be picked back up and also, “ah, shit, my shirt.”

[welcomingdisaster]

A no-pressure prompt for you: something with Maedhros and Maglor, maybe post-Thangorodrim? this isn’t very specific hopefully it works ❤️

The body on the bed is not his brother’s. It cannot be.

The hair is not right. It is too drab, too brown, too thin. The face, cheekbones too sharp, the eyes so deeply sunken in, skin falling about them as loose folds of cloth. Nelyo had had thick eyelashes, copper and curling playfully upwards, and the body has none. The lips— the lips are thin and cracked, slashed over with two criss-crossing cuts, half-healed. 

The poor wretch. It is not him. It cannot be him. 

But Káno cannot blame them. Cannot blame Findekáno for bringing it back with him, cannot blame Ñolofinweë for calling him. They do not know Nelyo like he does, the body does resemble him. It is the shape of the head, the square jaw. The one ear that is not torn to shreds, the one that curls back, as Nelyo’s had. The body is unusually tall and broad-shouldered, though the arms are so thin they look insectoid, though the knees look swollen as twisted root. 

The left hand — the only hand— has a scar over the palm, thin and white. In Aman, when they were children, Nelyo had cut his hand helping mother pick up shards of broken pottery. It had healed just so, that same thin little curve, as a scythe or a question mark. The body bears a similar mark. 

The body bears the same mark.

The body— 

Káno backs away so sharply he sees not where he is going. He steps on Ñolofinwë’s foot, his back hitting his uncle’s chest. 

It is not him, he wants to say, you called me in error, Uncle, for I know my blood. 

But then the body moves. It has a jerky way of moving; one sharp movement to jam its elbows against its ribcage, then a sharp, shaky breath, one exhale broken down into several weak gusts of air, and it heaves its head, neck held stiffly, up. Turns to look at Káno with familiar silver-grey eyes. There are freckles on that white skin, buried between the wrinkles.  

Alive. Alive.  

It makes him think of when they had first seen orcs. Orcs whose limbs bent in ways limbs should not bend, whose jaws hung from their faces at strange, half-turned angles. Who radiated pain in each broken grunt and shout, the sort of pain that is sharp to the touch. They should not move, Káno had thought, they should not live. 

“Káno,” the body rasps, in his brother’s voice, “Káno, Káno, Káno.” 

The face lights up. The cuts on his lips bleed at the force of the smile, the skin folds in new and strange ways. He is missing teeth. One of his upper incisors, his left canine.

He is missing a hand. He is smiling, with such pure joy as Káno has not seen since the darkening, has not seen in this land. He is smiling, and he says Káno’s name. He is missing a hand. 

Káno falls to his knees, taking Nelyo’s remaining hand in his. Kisses the bruises knuckles, the broken, bleeding fingernails, the little twisting scar on the palm. The hand is clean. Someone has cleaned it, has washed blood and dirt off the fingers, has rubbed sweet-smelling lotion into the skin.  Someone has braided his hair. Someone has wrapped a deep blue blanket about his shoulders, tucking it into a silver clip. 

“Brother,” he says, and his voice sounds worse than Nelyo’s, a ragged, breaking thing, “Nelyo— Maitimo, Varda forgive me, Maitimo.” 

He should not cry. He has heard so, in the halls of healing, in the encampments they have set up in this new land. Cry not. Hide your fear, and your anguish, and show only your hope. Wounds of the flesh should not be allowed to become wounds of the spirit. 

He cries, feels his shoulders shaking with it, horrible sobs— loud, wailing things, sure to hurt his brother, to hurt this, and he cannot help it. He is ever aware of the breath in his lungs, the air he draws in and lets go as song. He had once amazed his cousins with how long he could hold his breaths under water.

There is not enough room in his chest, now. He sucks in air desperately, but he cannot hold it. 

Nelyo reaches for him with the stump of his hand, those same horrible, jerky movements. Sways. He cannot sit up right. Ñolofinwë steps delicately around them, his steps making no sound on the bare wooden floor, and comes to steady Nelyo, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

“I am here,” Nelyo says, the stump brushing awkwardly against Káno’s shoulder. He closes his hand around Káno’s fingers, his thumb brushing over Káno’s knuckles. There is no strength left in it. No strength left in him. “I am here, Káno.” 

Káno catches a breath and drags it into his lungs. Holds it there, even as it tries to run from him. 

“Forgive me,” he breathes, “Nelyo, forgive me. I thought— forgive me.” 

He can feel the shape of his brother’s words. Can hear the ghost of his voice, patient and measured. How often, these days, he hears his brother’s ghost. There is naught to forgive, the Nelyo in his head says, his voice warm as the treelight, I was not angry, Káno. 

Slowly, painfully, Nelyo pulls his hand away from him. Reaches to smooth Káno’s hair back from his face. A strand of it has stuck to his cheek, wet with tears and already crusting over. 

“You are forgiven,” he says, “I forgave you long since, Káno.” 

And it is right, the cadence; the way he says, the warmth that clings yet to his voice, the slight of deliberation between each word, as though he chooses them with the utmost care. But not the words themselves. 

Káno climbs into bed with him. His brother leans on him, absurdly light; Káno fears to bruise bone should he embrace him. For a little while they do not speak. Káno tries not to think of the blood, the scars, the drab, brownish hair. But is almost worse to see the freckles and the smile, to hear his brother’s voice. 

Findekáno slips into the room then, settling silently at his brother’s other side. The right side. The side with the stump and the bandages and the blood yet dotting the sheets. Káno spares him a glance. He is little changed in profile, though the ice has left him thinner and wearier, and, though new upon the land, he wears the familiar scars of orc blades his hand and his cheek. 

Struck with sudden feeling, Káno leans over Nelyo to grab him by the collar. 

“Káno—“ Findekáno starts, but he cuts him off. 

He kisses him, kisses him though some part of him hates him already. Their cheeks brush against each other, and his tears smudge his cousin’s golden face-paint. He does not think he could ever be more grateful than he is now, cannot imagine a greater debt. 

Findekáno stares at him as he pulls away, his eyes wide and owlish, lips still slightly open. Then he laughs, and that makes Nelyo laugh too, a strange, huffing sound that seems at risk of crumbling into coughs. 

“Cousin,” Findekáno says, laughing yet, “what a greeting that was!” 

“He has grown quite strange in this land,” Nelyo rasps, again taking Káno’s hand, “I almost did not know him when he came, so much he looked as some wise and noble king, hair of raven and crown of gold! Look, brother, how you have changed!” 

No, Kánafinwë thinks desperately, feeling the crown upon his head as he shakes it, no, no. I haven’t. 

-------------------------------------------------------

thank you for the prompt!! <3 this was very fun & I really enjoyed trying to figure out Maglor's voice for the first time

[cilil]

He should go, Ulmo knew. He should know better than to be curious, to desire to see what was happening, to quietly rise from the water to have a look. Yet temptation had taken hold the moment he heard Manwë, erasing all reason and rationality from his mind. 

✦ ⁺ ‧ Day 4 ⁺ Ulmo x Manwë x Varda ✦ ⁺ ‧ Synopsis: Ulmo accidentally walks in on his king and queen. Fortunately for him, Varda feels like sharing. ✦ ⁺ ‧ Featuring/prompts: Threesome (MMF), D/s elements, pegging, voyeurism (both accidental and intentional), creampie ✦ ⁺ ‧ Warnings: None (except that it's smut) Also available on AO3

AN: Day 4 of @silmsmutweek coming right up with more Valar action. This one's for the Ulmanwe gang.

The sound of Manwë's mighty, beautiful voice echoed through the water, and Ulmo remained frozen as his element gently rippled and splashed around him. 

His intentions had been entirely innocent and innocuous, all he had thought about was visiting his beloved king and friend to see if he was well. Never had Ulmo anticipated to see what he saw when he emerged from the pools of Ilmarin, bewitched by the pleasure and delight he perceived in Manwë's song. 

He should go, Ulmo knew. He should know better than to be curious, to desire to see what was happening, to quietly rise from the water to have a look. Yet temptation had taken hold the moment he heard Manwë, erasing all reason and rationality from his mind. 

The King of the Valar was sprawled out on a nearby divan, his glorious form completely naked, his wings resting on blue silk. His legs were spread wide, granting access to the most sacred, forbidden part of his fána, and between them knelt the luminous figure of Varda, his queen. Ulmo blushed when he saw the movement of her hips and realised that she was indeed *taking* him and drawing those lovely sounds from his lips. 

He really shouldn't be here. This sight, this song of pleasure, this moment of intimacy, it was hers, not his; none of this had ever been his. Yet Ulmo couldn't tear his gaze away from what he saw. He had spent many nights dreaming, indulging in sinful fantasies inside his lonely chambers in Ulmonan, attempting to quench his ancient desire for his king. Manwë, lying underneath him, giving himself to him, letting him hold on to that small waist of his, moaning in pleasure as he penetrated him – it wasn't the first time Ulmo wished to be in Varda's place, and it wouldn't be the last. 

His fána had barely reformed, and desire already held him in its maddening grasp. He should leave while he still could, before his accidental but no less treacherous intrusion was discovered. And perhaps Ulmo might have managed to slip back into the water undetected and make his way back to the oceans of Arda if Manwë hadn't arched his back and cried out in bliss just in this moment, spilling pearlescent liquid all over himself as his limbs and wings trembled from the force of his release. 

Eru help me... Ulmo felt his own arousal all too clearly, aching with need, and no matter how often he told himself that he couldn't have what wasn't his, he couldn't look away, couldn't leave, couldn't forget. 

Varda followed suit shortly after and pulled out, sitting still for a moment while she watched glittering liquid dripping out of her husband and onto the silken sheets below. 

"Ulmo." 

Her voice suddenly rang out, loud and clear, dragging Ulmo back to reality. Shame engulfed him immediately when he realised that his presence had been perceived, and he wanted to explain himself and apologise, but words eluded him. 

Manwë remained where he was, still breathing heavily as he came down from his high, eyes closed. He appeared to be unbothered by the revelation that his dearest friend was in the room with them, almost eerily serene. Varda turned around to face the other Vala and, to Ulmo's surprise, she was smiling. The way she shifted to the side ever so slightly to let him stare directly at her husband, to let him see how thoroughly he had been fucked open and filled, seemed almost purposeful. 

To Ulmo, it felt blasphemous to even think of his king in such a manner... and yet... 

"I was wondering if you wish to join us. Or if you prefer to watch." 

His thoughts hadn't remained as hidden from the Lady of Light as he would have liked, Ulmo realised, but even though shame weighed heavily on his ëala, desire stubbornly gnawed at him, still drawn to Manwë's prone form. 

"You mean..." He didn't dare to say it out loud. 

Varda nodded with a smile, then turned towards Manwë once more to lean over him, caressing his blushing cheeks. 

