#well those in valinor at least

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Ok, but like, valinor was “perfect” right? As in no hunger, no diseases, no fighting.

But middle earth? Man, that place has given up trying to be dignified, starvation, disease, war, etc. in most places.

So. When the noldor arrive from yonder shores, especially those born in valinor?

They all almost die bc they do not have the immunity to survive the shock to their immune system due to the dozens of new diseases introduced to them when they step foot on beriliand.

It’s not morgoth that’s the danger, it’s the goddamn germs.

[pluto-lichen]

I (personally) Cannot handle drawing/writing Thranduil as any taller than his movie height (6'5) for Barduil logistics reasons (he already has to bend a little for kisses, his poor neck, plus he's at perfect neck kissing height for Bard (fig. 1) and I refuse to change that)

(Fig. 1: those chompers are lined up perfectly and I daren't move them)

... But that's very short for what we know of Elf heights. Ellyn/Elf Men (irrelevant in my case given my other elf headcanons. but. we don't have time for that) are said to almost never be less than six and a half feet tall.

So, to get around this, I headcanon that Elves in Middle Earth have gotten significantly shorter on average since the First Age. Thranduil, when he was young (probably towards the end of the First Age, before the Second Kinslaying at least, I personally place his begetting day in November of F.A. 490) was actually short for an Elf.

Not so anymore. It's not that he's particularly tall, he's just older than the Silvan Elves of his kingdom who led rougher and more vulnerable lives and also died in large numbers in the War of the Last Alliance. If he went to Valinor, he'd be tiny. But because he's in a war-torn community and surrounded by younger Elves and contrasted with humans and shorter peoples, he seems tall.

I also think that Oropher, whose name translates to 'tall (lit. mountainous) beech tree,' a name I think he was given for his gargantuan stature and silver hair (like beech bark), was one of the very first Elves to awaken in the east. I think he was well over 7ft tall. Thranduil's other parent was just Very Short.

[neyafromfrance95]

I understand some might be frustrated but I for one think that what the showrunners are doing with Sauron x Galadriel in S2 is absolutely insane, and I never thought they would actually go there? The yearning, the heartbreak, the angst? Am I alone in this? Everyone knows this is doomship, and the only possible solace is for Sauron and Galadriel to be reunited in Valinor/Aman at the end of it all (literally). But we are being served, nonetheless.

you definitely aren't alone, anon! well, at least i'm with you!

i'm loving the slow-burn, the gradual build-up to their reunion. i believe that keeping them apart for an entire season while having them be obsessed with each other is going to make for an extremely explosive climax.

i understand the frustration, but i wish we did not immediately jump to negativity when we don't get an instant gratification fix, that's what the fanfics are for after all!

what we are getting with sauron x galadriel isn't the "crumbs", it is a very intentional and significant build-up.

we witness galadriel, betrayed and motivated by revenge, be shaken to her core by her taboo feelings for sauron. this dichotomy needs to seep in well.

we need to see sauron for a cold master manipulator that he is with others and then see how his facade falls when it comes to galadriel. we see him call her in her vision, i believe he even sends her the vision of his whereabouts in eregion as well, we see him think of her longingly just bc someone's hair reminded him of her. he is obsessed.

now, it all does come down to the ending. this structure of development is going to work only if they aren't as separated in s3 anymore.

also, fandoms are fun spaces to share your excitement with, but smtms they tend to be toxic and confusing. i have a much better experience when i decide by myself if i liked an ep or not after watching it instead of jumping to social media to tell me if it was good. for example, you have the lorebros with their misogyny screaming about how galadriel should be a docile decent wife/mother instead of fighting and having romance with sauron when 1) celeborn is missing/celebrian isn't born 2) galadriel has always been fighting sauron in lotr even when she had a family. these "complaints" never entered my mind before going on social media for trop fandom stuff, and they do nothing except for ruin my excitement, tbh. so just pay less attention to the useless discourses that have nothing to do with anything that's actually going on in the show.

and yeah, the valinor reunion idea is interesting bc i keep thinking how galadriel takes nenya to valinor and how now trop entirely recontextualizes this detail! bc for galadriel, nenya intrinsically represents her connection to sauron!

my point is, let's enjoy the slow-burn and in the meantime let's write those galadriel x sauron reunion in valinor aus!

[camille-lachenille]

After the war of the last alliance and Gil-Galad’s death, Elrond is in a pretty bad mental state. The healer in him recognises deep depression and ptsd but he shoves everything in a box locked deep within his heart, the box where he keeps memories of his brother and parents, and plows on as he builds Rivendell.

He is happy when Celebrían returns his affection and accepts his courtship, he really is happy, or at least he convinces himself that he is, that everything is fine and will get better with time.

Some time right before their wedding, Celebrían starts to worry that Elrond doesn’t love her anymore, bc he avoids her and acts strangely. She manages to sit him down and really talk about how he is feeling. Elrond rushes to reassure her he is still madly in love and wants nothing more than wed her but then, at Celebrían’s insistence, he confesses how scared he is. He is scared to taint her with his darkness and that she desserves better than him and that he must be wrong in his head if he can’t be fully happy with her. He cries a lot, like he has’t in centuries, and Celebrían holds him through it. And then, when he is coherent again, she asks him if he loves her.

“More than anything, I would die for you!” comes the rushed but deeply sincere answer.

And Celebrían looks at Elrond in the eyes, more seriously than she ever has, her hands resting on his shoulders and she tells him “You say you’d die for me. But would you live for me, if I ask you so? ”

Elrond can only nod as he starts crying again, because he will do anything for Celebrían, even tasks that seem impossible. And so, he starts to live again. It is painful, gruesome work but he sees it to the end for the love of his life, if not himself at first.

And for a time Elrond is well and truly happy. He and Celebrían get married at long last, and have first two beautiful sons and then a wonderful daughter, and the sadness seems banished far away.

Until Celebrían nearly dies at the hands of orcs.

Elrond isn’t a husband then but a healer, locking his feelings behind the professional mask again until he is sure Celebrían will live. And then, behind the locked door of their -his- room, he lets the tears come. He cries until he has nothing left and then some more. He failed to save his wife, because even he cannot mend a broken soul.

Elrond and his children see Celebrían to the ship that will bring her to Valinor and, hopefully, healing. There are tears and embraces and, before parting, Elrond presses a kiss to Celebrían’s forehead and whispers to her “Promise me you will live, for me, just as I promised I would live for you all those years ago. And I promise I will live for you forever.”

And Celebrían smiles weakly and nods. She knows what it looks like, to cling stubbornly to life and happiness. “I will live, I promise,” she whispers back.

And live she does, until she can be reunited with Elrond.

The Celebrían who greet Elrond in Valinor is happy and full if life but, in her eyes, he can see his grief mirrored. She healed, ans he knows he too will heal in time, but he is also deeply grateful they can share this grief until the happy memories become stronger and they can remember Arwen, they sweet, wonderful, stubborn, brave daughter without the pain. The memories will always be a little bittersweet but the happy time they had together as a family is stronger than grief.

Until one of their sons sails. Alone.

Elladan sails, bringing news that Elrohir will not come. He stayed with Arwen until the end, spending more and more time in Gondor and with Men in general. He was so happy, Elladan explains between his tears. He was carefree and full of a delight for adventure and hunger for the unknown so proper to Mortals. Elrohir didn’t choose mortality because of love of a person but for love of life itself. He was bright and curious and wanted to know all the unknown answers. He died like he lived, with passion and happiness and mischief. And Elladan cannot begrudge his twin’s choice because he saw just how peaceful Elrohir was on his deathbed, grey haired and face lined by time and laughter, as he slipped out of the bounds of Arda and into his next adventure.

