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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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Meeting In Tirion

[for Glorfindel Week, hosted by @glorfindelweek, Day 1: Valinor]

“You’re quite something, aren’t you?”

Laurefindelë looked up from the flavored shaved ice he was eating from a folded leaf. He’d never tried the treat before, ice being a rare commodity in Valmar. The flavor was surprising, sweet like ripe berries chilled in a stream but even colder, and sharp on his tongue like crystalized honey until it melted. He’d been enjoying the novelty at one of the many public benches that dotted the mountain city of Tirion, and now he found himself looking up at one of the black-haired Noldorin inhabitants.

“Pardon?” Laurefindelë said with a mild smile.

“You speak like them, too.” the Noldo said, mouth pulling down in disgust.

Laurefindelë knew that tensions in the city were on the rise. Most of the public rhetoric was focused on the Valar themselves, but this wasn’t the first time his golden hair, simple garment, or voice had singled him out for hatred. The last time he visited, his reception was much warmer.

“I suppose you’ve come to spy on us for your masters.” The Noldo’s frown hardened, an angry line across his handsome face.

Laurefindelë glanced around (the street was busy but no one paid them any mind) and then held up his shaved ice. “I’ll be recommending we find a place to harvest ice so I can have this in Valmar, too.”

The other scoffed. “The ice is made, not harvested. It is a craft beyond what your masters will let you learn.”

Laurefindelë was floored. “What do you mean, the ice is ‘made’? How can you make ice?”

The question had the double benefit of distracting the Noldor from his suspicion and drawing over a growing crowd to debate the ‘how’, ‘whys’, and ‘wherefores’ of making ice from water or even the air, apparently, though he was disinclined to wholly trust the visibly inebriated artisan who made that particular claim. Soon a roaring discussion was filling the street. Bejeweled elves spoke in louder and louder voices, gesticulating wildly as they sought to convince anyone that their particular understanding or theoretical method was the best and most worthy of further investigation. They might not even be discussing ice anymore.

Certain he’d been conveniently forgotten in the hubbub, Laurefindelë rose from his bench and slipped away through the jostling bodies. Just as he passed through the edge of the gathering, a hand fell on the bare skin of his arm, grabbing just below his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” The Noldo from earlier demanded, sharp eyebrows raised.

“I have an appointment I need to get to. I’m going to be late.” He really did not want to be interrogated again. The city’s paranoia was growing out of hand, not that anyone bothered to ask for his opinion on that.

“Don’t lie to me.” The Noldo did not release him. “You were in no hurry to leave before, and you are a poor liar.”

Laurefindelë briefly considered the merits of hitting the elf and running. The mass of arguers could turn into a mob if he wasn’t careful. Wouldn’t that be a terrible way to end his trip to Tirion? He’d been warned no less than three times before leaving Valmar about the mounting hostilities. He would definitely get at least two ‘we told you so’s upon his return.

Before he got too far down the mental escape plan (which currently involved running very fast and seeing if anything he learned from his time climbing sea cliffs with several Teleri applied to scaling walls), his accoster continued.

“The wife of my cousin crafts ice,” he said. “You must meet her, I insist. She will show you how it is done and answer your questions better than these fools. Her workshop is only several streets away. If we hurry, we might catch her before mingling and she will invite you to dinner, too. Come!”

No better option presented itself so Laurefindelë acquiesced. As they walked up the twisting streets, the din of the still-raging debate falling behind them, he asked, “What is your name?”

The Noldo’s smile was far more pleasant than his frown. “Ah, forgive me. I forgot to introduce myself with all the excitement.” He paused to offer a sweeping bow. “I am Ecthelion, flutist under Prince Fingon, and husband of Patacané the master fungi culturist.”

He waited for Ecthelion to right himself and catch up before offering a much more reserved head dip (bowing was something that really should be reserved for the Valar). “I’m Laurefindelë,” he offered.

“Just Laurefindelë?” Ecthelion asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard it said–” the Noldor said hesitantly, sounding far less self-assured than he had when making acquisitions– “that your people have no craft other than song and poetry. Have you come to Tirion to escape the Valar’s eye and study something that calls to your heart?”

“No, and no.” Laurefindelë shook his head. He answered plainly. “I like to travel. I visited Tirion several times when I was younger and thought I’d come again to see what had changed.”