"Do you want Ulmo to take you as well, darling? I think he would love to." 

Shifting on his feet, Ulmo once again considered disappearing and hiding in the oceans of Arda for at least an entire age. He knew Varda must've seen how aroused he was, at the sight of her husband no less. Manwë rose slightly to look at him then, eyeing his tall, imposing form. It seemed as though the idea pleased him, and Ulmo noticed that his gaze came to rest on his treacherous erection. 

"I would like that, yes." 

"Good bird," Varda cooed and kissed him while pushing him back down. "Spread your legs more, my love. Let him see how pretty you are." 

Not just pretty. Gorgeous, divine, perfect, Ulmo thought, but kept it to himself, still too shy to voice his desire. Nevertheless, he understood the queen's silent invitation and finally rose from the pool to make his way over to his beloved. It was too good to be true, watching Manwë offering himself to him like this, regal and docile at the same time, like a prized pet to be doted on and admired. 

Varda made space for him when he approached, sitting down further away. "I will be watching for the time being," she declared. 

"As you wish, my lady." Ulmo looked down at Manwë and ran his cool, wet hands down his flanks and thighs. All he had ever wanted, his to take; he wanted many things at once, penetrate him without further delay, to worship him, explore, touch... 

"May I kiss you?" he asked, his deep voice trembling slightly. 

"Of course," Manwë whispered. White eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he closed his eyes, and he raised his chin slightly to offer his lips. 

Ulmo didn't need to be told twice. Like waves crashing on the shores of Aman, he was on top of him within a split second and kissed him, his lower body pressing against his exposed ass, causing cum to leak out of his hole and onto his cock. The sensation was maddening, he finally received a taste of what he had always desired, but it wasn't enough – and he didn't know if it would ever be, even after he was done enjoying Varda's gracious gift. 

Manwë kissed him back with more urgency than expected, reaching for his strong arms to hold on to. Talons scraped against patches of scales, and Ulmo hoped he would leave marks, so that his fána could retain the memory of his beloved's touch. Maybe, just maybe the Lord of Winds had dreamed of this as well; yet the only thing that mattered was that he desired him now and that he would do his best to please him. 

"Ulmo", Manwë breathed, now with increasing urgency, and tightened his grip. His talons threatened to slice through his rough skin, but Ulmo didn't flinch. He felt no pain in this moment, too great was his need. 

"I want you..." 

"I know. I do too."

Ulmo stroked his cheek with one hand. 

"I need you. Inside." Manwë's gaze mirrored his own hunger. "Please." 

Please.

The Vala he had desired for ages, begging him to fuck him. If he wasn't so utterly enraptured, he might have laughed; but instead, he lowered his head to claim his lips once more, whispering a quiet, reverent "Your wish is my command." 

Ulmo had to hold himself back from thrusting his entire length inside of his lord immediately, trying to enter him slowly and carefully, yet Manwë wrapped his legs around his hips to draw him in, urging him to move. His fána took him eagerly, and Varda's essence eased his way, like a silent blessing of their union. 

I love you, Ulmo wanted to say, but no words came out. The only sound that escaped from his parted lips was a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, and he buried his face in the crook of Manwë's neck as he began to thrust. His movements were passionate and powerful like the ocean he called home, and like the song he had woven within its waves, he wanted his beloved to feel his lust and longing for him, though it was a mere joining of their fánar, not their song. That privilege he would not be granted, but he could make Manwë feel what he felt with every single thrust. 

It was marvellous to have the Elder King himself coming undone underneath him. Ulmo was tempted to rise to his full height so he could watch, but decided to remain where he was instead, closing his eyes, inhaling his scent. Even if he was a mere toy to satisfy his lord's and lady's desires, holding onto him like this felt like a lover's embrace. 

There was no place on Arda he'd rather be. 

And as deep, all-consuming satisfaction overcame him, Ulmo released inside his beloved, filling him with wave after wave of his seed. A selfish, possessive part of his mind rejoiced that his essence would mark him for a while, but he denied himself this final feeling of triumph. He was only doing it for his king's pleasure – and pleased Manwë was indeed, for the sensation of being filled so thoroughly pushed him over the edge as well, and more viscous liquid was spilled all over their fánar. 

"Look how filthy you are." Varda, whose presence Ulmo had almost forgotten about, was petting her husband's head. "I am afraid you cannot be walking around like this – if you find yourself able to walk anytime soon, that is – but maybe Ulmo would be so kind and bathe you? As a reward for being so good for us?" 

Ulmo nodded eagerly. He would love to hold Manwë for a while longer, touch him, feel him - and make sure he was alright. As powerful as he was, his fána would need to rest and recover. 

Varda regarded her husband as he lay still in silent bliss, then looked up at Ulmo with a smirk. 

"You can bend him over the edge of the pool if he gets needy again. He craves attention; but alas, there is yet another stellar nursery I must see to before I myself can indulge in peace." 

"I shall take good care of him," Ulmo said, lowering his head respectfully. Seeing how content Manwë was and how nonchalantly Varda offered his company to him, he wondered if the two had been planning this, but he found that he didn't care either way. Perhaps he should, perhaps his age-old feelings were a curse he should've broken a long time ago; and still, he wanted nothing more than to have his beloved in his arms a while longer.

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[whileiamdying]

September 5, 2018

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: You were on the first-ever cover of Interview magazine. How did that come about?

AGNÈS VARDA: Like everybody, I wanted to meet Andy Warhol. I was impressed by his work and how daring he was. I think he changed the cinema completely, simply by opening his camera and letting it go. He dealt differently with time and duration, and he didn’t care about how people would perceive it. It changed the cinema for me. It doesn’t mean that I loved to watch his films—because eight hours is boring—but the concept was revolutionary.

OBRIST: When did you first meet Warhol?

VARDA: We met here and there in New York, at some underground film screenings. In 1967, he invited Jacques and me to visit him at his Factory. A lot of people were there—Nico, the young men acting in his films, beautiful women like his muse Viva. When I was preparing Lions Love (…and Lies), I had in mind to cast Viva, so I went to the Factory to ask Andy to convince her. Andy was nice to me and said to Viva, “This is Agnès. You should work with her. She made a film called Cléo from 5 to 7. It’s a beautiful film.” I loved that. Then he added, “If I had made this film, we would have shot from five to seven.” Andy cared about Viva, and that’s why they decided to make the cover. That cover image is interesting, because the way the three characters are positioned is a total copy of a Picasso drawing.

OBRIST: Was Picasso an inspiration for you?

VARDA: I’m not sure I would call him an inspiration, but I was fascinated by his capacity for invention. The way he changed all the time gave me lots of strength.

OBRIST: In your original Interview story about the making of Lions Love (…and Lies), you talk about Hollywood as a space of freedom. What did you mean by that?

VARDA: The way I worked there was total freedom, given to me by Max Raab, who produced the film. Carlos Clarens, who helped me write the screenplay, said that Hollywood, at its birth, was “an orange grove with breakfast served by the Ritz.”  My film is about three characters who want to be Hollywood stars, but they don’t want to play the game. They want to remain naked all the time, have a good time, and say what they want to say. That time was all about sex and politics. The film was happening in June 1968, and the three of them are in bed when they find out about the [Robert] Kennedy assassination. In the screenplay, the day after, Viva learns of the shooting of Andy Warhol, which also happened that week. The TV stations didn’t mention the shooting of Andy Warhol, but the death of Kennedy was commented on nonstop. In the days following Kennedy’s assassination, they took his corpse on a train from Los Angeles to New York to go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. His corpse’s trip was on TV for days. I remember seeing a woman ironing her laundry while watching the train with Kennedy’s dead body pass by her window. I wanted that to be a part of the film. Three stars plus a TV set.

OBRIST: Where did the title Lions Love (…and Lies) come from?

VARDA: Lions, because of the actors’ hair. Love, because it is a love threesome. And lies, because it’s about the news and Hollywood. On our set, everything was half-fake: Real flowers, fake flowers. Real columns, fake columns. Secrets and lies. And that’s because Hollywood is fake—but true at the same time.

OBRIST: You and Jacques first moved to Hollywood in the late ’60s. What are your memories of that arrival?

VARDA: I remember telling Jacques, “I’ll go with you to America, but if I don’t like it, I’m coming back.” I wasn’t attracted to American cinema, but I fell in love with Los Angeles the minute I arrived. We rented a little house and two white convertibles. In those days, when Jacques was starting to work with Columbia [Pictures] on Model Shop, I loved driving slowly down these endless boulevards. I got very excited not only by the Los Angeles landscape but by that generation. It was a lot of peace and love, hippies, huge Sunday meetings in the parks. The Doors, Buffalo Springfield, and the Mamas & the Papas would come over and play for free.

OBRIST: Were you not in Paris during the protests of May 1968?

VARDA: No, I was in America with the Black Panthers

OBRIST: How did that film, Black Panthers, come about?

VARDA: I was friendly at the time with [the film producer] Tom Luddy, who told me about the marchers in Oakland and about Huey P. Newton, one of the leaders of the Black Panthers, who was in jail. I would take a plane there every Sunday, and I filmed all of them—Eldridge Cleaver, Bobby Seale. I was sometimes alone with my camera, sometimes helped. I would smile and say, “French television,” and they would just let me film. I felt it was important to capture that time when they were fully empowered. A couple years later their movement was all in pieces.

OBRIST: How did it feel to be in California for that moment in time, and then to return almost 50 years later to receive an honorary Oscar?

VARDA: It was the surprise of my life. Those honorary Oscars are given to filmmakers and artists who they respect and admire, but who were never mainstream. I was delighted, of course. The room was filled with all these stars, and here I was with my family. In my head I was dancing, and then it really happened. Angelina Jolie gave me the statue, took me by the arm, and we improvised a little dance.

OBRIST: You’re busier now more than ever. What is the secret that has allowed you to stay creatively active for nearly seven decades?

VARDA: I’m curious. Period. I find everything interesting. Real life. Fake life. Objects. Flowers. Cats. But mostly people. If you keep your eyes open and your mind open, everything can be interesting. The secret is that there is no secret.

OBRIST: How have you allowed yourself to follow these curiosities?

VARDA: What I notice or discover has to grow in my mind. I always wait until the ideas and impulses are so strong that they invade my mind and I have to pursue them. My mind is often half-sleeping, like in a daydream. Then some images come together, some ideas, and then suddenly I have to do it. Like with Cléo from 5 to 7—at the time, there was this collective fear of cancer. People spoke about cancer a lot. The subject of a woman expecting the results of a cancer test felt interesting, and so I decided to do it in real time, with real geography.

OBRIST: How did you feel about being called “The Grandmother of the French New Wave,” when you were just 30 years old?