[amethysttribble]

If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

[thesummerestsolstice]

Headcanon Crafts for Everyone I Missed Last Time:

Idril: a sculptor. She worked with every kind of stone imaginable, and often went looking for new material in Gondolin’s mines with Maeglin. (Look my Maeglin head canons are complicated but they should get to be friends the narrative has hurt them too much already) She actually preferred not to make elvish figures, instead focusing on strangely beautiful stone landscapes and various animal-like figures. She was actually responsible for Middle-Earth’s version of the gargoyle, having carved several to stand guard over Gondolin. Several elves swore that the statues moved, but she never addressed those rumors. She also liked to paint her work with bright colors, which would’ve been seen as odd back in Valinor, but fit right in in First Age Middle-Earth.

Maeglin: a smith, but his craft was more in-line with Avarin practice than Noldor practice; with much less focus on the idea of making gems and heavier focus on understanding natural geology and the properties of various gems and metals. He knew the mines of Gondolin better than anyone, and wrote plenty about the the earth under the earth. His work also had fairly significant Dwarfish influences. He liked to make mechanically complex pieces, with moving parts or even some internal gear work.

Finduilas: a hunter. Her and her father were both nature people, just in very different ways. She was silent, with all the grace of a dancer, and quick enough to outrun most of what she hunted. She preferred to go after more aggressive animals– wild boar, wolves, bears, even wargs– and leave the deer and rabbits be. She was born in Beleriand, and had never met the Valar, but sometimes, privately, offered up prayers to Orome. She liked to imagine she could’ve been in his hunt, if things had turned out a bit differently.

Celebrimbor: a smith, in the very traditional Noldor sense. Gemworker, specialized in jewelry, made various famously beautiful pieces, etc. Was never quite happy sticking to hairpins and necklaces. Longed to try his hand at imbuing his work with real power, but always talked himself out of it. A whole binder of concepts for works of power sat locked away in a chest in his workshop for centuries. He never talked to anyone about it. He was as ashamed of his feelings for his craft as he was of his feelings for his family. By the end of his life, he’d made peace with only one of those things.

Earendil: a mariner? Alright, he was definitely a mariner, and he loved the ship life– he even built a few boats of his own, in a similar fantastic style to Turgon’s architecture– but he also had a longstanding fascination with the natural world, and filled volumes and volumes of journals with information on various plants, animals, and minerals. But natural lore isn’t a recognized Noldor craft, since it involves learning but doesn’t really produce tangible results. Still, it was a passion he got from afternoons spent learning about geology with “Uncle Mole,” and one he shared with Elrond. Researching the beauty and wonder of nature gave Earendil something to do with his immortal life, and was a big part of the reason Elrond chose to be immortal at all.

Gil-Galad: a king. No, really, he’d been the high-king of the Noldor since he was a child, and hadn’t really had time for trivialities like “finding a life purpose” or “having fun.” He was too busy learning how to stay alive in late stage Beleriand (read: hell) and learning to rule the least cooperative group of elves imaginable. He wanted to be a painter, and while he found enough practice time to get good at his chosen craft; because of how long detailed paintings can take, he almost never had time to actually make anything. He tried not to let it bother him too much. He didn’t always succeed at that.

Elrond: in a bit of a weird spot. Elrond is most associated with lore and healing; but, as discussed, “lore” isn’t considered a craft. And, well. Healing had to be Elrond’s craft, right? He’d been doing it since he was seven, and just about the only person in Amon Ereb who could still use healing powers. And it was good work, and it was rewarding, even if it often left him feeling so burned out and worried that he forgot to eat or sleep. It took him a long time to admit to himself that healing for him was what fighting was to many other elves: a necessity. Truth be told, he’d rather be gardener, working with the earth to create a place of peace and beauty. Also, Elrond is basically a nature spirit. So. It was something he began to explore in the peace of the early Second Age. He found that his Ainuric powers had all sorts of interesting effects on plant life. He also learned how to breed new varieties of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Still, he never really considered that it could be a proper craft for him. At least, not until he first saw the valley that would one day become Rivendell.

Headcanon Crafts for Finwe and his Children, the House of Feanor, the House of Fingolfin, and the House of Finarfin.

[conundrumoftime]

Been thinking about Galadriel and Sauron again

So intrigued by what their exchange on the raft in episode 8 says about where their story's going. I have seen lots of discussion about whether Sauron is genuinely repentant here, but what fascinates me is Galadriel's view that it wouldn't matter anyway.

"When Morgoth was defeated, it was as if a great, clenched fist had released its grasp from my neck. And in the stillness of that first sunrise, I felt the light of the One again. And I knew if ever I was to be forgiven, that I had to heal everything that I had helped ruin."

"No penance could ever erase the evil you have done."

This isn't "you're lying" or "I have read LOTR and know where you end up" or "your decision to impersonate my brother undermines you a bit on this one" - that is "what you have done is too bad for you to ever come back from it and forgiveness is beyond you now."

This sets her up as a very Javert-like figure, in her view of the criminal she's chasing as beyond redemption. Javert in the Les Mis musical: "Those who follow the path of the righteous, shall have their reward / And if they fall as Lucifer fell / The flame, the sword!"

Compare with Gandalf re Gollum, when Frodo says that he deserves to be killed: "Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement [...] I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it."

And Tolkien on Sauron: "He had gone the way of all tyrants: beginning well, at least on the level that while desiring to order all things according to his own wisdom he still at first considered the (economic) well-being of other inhabitants of the Earth."

Even LOTR Sauron's offered a chance, by the heralds led by Gandalf: "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart then for ever."

I don't think the narrative in TROP tries to present Galadriel as correct. She clearly believes in repentance & forgiveness for others, including 'Halbrand' who had done evil; and even he says so on the raft ("that is not what you believe!"). It's Sauron-specific rage and grief.

So what I think the show will do is:

show Sauron as 'genuine' in that he thinks he is doing the right thing, and his fall into Dark Lord-ness as a series of active choices he makes in an "ends justify the means" or "I know best for everyone" logic;

and Galadriel as continuing to work against him while - somehow? - coming to terms with the idea that he *could* choose that different path; that it's not totally out of his reach; that he still could, at any point, in any of what's to come.

and given how much TROP likes mirroring and echoing, probably bringing back a few of their earlier lines in a different context: "no peace for you except that which lies across the sea", but in a 'go back to Valinor' sense; "be free of it"/"never believed I could be"?

I do find it a bit disappointing that so much discussion on Galadriel's character arc is "will she chill out and stop being mean, yes/no" when there's something much more interesting going on here! (can't think why she gets this and male characters don't...)

[cilil]

Fun times in Valinor feat. Melian and Dior

✦ I like to imagine that Dior did in fact receive the opportunity to choose his fate as well, chose immortality for the sake of his family and ended up in Valinor (may make a more detailed and less silly post about that in future).

✦ As soon as he gets out of Mandos he's practically ambushed by Melian who is overjoyed to have at least one of her descendants back, takes him under her wing and immediately adopts him as her replacement baby.

✦ She drags him around Valinor like a mother cat carrying her kitten (metaphorically speaking) to show him off to her Ainurin friends. Said friends, particularly those more concerned with spiritual matters and not at all familiar with incarnate procreation, are a bit weirded out by being presented the living, breathing offspring of a fellow spirit, said offspring being of rather ambiguous nature as well, but since the entire Ainurin race is based on everyone being a cryptid in their own right, they all warm up to him quickly.

✦ Melian teaches Dior to sing like a nightingale and other bird calls and he performs admirably, though causes confusion when he doesn't turn into a bird. She may also teach him Valarin so he knows when people are talking shit.