Ecthelion nodded. “We are always growing and developing here. The Heart of Eldar Greatness, some call Tirion. That is why the Valar fear us: we refuse to be content with what they dain to offer us.” His tone fell to a hush, more to draw his audience closer than to avoid anyone around overhearing. “This is why they seek to divide us. They’ve banished our crown prince to the furthest reaches of Aman. They’ve doubtless kept this information from reaching your people, but King Finwë has all but stepped down from his throne in protest against this overreach of their power. He’s journeying, even now, to join his son in Fermenos.”

He had, in fact, heard this. All news came to Valmar on swift wings and the Valar hid little of it from those who wished to know. “I think threatening death on anyone, a brother, no less, warrants correction.”

Ecthelion scoffed, tossing his head. “Who among us hasn’t said foolish things when our tempers are hot?”

“I’ve never threatened to kill anyone while holding a knife,” Laurefindelë pointed out.

“We have swords, not knives,” the Noldo corrected proudly. “But that is beyond the point. The Valar show their hands too clearly in how they have meddled in the affairs of our people. Stay long enough and the scales will fall from your eyes so that you see it too.”

Laurefindelë doubted that but saw no reason in arguing. He was merely content to no longer be considered some kind of co-conspirator with an enemy. ‘Confused and ill-informed’ was a less hazardous label than ‘spy’. He certainly did not want to be threatened with a knife, let alone a sword (however the latter differed from the former).

They did not arrive at Ecthelion’s cousin’s wife’s workshop early enough for an invitation to a meal, but she did give them an enthusiastic, whirlwind tour of the entire process of condensing water from the air and freezing it into blocks of ice larger than an elf. Laurefindelë had never seen anything more peculiar in his life. The process was magnificently artful and he doubted there would be a way to replicate it in Valmar—least ways, not without Ulmo’s help.

The streets and buildings were bathed in the silver light of Telperion by the time they stepped out of the shop. The light was so much softer here than in Valmar, which sat nearly at the roots of the two trees. The difference was too comforting to be strange and too strange to be comforting, which left him hovering in an ambivalent middle ground where he wanted nothing more than to go back inside to the straightforward simplicity of the glowing gems the Noldor used to light their buildings.

“I promised you a lesson on ice-making and a meal,” was the first thing Ecthelion said as they stood on the edge of the street, out of the way of the light traffic. “Alas, I’ve given you only one of these.”

Laurefindelë shrugged. “I was planning to try something from the market. The lesson was more than enough.”

Ecthelion brushed this aside. “Come to my house. Patacané would like to meet you, as would our daughter; she has never met a Vanya before—other than Queen Indis and Lady Elenwë, of course. We will eat and I will let you do the talking at last and tell us of your travels or of your home, and perhaps answer some of little Valianel’s many questions.”

At some point, after he got over the paranoia and conspiracies, Laurefindelë realized that he liked Ecthelion. He was nice when he wasn’t going on about the threat the Valar posed to the Eldar. He had the mind of an artist and musician, which Laurefindelë always found comforting.

“That sounds lovely,” he said.

They continued through the streets to Ecthelion’s warm home.

#discussion of finwean drama because no one in tirion can escape it #glorfindel is just trying to enjoy his shaved ice please leave him alone #ecthelion is such a conspiracy theorist it isn't even funny how deep into this insanity he is #but he is a nice person under all that and glorfindel an tell #i love glorfindel being an outsider ok. it's just so lovely #glorfindel week #glorfindel #ecthelion #tirion #aman #years of the trees #the silmarillion #grimwing writes

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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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would love to see it

Elros is so tired of this shit.

yes technically this is for a 1920s ish au but I had too much fun making it a social media post.

#me. my brother. and my brother #caranthir is getting so tired of this

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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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Wip of Maedhros with Elured and Elurid as Ignorance and Want

i honestly don't know when i'll work on this again, but i have had it sort of idea brewing in me for ages and it feels so good to get it out at last

#poor little guys #ignorance and want #elurin #elured #maedhros #the silmarillion

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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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Some more thoughts on the idea that Elrond gets more eldritch as he ages. I'm gonna make another post about this that's more fun Eldritch Peredhel stuff but I felt the need to address some of the implications of this headcanon first.

Like I said, Elrond changes slowly, and most elves don't notice at first. When they do, though, things get interesting.