VARDA: That was related to my first film, La Pointe Courte, which I made in 1954, five years before the blooming of [Jean-Luc] Godard and [François] Truffaut. I used to be the Grandmother of the New Wave, but now I am the Dinosaur of the New Wave. Only Godard and I are left alive.

OBRIST: The Nouvelle Vague was dominated by men. Is that what prompted you to make a film like One Sings, the Other Doesn’t?

VARDA: No, there was no connection between the New Wave and my feminist musical film from 1976. Since 1973, I had written a few screenplays on feminist subjects, but nobody wanted them. So in 1976, I produced One Sings, the Other Doesn’t, about 15 years of struggle as experienced by two women. You know, women used to be put in prison when they had abortions. The last woman to be executed by guillotine in France had been an abortionist. It’s a terrible story, isn’t it? There was a famous manifesto signed by 343 women who proclaimed, “We’ve Aborted.”

OBRIST: Did you sign it?

VARDA: Yes. So did Françoise Sagan, Catherine Deneuve, Delphine Seyrig, Colette Audry, and many more. There were trials. Young women were being put in prison. The manifesto said that this was clearly an injustice. The law was striking down on us. Charlie Hebdo and Minute were calling it the Manifeste des 343 Salopes [“Manifesto of the 343 Bitches”]. There was such contempt toward women’s desire to be free.

OBRIST: Your work has spanned the worlds of film and contemporary art. You and I first came into dialogue during a project for the 2003 Venice Biennale called Utopia Stations, in which Molly Nesbit, Rirkrit Tiravanija, and I asked 120 artists and groups to create small, autonomous structures. We called you hoping that we could somehow convince you to be a part of it.

VARDA: That was one of those calls where you’re ready before the phone even rings. I had already been filming and photographing the heart-shaped potatoes that would appear in that project, “Patatutopia.” And then here arrives this strange news that Hans Ulrich Obrist wants me to join all of these very famous artists in this exciting exhibition.

OBRIST: That was your first installation.

VARDA: The first of many. I started to build actual shacks from composite prints of my own films.

OBRIST: Lions Love (…and Lies) became the basis for one of your shack installations at LACMA in 2013.

VARDA: To tell you the truth, my first real exhibition was in this very courtyard in 1954. I had no idea I could sell pictures. I thought I could just invite my neighbors, and they all came. This courtyard has always been a base for me. I wrote my first film, La Pointe Courte, in 1954 on a table like this one. I just celebrated my 90th birthday, and I often think, “My God, look at all of these waves of work!” It’s not just about memories, because thankfully I’ve forgotten many things.

OBRIST: How did you celebrate your 90th birthday?

VARDA: I swam in the ocean.

[thesecondface]

Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?

The Carina Nebula, as imaged by the James Webb telescope.

[fearfylsymmetry]

tagged by soph @nizynskis for my top 9 movies (im making it 10 btw because it looks better on a grid and also i love things too much ) anyways tysm soph always a pleasure i love doing these

so yes i think Beautiful Sunday is just the most amazing thing ever i spent monthsss looking for it and trying to find a decent download and goddd im forever happy i did. its the perfect movie about nothing in particular, it just captures that specific air of laziness that comes on Sundays where you're just content doing nothing. it means so much to me

i put Rebels of the Neon God up here over Vive L'Amour which i prefer , mostly because it was my introduction to Tsai Ming Liang. i found the movie slow at first but then Vive L'Amour cemented Tsai as one of my favorites. Besides, this movie is the start pf Hsiao Kang's entire legacy so really, you can't have Vive L'Amour without this. his films are slow of purpose and the rhythm of everything is initially hard to adjust to, but when you give it time, you'll find the most thoughtful and beautifully shot meditations on loneliness in modern living. in Tsai's movies, Taiwan looms over the characters. its a cage of skyscrapers you cant free yourself from with drugs or alcohol. the city eats everyone whole.

Parasite is just ahhh its why i love movies so much it really is. it made me a cinephile. it made me want to make movies and ive seen it the most out of any of these. i even saw it with my english teacher at the cinema. this movie is a defining part of my life it really is

A Brighter Summer's Day is just splendid. the purpose of art is never to be relatable but i couldn't help draw parallels to every part of my life. the constraints of Taiwan's development reminded me of my own state's troubled history. classrooms of boys hiding behind their shallow ideas of masculinity. Xiao Sir's lonely childhood spent lazing away in brief lapses of summer. i cant help but feel it so closely, youth taken away by a struggle for identity and stability both in the nation of Taiwan and in Xiao Sir's own life

and to Chungking Express i send all my love, my introduction into the dreamy haze of Wong Kar Wai. it remains my favorite in his filmography. fun thing was i got to watch it with Chick too. chick if ur reading this hiiii

Buddha Mountain is frenetic it is relentless, shifting from tragedy to joyous energy in a single cut. and Fan Bing Bing is gorgeous in it so that helps...like i can't go into detail here but i haven't known peace after that bloody kiss scene like i get lightheaded thinking about it . okay wait ill behave.

Mary is Happy, Mary Is Happy is a delight all the way through even in its rather sad final act. the listless joy of friendship , it offered me a a delightful glimpse into it

the rest of these films i can only encapsulate in moments, not because i like them less, but because these moments are just that mesmerizing.

Paris ,Texas has the Super 8 scene. it honestly stuck with me more than the scene in the booth.

The Lovers on the Bridge has THE scene on the bridge , ive showed it to u soph, oh god that scene is bottled joy i get goosebumps just thinking about it

(let me just sneak in the entire Silencio sequence in Mulholland Drivee. i just love it okay???)

and Long Days Journey into Night has the 53 MINUTE LONG TAKE OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS MOVIE SO MUCH WHEN YOU SEE IT UNFOLD aghhh. ... its a dream it really is,, a dream caught on film

okay im done sorry. tagging ummm anyone that wants to join let me not burden you. just say your thing and tell everyone i sent you.

(this is very long because i love saying things and i want to let out all this useless info to the general public. long live cinema and i know shes not on the list which is criminal but Viva Varda)

[danafinwefeaelenionfeanorian]

Feanorian Week Day Two: Kanafinwe

1363 YT

"La la la la la la la," Kana scribbles feverously. Does he need more paper? I have more. "No,"

He picks up his harp again and begins again. Valar this happens every few minutes. Sing a few notes. Pause, correct, write it down and repeat.

"Oh, la la la la la la," Kana cocks an ear pausing as if repeating the note over in his head. "Better,"

I swear to Varda if he keeps composing that line I will whack him over the head with my book. My unfinished book. Correction my almost-finished book. My still drying page.

Valar it's been a trying day. And it's not even close to dinner.

Meeting before dawn with Grandfather. Argued with some lord who couldn't begin to understand the ethics of allowing more females to work in the court with new ideals. Lectured Findo on why he should keep wearing trousers under his robes. Even if he thinks Arafinwe is not wearing any.

I'd love to see if Findo does or not but by Varda he has to. His robes are not that heavy. A gust of wind could blow at an awkward angle and whoops there he is. All of him. And that is not what I want to see.

“La la la la la la,”

Varda, I'm doing it. I stand up, cross the room and whack Kana over the head.

“La la la—ow!” He looks up his mouth gaping.

“That was for repeating that line,”

“You can leave if you find it annoying,”

“You're in my study,” Kana makes an, oh face. He looks around and lets out a swear so ferocious that if I were mother I’d take a bar of soap to him.

Earlier he was following me around the manor. Singing about my books and praising my epesse. Nyarre, storyteller. A fitting name for the hundred books to my name.

"That makes sense." _____

“La la la la la la….la,”

"Kana, are you ever going to finish that verse?"

Kana pauses. He purses his lips and pulls a, hmmm, face. "At this rate not before you turn 200,"

Twenty-six years. It’s going to take him twenty-six years to finish. Oh for Varda's stars. Why.

"Fantastic, I'll be an old coot by the time I get to enjoy it," I drawl turning the page to my newly finished book. Every time I finish one I give it a once over before Father also gives it a once over. After we send it to the palace to be copied.

I've been told my work is extremely well received.

“Who says your not an old coot already?" Excuse me? I am not old. Not that old at any rate. Besides I'm only 55 years older than Kana.

"Makalaure,"

“I’m not sorry, you're old,” He best take that back.

“I am not,”

“Are too,”

“And your a—"

“Asea Aranion do not finish that,” Son of a bitch. She had to bring up that name. That ugly name. Ugly ugly ugly. Valar mother, you couldn't have picked a different name.

“Mother,”

“Dana," Thank the valar. My father name. "Ambarussa are on their way,"

Oh shit.

I'm supposed to take them riding.

"On it,"

Mother nods and leaves.

I pick up my book and pretend to read. Kana gets the hint when I nod at him to continue. Less than three minutes later Ambarussa barge in. "DANA, LET'S GO, LET'S GO, LET'S GO,"

"Go where?"

"RIDING,"

"Is that today?" I scratch my head pretending to think back to two days ago when I promised to take them riding. "I could have sworn I said I'd do that tomorrow. Besides Kana was about to give me a harp lesson,"

"DANA," Pityo whines, while Telvo whines that Kana says I'm hopeless at the harp.

Ouch. That one hurt. And I am not bad at the harp. I'm better than they think.

"Alright, I'm coming," I state drawing out my answer for the fun of teasing them. "Kana when your done close my door and give the book on my desk to father."

Kana nods, a smile on his face

[lightsonparkave]

HAPPY TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO LIGHTS ON PARK AVE! 🎂🎉 In celebration of LoPA’s birthday (August 22, to be exact), all of the prompts from the previous year are up for grabs.

Round 24 will end on August 31, 11:59 PM ET (what time is that for me?).

As always, you’re free to jump in whenever you’d like during the round, a wide variety of work types is accepted, and there are no minimum work requirements. Unfinished works and works for other fandom events are allowed. You can find more information about Lights on Park Ave and the participation guidelines here.

