#parmacundë

[grey-gazania]

💖 💛 (Caranthir)

unusual headcanon ask game

💖 - Romantic relationships or ships. 💛 - Familial relationships.

I'm going to do these both at once, because the answers tie into each other.

Of his brothers, Caranthir is closest to Maedhros and least close to Curufin. He was already married and living with his wife in Tirion by the time Curufin was born, and thus really only saw Curufin when he went to visit his parents; he wasn't a particularly involved older brother. It wasn't until Fëanor was banished to Formenos that the two of them began living under the same roof, and Caranthir quickly came to the conclusion that Curufin was a little tit, with an ego that matched their father's but without the same level of achievement to back it up. But the thing that really solidified the wedge between them (or as Caranthir would put it, "I love my brother, but I often don't like him very much.") was Fëanor's treatment of their wives.

Curufin's wife, Nyellë, was pregnant with Celebrimbor when Fëanor was banished, and she went into exile with Curufin. Fëanor approves of this, and sees it as an act of loyalty not only to Curufin her husband, but also to him as the true heir to the Noldorin throne. He dotes on Nyellë as a loyal daughter-in-law and the mother of his only grandchild.

But Caranthir's wife, Parmacundë, did not accompany her husband to Formenos. Fëanor sees this as a deep betrayal, and he can't understand why Caranthir does not. But Caranthir didn't expect Parmë to come with him -- not because of any strife in their marriage, but because he knew she would be miserable in Formenos, away from her friends and her work and the city that she loves. I think Caranthir has the healthiest love life in his immediate family, and he wants Parmë to be happy more than anything. He knew he couldn't stay in Tirion, because that would be tantamount to declaring loyalty to Fingolfin, but he also didn't want his wife to give up her life for him. For Caranthir and Parmë, this is a temporary separation. They're doing this because it's the best way to meet both their needs. Neither of them holds any ill will towards the other over it, and the love between them remains as warm and deep as ever.

Fëanor, obviously, does not agree, and when Parmë makes her yearly visits to Formenos to see Caranthir, he treats Parmë very poorly. Curufin being Curufin, he follows his father's lead and also treats Parmë with disdain. This has led to some pretty explosive arguments between Caranthir and Fëanor that not even Finwë has been able to smooth over, with Curufin loudly taking Fëanor's side, Maglor quietly taking Caranthir's side, and Maedhros and the twins just trying to stay out of it.

[grey-gazania-fic]

A Stitch in Time

Elrond, Caranthir's wife, and a Fëanorian heirloom. Rated G.

The quilt had been added to the twins' bed during their first winter at Amon Ereb, after two nights spent curled together for warmth. Clearly their captors — caretakers? Already the lines were blurring — had noticed, and had taken steps to remedy it. It smelled of cedar and gave their room some much-needed color. Large enough to cover the bed of a full-grown man, it was more than sufficient for two children, and could even be folded in half for extra warmth on particularly cold nights.

And it was utterly unlike the other quilts they had seen, with their neat, regular blocks and clear patterns. This one was a rich riot of reds, golds, and browns, with different fabrics cut into asymmetrical shapes and quilted in winding, stylized, visible stitches. It quickly became a comfort, something that could hold Elrond's attention when he was ill or injured and confined to his bed. There seemed to constantly be something new to discover — here a sliver of fabric soft as lamb's wool, there a quill picked out in neat, tiny stitches. Tiny brass bells hung at three of the corners; the forth was adorned with a slender gold ring sewn on in blunt stitches of crimson thread.

And yet, somehow it never occurred to either of them to ask about it, not until they were half-grown and fast becoming too large to comfortably share a bed. It was Elros who gathered up the nerve to speak, after he had helped Maglor move a second bed into the room and begun to take his share of the blankets.

"You can keep using the quilt," he said to Elrond. "I know how much you like it." And then, turning to Maglor, he said, "Who made it, anyway?"

"Our sister-in-law," Maglor said after a moment of silence. "Caranthir's wife." And then, before either of them could ask, he added, "She stayed in Aman."

Caranthir, Elrond knew, was the brother who had built the keep, and one of the three who had fallen in the attack on Doriath. He wondered, sometimes, about those brothers. What had they been like? Did they have Maglor's gentleness or Maedhros' wry humor? Were they as tired-eyed and worn as Fëanor's remaining sons, at the end? But the topic was clearly closed, as Maglor folded down the last blanket, clapped Elros on the shoulder, and left the room.

And so the quilt stayed on Elrond's bed, always there to greet him when they returned to Amon Ereb each winter. And when Maedhros and Maglor informed them that they were being taken to King Gil-galad, after their protests had broken like thrown dishes against the wall of Maedhros' will, when they had given in and begun packing, Maglor had folded the quilt up and placed it in Elrond's bag, just on top of Maedhros' herbal. The corner with the ring rested face-up, and he traced it with his long, strong fingers.

"It's his wedding ring, isn't it," Elrond said. It wasn't really a question; he'd guessed as much years ago.

Maglor nodded. "It feels like I'm sending a piece of my brother away with you," he said with unusual candor.

"You are," Elrond said. "And I won't forget them. Or you."