See, Elrond looks increasingly like Luthien over time. As a child, he had similar facial features, but didn't really resemble her otherwise. But when his hair starts to darken and his eyes turn gray, it becomes clear that he's almost an exact replica of Doriath's princess.

The Sindar find this amazing and wonderful– for a lot of them, their feelings of grief over the loss of Doriath are very connected to the loss of Luthien and Melian (who kept Doriath safe), and "having Luthien back" is great. Of course, this puts Elrond in a very strange position. On one hand, it's nice for him to have elves who encourage him to push the limits of his Ainuric power and tell him stories about his mother's family, who he knows so little about. On the other hand, he can't deny it's a little unsettling sometimes, the way that people can stare right at him and see someone else. He also doesn't like how... possessive some of them seem of him, expecting him to act like his ancestors, even though he's his own person.

It's a little more complicated for the Noldor. Some of them find Elrond's increasingly obvious powers creepy– they're a lot more inclined to be distrustful of the Ainur. But it's worth noting that for all Elrond looks like Luthien, his gray eyes and dark hair also make him look very Noldor, a lot more than he did as a child. And while some of the Noldor are uneasy about Elrond, lots of them see him as one of the finest jewels of the Finwean family– a healer who's dedication to his craft is almost unmatched. They can also be a little bit weird about seeing his ancestors when they look at him, or about expecting him to dress, act, and present himself in a certain way. Especially the old Feanorians, who care deeply about Elrond but do not always express that care in normal ways.

Gil-Galad is a huge help here– he's older than Elrond, but was too young to have any memories of most of the people the other elves compare Elrond to. And he has a very low tolerance for people making his herald uncomfortable. Sometimes he enlists Galadriel and Celeborn (who cared about Elrond for who he was long before he started looking like Luthien) to deal with particularly stubborn elves.

#more lovely ideas!#love gil coming in clutch to help stop people trying to make elrond be his ancestors #elrond #gil galad #eldritch peredhel #the silmarillion #second age

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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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Cow?!

COWS?!

#such a pretty little volly

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lordgrimwing · 2 days

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First Meetings #08 / At The Park #02

Heavy clouds hung over the park as Celebrían parked the minivan in the dirt lot dotted with a handful of other vehicles. The clouds rolled in about an hour ago, contrary to the very optimistic weather report that morning of sunny skies and highs in the low eighties. Despite the threat of rain, Elladan and Elrohir insisted they still wanted to go to a park, so here they were: picnic basket packed and dressed for a potentially wet adventure.

(sixteen-year-old Arwen declined the invitation to the soggy outing, citing hanging out with friends later as a reason to not risk getting muddied)

“Here we are,” she said to the twins as she turned off the van.

“Woohoo,” Elladan cheered as they undid their seatbelts and scrambled out of the vehicle.

Oh, for the enthusiasm of ten-year-olds, Celebrían thought with a shake of her head. She got out of the car, retrieved the picnic basket, and headed for the covered pavilion. The boys could run off some energy in the field or on the playset before lunch and before the rain started, with any luck. She’d reassess the situation after eating to see if they should head home yet.

The park was nearly deserted, not surprising with the gloomy weather. The only other person she could see was a guy with long pale hair sitting on a bench near the hill that went down to the duck pond. She picked a table under the empty pavilion and sat down. Reaching into the basket, she retrieved her computer. She would put it away when the rain started, but until then she wanted to review the family’s budgets. The kids teamed up earlier in the week to ask their parents to please let them go on a fun trip before school started again. Elrond and she were currently in the phase of discussing what was feasible, both financially and logistically.

The wind picked up slowly, prompting her to zip up the light coat she brought with her. Looking up, she saw the twins on the swings, seeing who could go the highest.

The first fat drops of rain plunked against the aluminum roof as she finished and put the computer away. The wind blew the drops sideways as they fell, but her spot in the middle of the covered area wasn’t at risk of getting wet provided the wind didn’t get much fiercer. Looking up again, she didn’t see the twins (they probably went down to the duck pond), but the guy reading on the bench was walking toward the pavilion, shoulders hunched against the elements, book tucked under one arm.

“Hello,” she said with a polite smile as the elf (she hadn’t been sure before but she was now) settled at the other table that wasn’t starting to accumulate little puddles on the bench.