Here are all 149 prompts. Go crazy and have fun! 🎈

ROUND 13: TIME

A quote about being infinite in the present moment from The Perks of Being a Wallflower

“Vellichor,” the the strange wistfulness of used bookstores

“How long is forever?” dialogue from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

“Time” - Hans Zimmer (Inception OST)

A quote and gifset from Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival (2016) about the nonlinear structure of time

Agnès Varda’s portraits when she was 20, 36, and 80 years old

A John Irving quote about what time does to the people who matter to us

Ten traveling back to see Rose on New Year’s Day in 2005 before he dies and reincarnates in Doctor Who

Future inventions in 2015 as seen in Robert Zemeckis’s Back to the Future Part II (1989)

A quote about what time does for wounds

ROUND 14: LIMINALITY

A photoset of various liminal spaces

Illustration of a black cat in front of a red-lit house with the caption, “They say no one is living here—but the lights come on, once every year”

A photoset of Victorian-era spirit photography, an art form that attempted to capture the ghost of a deceased loved one

Information on the famous Mojave phone booth, a lone telephone booth in the middle of the desert that received calls from all over the world

Rosemary Ellen Guiley’s The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits Third Edition’s definition of “witching hour”

Illustration of a ghost train on an abandoned trestle bridge in the Pacific Northwest

A quote by Isabel Allende about spirits coming out at night in the library

Gifset of the spirit world in Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away (2001)

Illustration of a neon roadside sign of a motel that only appears at night by a long-forgotten highway

“Pacific Coast Highway” - Kavinsky

A gifset quote from The Twilight Zone (1959)

Scenery from Twin Peaks season 1 (1990)

A quote about something shifting into a strange, new place inside of a person from Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado

ROUND 15: LOSS

A quote about being lost and found by someone special by Sue Zhao

A photo of the Mildred, wrecked off Gurnard’s Head, Cornwall in 1912

A quote about ephemerality and the beauty of it from Troy (2004)

Two paintings of people visiting ruins by Caspar David Friedrich

A quote about desire and loss by Lara Mimosa Montes

A photo of an overgrown, abandoned conservatory

A passage about what disappears and what remains in ruins from Suicide by Édouard Levé

Dialogue about gratitude for people who aren’t meant to stay in your life but shape who you are from BoJack Horseman

A scene from Fleabag where the Priest chooses God over Fleabag and gently tells Fleabag that her love for him will pass before they part ways

A prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, people, and souls

Oscar Wilde’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris, covered in lipstick kisses from admirers

Photos of a cemetery statue in Austria, wrapped in branches and dead leaves, holding a single flower

ROUND 16: DEVOTION/SERVICE

A gifset of Kevin on the phone, telling Chiron he’ll cook food for him from Barry Jenkin’s Moonlight (2016)

Buttercup’s monologue to Westley about how she would do anything for him from The Princess Bride by William Goldman

Gifs of Merlin saying that he was born to serve Arthur from BBC’s Merlin

An excerpt about giving all of oneself to someone despite what it costs from House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

A gifset of various times Jaime and Brienne demonstrate their loyalty to and love for each other in Game of Thrones

A gifset of all the different ways Cliff is there for Rick in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)

A gifset of Nadia deciding to be by Alan’s side no matter what in Russian Doll

“Devotion” - Ocean Vuong

A gifset of Bond comforting a traumatized Vesper in the shower in Casino Royale (2006)

A gifset of Sookhee refusing to leave Hideko, saying her job is to look after her in Park Chanwook’s The Handmaiden (2016)

ROUND 17: DREAMS

A dreamscape gifset and quote about repressed thoughts in dreams and the Internet from Satoshi Kon’s Paprika (2006)

A gifset of Mitsuha and Taki finally meeting in their own bodies in a dream from Shinkai Makoto’s Kimi no Na wa (Your Name) (2016)

A quote by Tinker Bell telling Peter Pan where he can find her and where she’ll always love him in Steven Spielberg’s Hook (1991)

The scene where Keating tells his students that poetry, beauty, romance, and love give life meaning in Peter Weir’s Dead Poets Society (1989)

An animated illustration of a storefront called “Hauntings” with a flickering “99¢ dreams” neon sign

Various dreamscape scenes and a quote about ideas being the most resilient parasite from Christopher Nolan’s Inception (2010)

A quote about how all living beings must dream to survive reality from The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

A comic about people we love taking turns to visit us in dreams every night

Lovers and Sleeping Couple, two drawings by Egon Schiele

A quote about belief in a better world by Robert Frobisher to his lover, Rufus Sixsmith, in Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

A quote about the feeling of falling in love lingering when you wake up from a dream in Alexis Dos Santos’s Unmade Beds (2009)

A photo of subway graffiti by an unknown author insisting that they’ll never give up making the world a better place to live in

ROUND 18: PHYSICAL TOUCH

A scene about how to return a stolen kiss from Daniel Ribeiro’s The Way He Looks (2014)

A line about kissing someone the way a flower opens from “I Know Someone” by Mary Oliver

A gifset focusing on showing affection and care through hands from Park Chanwook’s The Handmaiden (2016)

A passage about two people leaving invisible marks on each other through the accumulation of touches over the years from A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood

Two conversations about never being touched before and only being touched by one person from Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight (2016)

Going from yearning to touch someone but stopping oneself to being allowed to touch them from Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy

Moving art of two bodies made of stars and the cosmos embracing

A quote about maintaining sanity by touching someone but being separated despite proximity from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

A line about proving that one still exists and is real through touch from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

Different touches between Villanelle and Eve expressing violence, threat, sexual tension, comfort, and companionship in Killing Eve

A juxtaposition of two scenes from Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love (2000) of Su Li-zhen rejecting and accepting Chow Mo-wan’s hand

A compilation of marble sculptures by Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Syd (Chris Evans) trailing kisses down London’s back in London (2005)

ROUND 19: IMMORTALITY

James Baldwin talking about how art helps you discover that people before you have experienced the same thing as you and you are not alone

Dr. Brand saying that love transcends time and space in Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar (2014)

Nadia and Alan meeting for the first time as they’re about to die and relive the same day again in Russian Doll

The loneliness of losing everyone by having a long life as expressed by Ten in Doctor Who

The doomed eternal time loop romance of Simon and Alisha from Misfits

A quote by Edvard Munch about becoming eternal through the flowers that grow from his body after death

Nagai Kei recalling the traffic accident that killed him and triggered his immortality, making him one of the rare persecuted humans to possess the power, in Ajin

A collection of moments from Jay Russell’s Tuck Everlasting (2002)

A quote by Mary Wollstonecraft hoping for something that lasts inside the heart

Various scenes with Jack Harkness from Doctor Who

Aya telling Asou-kun to live on and live forever as she nears the end of her life in 1 Litre of Tears

An excerpt about the immortalization of the self through love from “Love of the Wolf” in Hélène Cixous’s Stigmata

A collection of scenes from the Black Mirror episode “San Junipero”

Naoko telling Toru to always remember her and remember that she existed in Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

Dom explaining to Ariadne that he uses the PASIV to dream as it’s the only way that he can be with his wife and children in Christopher Nolan’s Inception (2010)

ROUND 20: POETRY

“I’m Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense” - Danez Smith

A line about wanting to forget how much you loved someone and then actually forgetting from Bluets by Maggie Nelson

“Perhaps the World Ends Here” - Joy Harjo

“In Time” - W. S. Merwin

“By Small and Small: Midnight to Four A.M.” - Jack Gilbert

“Magdalene: The Addict” - Marie Howe

“Wild Geese” - Mary Oliver

“Morphology 2″ - CJ Scruton

“20″ from Moscow in the Plague Year by Marina Tsvetaeva

“To Hold” - Li-Young Lee

ROUND 21: LONGING

“I Loved You Before I Was Born” - Li-Young Lee

A poem about longing for someone through worlds by Izumi Shikibu

A gifset of Marianne and Héloïse falling in love from Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)

“Make Me Feel” - Janelle Monáe

A quote about living in longing being better than realizing that longing from 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

“I Want You” - Mitski

Orpheus and Eurydice in Hades - Friedrich Heinrich Füger

Long definition of the word “saudade”

Definition of the word “hiraeth”

“Something About Us” - Daft Punk

Two lines about burning quietly from the poem “The Pillowcase” by Annelyse Gelman

A conversation about wanting each other after decades of separation from Pedro Almodóvar’s Pain and Glory (2019)

A Hanahaki disease mood board

“Shrike” - Hozier

Two lines about wanting someone to return from Herakles by Euripides

“Love of My Life” - Queen

“Eyes, Nose, Lips” - Taeyang

A screenshot of Kathy and Tommy holding onto each other desperately from Mark Romanek’s Never Let Me Go (2010) and a quote from Kazuo Ishiguro’s eponymous novel

ROUND 22: YOUTH

“Perfect Places” - Lorde

A piece about realizing you’ll never be this young again, but it’s the first time you’re this old by Kalyn Roseanne Livernois

A conversation between Neil and Mr. Keating about Neil feeling trapped and unable to live the life he wants because of his father from Peter Weir’s Dead Poets Society (1989)

An excerpt about being too young to know how to love properly from Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” - Arctic Monkeys

Elio’s father telling Elio not to try to rid himself of his sorrow and pain—and with that joy—which he feels so strongly because he’s so young from Call Me By Your Name by Andre Aciman

A quote about how everything feels final to young people because they’re experiencing it for the first time from Middlemarch by George Eliot

Lara Jean telling Peter that she had to make it seem like she liked him to deal with her love letter fiasco in Susan Johnson’s To All the Boys I Loved Before (2018)

Rue and Jules dancing together and partying it up in Euphoria

“Le Plongeoir” by Laurent Roch

A quote about being pushed into adulthood and not being ready from Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

A photo of a roller rink illuminated by pink and purple lights

Pastel photo series of Coney Island by Mijoo Kim and Minjin Kang

“Hips Don’t Lie” - Shakira feat. Wyclef Jean

“Young Dumb & Broke” - Khalid

Different moments accompanied by the letter to Mr. Vernon at the end of detention from John Hughes’s The Breakfast Club (1985)

Various scenes and a quote about growing up and realizing life isn’t like a fairy tale from Guillermo del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

Stills of the young lesbian couple in love from the music video of “You Know” - Jaurim

Lines by Effy about her emotional and mental struggles from Skins

Nathan chiding the group for not taking advantage of their superpowers as young offenders from Misfits

ROUND 23: HEDONISM

A passage about giving into passion and losing control from The Secret History by Donna Tartt

“Thot Shit” - Megan Thee Stallion

An aesthetic photoset of the Greek god Dionysus

A quote about living for ecstasy rather than balance from From a Journal of Love by Anaïs Nin

A photo of an anonymous person in nothing but a silk robe and lingerie

A photo of Donatella Versace lounging in a chair, surrounded by shirtless, muscular men sunbathing around her in Capri, Italy in 1994

An aesthetic photoset based on The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The music video for “Heartless” by The Weeknd

A plea for summer to never end from Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman

“Plastic Love” - Mariya Takeuchi

A gifset from the music video of “Blinding Lights” by The Weeknd, a continuation of the “Heartless” music video

“XS” - Rina Sawayama

A gifset from the music video of “Body” by Mino

Photos of people dancing at the legendary Studio 54

Photos and a description of the party scene at Studio 54

Chris Evans and Evan Rachel Wood hooking up in a car in the “Gucci Guilty Black” commercial

[first-son-of-finwe]

Nerdanel & elfling!Finarfin

This is a little fic that I’ve had knocking about in my docs for a while but never published, but y’alls might like it so here it is :)

Mostly I just wanted some sister-in-law cuteness. Bride-to-be Nerdanel wanders the palace and finds little Finarfin all on his own, so of course it’s time for them to bond.