The Sons of Fëanor were not good men, but neither were they wholly evil. Someone needed to remember that. Maedhros was grim and deadly and cooly logical, but he was also a patient teacher, prone to unexpected dry wit but never mocking his students. Maglor was equally deadly, but he had soothed their nightmares with his gentle voice and taught them all the lore he knew.

And the others…he'd learned about them, slowly. Celegorm, who had spent half his childhood sneaking his dog into his bedroom or running wild in the woods. Caranthir, who had liked numbers better than he liked most people but who had spent nearly every waking hour at Maedhros' bedside while he recovered from his torment on Thangorodrim. Curufin, whose own son had denounced him but who had spent a full day designing Himring with one hand tied behind his back, making certain that his brother could live there without hinderance. Amras, who had dragged his twin into trouble at every opportunity. And Amrod, who felt such kinship with the Green-Elves of Ossiriand that he had nearly abandoned Quenya entirely for Sindarin.

Someone needed to remember those things, after Maedhros and Maglor were gone.

"You know that we knew Gil-galad's father well," Maglor said, dragging Elrond's attention back to the present. "If they're anything alike… You'll be in good hands."

Elrond didn't answer, but wrapped his arms around Maglor in a last, unspoken goodbye.

continue reading on AO3

[grey-gazania-fic]

Unconscious Arithmetic

Caranthir meets his future wife. Rated G

I wake just before the mingling, as usual. It's one of the few times the house is quiet, the only sounds being Ammë's soft tread in the kitchen and Makalaurë's snores; he'll be dead to the world till noon. After dressing and tugging my hair into a braid, I check my pockets for loose change. I can buy a roll on my way in and lunch in the square; I don't want to vex Ammë further by getting underfoot. She's still cross with me. I can feel it itching under my skin, too deep for a proper scratch.

I didn't mean to black Angarato's eye – or at least didn't mean to until my fist was already in motion, which is close enough. But his thoughts tumble down like stones and thump my sore places, and some days I will do anything to shut him up.

I examine myself in the mirror as I clean my teeth, but luckily the bruises he gave me in turn are well-hidden under my shirt, so there will be no teasing from my coworkers. (Not my friends; I don't have friends.) Ammë is kneading dough, the steady thud muffled through the walls, so I hurry to the door and pull on my shoes. If I'm quick, she'll be too busy to notice me.

It's still pleasantly cool out, and I'm early enough that I don't need to rush. I enjoy the walk; Tirion is quiet at this hour, only just beginning to stir. The office is empty when I arrive, save Aicórë, who's likely been there all night. She takes a sip from a steaming mug of tea and snaps her fingers at me. "Carnistir. I need you to go to the archive and copy out these records. No mistakes, mind," she says, passing me a sheet of paper. "Now go fetch."

"Woof," I say, giving a half-hearted glower. But it's just for appearances' sake, and we both know I don't mean it. I actually like Aicórë; she can be funny, and she's nowhere near as nosy as the other two head accountants. And it is my happy task as apprentice to make the copies. But the archive means more itching; they think I'm difficult, always needing the original of this and the copy from such-and-such year of that. Too bad for them. That's how audits work.

It's early, but there's a girl behind the counter when I get there. Her hair is tucked neatly under a scarf like most of the other workers, but she's unfamiliar. Another apprentice, likely; she looks younger than me – the top of the counter is nearly level with her bust, she's so short – and the prickle in my stomach says she's nervous.

She flushes and clears her throat before asking, "May I help you?"

"I need to copy these files." Bracing myself, I slide the paper to her, but when she reads it no irritation comes – just a shy smile and something cool and soothing flowing over me like water. It's not even five minutes before she's back and passing a neat stack over to me.

"This one's written with the sarati," she says, indicating the top paper. "Do you need it transcribed into the tengwar?"

I shake my head. "It's fine. I'll bring them back up when I finish."

It's probably the most boring part of the work, copies – nothing interesting or challenging, just double- and triple-checking that what you've written out is accurate. But I work steadily and carefully until near lunchtime, those hours when Laurelin is hottest and we all retreat to fountains or the shade. I tap my quill absently on the table as I give the pages a final read. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap tap. Tap-tap tap-tap tap.

There's an answering click on the counter behind me, eight taps, and when I turn around and see the same girl, I can't hide a smile. She blushes and ducks her head before disappearing into the stacks, and when I return the files the desk is staffed by one of the familiar itchy harridans.

But after I've handed the work to Aicórë, when I'm settled with my meal on the edge of one of the fountains in the square, I see the little archivist again, and I surprise myself when I shift and say, "Here, sit; there's room. What's your name?"

"Maryacúnë," she says, sitting and sliding off her sandals to dip her toes in the water. "What's yours?"

"Carnistir. I work across the square." Being the mediocre child sometimes has benefits; she doesn't show so much as a flicker of recognition. "You're new, aren't you?" I continue. "I never saw you before this week."

She nods and flushes, radiating a warm tingle of happiness. "They only just took me as an apprentice this month, but I already love it. What are you studying?"

"Accounting. Something to do until I make my earth-shaking mathematical breakthrough. You know, unless someone else gets there first." Atar, most likely. Not that he'll mean it maliciously, but after he sat down to ponder Telerin determiners and stood up with the solution to Formatar's formerly-unsolvable theorem, I stopped pretending I could predict him.