✦ Some Ainur are still confused by Dior being incarnate in general and try to encourage and help him shed his form. They need to be reminded that Dior was in fact born and raised incarnate, is happy and content being that way and that his incarnate state is not a symptom of being spiritually drained or otherwise unwell.

✦ Since Dior died young - even by mortal standards - Melian's Ainurin friends tend to erroneously assume that he's a literal baby. These discussions usually escalate when it comes to them refusing to give him Miruvórë and Dior wins arguments by reminding everyone that they have met his adult daughter.

✦ Wanting to befriend him and make Melian happy, other Ainur like to bring them gifts, usually something they think would be useful to an incarnate. Sometimes they're spot on, such as when they bring delicious treats and fresh food, sometimes their gifts are a clear reflection of their kind not quite understanding incarnates, such as half-torn-apart blood sacrifices and dangerous animals and substances. Melian doesn't react well to the latter.

✦ She's especially worried whenever Dior displays any sort of human behavior because part of her wonders if through some strange happenstance he will become mortal, in which case she assumes he might just fall over and die within the next 5 minutes (read: what her species of angels older than the universe sees as "5 minutes").

✦ Dior loves being taught "magic". Melian has no idea what he means by that, only knowing he picked up the word from Beren, but is happy that he's happy.

[echo-bleu]

shine still brighter (1/?)

On AO3. Deaf!Artanis bullet-point fic.

Here is yet another fic that I started thinking it would be 2k tops (I have almost 5k and haven't even started the main plot). It started as a mix of this art prompt I did, and a post I can't find now that went something like "it's a good thing that Galadriel hated Fëanor's gut, because if they had pooled resources they would totally have taken over the world." And I wanted to write Fëanor being a passionate linguist. The AO3 link has a Quenya name primer if you're confused.

(cw for mentions of difficult birth and post-partum, and mentions of ableism)

Artanis is born in pain and fear.

Her spirit is nearly as bright as Fëanáro’s. She’ll grow as strong and smart and stubborn as her half-uncle, but her birth also takes almost as much of her mother’s vital energy.

Eärwen doesn’t die. But she doesn’t recover very well, either. She’s very, very tired, too tired to really connect to her daughter for a long while.

Everyone is comparing it to Míriel and Fëanáro, and nobody is happy about that, Fëanáro least of all. Eärwen isn’t anything like Míriel. She shouldn’t get to have the spotlight like that.

Finwë is understandably focused on taking care of his youngest son and granddaughter for a while, which just makes it worse.

Arafinwë is very scared for Eärwen and overprotective of Artanis. Her brothers are already enamoured of her but also a little traumatized by the whole thing.

The baby is very cute and very awake, grabbing everything within reach in her tiny hands and pulling. Especially if it’s bright or moving.

Because of all the complications and worry over Eärwen, no one realizes that there’s something distinctly different about her.

Finwë is the one who sees it first.

Mostly because everyone else is dazzled by the strength of her fëa, but Finwë raised Fëanáro and he knows how to look past that.

Artanis has many of the same traits as Fëanáro that everyone worried about when he was a baby: she won’t look people in the eye, she sometimes screams when they pick her up, and sometimes screams even louder when they put her down (and her screams are the loudest since Makalaurë). She’s extremely picky about eating, and it doesn’t help that her mother doesn’t have the energy to feed her.

Those are all fine, Finwë knows how to handle that. Half of Fëanáro’s sons were and are like that too, and his other granddaughter.

No, the thing he notices is that singing entirely fails at settling her.

Fëanáro had a hard time falling asleep, but he would always settle with his favourite lullabies.

Artanis doesn’t even seem to hear them.

Actually, Artanis doesn’t seem to hear. Anything.

By that point she’s old enough that she should be starting to speak, but the only sounds she produces are wordless screams and laughter.

No music at all. Even the most tone-deaf of elflings know how to carry a tune before they learn how to speak.

Deafness is pretty much unheard of for the Calaquendi. There are some hard-of-hearing elves, but they mostly get on fine with speaking louder.

(The Moriquendi have Deaf elves. There have always been Deaf elves, but there’s something about Valinor’s perfection… Well, it’s partly that there haven’t been that many births in Valinor yet, and most of the disabled elves didn’t make it to Valinor for various reasons, from dying on the way to being scared that they weren’t welcome (the Valar were maybe not as clear as they should have been and some things got lost in translation). And some of that misunderstanding carried over into elves taking babies who are a little too different in Lórien to be “healed”. They’re never heard of again. So the number of visibly disabled elves in Tirion is very small.)

(Estë and Irmo take great care of the disabled elves and they find their own community together, but they don’t quite understand why the Calaquendi just leave babies on their doorstep. Some of them need medical care, yes, but many don’t.)

(Fëanáro would probably have ended up in Lórien if he hadn’t been the Crown Prince. And he knows it. The one time someone suggested that some of his sons might benefit from Estë’s help, he threw a fit so violent that no one ever spoke of it again.)

Survivor’s bias (the elves who made it through the Great Journey were the strongest one, and thus we, as a people, are strong and cannot be anything else) led to a good deal of ableism. Finwë has rather vague memories of disabled elves he knew growing up, but mostly as “they weren’t strong enough to make it”.

He’s already certain that Artanis, like Fëanáro, is absolutely strong enough to make it through anything. Also Míriel’s death after she made it with him through the Great Journey rather skewed his own perspective on that.

All this to say that he has some cognitive dissonance there, but his reaction to discovering Artanis’s deafness is more of less the same as his reaction to Fëanáro’s autism:

“Hey, Arafinwë, so your daughter can’t hear, but the good news is that she’s really smart and strong and also a princess, so all we have to do is teach her to be great at everything so people won’t notice.”

Arafinwë, blinking: “What.”

He’s not at all sure about this, but he’s also very much in over his head wrangling four kids on his own and caring for his ailing wife (Maitimo babysits when he can, and Findaráto is old enough to take care of himself most of the time, but it’s still a lot).

He agrees wholeheartedly that he won’t take his daughter to Lórien, because he’s very much not over being terrified of having to visit his wife’s body there and he’s not losing his daughter.

But it’s also a lot to take in and he doesn’t know what the right decision is for Artanis.

He’s also not entirely certain that trusting his father with it is the best idea.

Eärwen is not really well enough to help, and Olwë is definitely not helping by making remarks about Artanis’s strangeness every time he sees her, and maybe it would do her good to seek out help, and also Arafinwë should move their whole family to Alqualondë, can’t you see how much good it would do to Eärwen?

Ñolofinwë has enough work trying to wrangle his absolute terror of a daughter, who is barely more than a toddler and has taken a liking to Tyelkormo of all people.

Fëanáro won’t talk to him. Not that Arafinwë values his opinion. He’s not Ñolo, forever chasing after their half-brother who hates them. He’s not.

Findis thinks he should take Artanis straight to Lórien because a baby taking so much energy from its mother is not natural, and just look at how Fëanáro turned out, is that what you want your daughter to be like? (Arafinwë thinks that it’s unfair. Fëanáro’s a little intense, sure, and his dislike is hard to bear, but he’s not that bad.)

Lalwen really hates babies.

He is not close to his sisters-in-law.

As the youngest son of the King, he doesn’t really have close friends.

Maitimo is incredibly good with Artanis, but he’s barely an adult, he definitely can’t help with this.

Findaráto unconditionally adores his sister and is very distressed about it all.

“But Atar, why does it matter if she can’t hear? She’s perfect as she is!”

“How are we going to communicate with her, though?”

Findaráto takes his hand and leads him to little Artanis, who is playing with blocks on the floor.

