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amethysttribble · 7 months

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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.

#thingol #beren #earendil #melkor #luthien #maedhros #carcharoth #varda #dior #mablung #sauron #finwe #elwing #maglor #tolkien #the silmarillion #tribble post #fanfic

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dalliansss · 1 year

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From behind them stepped out three elves, all of them looking worse for wear than her Beren, but their individual beauty remained undimmed despite their matted, tangled and bloodied hair. There is her kinsman Finrod, who beamed in recognition upon seeing her. A brown-haired and green-eyed Noldo behind Finrod looked at her in awe, but then offered a bow. Then, behind the two of them stood a very tall Noldo with fiery red hair the likes of which Luthien had never seen before. He was bloodied all over: his face, his chest, his hands and arms. But Luthien knew the blood was not his own, but that of a werewolf, or perhaps a vampire. This Noldo was scarred everywhere: shoulders, on his middle, by the sides of his hips. Luthien knew then that this must be Maedhros, eldest son of Feanor, whose fury against the Enemy and the enemy’s forces were sung by minstrels, even Daeron. All the elves were as naked as Beren, but they were unbothered by it.

“My lords,” Luthien briefly touched her right hand over her chest, then held it out to them in a gesture of greeting and friendship. “My heart sings that Huan and I reached this place before it was too late, and though I mourn those whom we can no longer help, I sing for them also, for they will suffer no more. I am glad you are alive with Beren, and that you have aided him. I am Luthien of Doriath.”

“Princess Luthien,” Finrod returned her greeting. “I would be embarrassed meeting you like this, but we make do.” He laughs. “This is Edrahil mine captain—” here he gestures toward the brown-haired and green-eyed Noldo. “And this is mine cousin, the former Lord of Himring, Lord Maedhros Feanorion.” Maedhros simply bowed at her, avoiding looking her in the eye.

-- There and Back Again || available on [AO3] Or, an AU take on the Quest for Silmaril, where Maedhros joins Finrod and Beren -- and against all odds (with the help of mutant sorcery that confounds even Gorthaur the Cruel), they manage to rescue one of the gems, and Finrod survives all the way until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. High King Fingon, in turn, reigns well until the War of Wrath and possibly well into the Second Age.

Super gorgeous artwork I commissioned from the lovely @sauroff. I adore their design! Look how beautiful Luthien is! They have commissions OPEN, so do check them out! ✨❤️

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cilil · 2 months

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❅ Prompt: Angels & Demons & meet-violent (free space, sweet bingo) | Lúthien x Thuringwethil ❅ Synopsis: For the first time in her life, Lúthien meets a different Aini - the kind her mother warned her about ❅ Warnings: Angry violent angel ladies (no explicit violence though) ❅ Drabble

» AN: I have to take a moment to thank @saintstars for inspiring me to write more Thuri as well as meet-violents.

There were others out there, her mother had said, beings made of song like them.

There were others out there, she had warned, that were different from them, fallen ones, demons, monsters.

Lúthien had never seen her mother's kin before, but when she beheld the woman in front of her she knew what she was- and that she was the latter kind.

Red eyes stared hungrily, fangs gleamed, clawed fingers reached for her. The Aini's song was distorted.

A primal snarl rose within Lúthien, pure instinct taking over. This one was an enemy. This one she would have to fight.

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @singleteapot @wandererindreams

#luthien #lúthien #thuringwethil #luthien x thuringwethil #maiar #ainur #drabble #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #winter prompts

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eilinelsghost · 1 year

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For @actual-bill-potts, an attempt at tall!Lùthien slinging Beren around as per And All His Towers Cast Down.

#my art #teaching myself to draw #beren #luthien #tolkien fanfic #frankie draws

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meluiloth · 1 day

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Whither Go The Songbirds, pt. 1

Elured and Elurin live headcanon: They are raised by Daeron.

"Doriath burns!" the birds cry, swooping overhead as though their feathers are on fire. "Doriath burns!" the woodland creatures howl, tearing through the undergrowth too swiftly to see. "Doriath burns!" the trees whisper, their branches rattling with fear that they will burn also.

Daeron's fingers freeze on the harpstrings, the beautiful music that had filled the forest silenced in an instant. He listens anxiously to the wildlife around him, hoping that he misheard them - what they say is impossible!

But even as he thinks this, the forest still screams: "Doriath burns!"

The harp slips from his hands, landing with a muffled sound on the forest floor. He has not seen Doriath in many years, and his parting with it had been bitter - but this news awakens something in his breast that had been dead until this moment.

His body acts before his mind, and he breaks into a run, mossy green robes flying out behind him. He does not know how far he must go, as his wandering has been long, but he follows the sound of the terrified creatures fleeing in the opposite way.

Night passes into day, and back to night again as Daeron travels, the fire of desperation fueling him when the fire of energy dies out. The dawn was red, crying for spilled blood, and Daeron fights back tears of his own. Memories flash through his mind with every beat of his heart: The libraries of Menegroth, the waterfalls and the forest, the celebrations and the voice of the King ... and the laughter of Luthien, his dearest friend. Oh, the jealousy and heartbreak her face inspired!

All the love he had felt for his first home had vanished with Luthien - or so he thought - he had turned his back on Doriath and sworn never to return. And yet he could not bear it if the news that the kingdom had fallen was true.

Days of ceaseless travel lead Daeron to the edge of the once-familiar forest of Neldoreth, and his heart stops in his chest when he sees the red glow of fire through the trees, and the vast curls of smoke billowing in the sky. Doriath burns!

Tears roll down his face as he stumbles onward towards the inevitable horrors before him; how did this happen? How great is the carnage? How many died?