She pulls off her scarf, revealing dark hair braided and pinned, and shakes off the dust before folding it and tucking it away. "A zoologist, an engineer, and a mathematician are having lunch," she says. "Across the street, they see two people walk into a house. After a few minutes, three people leave the house. So the zoologist says, 'They must have reproduced.' The engineer says, 'Our initial count must have been incorrect.' And the mathematician says, 'Now, if one person walks back inside, the house will be completely empty!'"

I can't help it; I nearly choke laughing, and she joins in with more than a little mischief.

I don't have friends. But maybe, just maybe, I could.

[grey-gazania-fic]

Five Letters Caranthir Sent His Wife (And One Letter He Didn't)

When Fëanor is exiled to Formenos, his seven sons accompany him, but Caranthir's wife stays behind in Tirion. A selection of their correspondence. Rated PG.

1

My dear Parmë,

I have no idea how long it will take for this to reach you; there’s not much in the way of a postal service up here, so I’ve entrusted my letter to Herenyo, who’s headed back to Tirion now that he’s seen his sister safely settled here.

We’ve arrived, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. The place hasn’t changed much since we were last here. Remember standing on the banks of the Híri and looking up at that ring of mountains -- the bright snow on the peaks, and the way the light reflected off the water and brought out all the bands of color in the stone? It’s still as beautiful now as it was then, though I’m having a harder time appreciating it when I know I’ll be stuck here for twelve years, instead of just visiting for a few weeks.

I miss you already.

Atto made all his preliminary construction plans on our journey here, and he’s already started the work. He intends to build into the mountains as well as settle on the plain -- a precaution for the winter, I suppose, or maybe he just wants a place he can fortify. I admit I haven’t asked, because he’s still in a filthy temper about the Valar’s judgment and I’d rather not get my head bitten off. In front of the others he puts on a cast-iron show of leadership, but when it’s just the family, he’s worse than a snapping turtle. Haru is the only one who can calm him.

Curvo is already running himself ragged, trying to do everything Atto asks and trying to keep Nyellë from exerting herself now that she’s expecting. 

I've taken over all the cooking, mostly because I can and it beats babysitting or making nails and door hinges.  But I keep thinking how you've probably gone back to living on tomato & cheese sandwiches and raw mushrooms. (I still don't understand why you eat those. Ugh.)  Promise you'll eat some real food at least occasionally? Meet up with Amarië for lunch or something.

I miss you, but you'd hate it here.  It's all noise and shouting and people everywhere, hardly any quiet.  I don't remember things being so loud even when I lived at home, but I guess there were fewer of us then.  And things are strange – Tyelkormo is out hunting most of the time, as usual, and Curvo fusses over Nyellë while she tries not to snap at him, but now Haru tries to placate Atar, and Maitimo tends to the twins and is quietly miserable.  Not that he's confessed it to anyone, but it's plain enough, at least to me.  

How is Tirion holding up with so many people gone? Are things calmer at all?

I can’t sleep through the night anymore, not without you beside me. I know why you stayed behind, and I understand, I really do, but I already miss you so much it aches.

All my love,

Carnistir

2

My dearest, beloved Parmë,

I’m sorely tempted to toss Curvo in the river, and you know, I think Nyellë might applaud me if I did. He’s smothering her with all his fussing, which is clearly driving her mad. I had no idea the two of them could argue so fiercely. So now we have not one, but three people in a constant state of bad temper. Family dinners are approaching open warfare.

I’m not blameless myself; I’ll be the first to admit it. I’d forgotten how hard it is to live with so many people under one roof. It was so much better at home with you, just the two of us. You’ve always been my even keel, my oasis, the cool water to quench my hot temper. It’s difficult being here without you. It feels like we’re all taking after Atto, snapping and snarling at each other. Not even Maitimo can keep the peace these days, and he was always the one who smoothed things over among us.

I think he misses Fingon desperately, even if he won’t admit it. The two of them argued before we left, and they must have exchanged some truly bitter words, because Maitimo’s heart feels like it’s surrounded with nettles now. I’ve tried talking to him – I thought maybe I could help draw out whatever’s poisoning him inside – but my efforts have gone nowhere. He’s locked part of himself away, like he doesn’t want to feel his own emotions. But the pain is bleeding out of him, even if I’m the only one who can see it.

I miss the days when we were happy. I miss my mother. Most of all, I miss you.

Your cousin is here, did you know? Alassinkë, I mean, and her ridiculous husband. They’ve been trying to curry favor with Atto through me, but I’m having none of it. Why should I give them the time of day, when they never treated you with the respect you deserve? I know that once we married, Alassinkë only ever saw her relationship with you as a means to an end. I won’t reward that kind of loveless conniving.

I was glad to hear that you’ve been spending time with Amarië. Please, offer her my congratulations on a successful first date with Findaráto. He’s been pining over her for years, but I thought he would never work up the nerve to ask her out. And while you know I’ve never been particularly close with him, I will say that he’s always been the least objectionable of Arafinwë’s brats. Amarië could do a lot worse.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I feel like I left a piece of myself behind in Tirion with you. Please, try to come for a visit soon, even if it’s only a few days. I think Canyanis would give you the time off if you asked. She adores you, and you’re one of her best archivists. Try, please. I would give anything to see you, even for a little while.

