actual-bill-potts

[actual-bill-potts]

i love fingon so much just. he's so good and so reckless and he loves so fiercely it makes him do the most stupid shit, and in turn no one ever quite puts him first. I'm going to eat glass

#god #it’s fine I’m normal #fingon #queuenta silmarillion

[actual-bill-potts]

Fingon does not play often anymore. Rarely does the mood strike him, and mostly when he is alone, his heart is sorrowful. But at the Mereth Aderthad some merriness of the crowd strikes him, some warmth of the liquor, and he picks up the harp and plays, unthinking, a drinking-song from bygone days. Around him elves laugh and dance, an ocean of swirling silk, and he hears little his own music. 

“You have lost the touch,” Maglor says, “you were better.” 

Fingon looks down at the joints of his fingers, where feeling has not returned since the ice, and says naught. 

#it’s cool it’s fine #maglor #fingon #daeron #jesus Christ guys this is making me sick (complimentary) #silm fic #queuenta Silmarillion

[actual-bill-potts]

Hi! If you're still doing the prompts, may I request a Finrod (in beleriand) + green things even among the pits and broken rocks?

Hello! Dear one! Most excellent silm artist! I apologize for being gone so long, feels like I have had several years of bad brain days in a row😭 but thank you so much for prompting me anyway - and what a prompt! I was instantly taken by an image and had to write it down. I hope you enjoy this one<3

TW for descriptions of blood, gore, bones, and general dead bodies.

They brought the bones up first.

Beren’s frame was sharp as daggers, driven into Lúthien’s arms; but he had not listened to her pleas that he eat.

"I will not rest until they can," he said, and for a long moment Lúthien had not understood: who? Rest where?

Then she understood: he meant the dead.

Lúthien was weary beyond belief, cursing the softness of her form and the six-days lost in Nargothrond, and even Huan beside her was sagging in exhaustion. But in truth, she did not want to leave anyone down there in the dark and the filth either.

So they gathered the bones. There were so many! Lúthien knew, of course, that the Eldar had skeletons; but the breadth of them, scattered about the floor, was such that she could not really connect any of it to living breathing creatures. Many of the bones had been split open and the marrow sucked out; others were splintered so badly they had wedged into the stone floor and had to be left. Despite this there were scraps of flesh, still, scattered here and there. It was like no death in the wilderness she had ever seen. These were not merely starving creatures; they had been purposefully cruel.

More than once Lúthien had to stop, and take her too-light load up under the stars, climbing the crumbling steps and breathing very steadily lest she lose all composure. Beren worked like a man possessed, but he was wasted to almost nothing, and so their grim task took long enough that the velvet blackness of the sky had begun to turn grey.

But at last it was done; they had neat rows of bones, away from the chains and the stones, laid out upon the dirt under the sky. At last there was only - only Finrod left, to carry out.

Huan descended with them, this time, head hanging low, and Lúthien clutched his ruff for support as they approached her cousin’s body. The stones crackled beneath her feet.

What was left of Finrod had been barely visible as they labored, between the gloom of the prison and the darkness of the night; but now light was creeping down the stairs, and she could see the gold of his hair and the pale grey of his skin. He was splattered in old black stains, across his mouth and chest and side and legs, and new brown stains. As Lúthien approached she could see the white of bone in his chest and flashing in one arm, and had to close her eyes. Beren beside her let out a low moan.

After a moment, she opened her eyes again, feeling the first rays of the sun warming her back. Then she froze.

Finrod’s hair had been mostly shorn, and what was left was covered in the damp blackness of the pit; but somehow, through a crack in the wall, a patch of aur-hennin had grown. It crowned him in yellow and green, leaves tucked behind his ears, one flower falling forward onto his forehead, as if he had simply fallen asleep after a night’s heavy revelry.

"Beren, look!" said Lúthien, very softly, "the king has got a crown again."

For a moment she felt - outside herself. She was not Lúthien, princess of Doriath; she was the Nandor Elves who had tended to Denethor’s slain body upon the hill of Amon Ereb and, it was said, crowned him in flowers; she was the Eagle who had snatched King Fingolfin’s body from the hand of the Morgoth; she was, for a moment, someone very small, standing in an unfamiliar forest under an unfamiliar sun.