“Hi. I suppose the brown-haired boys are yours,” he said, voice lightly accented.

“Yes,” she said, unsure where this was going. Conversations with strangers at parks were usually about mundane things, but sometimes someone (usually an elf) had opinions about her family based on her children’s ears. This guy, with so much hair he must spend at least half an hour on it every morning, looked like he might be one of those who wanted to air their narrow view on interracial marriage.

He continued, oblivious to her thoughts. “They’ve joined my kid hunting for frogs in the pond. If he has his way, they won’t be back until they're soaked, but maybe yours will be a moderating influence.” He laughed a little to himself.

“They don’t mind the rain,” she said, relaxing. “Lunch is waiting, though, so that might sway them.”

“Ah, stratagem.” He set the book on the table, giving up any pretenses of going back to reading rather than talking. He pivoted on the bench to look at her better. She noticed opaque scarring in his left eye. It was a little surprising but she didn’t stare. “Should never go on an outing with kids without a way to entice them to come back when it’s time to go.”

“I guess so.” She suddenly imagined making a snack trail back to the car like some kind of fairytale.

There was a pause in the conversation as she brushed the ridiculous thought aside and he looked out through the rain toward the hidden pond.

When her thoughts were mostly called back from their fanciful trip, she asked, “Where in Doriath are you from?”

He looked at her, mild surprise showing on his face.

Oh, was she wrong? She’d spent enough time in the country while growing up that she was fairly confident in her ability to recognize the regional accents, even if she couldn’t quite place where each was from anymore. But maybe she was wrong this time. She opened her mouth to apologize for assuming—it wasn’t any of her business, anyway.

“Most people don’t guess with that much confidence,” he said mildly.

“My father’s from Menegroth. I spent a lot of time there on and off when I was young,” she explained, hoping he wasn’t offended by her assumption. She really shouldn’t have phrased it like that or asked at all really. Growing up, she’d moved to so many different countries to follow her mother’s career that she was inured to asking and answering questions about where people were from. It wasn’t like that for everyone, of course—her experience was a bit unique.

“Sorry, I should have at least introduced myself before asking that,” she said as the rain began pelting down harder. “Hi, I’m Celebrían.”

“Hello, Celebrían.” He pronounced her name in the same way as her father did. “I’m Thranduil. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“How familiar are you with the country outside the capital?” He asked, apparently willing to go back to her original question.

“A bit. I spent a summer in Nan Elmoth.”

He contemplated her for a moment. “I lived in West Region. More recently, I’m from a few miles south of here.”

She’d been to East Region once to see the eponymous holly trees blanketed in snow (Celeborn later said he never would have forgiven himself if she’d missed out on the classic Doriadhrim childhood experience of hiding in the natural snow forts formed under the trees’ low branches), but the holly was probably what the region was best known for outside of Doriath so she wasn’t going to blurt that out.

“Oh, nice,” she said instead. “I think I have a great-aunt who lives there.” Then, because he’d pointed the conversation to where he was currently from, “it was a bit of a drive out here for me, but the boys wanted to come here again.”

“It’s a nice park,” Thranduil agreed. “There’s a trail, about a mile long, from here to an artificial wetland full of frogs and bugs. Legolas is a fan.”

Legolas must be his son. “Thanks, that’s nice to know. I had no idea.” That could come in handy when it came time for the twins to make bug collections for school.

Just then, a blond head peaked over the hill from the duck pond. A small boy came into view, soaking wet, with mud plastered to his shoes and bare shins and what looked like pond weed in his hair. Elladan and Elrohir came just behind him, windbreakers zipped and hoods up against the rain. They were also wet but clearly from the rain and not from playing in the muck of the shallow pond.

“Legolas,” Thranduil called to the little boy, who couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight. Despite his youth, he had long hair like his father (though more wavy than straight) that would take a considerable amount of time to get clean again. “Where’s your backpack?”

His hands came up as he spoke, and Celebrían realized he was signing. Was his child deaf?

Legolas pointed a muddy finger at Elrohir, who did have the strap of a red backpack flung over one shoulder. His hand then came up to wiggle in front of his face.

Thranduil snorted. “No, you’re silly,” he said, repeating the sign.