All my love,

Carnistir

3

Parmë, my Parmë, light of my life and dearest in the world to me,

I know I said this before you left, but I need to say it again: I am so, so sorry for how Atto treated you while you were here. I knew he was angry that you stayed behind in Tirion instead of coming here with me, but I never thought he would have such harsh words for you. I’ve tried to convince him that he owes you an apology, but he won’t listen to anything I say. He sees the fact that you stayed behind as a betrayal, just like he sees Ammë staying behind as a betrayal. He’s even accused me of being “blinded by my love for you.”

I told him that was nonsense, and that when we married we promised to love and cherish each other, not to always agree with each other. I’d be nothing but a petty tyrant if I’d tried to wheedle you into coming to Formenos with us, and I never could’ve done that to you, anyway. You love Tirion. You love the archive. You love your work, and your friends, and the garden that you’ve tended to for so long. I know you’d be miserable here, away from all of that, and I can never bear to see you unhappy.

I would’ve stayed with you if I could, but Atto never would have forgiven me. Plus that would’ve been tantamount to declaring allegiance to Nolofinwë, which is something you know I’ll never do. If he hadn’t listened to Melkor’s lies and tried to usurp my father’s place, none of us would be in this mess.

At any rate, Atto and I aren’t speaking now, because of what he said about you. Maitimo hasn’t even tried to get us to reconcile, which tells you all you need to know about how well he’s doing. Curvo’s taken sides, of course, so now he’s not speaking to me either. Tyelko’s been smart enough not to offer an opinion, and I think the twins are too young to really care. Makalaurë hasn’t said anything to Atto’s face about it, but in private he told me that Atto was out of line and that he doesn’t blame me for being angry. He said if Atto ever spoke to Melindil like that, he’d be furious, too.

I don’t know what Melindil and Nyellë think, but if I were them, I’d be nervous. You were always Atto’s favorite daughter-in-law, and if he’ll talk to you like that, they must realize he’ll do the same to them if they misstep. Though they came with us, so Atto is seeing them in a better light than he sees you. Loyalty has become very important to him, but I’m concerned by how strictly he seems to be defining it. I think if Haru had stayed behind to continue ruling in Tirion, Atto would’ve fallen apart completely.

Again, I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t my fault, but you deserved better. If you don’t want to come back, I’ll understand, and I won’t fault you for it.

I cherish you, Parmë. More than the stars in the sky, more than the light of the Trees, more than all the gems in the earth.

All my love,

Carnistir

4

My dearest, darling Parmë, who has the cleverest hands,

I was a bit surprised when your package came, but oh, melissë, you outdid yourself. It's beautiful! And so warm – I swear it's the warmest blanket in the fortress. You must have been working on this quilt for months. The embroidery alone must have taken you weeks. Truly, it’s a work of art. I’ve never seen a quilt so fine, or so unique. Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re here with me, your arms wrapped around me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

In other news, Nyellë's had the baby. It's a boy. His name is Curufinwë Tyelperinquar. Typical. I’ve always thought this family already had more Curufinwës than it needed, but it seems Curvo disagrees.

There's not much else to say about him; he's little and bald and red, and he cries a lot. He looks to take after Curvo, at least in his appearance. Atto is thrilled, but Nyellë wants to try to arrange a visit with Ammë, so I'm not sure how long the good mood will last. Nyellë’s in the right, though. Ammë deserves to meet her first grandchild.

Little Tyelpo’s birth has cheered Maitimo up, too, which I’m grateful for. He’s clearly enjoying being an uncle, not to mention having a baby in the house again. I always thought he would make a good father. He loves children more than anyone I’ve ever met, and certainly more than I do. He’s having a grand time teaching Pityo and Telvo how to properly handle an infant, though so far they’ve refused his diaper-changing lessons.

Nyellë and Curvo are both exhausted and clearly appreciate the help. Even I’ve been charmed by the little dumpling, though living in a house with a baby is a new one for me, as you know. By the time Curvo and the twins came along, I was already settled in Tirion with you.

I do wish he didn’t cry so much, but when I made the mistake of saying that to Maitimo, Maitimo told me that I cried ten times as often and ten times as loudly when I was a baby. If he’s telling the truth – and let’s face it, I have no reason to doubt him – I was the unhappiest infant in all of Aman.

Will you come to see your nephew? I think Atto is in a good enough mood that he won’t snap at you again, and as always, I’d love to see you. I know you know nothing about babies, being an only child, but Maitimo and I would teach you, and I think Nyellë would like to see you, too. I know she said she’d like to thank you in person for the baby clothes you sent last month. They’re a little big – Tyelpo came a few weeks early, and he’s small – but he’ll grow into them. That’s one thing I do remember about babies; they grow faster than you’d think.

I’ve included some chrysanthemum seeds with this letter, for you to try in the garden back home. They grow wild up here, and these are from a plant with blooms that were a lovely shade of peach that I haven’t seen before. I hope they grow, and that they make you think of me.

All my love,

Carnistir

5

My darling, dearest, precious Parmë,

It was so, so good to see you. It’s amazing how much more peaceful the place is since little Tyelpo arrived, though I’ll be the first to say that that’s an awful lot of weight to put on a two-year-old’s shoulders. But if it means you can come and go without trouble, then I’ll take it. Selfish of me, I know, but I’ve never claimed not to be selfish. Thank Canyanis for me, will you, for giving you two entire weeks?