Then the moment passed, as Beren staggered in grief upon her shoulder; but his tears were, she thought, a little lighter, seeing the golden king crowned, seeing her cousin cradled in softness.

Slowly they carried him up to the light.

#finrod #beren #luthien #bluthien #silm fic #my writing

[actual-bill-potts]

oooh unlearn in bitternes for finarfin or this is held true by the wise for finrod/beor?

FANTASTIC prompt beloved <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

TW for unreality, mentions of death and blood

Arafinwë has been prone to strange dreams, lately: of wide green lands and a misty lake, and gems glittering in the darkness. Thus the part of his mind that remains awake at all times, listening for his children, is not surprised at first when he sees Nolofinwë riding towards him.

“We are lost,” says Nolofinwë, “lost, all lost, and our children with us!”

A blink, and they are strolling down one of the winding alleys of Alqualondë, arm in arm. “I thought to send Findaráto to learn from Fëanáro, for awhile,” he says tentatively.

Nolofinwë stiffens. “Why?”

“Well, he is so crafty - and Fëanáro has so much to teach him! And perhaps -” Arafinwë hesitates. He does not want to voice his secret hope.

Nolofinwë snorts. “Perhaps, if he gets to know Findaráto, he will soften towards us - and our mother? Well, if anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be your eldest. But it will not happen.”

“Well, why not?” says Arafinwë, suddenly defensive. “Our brother is not a monster. I know he once was cruel, but he was young then, and it was so long ago -”

“He is set in his ways,” says Nolofinwë.

“Maybe you are,” says Arafinwë. “But I do not wish to be.”

Nolofinwë sighs. “Well, he is your son. Only - be careful. Fëanáro is hot-tempered, and bears no love for us.”

“He does,” insists Arafinwë. “If it came to it - he would still choose his family over everything.”

Nolofinwë raises one elegant brow. “Strong words from one who dwells far from Tirion.”

Arafinwë sighs. “I know,” he says, “but we were all so young. We are older now. It cannot hurt to try!”

“I suppose not,” says Nolofinwë, “at the very least, he would never raise a hand against any of us. I do not believe violence is in his nature: only hot words. But the words are enough.”

Arafinwë cannot help a small smile. “Not for Findaráto. I know not how he mastered this skill, but anger seems to slide off of him like water off the hull of a ship; such words affect him not.”

Alqualondë blurs around him; there is blood on the streets; and when he turns back to Nolofinwë there is ash in his brother’s hair.

“Nolo?” he asks, uncertain.

“They are dead,” says Nolofinwë. “Dead and gone. Your children and mine. Send them not to Fëanor, brother!”

“Fëanor…?” repeats Arafinwë, confused; but the dream is slipping through his fingers. Is that a child crying, from the next room - is it Angaráto? No, Angaráto is long grown…

He wakens in the dark. His bed is cold; he is in his father’s rooms, ruling his father’s court, and dreaming of dead things.

#finarfin #fingolfin #feanor #silm fic #my writing

[actual-bill-potts]

PROMPT TIME can I have some m&m and “enduring grief and anger in silence” please!!

hehe yes beloved <3

TW for discussion of death and funeral practices

Nelyo had not cried once after Atar’s death.

He had wept, bitterly and without comfort, after Atyarussa had died. There had been a kind of grim satisfaction in Tyelko’s face; Curvo and Moryo had been silent, Curvo tall and straight at his father’s shoulder; Minyarussa had simply stood, swaying, eyes so bright he looked like a sick animal. Makalaurë’s own eyes had been dry; he had been full of fear so hot he felt as though he were burning along with his youngest brother, and in his mind only one thought had circled, round and round like the wheels of an organ-grinder: at least one of us is now safe.

But Nelyo had cried and cried, doubled over on the ground like he was playing again on Atyarussa’s little drum-set, and Minyarussa had stared at his shaking eldest brother with a dull sort of relief on his face. Atar had half-heartedly said, “Get up,” then shook his head and strode away as Nelyo behind him gasped, “the baby, our littlest one - the baby -”

He had raged at Makalaurë, after. “Why did you not weep? Little Atyarussa! My brother the musician, composer of dirges, can still weep for a pet rabbit lost these hundred years, but not his smallest brother, who we were as fathers to -”

“You were, perhaps,” said Makalaurë, not caring that he was being cruel, not wanting to think about it, “but I had other matters to attend to. In any case, brother, at least he is not here.”