Celebrían stood up and unpacked the picnic basket as the three children arrived at the pavilion. They’d made lunch meat and cabbage sandwiches before leaving, Arwen pitching in too lest her brothers create some horrid combination (and so she could eat the pickle slices). There were carrots and apple slices, too.

“How was the pond?” She asked as Elladan and Elrohir plopped down on the bench.

“Super fun,” Elrohir reported. “We saw a lot of frogs and minnows.”

Elladan nodded in vigorous agreement as he bit into a sandwich. “Legolas knows all kinds of stuff about frogs. Don’t you?” He said through a mouthful of bread, good-naturedly nudging Legolas (who’d sat down between the twins instead of going over to his dad) with an elbow.

“Frogs,” the little elf murmured, his hands coming up to form more signs.

“Frogs are his favorite,” Thranduil said, scooting to the end of his table so he could see his son better. He watched his hands move. “He likes the sounds they make and how they swim.”

“Did you catch any?” Celebrían asked.

Her sons shook their heads, mouths full. Legolas’s eyes widened and then he shook his head vigorously and looked at his dad.

Smiling, Thranduil said, “We don’t touch frogs. We could make them sick or hurt them if we aren’t careful.”

A little bemused, she unwrapped her own sandwich as Legolas waved Elladan and Elrohir down to his level to whisper in their ears. The rest of lunch continued in a similar manner, part in signs and part in whispered conversations. She offered food to Thranduil—who politely declined—and Legolas—who shook his head and dug around in his flimsy backpack to retrieve a battered peanut butter sandwich.

The rain let up while they ate and talked, the sun suddenly peeking out bravely from behind the clouds. Thrilled, Elladan and Elrohir cleaned up their trash so they could go play again. Legolas jumped up to join them.

“Wait,” Thranduil said, snagging a dangling strap on the backpack that his son had put back on after eating his lunch so he couldn’t run away. “It’s about time to go.”

The child’s face fell. He raised his hands. Celebrían tried not to stare at the signing, but it was interesting to see how expressive the boy’s face was. He was plainly asking a question, even when there was no tone of voice to listen to.

“We can go now or stay ten more minutes, but if we stay then we won’t have time for the library today. Which do you want?”

Staying won out, and Legolas ran off after the twins who’d stopped halfway to the playground when they realized he wasn’t following them.

Celebrían watch them go together to play. “Well,” she said, starting to put away the leftovers. “Your son is sweet.”

“He has his moments.” Thranduil’s tone suggested ‘moments’ meant ‘every moment of the day’. “What are your boys’ names, again?”

She’d said their names during lunch but wasn’t surprised he hadn’t caught which was which. “The one in the blue coat is Elladan. The one in green is Elrohir.”

“Elladan and Elrohir. Legolas likes them,” he said with a contemplative expression. “He doesn’t normally use his voice this much, especially with strangers.”

She didn’t say anything to that. During lunch, she realized the child wasn’t deaf, but she felt like she’d risked putting her foot in her mouth enough today so she didn’t ask about it. She was curious, but that didn’t give her leave to ask personal questions. Elrond got so frustrated when strangers kept asking questions about his parents because he was visibly mixed-race. Even if questions were asked innocently, it wasn’t anyone’s responsibility to explain their existence.

The ten-minute limit drew close.

Thranduil pulled a notebook and pen out of his pants pocket. He tore out a page and wrote a series of numbers down before offering it to her. “This is my cell number,” he explained. “I think Legs would really like to play with your kids again.”

She took the paper and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Sounds possible. I’m always looking for excuses to get them outside.”

He stood and dusted off his pants. “Right. I’d better go, or we will end up being late. I look forward to hearing from you, Celebrían.”

“Have a good day,” she said by way of good-bye as he picked up his book and headed for the playset where the kids were racing up and down the slides.

She would talk to Elladan and Elrohir on the drive home and find out how they felt about setting up a time to play with Legolas again.

#see the problem with a huge au like this is that i start working on the big drama story #and then realize i need to go back and focus on earlier things to make the drama more painful #just you wait legolas and e+e are going to become the best of friends #and they have like 5 years to become besties before *things happen*#it's delightful it's lovely #also i struggled so hard over celebrian's and thranduil's conversation #can you tell?#legolas loves frogs #celebrian #thranduil #legolas #elladan #elrohir #lotr #minimally verbal legolas #good dad thranduil #sign language #twdd au #grimwing writes

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