I hope there’s no trouble in Tirion over the fact that you’ve been coming to Formenos. I worry that some people there might view you with suspicion, or think you’re spying for Atto somehow. I know things are tense both here and there, and I’m glad that you’re doing your best to navigate both simultaneously. Selfish of me again, maybe; mostly I’m just happy I’ve been able to see you.

Tyelpo’s taken to dragging the blanket you made for him around with him everywhere, to the point that he cried when Nyellë took it away so that she could wash it. It’s displaced the bunny Ammë sent as his favorite thing.

I planted the rose seedlings you brought with you along the wall outside my bedroom window, so that I’ll be able to see them when they grow. They’ll make the place feel a little more homey. Not that it’s ever going to be home, for all that we’ve already been here three years and are due to stay another nine. Home isn’t here. Home is with you.

Tell me, has Findaráto asked Amarië to marry him yet, or is he still dragging his feet? He’s lucky she loves him so much, or someone else probably would have stolen her away by now.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t criticize. I proposed to you with no planning and no rings. But I’d known for years by then that you were the only person I would ever want to marry. I was just waiting until I’d turned fifty. Findaráto is well past fifty. He needs to get a move on things, or he’ll be like Maitimo, unmarried forever.

Of course, don’t tell him I said any of this. I doubt he has any desire to take relationship advice from me, considering how poorly we’ve always gotten along. His loss, though. I think I have the happiest marriage in the entire family.

Write me back quickly. I know I just saw you, but I already miss you.

All my love,

Carnistir

+1

Parmë, my love, my life,

It feels unfair, having to stay here for so long. It was Melkor’s lies that drove Atto to do what he did, and the Valar haven’t even managed to find Melkor. But they banished Atto anyway, even though they haven’t managed to fix their own mistake. Maybe Atto’s right, and we would be better off in Endorë rather than caged here. I don’t know. I just think a fresh start sounds tempting.

Would you come with me, if we were to really leave? I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid the answer would be no, and then we’d truly be sundered. Formenos is two days’ ride from Tirion. Endorë is an entire ocean away. But I know you don’t feel hemmed in here the way I do. You’re happy in Aman. You have your work, your friends, your family. I see the way you light up when you talk about the archive. I see how much joy your craft brings you.

If I’m honest, I’m not just afraid to ask; I think I’d actually hate myself if I ever did ask. I could never demand that you make that choice.

I’m afraid to ask the other question, too. If Atto did decide to lead us east over the sea, and you didn’t want to join him, would I stay with you? Or would I go with Atto? I don’t know the answer to that question, and that terrifies me. I love my father, but I also love you. I think having to make that choice would tear me in two.

Atto has been commanded to appear before Manwë at the festival, though the terms of his banishment haven’t been lifted. Haru has refused to go with him, and Atto has told the rest of us to stay behind as well. But I’m worried. Maybe it’s nothing, but I just have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is about to go wrong, that there’s some great malice at work that we can’t see. I’ve been dreaming of darkness rolling across Aman and choking the light.

I’m afraid. I wish  

Carnistir set down his quill, screwed up his parchment, and fed it to the flames.

[grey-gazania-fic]

Half Past Ten in the Rose Garden

Caranthir discovers that this romance thing is a lot harder than it looks. Rated G.

"I'll be home late," I tell my mother as I'm packing up for work. Swatting Tyelko's hands away, I add an extra helping of the dumplings I made yesterday to my lunch bag; Parmë loves them and I know she can't cook for beans. "I'm meeting a friend for dinner."

"Aw, don't take them all," he complains. "How much does your imaginary friend eat, anyway?"

I roll my eyes — that joke got old years ago — but otherwise ignore him. To think that he wonders why I've never introduced the two of them.

"Tyelko, don't pick on your brother," Ammë calls from her studio. "Carnistir, have a good time."

"I will," I say, popping my head in. She smiles and waves, and I set out, wincing when the door slams shut behind me. I keep forgetting that Atto fixed that sticky hinge, and Ammë hates slammed doors.

I like working afternoons better than evenings. I finish just in time for supper, so meeting up with Parmë is easy. The vendors are closed by then, but I bring some of whatever I've cooked lately, she brings bread and cheese or vegetables from her little garden, and between the two of us we have a nice meal. Today starts out no differently; Aicórë and I finish up the accounts for the law firm next door and I meet Parmë by the fountain. It's not until after we've eaten that things deviate from the usual pattern.

"It's so nice out," Parmë says, stretching her arms behind her. "Want to go walk in the garden for a bit?"

"Sure." The city gardens are gorgeous at this time of year, with the roses and lilies in full bloom, and they won't be crowded, not this late at night. I offer her my hand and pull her up, waiting while she slips her shoes back on, and then wrap my arm around her shoulders. The gardens aren't far at all, and we walk in silence as we bask in the beauty of the flowers. That's one of the things I like about Parmë; she doesn't feel the need to chatter all the time. Like me, she knows how to appreciate quiet.

There are plenty of little nooks with benches and ivy-covered trellises scattered throughout, and she pulls me over to sit on one, resting her head on my shoulder. "I don't feel like going home yet," she says with a little laugh. "It's too beautiful out tonight."