Nelyo’s face had frozen in open shock; but all he had said was a quiet, “It should have been me.”

Only - only now Atar was gone, and it seemed to Makalaurë that some rotted abscess within him had torn open and was draining, for he could not stop crying. There was grief for the father who had lifted him upon his broad shoulders when he was tiny, and swallowed his dislike of the Vanyar long enough to send Makalaurë to Valimar for tutelage - for a little - and taught him his letters. And there was grief for the days of his youth, the bright happy house and his mother’s unshadowed eyes; and finally, finally - where had it been before? - there was grief for his littlest brother, for whom he had fashioned a little violincello and whose piping voice had lifted with him in duets.

It was his turn, now, to lift his voice in mourning; but Nelyo was silent, and refused to help spread what they could gather of Atar’s ashes in the fields that were taking shape by the lake, laying him to rest as close to Cuiviénen as they could manage. He and Minyarussa stood on and watched, twin shadows of Ammë.

Does she grieve for us, he wondered. Will she know he is dead, and did not know whether he meant Atyarussa, or Atar, or himself.

But after, Makalaurë could bear it no more. “Why will you not weep for him? Our father is dead!” he demanded in a whisper in their tent. And then, pouring out of him, “you wept more for Findekáno, who is alive! Atar will not see the hills of Tirion on Túna again, nor Finwe his father; he is Doomed, and all of us with him! Will you not weep! For us, if not for him!”

“He murdered my brother,” said Nelyo, quite casually, “why should I weep? As for the rest, we have been Doomed a long time since, and I shall not grieve twice what I was commanded not to grieve once. I will fulfill our Oath; is that not enough?”

Makalaurë blinked back tears, again, and said, “Not for me; where is my brother?”

“He died on the ships,” said Nelyo; and they did not speak again until the messenger from Moringotto came.

#maedhros #maglor #ambarussa #silm fic #my writing

[actual-bill-potts]

Reeve Carney (with Eva Noblezada) leaving the Hadestown stage for the final time [x]

#to watch #HE😭 #hadestown

[actual-bill-potts]

Silm Phrase Prompt List

Send me a🧝‍♀️character or 🧑🏾‍🤝‍🧑🏻relationship (any type) and/or 🌄 place + one of these phrases from the Silmarillion and I'll write a ficlet.

violence of its voice

you are too late

shadows of things that were yet to be

the clinging mists

without wish or purpose

poured forth their joy in music and song

could not escape and would not yield

the shadows grew long in the forest

the pitiless land

green things even among the pits and broken rocks

because he is the son of his father

enduring grief and anger in silence

the constraint of their kinship

wandering free in the woodlands

feign love

this is held true by the wise

seeth all things crooked

remember who and what thou art

the years lengthen ever more sorrowful

ere deeds were done that could not be undone

unlearn in bitterness

you still I love

it chanced at a time of evening

choked with weeds and slime

seeking the unknown

old and forgotten

they dared not, for shame

a people apart

shadows of madness and despair

forsaking the past

desperate valour

drained to the dregs the cup of woe

joyful labours

weary and content

a rumour and a distant name

cumbrous and unlovely

#prompts #hey guys I’m free tmrr for once #help me break thru writers block…. #silm prompts

[actual-bill-potts]

this may or may not be a fantasy writing exercise for me. please reblog

#sea glass for noldo….

[actual-bill-potts]

#child finarfin #im all for fratricide when the brother is feanor #silm poll #finarfin

[actual-bill-potts]

Starting off 2022 with a little Beren & Luthien embrace

#they???????? #i need to go write towers rn #beren #luthien #bluthien #silm art #queuenta silmarillion

[actual-bill-potts]

#enough. Ur going in the soup

[actual-bill-potts]

i think it is important to recognize the ways in which your favorite thing sucks. i think it keeps u normal

#books have been written on this subject #also reams of bad fanfic #the silmarillion

[actual-bill-potts]

Descendants of finwë (incl. kidnapped children): sons and daughters of fëanor, fingolfin and finarfin

#GORGEOUS OP #silm art #feanorians #nolofinwioni #arafinwioni

[actual-bill-potts]

ACAB DOESN'T MEAN ASSIGNED COP AT BIRTH???