Featuring dickish Feanor, because of course it must.

Nerdanel wandered the rooms of the palace alone, carefully stowing each new room into her memory. It would be so easy to get lost in the seemingly endless labyrinth of ballrooms, libraries, dining rooms and hallways, and she often found herself wondering why the Noldorin royal family needed all of this space.

She oriented herself around the grand staircase, which served as the central point of the palace. So long as she knew where that was, she wouldn’t be lost.

Fëanáro had gone away with his father for the day. They so rarely got the chance to spend time together anymore, and so they had taken the opportunity to travel to the gardens where Queen Míriel’s tomb lay. Nerdanel had tentatively offered to join them, though Fëanáro hadn’t wanted to burden her with such a deeply emotional journey. He would take her separately, he said. Besides, it seemed to be almost something sacred between the father and son, a ritual that only they could fully understand.

The day was drawing to a close and Nerdanel found herself with little to do, so she decided to familiarise herself with the layout of the place which was now her home. Or at least, it would be for the next few weeks. Neither she nor Fëanáro intended to stay for long after their wedding, both preferring the quiet, remote settlement on the outskirts of the city to start their new family. It was two days’ ride from Tirion and not far from the home of Mahtan, and it was peaceful, spacious and tranquil, with a large forest on its border. Utterly perfect.

Nerdanel opened a new door and carefully peered into the room, and to her surprise, this one wasn’t empty. A small, fair-haired elfling sat on the floor surrounded by puzzle pieces, and a smattering of stuffed animals sat in a row, watching his progress. About half of the puzzle was done, and the elfling was holding a piece in his hand with his small brow furrowed, trying to figure out where it should go. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, blinking as he stared at the newcomer. Nerdanel smiled at him.

“Hello, little one. I haven’t disturbed you, have I?”

Arafinwë shook his head.

“May I come in?”

He nodded, sitting on his heels as he looked at her curiously. Nerdanel approached slowly, recognising the child as King Finwë’s youngest son.

“I’m Nerdanel, I’m…”

“You’re brother’s friend,” he said softly. “You’re getting married.”

Nerdanel smiled. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I saw you when you arrived. You have pretty hair.”

Nerdanel laughed in pleasant surprise, taking a seat opposite the child.

“That’s very nice of you to say. What are you doing here all by yourself?”

Arafinwë shrugged.

“Everyone is busy. I wanted ammë to play with me, but she says she can’t because atar is gone and she has to do his duties. She gave me this…” he gestured at the half completed puzzle, before looking at her with a bit of hope.

“Will you help me with it?”

Nerdanel smiled, a little sad for the boy. A house full of family, yet no one seemed to be watching over him. 

“Of course I will,” she said enthusiastically, scooting closer to the puzzle and picking up a piece. In truth she was glad of the company, feeling a little alone herself in the endless halls. “You’ve done so much already...you must be very good at this.”

Arafinwë seemed a little more animated now, and he smiled brightly and pushed a small pile of pieces towards her.

“This is only my second one,” he told her. “I did another a week ago. There was a beach and a sunset and a big boat, I was doing it until Laurelin waned, ammë had to come and take me to bed.”

“Goodness,” Nerdanel chuckled, slotting one of her own pieces into the puzzle. “It sounds lovely. I like beaches too. They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Arafinwë nodded enthusiastically, then started describing one trip atar had taken the family on once, how he’d loved the waves and the smell of the ocean even though they were too strong, and Nolofinwë had had to come and rescue him from the tide. He talked about how Fëanáro hadn’t wanted to touch the water, despite Arvo’s attempts to try and involve his brother in the fun, so he brought him some water scooped into a shell instead.

The child continued to chatter, and despite his initial shyness, Nerdanel noticed that he was extremely talkative when listened to. Her heart warmed a little, and she found herself dreaming of the day when she could have one of her own. Even two perhaps, or three.

The two continued their work, chatting lightheartedly about this and that. Arvo wanted to know what Nerdanel’s favourite thing to do was, so she told him about her sculpting, promising to show him some of her pieces someday. Time passed, and they barely noticed the room slowly getting darker as the light of Laurelin faded and the faint, silvery glow of Telperion began to take its place.

Then the door suddenly burst open and Fëanáro walked in, still in his travelling cloak and clearly just returned. Nerdanel looked up, startled, before smiling widely.

“You’re back!”

“We just returned,” Fëanáro replied, sinking down beside her and kissing her forehead. “I went looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. I must have done three laps of the palace!”

Nerdanel smiled brightly, smoothing his windswept hair. “I have been spending some time with your brother. We must have lost track of the time.”

Fëanáro then noticed Arvo for the first time, eyes narrowing a little as he took in the almost completed puzzle and array of stuffed toys.

“Oh good heavens,” he groaned. “He hasn’t roped you into this, has he? I’m so sorry. Aro, go away.”

Arafinwë’s face fell, and he murmured a soft “sorry, brother” and started to gather his puzzle pieces up. Nerdanel scooted over to Arvo and wrapped her arms around him, giving Fëanor a stern look.

“Oh no, don’t be mean! He hasn’t roped me into anything, I was very glad for his company. We had a lovely time, didn’t we?”

Arvo nodded, feeling a little pleased that Nerdanel had stood up to his brother. Few ever did. Fëanáro simply huffed.

“Well that’s charming, but I think it’s time for bed now, isn’t it? Go on, go find your mother.”

Arvo gathered his toys into his arms, murmured a goodnight to Nerdanel and shuffled out of the room. Nerdanel sighed.

“He is very sweet, you know. And he tries so hard to please everybody.”

“So he would have you believe,” Fëanor muttered.

Nerdanel grimaced, but decided not to pursue the matter right at this moment, sensing that there wasn’t much use. She knew Fëanáro’s family was complicated. She wasn’t going to dig into it in the days before their wedding. Instead, she changed the subject.

“How is the King? Did everything go as planned?”

Fëanáro’s face softened, and he sat down beside Nerdanel and took hold of her hands.

“It did. I am sorry that I didn’t take you...it is a long journey, and not a pleasant one. The gardens where she lies are not a joyful place. But I shall bring you someday, if you still wish it.”

“I do.” 

Nerdanel looked at her betrothed, pained to see the grief that he still carried. She wished she could make it all go away. And yet in the moments when they were together, laughing, exploring, learning, or simply watching the stars in silence...in those moments, nothing existed but the two of them. They were unburdened, simply two young Eldar marvelling at the beauty of the world.

Nerdanel leaned in and pressed her lips against Fëanáro’s, and she felt his hands in her hair, drawing her closer. In that moment she sent up a silent prayer to Varda, asking that they could remain in their little world, free of any burdens, for as long as possible.

[jengajives]

wrote some second or third age Maglor for y’all

Maglor sat by the sea with his eyes closed and tried to imagine he was looking not west, but east, that he sat on the shore of Elvenhome on a bed of jewels and cast his eyes across the water to the land he’d never known where ages ago his forefathers had awoken beneath the stars. 

He wished he could still imagine the woods and wild places of Middle-Earth. That he did not have to know them as he did. 

He wished he could walk the streets of Tirion upon Túna having denounced his father and the entire selfish folly of his people. He could have stayed behind. He could still dwell in Valinor’s bliss as if all was still young in the world. 

“You know,” said a voice that throbbed in the waves against his feet. “I always thought your folk belonged over here.”

Maglor opened his eyes. 

In the beginning Ulmo hadn’t done much speaking, but Maglor was familiar enough with the Valar to sense when one was near. It seemed the Lord of Waters had done a lot of hanging around those first couple decades, and Maglor had always been aware of it, but for a long time neither of them spoke. 

By now, though, Ulmo had been the only company Maglor got for years, and for his part he seemed to understand Maglor- at least, he understood that appearing in the form of storm-lashed waves, teeth, and chains wasn’t the best way to put his friend at ease, and had learned to adopt a much more palatable shape when he visited the lonely Fëanorian by the sea. 

The gentle, foaming tide swelled slightly and started to grow, water piling atop itself like droplets gathered on a coin, drawing strings of kelp and broken shells into the gently swirling pillar of seawater until it was seven feet tall and shaped roughly to the outline of a person. It was a hissing sea spray that passed from bottom to top and turned that tower of cold water into an actual being. 

Ulmo was rather scrawny for such a powerful being, with gangly long limbs and a beard tinged green with algae. There were shells and sea stars caught in his tangled dark hair, forming a sort of makeshift crown, and barnacles crusted the sides of his simple canvas clothing. He wore a chain around his waist like a belt, rusty and adorned with colonies of zebra mussels. When he turned his eyes to Maglor, they were very still and the same color as wells of deep water undisturbed for decades. 

Ulmo smiled shyly and rubbed the back of his neck, then he plopped down alongside Maglor with his long legs sprawled in front of him. 

“Middle-Earth is meant to be yours.”

“Yes, well. I’d rather we didn’t have it.”

Maglor made a point of not looking Ulmo in the eye. Last time he had, he’d noticed a gleam of silver and golden luminance shining from the far depths and it had made his hand burn terribly. “We were happy in Valinor.”

Was it strange to sit with one of the greatest powers in the world and feel absolutely no discomfort? Probably. But strange was the normal in Maglor’s experience. 

Ulmo shrugged. After a long silence he said “Your songs weren’t very good.” Then, when he only got another in reply: “They’re much better now.”

“I’m glad you think indescribable suffering has made me a better singer,” Maglor said flatly. “I wouldn’t be inclined to agree.”

Ulmo laughed at that. Misplaced, perhaps, but it was a merry sound and hearty. It stirred up Maglor’s spirit like a riptide tugging at his feet. 

“You belong here, Maglor,” Ulmo said. He almost sounded playful, with his voice coming from both his mouth and the sea itself. “Your home isn’t with the Valar. It never was.”

“You speak rather strangely,” Maglor huffed, “especially for one of them. Aulë never talked like you do. Or Nienna, or Manwë, or any of the other powers I met. None of them talk like you.”

“Am I too casual for your liking?” 

Ulmo’s image fuzzed; for a second his face was lined with age and wisdom and his simple clothing turned to shimmering silver mail patterned like a fish’s scales. His deep eyes grew hostile. Unpredictable. Dangerous. He loomed tall and terrible, fixing Maglor in his stormy gaze. 

“I can take a form more well-suited to my power, if that be thine will.”

Immediately Maglor turned his eyes to the ground and kept them there. 

“No, no. Please. The way you were is fine.”

Ulmo’s laugh was the rushing of the tide as he seemed to shrink back to his previous stature, the scrawny, unimpressive man all covered in barnacles and all the ocean’s little clinging things. He stretched his legs out on the sand. 

“No, I’m not really like the others. Aulë shapes the earth, Varda crafts the stars, Yavannah calls life out of the soil. They love these things, but in the end their domains are things they can make with their hands. It’s not like that for me. I am the water, you see.”