"Yeah.” I pause. Swallow. Take her hand in mine, matching our fingertips together and studying her delicate bones. I love her so much, it's sometimes hard to find words, or at least words that don't sound ridiculous. I'm no poet, and I want to sit here with you forever is so overdramatic as to be worthy of Makalaurë.

“Will you marry me?“ I blurt out.

Parmë blinks, mouth open, and her shock is like a pre-dawn plunge into the ocean. "Y-yes,” she stammers. “Yes, I would. I will.”

Then my arms are around her, our lips meeting in a tentative kiss. It's a little sloppy, but that maybe isn’t surprising, since I don't think either of us have much experience. I sure don't. But it's nice – her lips are soft and warm and she smells like vanilla and old parchment, sweet and familiar.

I pull away suddenly when I realize something. "Rings,“ I say, feeling like a fool. "I can’t believe I just proposed without rings.”

“Did…you even talk to your parents?” Parmë squeaks.

“Er…” I cough. “Um. No. I should probably do that as well.”

She laughs shakily. "I love you, Carnistir. Even when you don’t think things through.“

"I don’t think they’ll object,” I protest. “It’s not like there’s something wrong with you— No, I don’t mean it like that!” I groan and drop my head into my hands. Why did this have to be so difficult? “I mean you're—” Basically perfect in every way. No, I couldn’t say that. “You’re you. And I love you. So there’s nothing for any reasonable person to object to. My parents are reasonable people, right?”

“I don’t know,” Parmë says. “Seeing as I’ve never actually met them.”

“Oh, hell. I have to introduce you to my family. I have to introduce you to my brothers. I have to introduce you to Tyelko.” I groan again. Tyelkormo is an immature idiot about girls. Why Irissë tolerates him, I will never know.

Parmë pats my arm. “It’s– It’s okay. They’re your parents; I’m sure they want you to be happy.”

My heart gives a funny sort of lurch. Stunned and nervous and wrong-footed as Parmë is, not even having met my oddball family yet, and she's still trying to comfort me.

“I love you,” I say, a little softer. “Let me walk you home? Just– don’t say anything to Amarië. Not yet.”

“I’m not saying a word to anyone, Carnistir. Not till you’ve talked to your parents. I won't be fodder for anybody's gossip unless I absolutely have to be.” She presses her lips together and crosses her arms, taut like a bowstring. "I won't be the woman who got rejected by the royal family for not being good enough."

She's scared, I realize, scared of what being engaged to me might mean. Scared of what people will say. "That won't happen," I insist. "I'm going to marry you, and I don't care what anybody else says about it. Except you, obviously."

This is turning out to be about as romantic as filing taxes. I feel like such an idiot.

"Look," I say, holding her close once more. "Let me walk you home. I'll talk to my parents in the morning, and then tomorrow I'll tell you what they say." I kiss her hair and feel her relax a little in my arms. "It'll be okay. I promise."

"I hope so," she murmurs. "I do love you."

"I know." I've known for years; I've just been waiting until we're both of age to say anything about it. But it turns out this romance thing is a lot harder than it looks. "And I love you. But let's get you home, okay?"

continue reading on AO3

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The OFC squad (plus Girl-galad), made using Rinmaru’s Medieval Woman Dress-Up.

From left to right: Ianneth (Fingon’s wife), Ereiniel Gil-galad, Parmacundë (Caranthir’s wife), Nyellë (Curufin’s wife) with bonus baby Celebrimbor, Tókhesh/Tavoreth (Ulfang’s granddaughter), and Galwen (a follower of the Sons of Fëanor)

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Unnamed Wives of the House of Finwë [1/4] → Parmacundë the archivist, wife of Caranthir

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A Gift of Words

In pre-Darkening Tirion, a bookish young girl receives a significant gift. Rated G.

"Up you go, Maryë," Poldasámo said, lifting his young daughter into the back of the wagon and setting her among the vegetables. "Be careful; we don't want the cabbages bruising, and we especially don't want you bruising."

Maryacúnë tucked her legs under her skirt as a precaution against the dawn's chill and settled on the dew-dampened wood between a gunny sack of potatoes and the wrapped bread and cheese Elencalë had packed for their lunch, hoping that the seat of her dress would dry as Laurelin waxed. "I'll be careful, Atto," she answered. "May I take orders for Mistress Almarë today, please?"

"If she'd like you to." Poldo rested his hand fondly atop her head for a moment before climbing up beside his wife on the wagon's bench.

"What book are you saving for, sweet pea?" Elenë turned and smiled at her daughter. "You've read that book of fables through at least six times now; have you memorized it?"

The fables had been good - some funny, some serious, and many interesting - but Maryë had been disappointed to find that she knew most of the words already. "I did like the stories," she said as Poldo clicked his tongue at the horse and the wagon began rolling towards Tirion. "But I think I'd like to try a history book next."

"You should ask Haru and Haruni about history. You know they made the Great Journey; they tell you lots of stories."

"Not history like that," Maryë said with a thoughtful frown. "Not what happened on the Journey - how the Journey happened, how King Finwë organized it. That kind of history."

"Do they write books about that?" Elenë asked.

Maryë nodded solemnly and settled carefully against the burlap. "I've seen one at Master Tatyacambo's shop."