#lmao #investing now

[actual-bill-potts]

Finrod was not feeling well.

Everything felt too bright and too dull at the same time. He managed only to drag himself to the window and close the curtains, and then to drop back into his bed; covered himself in all the blankets he could gather and still felt awfully cold and dizzy.

Outside was raining, and the weather made his bones ache with pains of past life and the scars on his chest and hands to itch. It all made Finrod want to become very small and very little and to be far, far away from everything.

He shut his eyes. There were things he needed to do today, he knew; visitors he had to take in, old acquintances from Nargothrond who he agreed to meet with today. But he was feeling awful, and the thought of getting up and facing other people made him almost want to sob.

He felt very immature, and very foolish. But his body was weary, and refused to get up. It was as if he was chained all over again; familiar hopelessness settled into his chest, and he shuddered.

The clock on the wall said it was just the time for breakfast.

His house was a quiet one, in the more secluded part of Tirion, and he lived alone. His parents' palace was always open for him; but it could grow busy, and he loved to have a place to himself. Now he regretted the decision to spend the week here. He wasn't feeling well from yesterday; he was caught in the rain returning from the market, and spent the evening shivering, but he did not think the sickness would get to him in the night.

He was only bitter it happenned now, when he did not even have a messanger to inform the people he invited he was in no state to see them today. He thought of reaching out to Finarfin, or Eärwen; but his mind was too weary, and his thoughts too tangled.

The last thing he remembered was his eyelids growing more and more heavy, and his skin getting more and more hot; until his eyes finally shut closed, and he gave in to the uneasy sleep that found him.

***

He woke up slowly to the sound of someone's voice calling him.

"Good," it crooned, and it was soft and soothing and familiar. "There you are."

The rain was still falling outside. Finrod opened his eyes; saw Finarfin looking right back at him, brushing his hand at Finrod's forehead.

Finrod clasped his father's hand, feeling weak and very tired, and pressed it to his face.

"Atya," he mumbled. Finarfin sat by his side; put his head into his lap. Finrod sunk into his presence; noted dully the clatter of kitchenware coming from downstairs.

"Hush," Finarfin said, and lifted Finrod's head ever so slightly, pressing a glass with something warm to Finrod's lips and coaxing him to drink. It was warm soup, Finrod registered; and felt some warmth return into his bones. "I was right to worry about you today. I'm glad your mother and I decided to take a longer route on our way from the palace and check on you."

"What hour is it?" Finrod mumbled, and tried to sit up—but Finarfin held him down softly, and Finrod had no strength to fight back. "I had—I had a meeting today."

"It is way past lunch," Finarfin said. Then, slipping into Finrod's thoughts, his voice softening: "Your meeting is tomorrow, jewel. You need not worry; I will make sure it is moved a day or two if you do not feel better, yonya."

"Oh," Finrod said, and felt the tips of his ears grow red with embarassment. "Oh. Alright."

He heard Finarfin's quiet laugh, and closed his eyes. "I wil sleep some more, then," he mumbled. "Thank you."

"Always," Finarfin murmured in response, caressing Finrod's hair. "Sleep well, yonya."

He started humming a quiet melody; it wrapped over Finrod, and ran over the edges of his mind, and soothed the fever just a little bit.

Finrod drifted away, and dreamed of sea, and sea-shells, and crabs hiding between the rocks, and for a moment forgot about the fever and pain, both past and present.

#screeches #im sorry noldo i thought i reblogged this like an hr ago #anyway #the hair touches….im insane #finarfin kiss MY forehead pls #this is so good I’m crying 😭 #finrod #finarfin #silm fic

[actual-bill-potts]

Finrod looked down at the babe in his arms: so tiny! He had forgotten how small Elflings were. The last one he had held was Artanis, so long ago; and even as a little child she had ever sought to counteract any appearance of smallness or frailty. Usually by screaming very loudly.

At long last, new chapter of Towers is up. Read it here!

#and all his towers cast down #my writing #silm fic

[actual-bill-potts]

Fëanor breaking the Silmarils at the End of Times.

#this is EVERYTHING op #his hair!! #his face!!!! #feanor #silm art