“Hey,” he tells her, sitting down across from her. “Are you hungry?” Saying that, he pats his belly, and then mimics eating with his fingers.

Artanis claps her hands and nods, squealing. She puts her fingers in her mouth, twice, and then holds up her arms to be picked up.

“See?” Findaráto says, turning back to his father. “It’s easy.”

These words stay with Arafinwë. Artanis doesn’t go to Lórien, Eärwen recovers little by little, and it is, indeed, easy enough to find out when Artanis is hungry or sleepy or wants something with simple signs.

Osanwë with little children doesn’t really work past sharing basic emotions, it’s not really communicative.

Finwë valiantly tries to get her to speak. Arafinwë isn’t actually sure if she can’t or if she just won’t.

He feels like trying to speak when you can’t hear yourself, and you don’t even know what words sound like, is probably very hard work. Playing with blocks in understandably a lot more fun.

Findaráto is Artanis’s favourite person by far, and they’ve become good at communicating without words, though no one else can understand them when they do. They’re using a mix of basic hand signs and facial expressions. She follows him everywhere, and he lets her ride on his back when she’s tired.

Maitimo, who has five brothers and a father who regularly have silent days (Makalaurë has never had a silent day in his life), is also very good at figuring out what she wants and needs, though they don’t really communicate beyond that.

But Artanis is growing up, and increasingly frustrated at not being able to communicate her thoughts. Her system with Findaráto is good for simple things, but she’s having complex thoughts now.

She’s also old enough to know that she’s different, and to know that everyone else is talking over her.

She’s not going to take that affront lying down.

She turns into a terror.

Not an Írissë-style terror, running away and climbing trees and biting people. No, she’s an Artanis terror. A very focused terror.

She rejects anybody who doesn’t understand her. And since she has no real mean of expressing herself in an understandable way, that’s everybody.

She’s figured out that screaming very loudly in someone’s ear is a good way of getting them to go away.

The Arafinwëans start wearing earplugs while at home.

It gives them a new appreciation of Artanis’s plight, when they try to speak to each other over her screams and can’t understand anything, but it’s also very tiring.

Artanis, in her child’s logic, rejects Findaráto the strongest. Because he’s the one who makes the most effort and he still can’t solve this for her and it’s so unfair.

Findaráto takes it very hard and is depressed for two years straight. He’s been so focused on Artanis that he never really reckoned with the trauma of his mother almost dying and his sister nearly being given to Estë, so it suddenly hits him and now Arafinwë has two children to worry about.

Angaráto and Aikanáro take to spending a strange amount of time with Carnistir and Arafinwë doesn’t like much the sounds of Maitimo’s reports on his sons’ behaviour. But he doesn’t really have the bandwidth to deal with it.

Eventually Arafinwë has had enough. Everyone is trying to give him advice and absolutely none of it is useful. People in Tirion are whispering about Artanis’s behaviour, and what it says about her parents.

(Fëanáro, for all his intensity, was actually a very quiet child, and his eccentricities were dismissed as a result of his motherlessness. Finwë’s capabilities were never put to doubt.)

He only wants the best for Artanis, it’s just that he can’t figure out what that is. His daughter is hurting and it tears him apart.

(Eärwen agrees with him, but she’s gone to stay at her parents’ for a while because all the screaming and stress were making her relapse.)

What he knows is that a) the problem is mostly communication and b) what has worked the best so far was Findaráto using gestures.

What they need is some way to make the gestures more complex.

They need a language made out of gestures.

Who do we know who’s into linguistics and invented their entire writing system?

Arafinwë takes his courage in both hands, fully anticipating a disaster, and goes to talk to Fëanáro.

“You want me to invent an entire language of gestures for your daughter,” Fëanáro blinks.

“Yes. And then I want you to teach it to me.”

“...do you have any idea how much work that would be?”

“Probably not, but I know you’re the only one who can do it.”

He expects Fëanáro to say he’s too busy to do anything for people who aren’t even really his family, or to go on a rant about Arafinwë’s thoughtlessness or his entitlement or something.

Instead, all he says is, “Come back in three weeks. And bring her along.”

Stay tuned for part 2!

All of my Disabled Tolkien Characters posts.

[queerofthedagger]

we could be kings

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 1.6k | ao3]

Written for @russingon-week Day 1: Valinor/Princes and Exiles

The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow.

---

The ceremony is splendid.

Findekáno would have expected nothing less, of course; it is a feast of Finwë, for one. For the other, it is Fëanáro’s moment of triumph.

Findekáno does not begrudge it as much as perhaps he should. Maitimo outshines even the gems and lights, the crowd of beautiful Ñoldor, all the magnificence of a coronation little more than a backdrop to him.

His white robes are simple, beset with silver thread and pearls. They shimmer in the light, are mirrored in the long waves of his hair, and stand out against the dark-threaded embroidery that adorns the sleeves and collar.

There is a thin thread of gold, woven in his hair, almost invisible. Findekáno knows it is there, though—after all, he had braided it in himself this morning, in the early hours of dawn.

Maitimo had allowed it, his eyes dark and knowing, even as it was a gamble. There is only one person who is known to wear gold in their hair like this; there is only one thing that wearing someone’s token means.

Much the same way that a crown signifies allegiance, Findekáno thinks, as Maitimo kneels in front of their grandfather’s throne.

Knowing his own mark to be there soothes the sting a little, if only for Findekáno. Beside him, his father’s face is impassive. Turukáno is less successful in hiding his indignation, as is, unsurprisingly, Artanis.

After all, this is nothing but a blatant show of power, of influence. King Finwë already has an heir, a crown prince. To crown Fëanáro’s eldest son as such as well, when there are two more sons in line, is little but sharp-edged provocation.

At least it is from Fëanáro. As always, it is impossible to tell how aware Finwë is of the implied insult, the sign it sends. As always, Maitimo is caught in the crossfire.

Findekáno shakes himself; it does not do to think of these things now, here. It is not, after all, as if matters of succession matter greatly beyond the symbolism.

The copper circlet that Finwë sets on Maitimo’s brow reflects the light and nestles into place as if it belongs there.

When Maitimo rises, turns, and meets Findekáno’s eye, he still cannot quite find it within himself to be as annoyed by it all as he ought to be.

---

He makes sure to enjoy his fill of the food and wine, to stay long enough for it not to be perceived as an insult but not so long that it could be read as endorsement, and, last but not least, to let his father see him make his way home.

Once he is out of sight, he takes the familiar paths through back streets and narrow alleys towards the Fëanorian residence. Telperion washes the city in glazed silver, the shadows long and a friend to those who want to avoid being seen.

Findekáno has long practice in such avoidance, and once he slips into the gardens of his destination, he climbs the steel grid that supports the clematis running wild along the white-washed wall of the house, red and violet like gems.

The window is ajar, even as the room is still empty. Findekáno takes a moment to listen to the silence of the house. When nothing stirs, he lights the lamp on the desk and finds a book to occupy himself with while he waits.

It is only another hour until he catches the familiar footsteps up the stairs. There are no voices, but he moves behind the door just in case; as a general rule, their parents seem to—grudgingly—accept their closeness, but today is not the day to test their luck.

It is only Maitimo who enters, though. It speaks to his exhaustion, the amount of wine he had, or both, that he does not immediately notice Findekáno.

Findekáno grins. “Hello, lover.”

He has all of one moment to be gratified by the way Maitimo jumps before he is tackled to the bed, his own shout utterly undignified.

“Is that a way to greet me,” he complains, once Maitimo has both his hands pressed into the sheets above Findekáno’s head and is grinning down at him with evident self-satisfaction. “I could have been a burglar.”