"Well, with luck it will be there still when you've saved enough to buy it," Poldo said cheerfully, winking at his wife when he was certain Maryë wouldn't see. "Now, it's a long trip - let's sing something!" The family sang songs and told stories, and Maryë listened and watched the scenery until Tirion came into view; from that point on the traffic on the roads steadily increased, and the air quickly filled with the creak of wagons and chatter of other men and women.

"It's crowded today," Elenë observed as Poldo guided the wagon slowly through the streets to their usual spot in the market square. "We should do good trade." Maryë looked around curiously. There was always so much to see in the marketplace that enduring the noise and bustle seemed a worthwhile exchange - the booths of craftsmen and merchants and the great crowd of elves, some in clothes as plain as her own, some in rich brocades with fine embroideries, and many somewhere in between.

"I'm glad we thought to bring the new potatoes," Poldo said. "And I think Mistress Almarë might need your help after all, Maryë." He climbed down from the wagon to tend to their horse, and Elenë lifted her daughter to the ground and handed her one of the bundles of bread and cheese.

"Run along, sweet pea; I'll come fetch you when we're ready to go, all right?"

"All right, Amil." Maryë hugged Elenë around the waist and pressed her face into her skirt, breathing in the smell of soap and carrots that always clung to her mother. She pulled away after a moment and trotted off through the crowd toward Almarë the baker's booth.

"Maryë!" Almarë greeted her with a broad grin. "I was hoping you'd come today - look at this mob!" She held her arms out wide to indicate the noisy throng filling the market before reaching to help Maryë clamber up onto the stool beside her. "How is your family?" she asked, passing the tiny girl a pen and her order book.

"We're well. How is yours, Mistress Almarë?"

"Speak up - no one can hear you when you mumble, Maryë," Almarë chided.

"We're well," Maryë repeated, flushing and raising her voice uncomfortably as she turned to the proper sheet of parchment. "How are you, Mistress Almarë?"

"We're wonderful! My daughter's visiting next week with her boys; I can hardly believe how big they've grown! And Veryo's poor thumb is all better---" She stopped abruptly as harried-looking woman approached her stall. "And what can I get for you today, miss?" she asked, smiling.

The next few hours were busy, with Almarë selling bread, rolls, and other baked goods, and Maryë recording sales and taking down confectionery orders in her neat, careful writing. It was past noon and Almarë and Maryë were just finishing their lunches when Elenë arrived. "It's all sold, sweet pea," she said, stroking her daughter's hair. "And we've got salt and flour and sugar. Say goodbye?"

"Goodbye," Maryë said quietly, climbing down to the stone-covered street. "I hope your visit is nice."

"I'm sure it will be." Almarë counted out a small handful of coins and gave them to Elenë before saying, "You and your family keep well until I see you next. It's your begetting day next week, isn't it?" Maryë nodded shyly and reached for her mother's hand. "I have something for you," Almarë continued, bending down to retrieve a bundle from under the booth. She straightened and held a thick book out to the tiny girl. "It's a dictionary; now you'll be able to look up words you don't know, instead of having to ask what they mean."

"Thank you, Mistress Almarë," Maryë said, taking the book with wide-eyed, slightly stunned reverence and opening it to a center page. "It even has the tengwar and the sarati!" she exclaimed happily.

"That's very kind of you," Elenë said, looking rather nonplussed. "Run and show your father, Maryë? I just want a last quick word with Almarë." Once her daughter was out of earshot she turned back to the baker, but Almarë spoke first. "Please don't protest, Elencalë - she's a very sweet child, and such a help."

"If you're sure..." Elenë said uncertainly. "But it's a bit lavish for a fourteen-year-old, isn't it?"

Almarë chuckled. "Perhaps. But I've seen the way she reads; I don't mind encouraging her."

"She is a little bookworm, whenever she can be," Elenë admitted with a laugh. "I doubt we'll get a word out of her on the way home. Thank you, Almarë."

"You're welcome, dear," Almarë said. "And take care until I see you next."

"And you. I should go make sure my little bookworm actually found Poldo." Elenë gave a small wave before threading her way back to the wagon, where Maryë was already settled on some of the empty sacks, oblivious to the world with her nose buried in the dictionary.

"It'll be a quiet trip home," Poldo said good-humoredly, reaching a hand down to help Elenë up to the bench. "Think we'll hear a peep out of her before supper?"

"I doubt it."

"Clinquant!" Maryë piped up from the wagon bed. "Glittering with gold or silver, and hence with metallic imitations of these; tinseled." She looked up at her parents with a happy grin. "I like that word! It's almost onomatopoeic. Some people in the city are so clinquant that when they move, they clink!"

"Very good, Maryë," Poldo said, grinning at Elenë as she stifled a laugh into the crook of her arm. "Or maybe," he murmured to her, "she'll make more peeps than a nest of hungry wrens."

"I heard that, Atto," Maryë said with a small huff.

"I know you did. Now let's head home so you can show your grandparents."

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📜?

@sallysavestheday || book emoji meme

Someday I will sit down and write that ficlet about Pamacundë breeding bio-luminescent plants in the aftermath of the Darkening to tide people over until the Valar get their shit together and turn the lights back on.

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[SWG link here]

Young Caranthir discovers that this romance thing is a lot harder than it looks. 

Chapter 3 is now posted!

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[SWG link]

When Fëanor is exiled to Formenos, his seven sons accompany him, but Caranthir's wife stays behind in Tirion. A selection of their correspondence.