The fumes clog his lungs and burn his eyes, so much so that he is forced to stop. Perhaps this is a mercy, the noble city's ghost barring him from looking upon her defiled corpse. Besides ... he was too late. The forest is utterly silent, with no signs of life to be seen. The trees mourn the loss of their brethren, who lay burning further on, and all of the wildlife has long since fled. The survivors of this destruction - if there are any - must have escaped as well, though Daeron knows not whither. He is alone in the ruins of his city.

No, not alone - a faint sound reaches his keen ears, one that might have gone unnoticed if not for the stillness of death around him. Daeron tenses, resting his hand upon the hilt of his spear, and listens; there it is again, a little way away - the soft, high cry of a child.

Impossible, he thinks as he creeps towards it, every muscle taut. Could it be that he has gone mad, his ears plagued by phantoms?

His search brings him to the edge of an ashen glade, where a smoke-sullied creek runs beneath his feet ... and, peering in through the shadow of the wood, Daeron sees them. Two small children huddling together, their thin clothes dirty and their silver hair tangled. One of them is sobbing quietly, his little shoulders shaking with fear and cold, and the other whispers consoling words in a trembling voice.

Daeron steps quietly into their view, his grief momentarily forgotten in the pity he feels for these two young ones, left alone to starve. When they see him, they fall silent, the same look of terror on their identical faces - and Daeron stops short.

For in their wide blue eyes is the reflection of Luthien. He sees the ghost of his dear friend and beloved in their faces, though he has not seen Luthien all these long years, not since she left Doriath to be with the mortal she loved. But there is no mistaking her spirit in the two children before him, and Daeron's heart breaks just a little more.

He takes another step forward, and the twins shrink away in fear. But Daeron kneels down slowly and reaches out a comforting hand. "Don't be frightened ... I want to help you. Come, I will take you somewhere safe."

The children do not move, not until Daeron begins to sing. His voice is soft and gentle as he sings the lullaby, one that he remembers from childhood - a song that he and Luthien had written when they were young and carefree. Slowly, the two children relax, inching closer to him, soothed by the melody, and he takes their chilled hands in his own.

Daeron still sings as he lifts them into his arms and carries them away from the ruins of Doriath.

#the silmarillion #my writing #silm headcanons #doriath #daeron #elurin #elured #luthien #fanfic #whither go the songbirds

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imakemywings · 9 months

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A lot of femslash fics are bite-sized. And those are fun! But sometimes you want a fic to really sink your teeth into. So here are a handful of Tolkien femslash fics that are at least 4k words in length.

Come Home to Chaos (Get a Crush On a Queen) by ncfan - 8.5k - Arwen/Firiel of Gondor - Arwen came home to Imladris at the end of winter, and found her home in chaos.

Do I Hurt To Hold? by Anonymous - 5.2k - Galadriel/Melian - Melian makes her a promise: “I will train you. For one year, you will be mine. Your power—your body, mind, and spirit—will be mine. And by the end of that year, you will be stronger than you could possibly imagine.”

It's the Secret That We Keep by Loriand_Lost - 17.7k - Galadriel/Luthien - In Doriath, Galadriel meets the love of her life. She also meets another of her great loves - the Princess Luthien, daughter of Melian the enchantress and skilled in her own right.

Little Tenderness by batshape - 4.1k - f!Feanor/Nerdanel - Istarnië, she had said, and again and again. Istarnië, Istarnië. I can beg.

The Nameless Black of a Name by Ias - 8.1k - Finduilas/Nienor - The body which lies beneath the Haudh-en-Elleth does not have a name. Finduilas wanders the wilderness in its stead, and there meets someone as lost as she is.

need a bad girl ('cause the bad boys just don't cut it) (series) by @swanmaids - 5k - Curufin’s wife/Luthien - a prisoner, her jailer, and a knife.

of all the stars, the fairest by whatiwouldnotgive - 7.2k - Arwen/Eowyn - And with that, the pieces of this fanciful puzzle they’ve been creating fall into place. It’s the turning of a page, the changing of a season. Eowyn could laugh, giddily, at how foolish they’ve both been.

Quicksilver by clothono - 26.4k - Indis/Miriel - "Míriel has recovered herself," Indis said. "She has rested long and well in the Halls of Mandos, and misses now the craft of her hands, the light of the Trees—have I guessed right?"

Scraps of dark in a starstrewn night by Solanaceae - 5.2k - Luthien/Thuringwethil - Thuringwethil sees the outline of the hook and rises still to the bait, unable to resist the provocation. “Prove yourself worthy of my help." // Luthien tells a story to earn Thuringwethil's aid.

What the Waver Gave Me by me! - 27k - Finduilas/Nienor - Finduilas had never thought she had been saved for a reason, until she found the woman in the river.

Happy reading! ♪(´▽｀)

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pursuitseternal · 11 months

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“Pinned” and ready for the taking, dear Readers…

Update to “Tamed by Light” up on AO3

1st Age Saurondriel | Explicit | 4.3K

Carcharoth salivated, but its head swayed back and forth between the clusters of companions. Sizing up threats as the Silmaril’s power took hold, wagging his head in a slow, indecisive beat

One thing Sauron knew, she was in trouble. “Get out of here,” he ordered her, his mind unable to hide the absolute freezing fear that took hold.

“I won’t leave now,” she hissed, holding her ground, boots digging into the black rubble around them, pulling another, longer dagger from her belt. “We’ve just found my brother, my friends…” her hand gave his head one quick scratch, nails digging into the base of his pointed ear. “I can’t leave you to suffer a hero’s death now, old Servant of the Dark. I wouldn’t want to lose my four-legged companion now to a broken curse or a brutal death.”