“A burglar who waited for me to arrive home and greet me as his lover?”

“One with bad intentions, then?”

“Hence the bodily attack. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Findekáno echoes, and all the day’s tension is already melting out of him, Maitimo’s weight familiar and grounding. “Do you invite all burglars to your bed, then?”

“Only the ones I find particularly pleasing,” Maitimo says. Before Findekáno can come up with a smart retort, Maitimo kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry.

Findekáno does not mind the distraction; Maitimo kisses as he does most things—deliberate and thorough, its devastation fuelled by the fire just beneath. He licks into Findekáno’s mouth, bites his bottom lip; draws back again, his eyes dark and untangling their hands so that he can touch Findekáno’s jaw.

“It suits you, you know,” Findekáno says, when the silence drags. It is not uncomfortable, rarely ever is, but this—this day, this coronation, this circlet—has been hollowing a space between them for a while, and this, at least, is true.

Winding his fingers through Maitimo’s hair, he tugs lightly. Finds his own ribbon and smiles, before tapping the circlet, and then pressing a kiss to Maitimo’s forehead. “Just do not tell anyone that I said so; we will cause a diplomatic incident to rival our fathers.”

It is never an easy topic. For the most part, they try to avoid it, keep it out of those pockets of time that they carve out for themselves.

Tonight, though, Maitimo laughs. He is loose-limbed and easy, as if some weight has been lifted from him, rather than added. It is as good to see as it is a little unsettling.

Flipping them over, Fingon hovers over him; presses another kiss to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his jaw. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

Maitimo hums, watching him. “You like it?”

“Would I tell you so if I did not?”

Slowly, carefully, Maitimo lifts the circlet from his head, turning it between his fingers. “So pretty and so useless, and yet causing so much strife.”

Then he looks up, considering Findekáno through long lashes. Mischief sparks in his eyes—the quiet kind, too often carefully banked. Too often only there for Findekáno to see, and he should mind it—does. Too often, he also revels in being the only one allowed to see it, to share in the small escapes that Maitimo allows himself.

The copper circlet up close is an unmistakable work of art. From any other than Fëanáro, it might have been a lifework. Countless, hair-thin strands of gleaming copper are braided together, braids winding around each other, dipping low in the centre. Minuscule stones of dark red and banked orange sit in between the gossamer wires.

Maitimo is still looking at him, as if considering one of those theorems he likes to sit over for hours.

“What?” Findekáno finally asks, lifting a brow. He crosses his arms over Maitimo’s chest, settling his chin on them. “You look like the time you decided that Tirion needed a Masquerade Ball, just so that we could go out together in public with none the wiser.”

“And everyone loved it,” Maitimo says, mouth quirking at the corners. Then he lifts the circlet and sets it on top of Findekáno’s head. He rights it with care, tugs lightly at strands of hair until he is satisfied.

Findekáno stopped breathing the moment he realised what Maitimo was about to do.

“It suits you,” Maitimo says, eyes fond and sparkling. As if he had not just set the Crown Prince’s crown on Findekáno’s head, Fëanáro’s work in so many ways beyond the mere forging of it. “Perhaps they should crown you next, all of Finwë’s princes adorned in copper and gems.”

“Maitimo—“ His voice comes out unsteady.

“I know,” he says, and he does—he always does, is the thing, and Findekáno loves him so much that it aches.

Maitimo kisses him again, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him close. He is mindful of the circlet, of the way Findekáno’s heart is still hammering in his chest, of all the things he is not saying. That neither of them can say, beyond ribbons woven into hidden braids, and circlets bestowed in the sanctuary of twilit rooms.

“I would crown you in all the jewels of Valinor, lover,” Maitimo finally says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Findekáno’s mouth.

“I know,” Findekáno echoes, and kisses him again. It is easier than rehearsing all the reasons why it will only ever be a possibility behind closed doors.

---

Fingon thinks of that night, its edges hazy in memory, when he kneels before what was not long ago his father’s throne. When the silver coronet is set atop his head by one of his father’s councillors, its weight oppressive where the copper had been light. When he rises, despite the grief dragging at his limbs, and faces his people.

He thinks of it, too, when that same night Maedhros slips into his room, hugs him close. Kisses his brow, his voice rough and sad and still, still, still so full of affection, and says, “I did always say that it would suit you better, did I not?”

Fingon leans into him, and wishes, just for one moment, that their world was still polished copper and dark-red clematis gleaming in the glittering light of Telperion.

[kitty--white]

@tolkienocweek Day 4 - Maglor's wife Linwen

Well, technically, Cano's 'was married and that's all we know' allows me to say that she is a gap character, even if their marriage takes place in an AU where all my OCs came from and they met each other after the main Silm plot.

Lin was born in teleri family in Valinor in the middle of those times which were named the Third Age in Endore. All her family members were singers and musicians, and parents gave her name means 'music maiden', but Lin herself has absolutely zero music talents. She spent ages trying to learn playing instruments, singing, or, at least, writing lyrics and considered herself to be a disappointment of all her relatives despite none of them thought so.

Lin met Maglor soon after his sailing to Valinor in the Forth Age when he was playing lute near the stream in the woods (we all know that meet random guy in the woods is almost guaranteed begining of great love story in this setting). She was enchanted by his music, but got scared of suddenness and ran away when he noticed her. Still it didn't prevent Lin from coming on this place the next day hoping to find this singer again.

After they started talk to each other (not from the first meeting and not from the second) it was Maglor who convinced Lin to try another arts, not just music, to find something is her soul for. And after lot's of attempts it turned to be pottery.

Their first kiss happened after Lin falling in the stream in that exactly place where they met for the first time. Cano tried to raise her up and fell in the water himself.

Soon after that he learned that Lin's family is from Alqualonde and felt so guilty that just stopped to come at their place in the woods. He didn't take into account that after the steram accident she knows where his house is. There Lin found Maglor, closed himself in the bedroom and in depression, and his elder brother, who told her who her beloved is. Probably because of an inferiority complex left over from when she was trying to master music Lin's first reaction was 'does Makalaure Feanarion think ordinary teleri girl is not good enough for him?!' but thanks to Maedhros this double (because Lin hadn't even in mind to blame Maglor for who he was ages ago) misunderstanding ended happily.

Maglor and Lin's wedding, or rather their wedding rings are important part of one of the chapters of my wip fanfic about Mae's daughter helping Feanor to mentally recover after reembodying, but shhhh, it's spoilers.

Lin hated her name during her childhood and youth because it served as reminder of her inability to do what does all her family, but since it became the reminder of her husband and their love story she loved it.

[katrina37973]

Day 7: Post-canon

New beginning. Valinor. Reconciliation. Recovery. Remembering the past.

@silvergiftingweek

__________________

Non-betaed fic under cut, will edit post sometime later, probably will post to AO3 later as well.

Unfortunately due to uni I haven't been able to participate in this as much as I would have liked.

Hope you'll enjoy my work!

Warnings: Allusion to violence but mostly vague? Tell me if you think i ought to add another.

How odd it was, that he kept the scar across his sternum. 

It was an oblong starburst shape, pink skin puckered and occasionally white, other scars long and thin laid on top. It was the size of a hand, stretching and claiming. 

Celebrimbir had purposefully kept all his scars before Sauron’s betrayal, even the ones he gained during his reign as the lord of Ost-in-Edhil. All the burns from forge accidents, the fumbling of a knife or two, the accidental broken bones or burns or stray exploding metal from experiments gone wrong. 

It all held memory, memory of the bad, the good, of the naive and foolish or the learned and understanding. 