Maglor looked out at the distant horizon and it seemed to him that as Ulmo spoke he saw a glimmer beneath the waves. The same golden-silver luminance that haunted his every thought. He looked back at the sand, but not quick enough to stop his right hand burning with the memory of phantom pain. 

Ulmo watched his companion draw his hand into his cloak and wrap it there. He gazed steadily out at the line of sea and sky for a long moment before he spoke. 

“It’s safe, if you want to know.”

The color drained from Maglor’s cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I keep an eye on it.” 

For a while, Ulmo said no more of the cursed Silmaril, and Maglor happily let the silence stand. It could have been hours before the sea spoke again. 

“It’s strange. Manwë said that it would be dangerous, but beautiful and strange beyond comprehension. Yet... to me...” 

Another long pause. Then, abruptly, fingers gentle and warm as a spring bubbling from the earth touched Maglor’s ear, tracing the pearl stud he wore there carefully, reverently. 

“More beautiful than the light of the Silmaril is the son of the one who wrought it.”

At that Maglor started. He turned his head and looked at Ulmo, who was smiling gently, and then in some awful spur-of-the-moment desperation he leaned forward and kissed the Lord of Waters without any provocation to do so.

Ulmo stiffened, just for a moment, but he quickly relaxed, leaned into Maglor, let out a sigh that sounded like the hissing of gentle mist.

He tasted like sweet spring water and rain.

Maglor made a sound in the deep of his throat like a needy groan. He hadn’t touched someone like this in so long. Too long. Ages of the world. Too long since he had been held by another living being and he was breathing in a perfume of brisk sea air.

Ulmo moved. He leaned back, pulled away, his hand slowly falling from Maglor’s cheek and closing to a hesitant fist in front of him. 

There was a bright blush high on his cheeks.

Ulmo exhaled, he laughed lightly and awkwardly, and then at once he was gone in a sheet of icy rain.

Maglor blinked the water from his eyes. 

Had he kissed one of the Valar? He’d just kissed one of the Valar.

His head was spinning with visions of whirlpools and swirling rains. 

He wanted to sing about rivers. 

Maglor looked again to the distant sea, but he didn’t see any glow this time beneath the waves. 

[absynthe--minded]

Headcanon/short fic prompt: domestic russingon (especially cooking/baking!)

(content warning: drunk Findekáno, some sexual innuendo)

this turned into something way bigger than I thought it would, whoops

“Hm,” Maitimo murmured, examining the soup stock dubiously. 

“Hm?” Findekáno asked, glancing up from his entangled fingers. “What’s ‘hm’?”

“‘Hm,’ in this case, means ‘I think I’m going to want more spice in this’,” Maitimo answered, not turning to face his husband. “And pólë, and porocell, and a few roots and tubers once we’re properly making soup.”

“Why couldn’t we make mastarandil?” Findekáno said. “This is - well, it seems like a lot of work.” 

“Because, veru-nînya, mastarandil is more work.”

It was very late, after midnight, and the whole of Himring was slumbering but watchful. Findekáno had been sent to the eastern marches on official business, which meant that he had a royal excuse to spend a few days in Maitimo’s company, and tonight they were awake long past sunset. Their game of cuptalë had gone on for hours, thanks to their mutual enjoyment of a bottle of Maitimo’s nenvalaina, and now rather than sleep they had gone in search of a dinner that might as well have been an early breakfast. 

“Oh,” Findekáno answered, musing on this, his eyes examining the places where the tile gave way to mortar in the anchored table where he sat. “Pass me the bottle?”

“And watch you fall off the stool? Hardly.”

“I’m not that drunk, Russo.” 

“Mhm,” the other nér answered; there was more than a hint of laughter in his voice. 

“What?” Findekáno protested, shifting position forcefully enough that the four-legged stool he was perched on rocked back and forth with him as he moved. “I’m not!” 

“You drank more than I did,” Maitimo said, turning around and pointing to a nearly-empty bottle that made the whole room smell of peaches. “See? Most of that is you.” 

“So what?” Findekáno retorted, drawing himself up in an exaggerated fashion. “I can hold myself well. I’m only a little drunk. Not very.”

“Finno, my love, my dearest most esteemed husband?”

“What?”

“You’re about to fall on your face.”

Findekáno winced, glancing down at himself - he’d slid forward, pushing the stool onto two legs so he could prop his elbows on the table, and his husband was absolutely correct in that the longer he kept up that position the more likely it was that he’d have an unfortunate accident and split his face on the edges of the tile. 

“Right,” he said, awkwardly sitting back and then sliding across the flagstone floor until he was less precariously positioned. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Maitimo continued, returning his attention to the pot on the stovetop, “we need - oh, damn it all.”

“What? What now?”

“I think we’re out of butter,” he said. “At least, out of butter here in this kitchen.”

“So - so go into the other kitchen and get some,” Findekáno said. “What’s the matter with that?”

“I’d be taking someone else’s butter,” Maitimo said. “And besides, Auriel informed me that everything in the main kitchen is reserved for Tarnin Austa next week.”

“You celebrate Tarnin Austa here?” Findekáno asked. “Are there even seasons here except ‘cold’ and ‘more cold’?”

“We have a summer,” Maitimo answered with mock annoyance. “But I suppose it’s kinder in the West where you aren’t staring at what must surely be Moringotto’s exaltation of his own gwî every time you go up to the ramparts.”

Findekáno laughed, far harder than the poor joke deserved; it was a sign of his intoxication. 

“Do you think he considers Thangorodrim sufficient compensation for his lack of girth?” he asked. “Or will we all be subject to some other, far greater tower, demanding Manwë and Varda themselves acknowledge his superior size?” 

“You are drunk,” Maitimo said, but he was chuckling. 

“If being drunk gives me leave to speak thusly, let me be drunk,” Findekáno said, leaning forward again. “Kiss me.” 

This brought a true smile to his husband’s lips, and the taller nér stepped away from the stove to bend down over the table and kiss him. When he drew away, Findekáno reached up with one hand, seizing him by the collar and pulling him back until their lips met twice, thrice more. 

“You taste of peaches,” Maitimo murmured; this time, the amusement in his voice was edged in something raw and smoldering. 

“Do I?” Findekáno asked, looking up at him through dark eyelashes. “Good.” 

They stared at one another, eyes burning and bond sending out shuddering sparks, until Maitimo shook himself and turned back to the soup stock. He was silent, examining it and adding pinches of spice as he stirred, and in lieu of speaking with him his husband settled for admiring the way his shoulders shifted beneath his shirt and the cut of his high-waisted trousers.

“If we still need butter,” Findekáno said at last, “well - isn’t that a churn there in the corner?” He pointed to a tall, narrow vessel made of blue-and-white hyalma with a wooden stick rising out of it.

“Yes,” Maitimo said, “but I’m making the soup, I cannot do that and churn the cream.”

“So let me.” 

Maitimo flinched, and then glanced over his shoulder at his husband. 

“You?”

“Why not?”

“Have you… are you aware of how to churn butter, melindo?” he asked, choosing his words carefully. He could feel his face twisting up on itself in confusion. 

“I’ve seen it done a thousand times at least,” the other nér said. “I know how it’s done.”

“But you’ve never churned butter yourself.”

“How difficult can it be?” he asked, sliding off the stool and nearly knocking it over. “It’s not as if it requires any particular skill.” It was surprisingly difficult to cross the floor and pick up the heavy churn, and Findekáno found himself nearly keeling over more than once, but at last he set the hyalma on the stone with a clank and clambered back up onto his stool. 

“Pass me the cream,” he said, glancing at the bottle of nenvalaina again and debating whether or not he ought to take another drink. “I’m going to take the - lid thing - off of this.” He bent down, his braids spilling over his shoulders as he moved, and fumbled with the top of the churn, sliding it up the stick until it was free and he could set it on the table. Its blue flowers on bone-white glaze contrasted with the warm cream of the tile. Next came the stick, which had an oddly carved ending that was large and resembled nothing so much as a mushroom; this, Findekáno also lay on the table with a loud crack. 

“You could have just lifted the handle up,” Maitimo said. He was watching his husband and obviously trying not to laugh.

“I - what?”

“The handle,” Maitimo repeated, tapping the stick. “The end is bigger than the churn cover. You could have just lifted them both up together.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Findekáno asked, almost pouting; it was an elaborate and teasing question. 

“Because I’m having fun watching you attempt this while drunk.”

“I’m not very drunk,” Findekáno protested again. “Just a little drunk. Three drunk.”

“Three drunk,” Maitimo said; he very nearly burst out laughing. “And how drunk is ‘three drunk’?”

“Three out of twelve. One-quarter drunk.”

“That implies the existence of three-quarters of you that are sober.”

“How do you think I got this - this - ” He pointed to the tiled table, attempting to be decisive and only flailing. 

“Handle,” Maitimo said. He was grinning as he poured oats and dried vegetables into the soup stock, which was simmering and beginning to smell of spice and fat and savory porocell broth. 

“This handle onto the table?” 

“Three-quarters-sober you would have lifted them both at once, or asked me for help.”

“Shut up,” Findekáno muttered. “It’s not as if you’re helping.” 

“I’m talking to you. Surely that’s accomplishing something.” 

“It is,” he admitted, and when Maitimo looked at him, still smiling, his heart fluttered in his chest, making him even dizzier than before. 

“You ought to kiss me again,” he told his husband, resisting the urge to climb onto the table solely to be closer to the other nér. “It’ll give me motivation to get up and fetch the cream.”

“I ought to kiss you again because you’re three drunk,” Maitimo corrected, turning away from the stovetop and bending over the table again. “And because I want to.”

When Findekáno’s hand went into his hair, pulling them together again, he didn’t bother resisting. 

[abeautifuldayfortea]

Visions of Aman

Summary: The death of Aragorn, the final parting of friends, the reunion of Legolas and Gimli and the passing of the Sindar colony of Ithilien into the west. Written from Legolas’ perspective.

A/N: I chose this particular period in time because I wanted to explore more in depth the reasons why Legolas decided to leave Middle Earth as soon as he learns of Aragorn’s death as it is only fleetingly mentioned in the appendices.  This took way too long and I am still far from satisfied with it. I spent two nights trying to decide what the tombs and the burial arrangements would be like (whether the bodies would be set in enclosed tombs or not (and then gave up after going nowhere)). Still, I hope you will enjoy reading it :), I am also very thankful to those readers who were kind enough to leave likes or comments or reblogs on my last fic and to those who didn’t as well, you all make my day, I love reading your comments and reblog tags!

Words: 1379

‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Gulls! They are flying far inland. A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.’

‘Say not so!’ said Gimli. ‘There are countless things still to see in Middle-earth, and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the Havens, it will be a duller world for those who are doomed to stay.’ 