Written for the Vintage challenge prompts "epistolary" and "five things" at the Silmarillion Writers' Guild.

[grey-gazania]

🕊️ for Caranthir!

@sallysavestheday || unusual headcanon ask game

🕊️ - Platonic relationships (friends, enemies, etc)

Caranthir is very much a loner and does not easily let people into his confidence. He also uses the word "friend" very sparingly -- most people are just "acquaintances" or, if they work together, "colleagues". This is largely because, in the spirit of @dawnfelagund's stories, Caranthir is basically the ósanwë equivalent of an empath. He experiences other people's emotional and mental states as physical sensations in his own body. With some people, most specifically his wife, Parmacundë, but also most of his family (particularly Mahtan and Maedhros), this is generally neutral-to-comforting. With other people, like Angrod and sometimes Celegorm (Celegorm more often when Caranthir is a child; much less so as adults), he finds it uncomfortable-to-painful. He's compared interacting with Angrod in particular to someone thumping him with a rock on a spot that's already bruised.

He would love to be able to shut this ability on and off at will, but he has very little control over it and all his efforts to figure out how have resulted in failure. I say on and off, though because he doesn't want to sever the connection with his wife and his family that this ability gives him. He just wants to be able to restrict these feelings to people he's close to, instead of getting blasted with it 24/7.

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1, 11, 19 for the ask game?

@that-angry-noldo || questions for fanfic writers

1. Why do you write fanfiction?

It's fun! Fanfiction lets me explore the characters and worlds that I love in more depth than simply reading about them does. And especially for a book like The Silmarillion, where so much of what we're given in the text is more of a light sketch than a fully-realized portrait, fanfiction is an entertaining way to experiment with different character interpretations.

11. Gen fic or shippy stuff?

I write both, though I think I do write gen more often than shippy stuff. But I have a whole series about Caranthir and his wife, and multiple Fingon/Fingon's Wife and Fingon/Maedhros stories. Sometimes they're the same story, because I hate happiness.

19. Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them!

I have so many OCs, it's not even funny. The ones I've spent the most time on are:

Parmacundë, who was my first Silmarillion OC. She's rather shy and introverted, a grade-A dweeb, and an archivist who handles government records at Tirion's royal archive. She and Caranthir meet as young apprentices (her at the archive, him at an accounting firm) and become friends and eventual spouses.

Ianneth, who has her own series and also features heavily in my Woman King AU (as she should, considering she's Gil-galad's mother). She's the daughter of Annael of Mithrim and the wife of Fingon. I love Fingon/Maedhros, but I also want Fingon to be Gil-galad's father. I'm not by an stretch of the imagination the first person to try to reconcile these things, but Ianneth was in many ways born of my frustration with the fact that, in so many stories where the M/M ship involves a het-partnered party, the feelings of the woman are completely discounted. She's ignored, or vilified, or even written out of the story altogether. I wanted to put the focus on the wife and give her a voice.

Galwen, a Nandorin/Avarin follower of the Sons of Feanor, who was saved by Amras as an adolescent from an orc attack that left her mute. I created her to be a minor antagonist in my Kidnap Fam multichap, and she proceeded to take on a life of her own and start demanding her own stories. She's a pain in my ass but I love her.

Tókhesh/Tavoreth, who is Ulfang's grandaughter and Bor's niece. She's the star of my First Age Easterlings WIP, which is the WIP that has given me the most agita in my life. She's young, but highly adept with languages, and she becomes the chief translator between Caranthir and Ulfang's people. I can't go into too much detail about her without spoiling the chapters I haven't written yet, so you'll just have to keep reading to find out more. :)

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for the writer ask game:

👻- 2 or 3 sentences from something you haven’t posted yet

🎀- favorite story

💭- any ideas for a possible wip?

@theghostinthemargins || writer ask game

👻- 2 or 3 sentences from something you haven’t posted yet

A couple lines from the as-yet-untitled ficlet about Girl-galad and Fingon's wife in the aftermath of Maedhros' suicide:

“It must be hard for the boys,” Ianneth said quietly. “Losing people they loved in such a way. Grieving alone.”

“And surrounded by people who definitely aren’t grieving,” Gil-galad said. “I know I’m not. I mean, I wouldn't say I’m happy, but I am…relieved, I guess. Glad it's finally over. And if any of the Iathrim or Gondolindrim are feeling glad, I’m not going to tell them they're in the wrong. After what Fëanor’s sons did to them, they’ve got the right to feel any way they damn well please.”

🎀- favorite story

Favorite in terms of best-story-I've-ever-written would have to go to The Flight of Birds (rated G) or The Hearts of the Eldar (rated T), but favorite in terms of story-I-look-upon-with-the-most-fondness is probably Unconscious Arithmetic (rated G), in which Caranthir meets his future wife. Parmacundë (though she hasn't yet gained her epessë at the time this story is set) was my first OC, and she's still my favorite of my quartet of nameless-wife characters. Plus, it doesn't get much more fun than writing two dweebs falling in love!

💭- any ideas for a possible wip?

So many. I'd really like to do more with my ideas about the Nandor and the Kinn-lai, partly because I think it would help me flesh out Galwen even more. She's a very demanding OC! I also have a ton of additional stories planned for my Girl-galad series. The problem is finding both the time and the energy to write them all.