He couldn’t wear jewllery, at least, not the amount he once wore as proud lord of the golden city, teeming with promises of more. Certainly no rings, too many uncertain memories and broken promises and trust. Stone he wore proudly as if it was some great rare jewel to the bafflement of everyone outside of previous mebers of Ost-in-Edhil. Even his own family could not fully understand his care and dedication for the art of stones. 

It meant something to him that they didn’t question his choices. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the emotions were but it was somewhere in the range of appreciation and a weary understanding. 

They didn’t treat him as a child anymore, young and tagging along their adventures with short stubby legs, wide eyed and all innocence. They didn’t treat him as a young child or even a young adult, certain in his skills and voice. They never knew him as the lord of Ost-in-Edhil, beloved by all that dwelt within her once sturdy walls. The lord that hosted and welcomed all of any kind, elf, dwarf, human and other. 

The problem with that was they didn’t know how to treat him at all. 

They loved him, Celebrimbor had no doubt, but the years had gone by, stretching their already tenuous bonds. But it hurt him to see the heistance in their hugs, their kisses and affection. Even grandmother Nerdanel hesitated in hugging him, helping him braid his hair, and even the simple clap on the back or shoulder. 

Of all the things he missed of Sauron it was the easy touch and affection that flowed between them. 

Valinor, for all the paradise it was with no danger and plenty of things to do, people to talk with, crafts to learn and create, was stifling. It was like the whole world walked on eggshells when he entered, even old acquaintances were overly gentle and eager to please. Or rather they were the ones most akward. Very few of Ost-in-Edhil’s people could meet him eye to eye and talk as they once had. Even those within his venerated Gwaith-i-mirdain had doubts. Only Ithril, Kazforza and Fingrithil treated him normally. 

Everyone else talked in circles, making leaps and jumps to avoid talking about Ost-in-Edhil, his death and everything in the Second Age to his face. 

It was infuriating. 

It was hurtful and condescending and he deeply, deeply missed Annatar and the conversations they would have, taboo and casual, anything and everything, no thought filtered and halting.

He loved his family he did. Even with the awful deeds they had done, they sought a path forward to atonement, dragging themselves from the sea of blood that bathed them all cleaning themselves with the forgiveness of thise they wrobed and accpeting those who could not. Celebrimbor was proud of them beyond words found in any language, maybe save the one spoken by the Valar. 

“Tyelpe?” His eldest uncle’s voice called softly from the entrance to his bedroom. “Can I come in?”

“I’m alright,” Celebrimbor hastily said, rising to his feet. It took an immense effort to tear his eyes from the mirror, or more accurately the reflection of the scar on his sternum. It was not the largest scar he had kept, not by far really. He wasn’t sure why he kept some of the scars himself, marks from whips and burns from balrogs and that one that came from a furious and heartbroken elf who heated up his sword with the symbol of his house etched onto the pommel and burned it where his heart laid under skin, flesh and bone.

“A silmaril for your thoughts?” Maedhros’ voice was light but concern tinged it. 

“Come in, come in,” Celebrimbor ushered him in, realising he hadn’t actually answered Maedhros. “Nothing important, just thinking of the past.”

That earned him one of Maedhros' very unnerving stares. The one that felt like it looked into one’s feä and judged it. A little like how Manwë and Namo’s gaze had felt. But his uncle judged that Celebrimbor was alright, not lying and not about to have any sort of panic attack or flashback. It had happened a few times. 

With Celebrimbor and pretty much all of their family, save Nerdanel whose worst mood would be an oppressive sort of worry. 

She had not participated nor started the whole kinslaying afterall. 

“You’ve been off for the last couple of days,” Maedhros quietly remarked, looking out of the window, gazing at the setting sun and the garden that they all had built and grown together. It had been healing for his father and uncles, knowing that their hands were not restricted to the mastery of the blade. Feanor merely grumbled about dirt under fingernails which amused them as his work in the forge arguably dirtied them more. 

“You did not flinch nor mourn at Sauron’s defeat, nor did you hesitate in greeting the little Hobbits that have taken residence amongst us,” he continued, “your behaviour after the aforementioned events were predictable, nightmares and regrets dredged up but not wholly destructive to your healing.” 

Celebrimbor kept silent, hands frozen on the back of a chair. Maedhros stood, still gazing out the window. It was the stance he took as a soldier, a general, standing at attention all wound up. Now too, for Ages of habits drove him to. 

“And yet,” his uncle sighed, turning to face him, “here we after all of this, the Fourth Age of Men starting strong and continuing, all of us free and healing, Sauron finally defeated-” His remaining hand came to rest on his stump - “yet still there us something troubling you, something new.”

He turned to face Celebrimbor.

“What is wrong?” Maedhros asked.

Celebrimbor knew the last few days, nay, weeks had him behaving oddly, something making him restless and jumpy despite being perfectly at peace for more than half an Age.

“I-” he started saying before narrowing his eyes. “Wait, are you here by yourself or with the others?”

Maedhros shrugged. 

Sighing, Celebrimbor sprawled across his bed, mussing up the cleaned linen. 

Of course they all elected Maedhros to be the one to ask him. Of course they did.

Silence filled his room.

On one hand, he had no desire to talk today, let alone about the odd presence that perplexed him. On the other, he knew his uncle well; an unending well of patience and a keenness that rivalled Manwë’s eagles. His uncle would wait until Celebrimbor was comfortable to talk, no matter how long it took. A day, a week, maybe even a yen if he needed to. 

He sighed again. 

“There’s… something.” Celebrimbor at last admitted. Frustrated by his inability to give forth direct answers, he gestured angrily at the ceiling. “ I mean, what I meant was-”

He tried to organise his thoughts, to explain the taste lingering in the air, the presence that occasionally brushed past, soft and light like how a cat moves around a person. To explain the smell of ash and regret. To explain it wasn’t a bad smell but relieving in a way. To explain whenever he entered the forge it felt  like home, then a warning, then a deep set regret, then a gentle but hesitant nudge forward, a sort of controlled eagerness. A penance, an acknowledgement. 

To explain the utter soul crushing relief that he was back. 

Back and diminished and suddenly it all made sense.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor exhaled. “Oh.”

He could see in his minds eye how his uncle inclined his head out of confusion, the rustle of clothing as Maedhros adjusted his position and waited for an explanation.

What could Celebrimbor say?

Should he say anything?

The Valar should know. Or maybe they already did? No. No, the presence would be like a grain of sand on the sea shore. Diminshed as such to be on par or even less than a mere elf’s.

He distantly registered his uncle walking out from his room, closing the door with a soft click. Like all the doors in the house, the lock had been refitted so that it could only be locked from the inside and not out. 

Celebrimbor stayed there as Arien fell, and Teleprion replaced her golden light with a silver one. 

The presence never approached him within his room, he realised with a start. Nor when he was together with his family, any one of them. He sat there calcuating and recalcuating the effects of taking ones own soul and using it as a material to be harnessed. 

Theoretically some of the power would be lost in the process of the making. Even more would be at its unmaking, an explosion of sorts but how could you measure whats lost with a material that never had been used as a one in the first place? 

Wpuld it be categorised as a death? Could Ainur die? Or would it be a restructuring rather than a death? However to restructure something, does it not mean a part or whole of the previous would have to ‘die’ in some way? To make space for the changed. 

That led to the Ages debated question of the Ships and Celebrimbor could admit, although rather reluctantly, that he was not suited for those lines of thinking. It usually resulted in a headache.

Whatever reason the remnants of Sauron had in seeking Celebrimbor out, and staying, could only be found with the Dark Lord himself. Or ex-dark lord? The maia certainly hadn’t done anything yet but be arguably helpful and encouraging. He also didn’t think Sauron had any remaining power left, not if he bypassed all of Valinor unnoticed to come to Formenos. 