‘Dull and dreary indeed!’ said Merry: ‘You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise dwarves like Gimli, who need you. At least I hope so. Though I feel somehow that the worst of this war is still to come. How I wish it was all over, and well over!’

~ Chapter 9 Book 5, Lord of the Rings

There were now no folk, big or little that needed him now. The vision had come to him unbidden as he lay dreaming, wide eyed, gazing up into the many stars of Varda and walked among the strange paths in a place between the gaps of the waking world known only to elves.

Painted within his mind, he saw unbeknownst to him the Hallows of Minas Tirith and within its watchful darkness, three figures arranged abreast upon a great slab of marble each in a peaceful slumber, hands folded atop their chests and garbed in pale raiment. Upon the left he discerned the form of Merry and upon the right lay Pippin, their hair white and their faces lined with the wrinkles of laughter lines and between them, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. At his feet lay folded the standard of Elendil, its seven stars set with gems catching the thin light that filtered in through the barred panels of the mausoleum and flickering with a pale faintness like the slow extinguishing of lamps in the pale dawn.

Legolas reached out with his mind, but he could not find the fëa of the three that lay before him and as his fingers reached out to wake them, he felt no warmth, no gentle stirring of the breath. There was no doubt now, the king had passed out of the world, shepherded to the Halls of Mandos and beyond into an afterlife where he would never follow.

He felt the consuming emptiness of sorrow stir within him like the stoking of an icy fire, leaving him cold and shaking again at the loss of not one but three of his dearest friends. As he turned over onto his side, emerging from his rest he dreamt no more of the fair mallorn trees of Lothlórien in golden autumn nor of the last strongholds of Fangorn in eternal spring or the brilliant halls of Thranduil in their glory before they were diminished. A shadow had fallen on his heart and from afar, the white city itself was shrouded in a suffocating grey mist.

And looking to the west towards the White City of Gondor from his bower in Ithilien he began to sing, weaving the tapestry of stories and the great deeds of his friends in a song that leapt, soaring like the great Eagles in its most glorious retellings and fell tinkling into the deep wells of lamentation. The last of his kin who heard his song quietly removed themselves from their dwellings and were themselves so moved and enamoured that they were said to be brought perforce to mourn for them, although they did not know them. To the ears of Men also the lament came, Aragorn’s people who understood not the winding language of the Sindar but upon listening grovelled and wept, for it awakened the truth within them and none were surprised when they received the black news of his passing the following day.

At the last note, Legolas faltered and verily, he knew the time had come for him to heed at last the haunting cry of the gulls and cross the great western sea.

For three years, he gathered his kindred and together they crafted a mighty ship by the shores of Ithilien, crested by a swan’s head set with silver at the bow. The men of Ithilien looked ever on in awe for they had never seen any ship fairer and the make of it, from its rope and canvas – light and iridescent - to the delicately carved oars in the shape of freshly fallen leaves, were of elvish design and its graceful curves and finish were beyond the work of any man.

As the time grew near to its completion, Legolas sought Gimli at the Glittering Caves, and bade him come with him over the sea and into the west for he could not bear for his closest friend and final living reminder of his time on Middle Earth to be left behind. Just as the Caves themselves had been slowly carved by the dwarrow to reveal its hidden beauty, time had tempered Gimli and although the furnace within his eyes still burned with the ferocity of determination, he looked to be in the winter of his days. His hair was more white than brown and was no longer as spry as he had been in his youthful days sprinting across the fields of Rohan. It was not so difficult to glean a smile from him now for though he had once been grim, the days of the War had been left behind and his people flourished in the new colony under his guidance. All was well and the world seemed all the brighter with Legolas by his side. That night a great feast was set and Legolas was given a place beside Gimli at the high table and much honoured by his hosts.

He laughed and joked that Legolas had found himself more drawn to the underground than any elf there had been before him, his merriment bounding off the stars of the Earth embedded in the vaulted ceiling glimmering and iridescent. Looking high above his head to admire the work of Gimli he was reminded of the seven stars of Elendil, flickering at the feet of Aragorn and he shivered, his quip evaporating on his tongue. The cavern seemed all at once too large and despite the blazing torches, he felt cold and small.

“Gimli, my course is set for the shores of Aman. I walked in my dreams with the music of the waters cradling me, I felt the gentle rocking of a ship beneath my feet and a chorus of voices in the sea winds calling me. Will you sail with me? For there is more that I wish for you and I to see together, fairer than all the gems and treasures of the earth and deeper than the wisdom and thriving loveliness of any wood, so it is told. In such waking sleep the Lady of the Galadhrim came to me and she obtained grace for you to be received in the Blessed Realm even before I knew my own thought.”

Gimli was silent. His dark eyes hardened and he thought long for it was a hard choice to make. He loved the plunging valleys and cutting peaks of Aulë and in his dreams he gazed into the calm waters of the Mirrormere and wandered far underground discovering new places and minerals beyond comprehension, each more delightful than the last as he delved deeper into the very bones of the earth. No greed hid within his heart for he wished only to see the beautiful and learn from the fair. Yet he knew he was ever waning and growing closer to death as the timeless years marched on and if he did not go now, then he would be withdrawn without a choice to Aman by Aulë himself. Either way, his time was drawing thin and he wanted more than ever his friend by his side to ease his passing.

And he agreed, if only to gaze upon the exquisiteness of Galadriel again, to see Valinor in all its glory and to find anew things that lay beyond his wildest imaginings in that far island. His mind was set. Legolas was himself content and relieved for the dwarrow were a stubborn people and he knew that Gimli beheld things in a much different light than he did.

Together, they crossed the rolling plains to Ithilien borne by swift feet of horses to see the grand ship finished and sea ready. And together again, they would sail down the River Anduin on the pale dawn on the third year of the passing of Aragorn, leaving behind them the land of their forefathers, Middle Earth that they were born and raised in. 

It is said by the men who watched on that day that not one of the travellers heading toward the distant shores of Aman ever looked back, only onwards to where their final journey would take them...

And some who looked closely would have seen that among the host of elves on the ship stood an elderly dwarf beside his friend at the bow.

[halfelven]

anonymous request for Sauron inspired by laplace’s angel! (prompt me with a character and a song) 

you'd walk the same damn mile I do

Annatar covers his throat with diamonds. His fingers shake as he lifts the next necklace. He is not afraid, but he can feel the world slip from his fingers as he does the clasp.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are golden, and who else has eyes like this? He lines his golden eyes with black. His fingers still shake, but the line is steady. Celebrimbor made him the rings he wears on trembling fingers. They are not magic rings, but soon they may be. Celebrimbor loves him, and it’s a pure love that he isn’t used to. Celebrimbor trusts him.

Elrond doesn’t (Little Lúthien’s Little Elrond). He stood all proud by Gil-galad’s side, turning him away because he doesn’t trust anyone, does he? And Gil-galad doesn’t trust him because Gil-galad was born to be a king in a dying world, and he’s afraid of strange things, shifting. He doesn’t believe in promises.

But Celebrimbor was born in the golden light of peace and safety, and he believes in love and beings that come to help of their own will, not only when you tear open your own chest and pull out your heart to beg them. And maybe he’s felt that no one has loved him in a long time, and Annatar can love him, can really love him. (Or he can try.)

Annatar twists gold into his hair. He isn’t a bad person. (He’s not a person.) His fingers have done terrible things, but they were not these very same fingers, so he has never had to wash blood from them.  

He pulls on a black robe and ties it in the front. Gold gleams on the sleeves. He is a sight. Maybe in some better world he wouldn’t have to check the pulse point on his neck beneath the diamonds to know that he’s still alive in this body and not dreaming somewhere that now he cannot begin to imagine.

He draws a single line in gold down the centre of his lips. He places the brush down in a straight line on his table. He is beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. No one else is.

If he could create stars, Sauron would make them more like fire, not as blue. He would make more of them so that the whole sky would be filled with orange, glittering. He would set them so that nowhere in the world was cold.

When he told Varda this, she told him that he loved fire, as if he hadn’t know that. The Flame Imperishable burnt, and if he could touch it, maybe he would know peace from the pain inside of him.

He wishes the world was warmer. He wishes it were all the same temperature. He wants everything in straight lines. He wants everyone to obey him. He wishes there were more stars and no difference between day and night. He slides ruby earrings on.

It’s not his fault. He was created like this. Born with a sickness burning through him, never consuming. He cannot change his nature. He cannot take back anything he has done, and he does not want to taste the punishment. No one would want that.

He breathes out. His blood is fast.

It’s not his fault.

[theelvenhaven]

I will always love you

young!Feanor x Vanyar!Reader

2.3k words

warnings: angst, breaking some canon, hurt, no comfort, frustrated Fëanor, definitely not gentle

* * *

Fëanor walked through the halls, today he was in no rush to see you as his day had gone far from planned. Now even the joy of seeing you had been cruelly robbed from him with the news his Atar had bestowed upon him. 

He was to marry the Lady Nerdanel, a marriage of convenience so to speak and not one out of love. While perhaps at one point Fëanor would have agreed with such a proposal, that had all changed in the past few weeks. Your arrival from Taniquetil had been a blessing it seemed to Fëanor; that finally he had fallen in love and found his one.

You were positively perfect and so incredibly different from everything that Fëanor was. Fëanor did have a scholarly love for language and a passion for crafting, considerably more brash and masculine. Yet you were not, you were more gentle and refined. You seemed to undoubtedly share some curiosity in his interests and passions and you spent many hours asking him about his craft and thoughts on linguistics.

While Fëanor loved your curiosity, he loved it more getting the opportunity to share moments  where you shared in your passions and interests. He loved the way that you looked when you sat comfortably in a chair or settee with a book in hand, your tastes ranging in herbology to linguistics to architecture and more. 

Your curiosity never ending and seemingly always growing, though that was to be expected being the grown child of a scholar. So far his favorite is when you shared with him your passion for the stars, he loved watching the way that you lit up as you spoke about Varda’s creations. Even more so did he love that you’d bring him out to the gardens at odd hours in the night. You had been only dressed in your robe and night clothes, bringing him to stargaze with you. 

Though the only sight that Fëanor couldn’t get enough of was you, and Eru how you shared your first kiss together in that moment. How soft and delicate your face felt beneath his fingers as he caressed before brushing your hair away. The soft sound of your breath hitching as he drew his lips in to meet with yours… how sweet and warm they were despite how cool it had been outside. 

You had looked positively ravishing and it was such a precious memory, one that Fëanor couldn’t stop replaying in his mind over and over. Now he had to confess to you about his new engagement to Nerdanel to you, and rip away the hope that had been so cruelly stolen from him too. Who was he to deny his Atar? All he wanted was to make him happy… Even at the cost of his own. 