It was surprisingly easy enough of a decision, to escape from his bedroom through the open window and into the darkened forge; his grandfather had gone to bed after countless hours of needling by his grandmother, his father was away with Celegorm and Ambarussa on a hunting trip recently departed and not due to return in another week or so. Maglor and Caranthir were in Torion, hosted by Elrond and Celebrian for the next few days too, and Maedhros no doubt had gone to bed once he thought that Celebrimbor would stay in bed for the rest of the day and night. He might have rivalled Sauron in cleverness and strategy but with his family, his guard was unconsciously lowered enough.

Celebrimbor didn’t quite like the nagging notion that his father and uncles had decided their presence would hinder his healing and understanding. 

His bare feet were silent as he slipped into the forge, lighting only a single candle and placed in the corner where no light could be seen from outside and no smell of smoke or incense could be detected form inside the house. 

He waited.

First he waited standing, leaning against the wall and looking at the flickering candlelight, watching the shadows dance and twirl in faint light amongst the darkness of the forge. Then he slid down to kneel and meditate, closing his eyes but not his ears. 

After a few minutes and countless breaths, he registered the faintest brush against his feä. He kept steady, keeping his own feä from responding and reaching. Much like a cat, he thought in wry amusement though he allowed none to show on his fana. 

Soon it grew stronger, the barest brushes becoming more persistent and more present. It reminded him of how cats demanded attention, how they took to warm sunlight, fires or presences. He wondered how conscientious the action was on Annatar’s behalf. Sauron’s that is. 

Celebrimbor. 

At last, Celebrimbor thought. He smiled and responded sweetly, Sauron.

A pause and he could feel the other presence debate on what might have been called a tactical retreat. Or, since Celebrimbor was feeling rather ruthless as of now, cowardly flee.

He reached out to the maia and offered up a memory. A recollection of tangled feelings, of grief and mourning for a friend and foe, for longing of the presence of someone who finally, finally he felt harmony with. Who destroyed him as much as brought him to life. 

Sauron shrank from the echoes that stretched between them. A quiet but no less powerful, I’m sorry came forth from the unhoused spirit.

Celebrimbor wandered how many times Sauron had said that before and had genuinely meant it. He wandered how often he himself had longed to hear those words, to hear the acknowledgement that he, the all powerful maia supposedly better than all Elder, was wrong.

Victory tasted like bloodied dirt in his mouth, dry, coopery. Inescapable. 

I love you, Celebrimbor thought.

You loved me, Annatar corrected. 

Eru damned fool, Celebrimbor was going to find a way to give this formless spirit a void-damned fana if it meant he could punch him. 

And now he was wandering about the mechanics that allowed a fana to be operated. He sighed. Of course he would have the strangest and appealingly challenging ideas due to Sauron. 

I do not say things lightly; my choice of tenses was purposeful. Celebrimbor admonished. 

For a long moment he was sure Sauron had fled. 

Then the hint of utter confusion, horror and an unwanted relief touched his feä and he felt deeply, deeply satisfied.

Maybe it might have bordered on smug but he quite rightly deserved to.

Why?

Why not? He countered just to be contrary. 

Sauron snapped back, roiling tension and anger and something that seemed like so much hope it hurt. Tyelperinquar! I ripped and ground our home into the earth, I burnt our people, I tortured you-

Sauron shuddered, regret clear in his tone and feä, alongside a deep, deep longing that matched Celebrimbor’s own. 

Nothing can repair what hurt you have dealt, Celebrimbor remarked sharply, to you or ours. To the countless thralls and orcs that still suffer now. To my family and our friends. He softened. But that does not render what we once had and now could have moot. 

But why would you choose-

“Is it a choice?” Celebrimbor whispered out loud, disturbing the silence that had descended softly onto the forge and house. He opened his eyes and tilted his head to see the candleflame had petered out, the wick still slightly smoldering. 

He sighed, not feeling Sauron’s presence anymore. His back ached and he was cold.

Brilliant red hair caught Arien’s early rays. 

“That wasn’t directed at me, was it.” His eldest uncle remarked sitting crossed legged on the anvil.  

Celebrimbor yelped. 

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 5: Elves again (Thingol + other important ones)

So now it says Melian was most associated with Yavanna. Which one is it then?

Also the forest where they meet is Nan Elmoth, the same where later Eol lives. well, the place doesn't determine how well the relationship goes. remember this when picking a restaurant for a date. :D

Thingol was awesome before, but he gets the "extra tall + silver (glowing?) hair" description only after marrying Melian.

Geography… So Tuna is in Valinor but on the edge. I should probably remember this better.

Fëanor!!!

So, Fefe is better with words, more knowledgeable and more handy, but Finarfin is the prettiest! And the wisest. At least among the sons of Finwë.

Ambarussar are identical twins, same faces and temperaments. Also, they are even more associated with hunting than Celegorm, but he is a friend of Orome.

Unless it's Polish translation issue, Aredhel is canonically very pale-skinned. Not that I care about the canonicity here, but it's interesting because very few characters have clearly stated colors of anything. (Also I think dark-skinned fanart of her looks better because of the contrast). Oslo, canonically she is not romantically interested in any of the sons of Feanor (including Celegorm).

OK, so the Teleri reach Valinor proper… it makes sense that Alqualonde is on the continent, but I somehow managed to forget this. :|

Ingwë is the high king od all Elves. Hmmm. I don't think Feanor cares about this.

Darkness mentioned again!!! Fefe and sons wander to the edge of darkness (small d, but I'm not sure how consistent Jirt is), meaning the Western edge of the world, I think, because they are drawn to the Unknown. This is an important sentence!

Capital "U" Unknown — but not Darkness. And it is defined as outside, maybe Void, maybe the general direction of "out of Ea"? And I have thoughts. Oh, I do have thoughts.

Who was also drawn by the unknown empty far places in his youth? Yes, Melkor. (I wonder if he talked about it with some SoF in Valinor. Especially Maedhros. Yes, I love two part "polite maybe even friendly // torture" philosophical conversations it seems)

all of them share the "I wonder what's there" curiosity and go and wander in places (yes I cannot stop thinking about this siple proto-hobbit song)

at some point the neutral or even inviting "Unknown" becomes "Darkness" in their eyes. This is the (result of the?) fall.

(also, Men in the tale of Adanel or what her name was)

I feel like there's more to explore here, but not for now

Anyway, it is another place which may have impacted the notion of "darkness everlasting" in their minds.

Fefe's chapter.

The writing was invented in aman, and Rumil lived in Tirion (everyone important did I suppose).

Finwe and Miriel fell in love in Aman (not before) and were very happy and in love. After her death Finwe did mourn her a lot even in the published Silm.

Feanor is canonically tall!!! And pretty, light-eyed and raven-haired. He made a lot of glowy gems, silmarils were just the magnum opus.

OK, so Indis here isn't Ingwë's sister, just an unspecified close relative. from the order of those in the narrative, I suppose Feanor married Nerdanel before Finwë remarried. Before the remarriage and Melkor getting free, Feanor seems pretty stable mentally. but it is not clear, which of those two factors messed him up more.

Melkor is set free during the adolescence of Fingolfin and Finarfin, or at least before they are full adults, but after they're born.

Melkor is such a jerk. :/ I mean, sure he is but he's even more of a jerk instantly after his release than I remembered.

It's not like "the Valar set Melkor free to roam"! He was supervised and restricted to Valmar, but pretended to be good and behaved and the Noldor actually benefited from his advice (per the book!) so he was let to go whenever he wanted in all Aman. Because Manwë thoght that Melkor is fine now.

Tulkas is less nice than I remembered and does have anger issues indeed.

Melkor teaches the Noldor a lot of thigs they should not be taught. I wonder what were those.

Feanor never took advice from Melkor. …or from anyone else (except Nerdanel in their early marriage). so it's not as noble of him as it seems.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Hi there! Do you think the people of Rohan would be familiar with the Elvish history? Like, would they know about the silmarils? How about Valinor and the trees? Balrog and Glorfindel? Thank you so much!

Hi! I think the answer here is an unequivocal…kind of! 🙂

They absolutely know some of that Silmarillion-style history because every once in a while they refer to it in their own lore. For example, in Appendix A Tolkien says the Rohirrim thought this about their great horses, the mearas: “that Béma (whom the Eldar call Oromë) brought their sire from West over Sea.” In that one phrase, we get confirmation that they knew 1) the identity of the Vala Oromë, 2) that he had an association with horses, and 3) that the Valar lived in the far west beyond the sea. So they’ve got clear familiarity with at least parts of that story, and I think that’s only natural.

For starters, their ancestors (the Rohirrim are kin to the House of Hador but settled further east and didn’t go all the way to Beleriand) lived through a lot of those early historical events. So when the elves were up to big deeds, the proto-Rohirrim would have either directly witnessed some of those deeds (for ex.: their immediate ancestors, the Northmen, were liberated from Sauron by Gil-galad at the end of the Second Age!) or heard about them as news made its way around Middle Earth. Those stories would have become part of their general histories and been passed on through the years, making their way eventually to Third Age Rohan (though sometimes incomplete or having been altered through repeated transmission).

In addition, although the Rohirrim as we know them didn’t really interact with elves and seemed to have lost some knowledge and understanding of them (see Éomer’s misconceptions about Galadriel and whether she is well intentioned), they weren’t total isolationists. They were best buddies with the Gondorians, who were the intellectual heirs of Númenor and, thus, knew all that Silmarillion stuff. And they had established relationships with both Gandalf and Saruman. So they had plenty of sources available to them for information about the elves’ ideas about the gods, the world, and the history of Middle Earth.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s a lot of textual evidence to clarify exactly *which* pieces of those elven stories the Rohirrim knew and believed. I’ve previously highlighted a few Silmarillion references, like Haleth and Aerin, to pop up in Rohan, but they tend to be references to the humans of the First Age rather than the elves or the Valar.

Of the examples you asked about, we can give a definite yes to Valinor (see above), but as for the Silmarils, the trees, or Glorfindel and the balrog in Gondolin, we could only speculate. The Rohirrim’s relatives, the Hadorians, were deeply tied up in the doings of the elves during the War of the Jewels – including the fall of Gondolin, since Tuor was a Hadorian – so I think it’s reasonable to assume that at least some of that made its way to them back then even without a Gondorian or Saruman or whoever telling them about it later. But I can’t produce any specific evidence for that!

If pressed, though, I’d say that the most highly educated of the Rohirrim have probably heard about most of those big ticket events, ideas and people, if only in an abbreviated or adulterated form (and they may not believe all of it to be true even if they’ve heard it). But they aren’t super focused on it anyway, because their primary interest would be the history and lore that’s most directly related to their own forebears, and that didn’t tend to intersect often with what the elves were up to.

Hope that was helpful, and thanks for asking! ♥️♥️♥️

[searchingforserendipity25]

Once more thinking about Míriel and weaving and I may be wrong in some particulars but we know she invented the art of the needle but there was weaving before, which means someone else invented spinning, warping, etc. And presumably, most elves went around in seamless clothes (lots of fashion potential for that pre-needle period, too, and for all those who didn't take to it. togas, mantles, layered and foldable robes!)

Every fiber artist I know would be tempted to move to another god-ruled continent for the offer of unlimited pastures and fleece variety.

But then, in Valinor. Where is all this floss and thread coming from. Presumably Míriel had a flock, and she might well have left behind the biggest farm of sheep/goats/lamas/bison around. Does she have a connection with Vairë, even then? Does Yavanna have thoughts and opinions on the first cases of deliberate animal breeding in Valinor?

Her son grows up with at least one emotional support pet lama. It eats Indis' silk gowns with the vengeance of a prized economic commodity turned unfashionable in the years after Finwë's remarriage and the new trade agreements with Valmar. Fëanor loves it so, so much.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Elrond and Celebrian’s wedding thoughts

I’ve had this really weird idea about how the brutality of the first and second age in which so many elves have lived could influence certain traditions, especially the Noldor exiles because I think they did a very sharp u turn from ‘all I’ve known is bliss’ to ‘the world is composed of fire and corpses’ and went well off the deep end a lot quicker than the Sindar did. Because the Sindar adjusted to the darkness a lot less violently and suddenly than the Noldor did and are just generally more stable seeming, less entirely batshit insane (because of course all the Noldor exiles present in First Age Beleriand are the batshit insane ones who either burnt the ships or crossed the Helcaraxe).

So the Noldor are so focused on war that it inserts itself into every aspect of their lives including ceremonies because how is anything meant to be binding without blood spilled? Bonds are forged by saving each other in battle, avenging a lost friend with a bloodthirsty rampage, how are words meant to hold weight or impact over the life and death situations that define them? So I think that in certain factions, at certain points, it becomes tradition for there always to be some form of blood involved in a wedding ceremony.

How varies, probably it originated from people just straight up getting married on the battlefield one time too many, seems like a very Noldor thing to do (no I’m not talking about the LACE kind of wedding before anyone’s mind goes there). Then it evolves to different things, scrapes along hands before linking them, cuts on knuckles before bringing them to lips, slicing a finger and leaving a bloody mark over the partners heart or on their forehead, or (my personal favourite) cutting the lips before kissing so the blood mingles.

This brings me to the main point of this ramble which is that Elrond and Celebrian by the start of the Third Age are some of the only people who still value this tradition. Despite their extremely different upbringings fundamentally, and this of course is up to personal interpretation as we know very little about Celebrian sadly, I’d say they were both born into the world at the point of apocalypse, desensitised to violence. Very used to the sense of impending doom and willing to take any hope or joy when they can. They are fundamentally children of the first age and it shows.

Mirkwood obviously doesn’t do this because they obviously aren’t Noldor and don’t have those kind of traditions (because they aren’t that mental) and Lothlorien probably wouldn’t because it’s predominantly Sindar (and also more chill) and since a good proportion of the First Age elves are either dead or in Valinor by the end of the second age suffice it to say everyone who is at their wedding thinks it’s concerning when they pull out their ‘good daggers’ and prick their lips before embracing, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes and grinning wildly all the time as if there’s nothing messed up at all about the fact they brought daggers to their wedding.

Thranduil expected there to be at least one disturbing Noldor feature of the day, his father gave him enough vague warnings, not that he ever thought he’d end up at a Noldo’s wedding, and he’d certainly no hopes of Celebrian being a tempering influence on Elrond’s blatant Feanorian sympathies with how much she loved to wreak havoc but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of little droplets of blood smearing on their mouths as they pressed their lips together, otherwise perfectly romantically. He does not attend any more weddings in Rivendell after that.

Galadriel and Celeborn probably married in a Sindarin way but they find the gesture touching anyway, not unusual in the slightest but more quaint, a true symbolic end to the previous ages in the joining of the last descendants of Finwë in the wartime fashion before an age of peace.

Is there a possibility Arwen and Aragorn did it too? Absolutely and Legolas has thoughts on it which he will be bemoaning to Gimli the entire ceremony.