Quietly he paused out in the hallway, peeking into the sitting room whose door was wide open. There you paced, a soft pink tinging your cheeks and you bit your bottom lip surely thinking about the kiss like he had been. It was all that had been on his mind and he knew it was on yours, you had just as eagerly urged him to continue in sharing such intimate affection. 

With a deep exhale Fëanor finally entered the room, drawing you from your thoughts. A wide grin spread across your beautiful face at the sight of him and he could hear the way your heart began to pound in your chest with excitement. Yet his heart began to pound with dread, though he shoved the feelings to the side. 

“Fëanor it is good to see you!” You greeted in your soft voice, it truly was music to his ears but he said nothing, shutting the door and when he was done Fëanor approached. Quickly you stood on your toes, hands reaching for his shoulders resting against the soft velvet tunic and yet Fëanor didn’t deny what you were seeking. In an instant he leaned down to kiss you, lips passionately melding with yours far more than you had been prepared for. 

Yet you welcomed the affections, feeling his arm wrap around your waist drawing your body further into him dipping you back as he did so. His tongue moving to slip into your mouth, drawing a hum from your delicate throat. Kissing you like his life absolutely depended on it, leaving you to grip onto him tightly. 

Never did you want this moment to end, bringing a hand to gently caress his face. Feeling him shudder beneath your touch, only fueling him to kiss you with more hunger until he began to reign himself in. Slowing the kiss to be more soft and tender, until finally he pulled away from you, bright blue eyes looking down at you with resolve.

Carefully he began to stand you up taking your hand in his with the other still lingering low on your waist. 

“Y/N there is something I must discuss with you.” Fëanor finally spoke, his tone even and there wasn’t a hint of excitement or curiosity that was lacing his voice. Leaving concern to begin bubbling inside of you, in your short time knowing Fëanor this was unusual. 

“Is everything alright Fëanaro?” You began as he gently pulled you along to the sofa just behind the two of you. With care he helped you sit in a gentlemanly fashion before taking his place next to you, the closeness still there between you and his hand still holding yours. 

“No, Y/N. It is not.” He began bringing you to frown with concern, only scooting closer to him placing your other hand on his knee. Yet this time Fëanor began to put some distance between you both, your heart constricted at the gesture utterly confused but you didn’t press it. Deciding to respect Fëanor’s space instead.

“What is the matter?” You pressed, Fëanor sighed out heavily looking you in the eyes as he sat up and back against the couch. His hand released yours as he brought it to rest in his lap, the other rubbing his lips for only a moment before he parted them to speak.

“Y/N, I am engaged.” Fëanor said, voice still even and your heart dropped. For a long moment you sat in silence, your heart pounding hard in your ears and dread began to fill your stomach. So many questions beginning to swirl in your mind, sense not wanting to assert itself in any manner. 

“The news broke today.” Fëanor explained to you coolly, putting the immediate fear to rest in your mind that he had been using you outside of his wife to be! How shameful it would be if everyone discovered that were the case, so his answer brought some relief.

“If you are engaged... then why did you kiss me?” You whispered bringing a hand up to your lips in shock, Fëanor only moving from the couch and to the crystal decanter set that sat upon an end table. He only sighed as he began to fill his glass and then fixing you one. Making sure to be generous with your cup, he turned to face you and noticed how you paled the way you did. 

Seeing the tears that stung your eyes, that you were working hard to blink back. Anger began to boil in his blood, distressed that you were affected as badly as you were. Only further confirming that you felt as deeply as he did about one another. Fëanor sighed heavily coming to hand you one of the crystal goblets, gently you took it from him, holding it in your lap for the time being. 

“I was being selfish.” Fëanor answered you simply watching the way you looked down and into the goblet before you, the deep red liquid sloshing some as your hands began to shake. Yet that didn’t feel like a good enough answer to you. Granted you didn’t know decades worth about him, you knew there was more to it than that. Yet you decided not to press it.

“Do you… love her?” You whispered, fingers caressing and tracing over the rim of the goblet before you finally drew it to your lips to drink. The liquid was sweet with a bitter back taste, but you withheld the grimace. Fëanor was all the while quiet, debating on how it was he was going to answer you. Debating if it were more painful to explain to you that this was purely out of convenience or if he should lie… Either response would only end with you being hurt.

“No.” He couldn’t withhold the truth from you, all you had been was genuine and honest with him and Fëanor loved you. You deserved the same honesty in return... Yet the look of hope that crossed your features told Fëanor that you weren’t going to accept this and once more frustration and anger began to build. To do this proper he was going to have to push you away, even if it meant doing it in the worst way possible.

“Fëanor if you do not love her… Then why are you agreeing to marry her?” You asked him beginning to set the goblet down on the table before you. Fëanor was sitting down in a chair across from you, a scowl visible and evident on his features as his composure was beginning to slip. Yet he wouldn’t look at you.

“It is my Atar’s wishes that I do so, and I shall do as was instructed of me.” Fëanor answered you with a heavy huff, drinking generously from his goblet as he leaned back against the chair.

“Is what we have not worth building upon? Could you not just let-” 

“NO! I cannot just set my duties aside! But how could I expect the child of a scholar to begin to understand the burdens of a Prince! I do not have the luxury of indulging in frivolous feelings much further if the High King wills that to be the case!” Fëanor seethed out angrily, all but yelling at you to get his point across. You couldn’t help but flinch at his booming voice and temper that had escaped him. 

“Is… that what you think my feelings are? Frivolous?” You whispered out in a shaky breath, Fëanor all but growled out rubbing his face with a hand as he grimaced at your words. A small sneer curling at his lips, Eru he despised everything about this moment. The way you had flinched, the hurt in your voice, it disgusted him to know that he was causing it.

You should have just accepted that he was engaged and agreed to call off whatever could have been. Yet here you were dragging things out further, and it was infuriating. Fëanor just wanted you to take this at face value, he had not anticipated for your will to be so strong.

“I love you…” You breathed out, hardly noticing the tears that spilled down your face. Again Fëanor was silent, the glower on his face only growing further and he heaved another heavy sigh at your words. Eru did he want to tell you how much he loved you too and had from the moment he laid eyes on you. 

After all it was why he initiated his visits to begin with. But offering you hope where there was none was cruel, especially when he’d not deny his Atar’s instructions.

“Yes, they are frivolous. Your emotions and incessant need to try and fight this, is frivolous. You will not change my mind! I was simply being foolish, merely wanting a taste of what was to come you mean nothing more.” He lied, yet you couldn’t tell the difference. It was all so incredibly convincing and it broke your heart to hear such cruel and hateful things. You couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears that came with his words.

Your heart and soul were crushed just as quickly as they had been swelling and thriving with the love Fëanor had offered to you just days before. Just even a moment ago when he walked through the door!

Fëanor only looked away, not having the heart to watch you, your sobs only making his anger worsen and his own hands began to shake as he took another generous swallow from his glass. Setting it down on the end table to his left, just as he was about to stand it was you that did so first. 

Sniffling as a hand came to rest against your chest as you tried to compose yourself, but it was utterly fruitless as you hiccuped and sucked in air haphazardly. The sound was gut wrenching and he had an inkling to just how bad you were hurting...

“If that is what you wish... And how you truly feel about me Fëanor then I won’t continue to press for something that’s not there... But know.. That I love you and I will always love you. No matter how frivolous it is to you, it is not to me.” You quietly pulled a handkerchief from your pockets, gently dabbing your eyes keeping your gaze to the floor. 

With that you turned and began to leave the room, leaving Fëanor to respectively wallow in his own guilt. The expression on your face not leaving his mind, as he cut into you with every cruel and harsh word spoken. He only hoped that there was no truth to your words about always loving him... That you could find someone more deserving than him of your love.

As the door shut, not a moment later did Fëanor send his crystal goblet sailing through the air and into the wall. Letting it shatter in tiny little shards that glittered in the sun, the wine dripping from the wall to the floor. Fëanor only prayed to Eru that he had made the right decision and you were allotted someone far more worthy.

* * * 

tags:

@saviorsong​ @lilmelily​ @dicksoutformtl​ @fandom-hoe101​ @icarus-fell-in-spring

[katarrinskey-archive]

Favourite works of 2020

Thank you very much @elesianne and @amethysttribble for taggin me in this!

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

It was really tough to choose favourite things i’ve made this year, tbh. For me, this year was not so much about any individual works, as about how much my skills have grown overall and how much better i am as an artist compared to where i was in the beginning of the year. (also it felt like a whole ass decade and i don’t even remember what it was that i painted in, say, March)

That being said, here r some works I happen to be more proud of then the others:

1) Maedhros, Celegorm and Huan by the fire

This one is gonna be the oldest work on this list, probably. It was lots of first times, this art. First time drawing armor, first time (for a long time) drawing a dog, first time (for a long time) planning a full scene. I’ve spent so much time on it, put so many little details, braved so many challenges, that i guess it simply couldn’t not have a very special place in my heart, even if I am now acutely aware about all the flaws and mistakes it has.

2) Palette challenge Sauron

The thing wth this one is that i actually painted it twice: first time to try this whole palette thing out and then second cause i thought it looked too simple and boring. I don’t work with a limited color sceme very often, me being me and liking my freedom a bit too much (and indeed i ended up adding a darker shade in this one too for the sake of contrast), but this was really fun and i like how the mood turned out. Feel like those colours ended up being weirdly fitting, despite how rarelly they r actually used for Sauron

3) Valinorean Russingon piece

This one has pretty simple composition and i only vaguelly knew what I was going for here, but i love it. Like, really love it. I love how bright and sort of golden the light looks. I love how it works with Maitimo’s hair. I love how unified in colours it feels. And I love these boys to an unreasonable degree so that just might be a part of the reason i’m so attache to this work

4) Himring the ink thingy

I like working with traditional materials a lot and i don’t do it nearly enough. The other thing i don’t do nearly enough is buildings and landscapes. This little thing contains all of the above and, all things considered, looks pretty decent. I should probably make more works like this

5) Findis for the silm portrait collection

Honaestly, i kinda like the whole series a lot. I like drawing portraits and i’m trying to get better in character design and textures, even tho these r mostly about faces. And i like the variety of different textures that r happening here. Espesially hair. All curls r a nightmare.Also being gay for my own female character designs is now a thing, apparently

There’s also a bunch of stuff i kinda liked but never posted, for one reason or the other, so i just gonna dump it here, as honorable mentions

+1

Varda from that one time i got drunk and designed all the valar in one sit

+2

some random orc sketch

+3

unnamed elven dude i’ve drawn while practicing painting without sketch

Not sure if some of u was tagged already, but i’m gonna tag @toastedbuckwheat @moryo--stan @russingon @maglorious @cosmicgong @foxleycrow @sessenaa @mavariel @gloomy-makes-art @ziraeldraws @astronymus​ and everyone who wants to. As always, feel free to ignore completely.